The Disjointing the Muscles, Misaligning the Bones technique, living up to its horrifying name, continued for over thirty minutes.

Of course, it didn’t actually separate flesh from bone, but the pain inflicted surely felt like it did. To Roy Vant, those thirty minutes must have stretched into thirty years of agony.

By the time Ihan finally stopped, Roy was little more than a hollow shell of a man, barely clinging to life. His frail state made it seem as though death could claim him at any moment.

Despite the horrific scene, Ihan showed no remorse.

“What a stubborn bastard. He kept his mouth shut tighter than I expected.”
“I think it wasn’t stubbornness so much as you not giving him the chance to speak, Senior.”
“Watch your tone.”
“…Yes, sir.”

Yord quickly silenced himself at Ihan’s stern glare.

Having witnessed the brutal scene of Roy’s twisted muscles and bones snapping back into place, Yord didn’t dare to challenge Ihan further. For anyone else, it might have been a traumatizing sight, a lasting scar on the mind.
Yord now understood why so many interrogators suffered from severe psychological issues.

And yet, Ihan remained unshaken. His actions, while cruel, carried the mechanical efficiency of someone performing an unpleasant but necessary task. Watching him, Yord couldn’t help but break into a nervous sweat.

‘Senior Ihan… is truly thorough.’

Yord couldn’t claim to fully understand Ihan, but he was beginning to grasp the essence of the man. Ihan was someone who showed no mercy to his enemies. Once someone was labeled a foe, Ihan would relentlessly pursue them, employing any means necessary to crush them.

To some, that might seem natural for a knight. But those who knew better understood that knowledge and action were separated by a chasm as vast as the sky and the earth.

‘I hope I never face him as an enemy. If I ever cross swords with him, let it be for training, not out of hostility.’

As Yord reflected on Ihan’s nature, Jake, who had spent three years by Ihan’s side, seemed entirely unfazed.

“Well, at least we got more out of him than I expected.”

Jake’s expression was similarly detached. He showed no trace of pity for Roy Vant, nor did he seem disturbed by Ihan’s methods.

“…That’s unexpected,” Yord muttered under his breath. “I thought you’d be more outraged by something like this.”

The voice didn’t come from Yord, though. It was Arend, who looked deathly pale, his face drained of all color. The eighth prince, shaking visibly, seemed to expect that Jake, the most composed of the group, would voice some moral or ethical objection to the interrogation.

But Jake’s response was cold and calculated.

“He’s a threat to Pendragon. Yes, this violates the principles of humanity and knighthood. But a knight’s duty is to protect the kingdom and its people. If that means being labeled a demon by the enemy, then so be it. I’m not about to waste my emotions on someone who threatens Pendragon’s peace, Your Highness.”

“……”

“If my actions make you uncomfortable, I suggest you return to the capital. I’ll convince him to let you go.”

“……”

For the first time, Jake referred to Arend as “Your Highness” rather than using his title as a knight or commander. The implication couldn’t have been clearer: Arend was being told to go back to the sheltered life of royalty and leave knighthood behind.

Crack!

Arend clenched his fists so tightly his knuckles popped.

If he could endure such an insult without feeling his pride wounded, could he still call himself a man, let alone a knight?

“Watch your mouth, Jake Farman. I am not just the Eighth Prince—I am the Commander of the First Division of the Silver Lions! Know your place!”

Despite his fury, Jake only nodded slightly in response.

“…My apologies, Sir Arend.”
“Damn you!”

Arend’s anger wasn’t directed solely at Jake. It was aimed at himself—his own inadequacies, his failure to act with dignity in such a moment.

‘I am a knight of the Silver Lions!’

Gritting his teeth, Arend glared at Jake. While the older knight’s blunt words had sobered him up, they still stung deeply.

“…Now I see why you and that monster get along so well.”
“Is that an insult?”
“Do you think it’s a compliment?!”
“…It’s an insult, then.”
“Argh!”

Arend found Jake’s polite yet condescending demeanor insufferable.

“…So even Jake knows how to provoke someone, huh?” Yord muttered, amazed.

From an outsider’s perspective, it was clear that Jake had manipulated Arend perfectly, goading him to act as he desired. Yord, once naive about his senior knight’s nature, could only marvel at this unexpected side of Jake.

The way Jake taunted people reminded him of someone else entirely.

“That guy used to be so soft-spoken,” Ihan chimed in suddenly. “But after a few missions with me, he’s seen a lot of crap. Twisted him up a bit. Military life tends to do that to people.”

“…Sure,” Yord replied, though his tone carried skepticism.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“No reason, sir.”
“…That look doesn’t feel very respectful.”
“I swear, I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“…Hmm.”

Yord wisely chose to divert his gaze and remain silent.

‘Honestly, Senior Ihan… I think you’re the root cause of all this.’

It was a thought Yord dared not voice aloud. His self-preservation instincts told him to keep quiet, a skill every good subordinate needed.

Later

As Roy Vant finally broke under the torture, the information he spilled revealed the presence of not just one individual, but a coordinated group.

“They approached me one day…” Roy stammered.

He claimed not to know when they first infiltrated the tunnels, but he was certain they had been there for over a decade.

“…Why do you think so?” Ihan asked.

“They used the tunnels like they were their own home. They knew every secret, every hidden passage—even ones the guards didn’t know about.”

The tunnel, a maze-like network of constantly shifting paths due to the sandworms, was their domain.

“They even built structures and farms inside the tunnels. Entire facilities for living and working… This isn’t something that could be done in just a year or two. It would take at least ten years to set all this up.”

Though the claim sounded absurd, Roy’s fear and desperation gave it a ring of truth.

“And these people… who are they?” Ihan pressed.

“I don’t know! But they’re organized, and they target skilled fighters—people with grudges against Pendragon, nobles, or royalty. They even have antidotes for the toxin here! They restore aura techniques to prisoners and teach combat to farmers!”

Roy went on to admit that he, too, had been trained by them.

“I was just a low-ranked soldier from Britannia, sent here for looting civilians. I was waiting to die in this hellhole, but they taught me aura techniques and gave me those potions. They’re real! I swear!”

The knights listening to this revelation fell silent, their expressions grim.

“This potion…” Jake murmured. “It’s probably made from monster flesh, isn’t it?”

“Most likely,” Ihan replied.

The implications were horrifying. While monster flesh was toxic to humans, there were rare cases of individuals surviving its consumption. Such survivors often gained immense strength, regeneration, and heightened abilities—but at a cost.

“They go insane. The longer they survive, the more they lose their humanity,” Jake added.

“This isn’t just a threat to Pendragon anymore,” Ihan concluded, rolling the potion in his hand. His voice was cold, steady, and resolute. “We need to wipe these bastards out. Now.”

And with that, Ihan declared:

“Let’s go. Time to destroy them all.”