Chapter 82: The Prison

It occurred to her that this might be the second time she found herself in a prison. As Jeanne leaned against the wall with her hand resting on her knee, she counted sheep for the thousandth time, questioning herself.

The mattress below was quite comfortable, and the walls, though not freshly painted, still appeared clean, with just a faint hint of dampness. There were no windows here, even though it was in the upper levels of the prison, it remained deep underground. The arc lights from another continent cast a lifeless white glow at the corner.

The first time she was imprisoned was in the cells of the outsider race. If it weren't for the lucky encounter with that unfortunate Dark wizard... the Dark wizard who had accidentally possessed the body of her already deceased subordinate, she would have soon become food for those mutated creatures, just like her fellow companions who had entered with her.

The beast without head—only a circular gap at its neck, covered in gray-black bristles, and towering higher than a building—or perhaps it shouldn't even be called a beast? Its punch, almost as fast as a crossbow bolt and as heavy as a collapsing pillar, left a very deep impression on her.

Even now, when she recalled that moment, the familiar crushing pain rose from her ruptured internal organs to her chest, arms, back, and respiratory tract. It was an indescribable, paralyzing spasm of agony that spread instantly throughout her body from the point of impact, followed by complete unconsciousness, as she became a reserve supply in the outsider race prison...

Tap, tap, tap.

The footsteps were very light.

The monotony of this level of the prison was sometimes broken by the heavy opening and closing of iron doors, or by the footsteps descending along the corridor stairs. In just this short day and night, Jeanne had heard the muffled footsteps outside the thick, studded doors of this level many times. However, she wondered who the new visitor might be this time? Was it someone coming to post bail for a high-ranking official who had committed a mistake, or had some secret been uncovered, necessitating the transfer of someone to a deeper, darker, and dirtier cell?

As long as they didn’t uncover the secret between her and the Dark wizard, that would be fine.

Jeanne didn't have to think for long, as the sound reached the corridor in front of her and Mordred, and then the slow footsteps came to a halt.

"It seems there has been a bit of a problem, Sir Mordred. But given your nature, this is indeed a predictable mishap... truly distressing."

The visitor's tone was heavy and oppressive.

Jeanne ended her monotonous task of silently counting sheep—a habit she had retained since childhood, even though she had never tended to sheep again since joining the church.

This remark was made by a red-haired young man in his thirties to Mordred. He had a tall, well-proportioned physique—exactly the kind that was favored by upper-class noblewomen—with long red hair reaching his shoulders, and a handsome face that could captivate many a lovelorn maiden. He wore a black-and-white half-armor suit, which, despite being knight's armor, was worn with the elegance of formal attire. What stood out particularly was the strange sense of pity and the astonishing feeling of regret in his eyes.

Mordred had a large black-blue bruise around her left eye and another on her right cheek near the jawline, both inflicted by Jeanne—before either of them had drawn their swords.

When Mordred looked up with an unhappy expression and saw who the visitor was, her face became even more displeased.

"Huh, what did you just say?" Her roar seemed to express anger, or perhaps a defense of herself, "How could I restrain my fury upon seeing this woman who has insulted my Sire! You are here to bail me out, right? Even though it's still that frivolous bastard Merlin taking the lead, you're the one who handles this kind of things, ain't you? I can't stand being cooped up with that damn woman any longer, get me the hell outta here!"

The young man raised his hand to signal silence. He stared at Jeanne's familiar face for a moment, gave a slight nod as if there were no animosity between them, and then turned to Mordred: "This is not righteous anger, Sir Mordred, this is a disrespect to the King's dignity. If one cannot even distinguish the appropriate time to unleash fury, even the heir of the King cannot escape punishment."

Jeanne remained silent, her cold gaze fixed on the two conversing individuals, her golden eyes carrying a faint hint of killing intent. Since this person entered the prison, she had merely observed Mordred's actions as if watching a farce.

"Tristan, what're you blabbering about?" She lunged forward, her hands gripping the steel bars of the cell, her voice bordering on unreasonable, "The King would never punish me for defending her dignity!"

The young man—or rather Tristan—raised his hand again to signal silence. He maintained his unchanged expression, as if lost in thought, and then said, "You do not understand the King's heart... Sir Mordred. Yesterday's barbaric street brawl—a behavior typical of the lower class and disgraced knights—tis probable that within a few days' time, taverns will be buzzing with discussions and ridicule about this incident. The King's dignity has been tarnished due to your reckless actions... A tragic reality indeed."

Mordred's face reddened visibly, her eyes darting around, and she mumbled in a barely audible voice, "Ah... this... I..." 

"Being confined within these walls might enlighten you to your situation, Sir Mordred," Tristan said indifferently, his demeanor more akin to pronouncing her guilt than visiting a prisoner, "Even a Knight of the Round Table cannot be forgiven for failing to uphold the King's dignity outside. Reflect in solitude until you depart this city."

Mordred slammed her fist against the bars with a dull thud, and then watched as the steel pipes, groaning in pain, twisted and deformed—a punch that could easily kill a ferocious beast. Her eyes blazed with extreme irritation, like a little girl in a fit of pique. "I want to see Merlin! Where is that frivolous bastard Merlin? Has he abandoned the King's duties again to chase after women!?"

"Regrettably, there is no need to await Wizard Merlin's judgment," Tristan said in a deep voice, "He is currently recruiting new blood for the King's realm, and as for this place, your presence is temporarily unnecessary. Therefore, I have been entrusted with the full authority to decide your fate. What you need to do next is to reflect deeply within these prison walls. Do you understand, Knight—Mordred?"

He adjusted his white gloves, and without another word, turned and left.

As Tristan exited, Mordred was still gripping the steel bars, her fingers leaving imprints, her voice filled with a desperate roar:

"Tristan, you son of a whore! Go choke on some crap! Fuck off before I send you to hell!"

"Ah, how unsightly," Jeanne said with a malicious smile after a moment, "I imagine you're not well-liked at all. Despite that pretty face, your actions are as crude as a savage child. I fear you might be stuck in this prison until your companions come again next year. Imagine—a whole year of reflection might barely be useful, perhaps ten years would be better, don't you think?"

"Pah! You're not fit to mock me, you madwoman! Next time I'll cut you down like a worthless piece of crap, then we'll see who the real brat is!"

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