Supersum: Living in another world [LitRPG Transmigration Fantasy]

...

Narsiz K. Leonandra reclined in a simple chair behind a rough wooden table, his gloved fingers intertwined with deliberate precision. His half-plate uniform, a calculated blend of leather and silk, marked him as belonging yet unimportant—a seamless fit for the theater of war. Every detail had been tailored to ensure he disappeared into the backdrop of the occupied territory, even his once-distinctive hair, and fur now dyed a mundane chestnut brown, stripping away any trace of his natural identity.

The investigation room was a hastily assembled construct, its walls fashioned from thick canvas stretched taut over raw timber supports. A single mana-gem lantern, its glow uneven and wavering, cast jagged shadows along the confines of the space. The flickering light played cruel tricks, accentuating the lines of tension carved into the fire djinn woman's face. Narsiz's ever-present smile deepened at the corners, a studied display of amused patience as he finally addressed her.

"My, my," he murmured, his slight accent curling around the words like a velvet ribbon. His gaze never wavered from her, sharp and appraising. "Is everything to your liking? We, of course, follow the example of my brother—the Saint—so we aim for…gentleness rather than indulging in crude force."

The woman, Shalin, shifted uncomfortably on the simple stool provided for her. She wore simple but clean and suitable clothes, faded with dried dirt and dust from the prison she had been in before. Her wrists and neck bore faint bruises where heavy iron had been secured. At the snap of Narsiz's fingers, the collar and cuffs around her fell away, clattering onto the planked floor.

"Better, right?" he asked, the clank of metal still echoing. Something gleamed in his eyes—an unsettling mix of curiosity and amusement. He looked far too composed for someone interrogating a prisoner of war.

Shalin's gaze dropped to the remnants of her restraints. She nodded but remained silent, drawing her arms close to her sides as though expecting another trick.

"Shalin, is it?" he said, leaning forward. A gentle humph escaped him as he stroked his chin in exaggerated thought. "Such an interesting name. I am Narsiz K. Leonandra—pleased to make your acquaintance."

She narrowed her eyes, suspicion and fear tightening her features. "What do you want?" Her voice, though firm, carried an unmistakable undercurrent of unease.

Narsiz chuckled, settling back in his chair. The battered legs squeaked against the wooden floor. "Oh, my." He waved a dismissive hand as if brushing away a trivial concern. "I have no special demands. I merely wish to have a conversation with you."

Shalin clenched the fabric of her clothes in her fists, her knuckles turning white. "I have nothing to say," she bit out, her tone sharpening with defiance.

He shrugged with a playful indulgence. "That's fine. I've heard rumors of how you and your most fascinating island view us, but did you ever wonder why we attacked you in such a way?"

She kept her head bowed, her gaze darting to the tent walls as if she could see through them to where her people were being held. The weight of their fate pressed against her silence. When she refused to respond, Narsiz continued, his tone smooth and deceptively calm, like a blade wrapped in silk.

"We tried to make the Eros Alliance back off so we could send envoys—so we could discuss peace." He paused, letting the silence stretch. "But," he said, his voice taking a somber turn, "they killed our messengers. You broke the most critical custom of warfare: never kill the messenger. Therefore"—his smile thinned—"you forfeited any claim to courtesy."

A flicker of flame-like [Energy] condensed in Shalin's palms—she lunged forward, but a soft bump sounded, cutting off her attack mid-swing. In a heartbeat, Narsiz had employed a throwing knife. Blood splashed across her new clothes as she stared in disbelief at her severed arms lying on the floor. "Wha—"

Her words never finished. Her vision tilted, and darkness rushed in, final and absolute.

Narsiz sighed, rising from his chair. He nudged the fallen body with his foot, a faint expression of regret crossing his face. "The third one," he muttered, clicking his tongue. "I suppose Alex will want an explanation. He'll be… angry... I should buy him some sweets."

He looked away from the corpse to a sheet on the side of the table, remembering his brother Alexander's stringent guidelines. These prisoners were to be fed, given a chance to cooperate, and even offered eventual reintegration when the war ended. But Shalin's aggression had sealed her fate—and had once again proven how quickly negotiations could crumble.

His smile widened as he turned to the collar and cuffs on the floor—symbols of restraint and supposed protection. Had she not been able to attack, she might have lived to see another day.

