Another World Witch Training Manual

101. The Marquis of Tanstin on his deathbed

He was all too familiar with that smell. It wasn't the usual body odor or musty smell, but the smell of a rotting wound, the smell of flesh and blood slowly dying on a living person.

He had smelled this scent on the battlefields of the North; it was the most despairing smell in the wounded soldiers' camps.

Once a wound begins to fester, it signifies high fever, coma, and death has already taken its first step.

Simondo took a bunch of keys from his waist and searched for the corresponding key by the dim light.

The clinking of keys rang out clearly in the quiet passageway.

He opened the locks one by one, his movements rough, as if he were wrestling with them. The bottom lock seemed to be stuck; he twisted it a couple of times, cursing under his breath, before finally managing to open it.

The iron gate was pushed open, making a harsh creaking sound.

The sound was long and sharp, like fingernails scratching an iron plate, and it echoed in the narrow passage for several seconds before dissipating.

The cell was small, even smaller than Sinlai had expected; roughly estimated, it was less than ten square meters.

The walls were rough, unpolished rock, covered with chisel marks of varying depths, like scars. Dark green moss grew stubbornly in the crevices of the rocks at the corners, surviving the damp air.

A pile of moldy straw lay in the corner, its original golden color gone, now grayish-brown, with mold spots scattered like islands on a map.

The dampness caused the straw to stick together and give off a sour, rotten smell.

A person was lying on the straw.

No, that can no longer be considered a "person".

Marquis Tanstin huddled on the haystack, curling himself into a ball like a badly wounded animal, instinctively preserving his last bit of body heat.

His clothes were tattered and torn. What should have been a noble robe made of fine silk had been reduced to strips of cloth, barely hanging on his body and exposing large areas of skin underneath.

The exposed skin was covered with all sorts of scars.

The whip marks were the most numerous, one after another, crisscrossing each other. Some had already formed dark brown scabs, while others were still oozing pale yellow tissue fluid.

Between the whip marks, there were circular burns, with charred edges and grotesque pink flesh in the center—marks left by the branding iron.

In addition, there were knife wounds, long and neat cuts, distributed on the arms, chest and thighs, some of which had dark red rotting flesh exposed at the edges.

His hair was gray and disheveled. Sinley remembered that the Marquis of Tanstin's hair was originally dark brown with natural curls.

But now, his curly hair was stuck together in strands of blood and dirt, and the graying part was much more than he remembered, as if he had aged twenty years overnight.

His face was covered in bruises, and his left eye was so swollen that he couldn't open it at all. His eyelid was bulging into a translucent purplish-red color, like a berry about to burst open.

There was a wound at the corner of his right eye, the blood had dried and formed a black scab. His lips were so dry and cracked that the white skin had peeled off, and there was a dried bloodstain at the corner of his mouth that stretched down to his chin, like a dark red earthworm.

His hands and feet were chained, with the other end of the chain fixed to a large iron ring on the wall.

The length of the chain was calculated precisely so that he could just roll over on the haystack, but not stand up straight, or even fully extend his limbs.

This is a deliberate design that keeps people in a curled-up state forever. Before long, their muscles will atrophy and their joints will stiffen. Even if they are released one day, they will never be able to stand up straight again.

Xinlai's gaze fell on his fingers.

Then, Xinlai's heart clenched suddenly, as if it had been gripped tightly by an invisible hand.

The Marquis of Tansten's fingernails had all been pulled out.

The nail bed was covered with dark red scabs and pale yellow pus, which reflected a wet sheen in the dim light.

Some of the skin around the nail bed was torn, exposing the underlying pink dermis, which was covered with straw fragments and dust.

My fingers were swollen like ten purplish-red radishes, and the creases at my joints were stretched out.

Xinlai's stomach clenched violently, and a wave of acid surged up his throat. He gritted his teeth and forced the nausea back down.

The Marquis of Tansteen heard the noise and struggled to lift his head, his movements as slow as if he were overcoming immense resistance.

The muscles in his neck tensed and relaxed, and every inch of movement required him to exert the last of his strength.

When the right eye, which could barely open, saw Xin Lai, a flicker of excitement first flashed in its cloudy gaze, then turned into some kind of indescribable complex emotion.

There was surprise, a glimmer of hope, and even more of a numb bewilderment from being tormented for too long.

"The Third...Third Prince..."

His voice was so hoarse it was almost inaudible, like sandpaper rubbing against metal.

Each syllable is squeezed out from deep in the throat, with a rough texture as if it has been burned by something.

Xinlai noticed a dark red ligature mark around his throat when he spoke, clearly indicating that he had been choked or strangled.

Sinlai took a deep breath, suppressing the surging anger in her heart, and turned to look at Simondo.

"What's going on?"

His voice was cold, colder than the temperature deep inside the dungeon.

Simondo shrugged, his nonchalant expression suggesting he was discussing what to have for dinner.

"It was just an interrogation tactic. The Marquis of Tansting was stubborn and refused to reveal his accomplices, so we had to resort to some... unconventional methods."

When he said the word "unconventional," the corners of his mouth even curled up slightly, with a hint of enjoyment in his expression.

"Unconventional?" Xinlai sneered. "Kingdom law forbids the use of torture during the interrogation of nobles. Are you trying to get me to report this to the King?"

Simondo's expression changed slightly, a fleeting hint of panic flashing in his eyes, but he quickly regained his composure.

Having served as a warden in the dungeon for so many years, he had seen too many threats and interrogations, and had long since developed an impenetrable skin.

"Your Highness," he said calmly, his tone even carrying a hint of contempt, "the Marquis of Tanstin is no longer a nobleman, so no means are too much for him."

"You..." Xin Lai clenched her fist.

His fingernails dug into the flesh of his palm, bringing a sharp pain. This pain, ironically, calmed him down a bit.

Simondo looked at Sinley's clenched fist, and the corners of his mouth curved into a wider smile.

He added slowly and deliberately, "If Your Highness feels this is inappropriate, you can go to the King and complain to me."

However, I must remind you that these interrogation methods were approved by Simeon. Are you sure you want to go against Simeon for the sake of a dying man?