Ch.456Episode 17 – The Blood-Drinking Tree

Buildings stand shoulder to shoulder, their heights differing by what could be described as about a head’s difference in human terms.

The street is lined with peculiar buildings resembling mushroom houses, like those from a game I was inexplicably absorbed in during elementary school. The wooden houses of varying heights packed tightly together look just like the black and white keys of a piano.

Click. The lock turned, and the iron door opened with a long, dry sound.

“Please come in.”

“Thank you, Mr. Vereda.”

The dark elf smiled with his eyes and slightly tipped his hat.

Episode 17 – The Blood-Drinking Tree

Vereda, a distant relative of Hormuz, was said to be the person in charge of market research within the trading company.

Having profited from the northern conflict, Hormuz had turned his attention to the Moritani continent where conflict was raging, and began to focus on the potential of the “Dead Whale Harbor”—a place where those expelled from society gathered, with its advantageous coastal location.

For reference, the ship that brought us here today was originally owned by a paper company managed by Francesca through a front man. Since the Palm Tree Trading Company acquired it four months ago, my personal assessment is that Hormuz has likely been planning business expansion since around March.

“This is the home where you’ll be staying. The head of the trading company specially prepared this house.”

While we looked around the safe house, Vereda signaled to the orcs and goblins.

The Palm Tree Trading Company employees brought our luggage from the carriage, placed it in the living room, and left. After sending them away, Vereda folded his hands neatly and began asking questions in a polite manner.

“Is there anything you find uncomfortable? I mean…”

“Muir. Nation Muir.”

“Yes, Mr. Muir. Is there anything making you uncomfortable?”

I shook my head.

Hormuz’s business acumen was as impressive as Francesca’s. Perhaps it’s because dark elves have an incredible nose for money. As soon as I mentioned wanting to “quietly visit Necropolis for a few days,” he quickly arranged a perfect safe house.

While Camilla looked around with sparkling eyes, clearly fascinated, I gathered my belongings and turned my gaze toward Vereda.

“There’s something I’d like to ask of you, Mr. Vereda.”

“Feel free to ask anything.”

Vereda gently encouraged me to speak freely, saying I shouldn’t feel burdened as I was a guest of the trading company head.

“First… I need information about the city.”

“Providing information isn’t difficult. After all, business is half capital, half reading the situation.”

“And I’d like you to find someone for me.”

“Should I bring them here? Or—”

The dark elf’s smile deepened.

“Would you prefer to go to them yourself?”

*

There’s a saying about cancerous existences.

Those who were once part of us but were driven out for making the mistake of invading others’ territories. Things that, no matter how many times you cut them away, stubbornly cling to life and hide deeper, deeper within.

Considering that the expression originates from the characteristics of cancer—starting as a cellular mutation, spreading elsewhere, and requiring harsh treatment—the term “cancerous existence” is truly an apt metaphor.

So what constitutes a cancerous existence? What falls into this category?

If it were simply a euphemism for criminals, there would be no need to attach the word “cancer.” After all, we already have the more comprehensive term “disease.”

From this perspective, “cancerous existence” can be interpreted as something beyond merely harmful—something with a nasty nature that’s difficult to eradicate and, if left unchecked, damages its surroundings.

Like a student who disrupts the academic atmosphere, or a parachute employee who collects the same salary as others without doing any work.

And here,

is a cancerous existence of society.

“Huh… hnngh…”

Riheher the rat whimpered, covering his face with his hands. Sweat streamed down inside his damp clothes, wetting the floor.

Calling someone a “rat bastard” is highly insulting, but anyone who had met Raheher even once used the term without hesitation. Because he was, in fact, a rat.

The rat beastkin trembled as he felt his face with shaking hands. After briefly stroking his muzzle with its four protruding front toes, Raheher raised his voice almost to a scream.

“I… I didn’t do anything! I didn’t sell anything, you damn bastards…!”

As Riheher’s plea continued through his sobs, the orc spoke.

“Cut the crap, Riheher. This bastard’s lying through his teeth.”

The orc rested his massive forearm on one knee and leaned forward. The intimidation was no joke—not just from the thick arm comparable to a track athlete’s thigh, but from the boulder-like body leaning forward.

Like watching a golem move.

“I-I’m innocent! Believe me!”

“What’s innocent about you?”

“You know! We promised not to sell our goods… our merchandise in your territory! I pay the spot fees regularly, so why…?”

The rat extended his trembling hand in a plea.

The orc watching this scene tossed a bag in front of the beastkin’s hind feet.

“Then what’s this?”

His thick finger pointed at the bag. A transparent bag containing white powder.

Unmistakably drugs.

“Why is your clan’s ‘merchandise’ circulating near us?”

“……”

After confirming the product at his feet, Riheher’s eyeballs rolled from side to side. He clenched his trembling hands as if wringing his brain.

After a moment that felt like an eternity, the rat, having found his escape hole, belatedly let out an “ah” and stammered:

“Th-this isn’t what we sold! The clan never encroaches on this area! Yanzhi Street is the merchants’—no, I mean, it’s Palm Tree Trading Company’s territory, how could the clan invade it… Please believe me, I really don’t know anything—”

BANG!