Blood trickled across the floorboards, seeping into the narrow gaps. Idly cleaning the throwing knife with his own swirling [Energy], Narsiz reflected on how those rules of war were supposed to grant a degree of mercy. But after 90% of their messengers were found murdered, the Pure-Steam Islanders had lost any real protection under those customs. Therefore, their military no longer felt bound to offer further courtesies, at least not when threatened—a term that could be interpreted in many ways.

He stepped carefully, coating his leather boots with a thin layer of [Energy] so blood wouldn't stain them. "At least I can spare myself the chore of scrubbing," he remarked quietly. Looking down at Shalin's lifeless head, he grimaced. "But puppies have full protection? But who am I to question my brother's whimsical distinctions?" He pressed a hand to his forehead, suppressing the beginnings of a headache. The many mandates—from Alexander—made forward momentum nearly impossible. Therefore, their strategies had become methodical and protracted.

Most of these tactics were unorthodox and stiflingly slow. Still, they were highly efficient—using mages with [Mana Sense] and a strong [Divinity Line] to detect enemy movements, then synchronizing with archers via a shared-senses spell originally invented by Alexander and revised by Narsiz. The archers left effectively blind to their surroundings, relied solely on the mage's vision to pick off targets from impressive distances. Or, instead of launching direct assaults on villages, the forces under Narsiz's command laid patient sieges, burning fields, fouling water, and waiting until the starving populace surrendered. The approach was effective but led to tedium among the troops—and to the occasional dangerously bored mercenary.

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He stepped out of the interrogation room, greeting a pair of soldiers loitering in the corridor. "Someone had no desire to greet tomorrow's sunrise," he remarked, letting a mocking lilt grace his voice. A few of the soldiers exchanged grins, though their eyes betrayed unease at their commander's catlike cunning. "How sad," he murmured, the last echo of the word fading as he headed for his provisional office.

The interrogation rooms and prison lay beneath the surface, connected by a network of tunnels. Every few steps, mana-gem lanterns cast their flickering glow upon the stone walls, illuminating the passageways. Soldiers, sellswords, and support passed by, some offering brief nods of acknowledgment, others moving with disinterest—some bored, some content, and others less so.

Bjoern's contingent, along with several other divisions, belonged to the latter group. They toiled in the trenches, erecting wooden barricades, setting traps, and extending the ever-expanding perimeter. Yet direct combat remained elusive—only the slow, grinding attrition of Alexander's warfare. Morale waned as the warriors, who once took pride in clashing steel, found their hands occupied with shovels instead of swords.

Bizarrely, the better their situation became, the worse the morale—mostly Alexander's fault. He had put strict oversight in place. He assigned the best-trained squads here while his own camp reportedly festered in chaos. Stories circulated of how Alexander had severed limbs from insolent or treacherous "loudmouths," packing the half-dead torsos into crates and shipping them to Wolfsteeth, toward their respectable guilds. It was not well received, but apparently, the guild offered only strongly worded letters in response. Therefore, the threat had fallen flat. Alexander had simply cultivated too many allies, built too many institutions, and secured too large a population of supporters for the guilds to risk incurring his full wrath.

Recalling that sorry saga, Narsiz let out a chuckle that echoed through the cramped hallway. As he moved past soldiers who paused to salute, he responded with a faint smile—bowing or any overt show toward nobility was strictly forbidden for security reasons. While such measures would never entirely thwart assassins, each precaution added another layer of difficulty, increasing the likelihood of their enemies making a critical mistake and be found out.

Narsiz pushed open the door to his temporary workspace. The room was little more than any other, with a battered table serving as a desk and shelves overflowing with documents. Leadership demanded meticulous records for every notable incident—a requirement he found questionable, especially when determining whether the death of a Pure-Steam Islander qualified as significant at all.

He sank into his seat and, with practiced ease, conjured an ink contraption. The strings glided across the parchment in elegant strokes, crafting a concise summary—one he would embellish later, ensuring it met Alexander's exacting scrutiny in the inevitable random review.