A powerful impact like a hammer striking an iron plate cut off his words. The shipyard hammer, capable of stripping rust from warships, was more than enough to shatter soft, fragile bones.

A single strike of the hammer effectively silenced the rat. Riheher, gulping down a mouthful of empty air, twisted his body and screamed as if his lungs were being torn apart.

“AAAAARGH!!”

With each blow of the blue hammer on his fingers, a scream like a tenor being slapped across the face rang out higher and higher. BANG! BANG! BANG! After pulverizing the rat beastkin’s hand, the orc aimed the blood-covered hammer at Riheher.

“What kind of trick are you pulling! Tell me now. Who ordered you to sell drugs!”

“Huu, hngh—”

“WHO WAS IT!”

“I can’t say! If-if I tell, they’ll kill me! I didn’t want to do it,”

“This bastard.”

A powerful grip seized his wrist. The orc brought the rat’s hand to the table.

According to scripture, the Great Mother of All Things forbade intoxicating alcohol, but a curious angel made the mistake of consuming it. Before the soul could fully inhabit the body of the creature the Mother had created, the angel damaged its thumb, which is why rats were born without complete toes.

The four fingers, born from an angel’s mistake, were now mangled, but fortunately, the Great Earth Mother had gifted the rats that scurried around her bosom with two hands.

Which means,

when you’re going to maim someone, don’t just half-finish one side—leave another to complete the job properly.

“Hngh—”

As the orc raised his hammer high, the rat beastkin shrank his neck.

Tense muscles contracted, grinding like a rope about to snap, and in the precarious shadows cast by the old magic lamp, a tearing scream erupted.

“Arti! Arti ordered me to do it!”

Riheher confessed, frantically pulling at his captured wrist.

“He said I just had to deliver the goods to the port, collect the payment, and the client would handle the distribution… That’s all I know!”

“Who bought the drugs?”

“What was it… some religious group… The name was short. Ka, Kair? Something like that.”

Perhaps the hammer blows hurt more than expected.

The answer I’d been waiting for came out surprisingly easily.

“…Hmm.”

I opened the door, entered, and gestured with my chin toward the outside. A signal that the orc had done well and could leave now.

Understanding my meaning, the orc left, and soon I heard footsteps climbing the stairs. The rat beastkin was still whimpering with tears in his eyes, and I scratched my ear with my finger.

“Mr. Riheher?”

I blew on my finger and continued casually.

“Why don’t you tell me what you were doing here?”

*

Setting aside the fact that torture violates human dignity and basic rights, doubts about the “efficiency of torture” have been raised for a long time.

“Will they tell the truth under torture?” “Is there any value in words spoken at random?” “Would they really divulge information like this?”

But intelligence agencies aren’t fools, and they wouldn’t maintain useless torture methods without reason.

In other words, they maintain these violent means because they are somewhat effective.

Among these, speed is the clearest reason for maintaining the unethical and immoral practice of torture.

When information needs to be extracted as quickly as possible.

This is when torture’s speed comes into play.

Of course, torture isn’t simply about beating and hurting people. That’s the method of gangsters or mafia criminals, not intelligence agencies.

Rather, the company’s “information extraction techniques” had developed in a very scientific and statistical manner. In a delicate, sophisticated direction.

“Ah, so you’re saying you belong to the clan? Hmm. Is that so? Let’s hear you explain about this clan.”

Intelligence agency interrogation begins with questions to confirm known information.

For instance, when the National Intelligence Service investigates North Korean defectors, they ask about facts obtained through family members or acquaintances who arrived earlier. This process verifies whether the subject is lying and how credible their testimony is.

Of course, the first stage questions must not be related to the purpose of the interrogation—the information the company wants to discover. If important questions are asked from the beginning, the subject might try to hide information.

Riheher, with tears in his eyes, continued speaking between sobs. His answers matched the information I had gathered beforehand, and I judged that he wasn’t lying.

“……”

After the first stage ends, less important questions begin.

The second question, like the first, asks for information not closely related to the purpose of the torture. These questions cause great confusion for the subject. In other words, they create a misunderstanding.

For example, something like this:

“Why is the clan selling drugs? Even breaking agreements with the trading companies.”

I asked the drug dealer an obvious question. What reason would a drug dealer have for selling drugs other than making money?

Information about inland drug gangs feuding with harbor trading companies, or orders to secure highly liquid cash came from the rat’s mouth, but I paid no attention to it.

After all, the second questions served no purpose other than concealing my true intentions.

But from the perspective of the person being tortured, this was quite important information. Information so important that Riheher said, “I might die if I tell this.”

The value of information is always relative, and since Riheher had divulged information more important than his life, he would think this: that the harbor trading companies were wary of gangs disrupting their territory.

“……”

A person who misunderstands the intent of the questions will try to hide corresponding information. Then, when they can no longer endure the torture and confess, they reach a point of resignation and spill everything they know.

And this moment is the most crucial time to extract the real information.

“Hmm…”

Having finished my questions, I moved on to the third stage.

“But why did your cult friends suddenly need drugs?”