When the prisoner of war, Shalin, became aggressive, she had to be restrained. Due to unforeseen circumstances, she was fatally injured in the process…

"Done," Narsiz murmured, letting the ink flow back inside the container. His gaze slid down a list of other prisoners requiring interrogation. One name, Farraj, jogged his memory. He was the one rumored to possess a peculiar talisman—some mercenaries had tried to snatch it, only to be thwarted by new regulations banning plunder. But the mercenaries were handsomely paid, so that policy should have placated them.

His mind struggled to recall its precise details, but there was no doubt—it was a family heirloom. 'I can use this,' Narsiz thought, closing his eyes to formulate a plan. Most prisoners were without families, either too old or too young to be of any real use. But Farraj also carried something else—something they needed answers about. 'It's decided then.' Those with nothing to lose tended toward aggression, but those with stakes were far more inclined to cooperate.

Narsiz stood, rolling the tension from his shoulders. He hastened through cramped corridors until he reached the next interrogation chamber. Inside, a lone guard oversaw Farraj, a wiry fire djinn man wearing shackles identical to those Shalin had worn.

'Docile, careful, observant... good,' Narsiz assessed the fire djinn man the moment he sat opposite him. As soon as the guard exited, he snapped his fingers, and the collar and cuffs fell away with a hollow clang.

"Your name is… Farraj, yes?" Narsiz inquired with a velvet purr, tail swishing behind him. He retrieved a small amulet from his coat pocket and placed it on the table. "I believe this is yours."

Farraj's eyes locked onto the object, then flickered warily to Narsiz. "What…what will happen to me now?"

Narsiz propped his elbows on the table, hands steepled. "What will happen?" He feigned a careless shrug. "Depends on your decisions."

A tremor ran through Farraj's hands as he reached halfway toward the amulet, then paused, uncertainty holding him in place. A few heartbeats later, he lowered his arms as though fearing the item was bait in some twisted game.

In response, Narsiz broke into a bright laugh, leaning back with the same disconcerting ease he'd shown Shalin. "Oh, don't fret so much, Farraj. I'm not testing you. Your heirloom has no value to me—aside from satisfying my curiosity."

"Then…I don't understand?"

"It's just a favor, a sign, a promise of what could happen if you help me," Narsiz said, retrieving a slim mechanical cuff from his vest and placing it next to the amulet. "I need to ask you a few questions about this mana artifact."

Farraj's brow furrowed. "That…bracelet? I've only seen a few around. They told us it would amplify our power."

Narsiz regarded the device with a mix of disdain and fascination. "We've collected half a dozen. And they have a… peculiar effect. You see, it will explode when activated—violently so. Our best tinkerers have discovered it's almost like a miniature bomb strapped to your wrist."

A wave of pure terror flashed across Farraj's face. He shoved himself away from the table, nearly toppling the chair in the process. Narsiz's right hand darted toward the hidden knives at his belt, but he relaxed again when it became clear that Farraj was merely afraid, not attacking.

"I–I didn't know!" Farraj stammered, voice cracking. "They told me it would increase my [Attributes] in a fight! But I swear, I never used it. I never meant to—"

Narsiz sniffed the air, his [Mystic Skill] assuring him that Farraj's fear was genuine. "I believe you," he said, allowing some warmth into his tone, "so let's make a deal. I'll not hold your ignorance against you; therefore, you can walk away from here intact… provided you give me the name of whoever handed you this little gift."

Farraj looked up, eyes dilated, breathing ragged. "What—what name?"

Sighing in mild exasperation, Narsiz rolled his eyes. "Stop quaking. We haven't actually threatened you, have we?" A strand of his brown hair fell across his forehead as he leaned closer, voice dropping. "Just tell me who supplied these…bomb bracelets. Then, perhaps you'll be able to keep that amulet of yours—and your life and maybe a little extra to start a new life with your family. Sound fair?"

Farraj swallowed hard, glancing once more at the objects on the table. Then, for the first time since Narsiz had entered, he mustered the courage to nod. The tension in the room tightened like a coiled spring, though Narsiz wore only the patient smile of an interrogator who already sensed victory.

Outside, the lanterns flickered as the night deepened, and the mana-gem lanterns along the walkway cast dancing shadows against the tents. Farraj's fate, like so many prisoners before him, depended on a single name. And Narsiz, youthful but emboldened by his successes, prepared to learn exactly who was arming his enemies with such destructive devices—therefore gaining another edge in this creeping, methodical war.