Democles inspected the sword briefly, reading its records in his mind, then gave it a test swing when he was done.

With a grunt, he turned and extended the blade toward Kallen. "Take."

Kallen arched a brow, but said nothing. He stepped forward and accepted the weapon, that was just as tall as he was... feeling its weight, and running a finger around its edge. Its records manifested in his mindspace, and he gasped.

He gave Democles a questioning look after he was done, his eyes still wearing a light of surprise.

The orc boy met his gaze. "Do your thing," he muttered through gritted teeth, and clenched fists.

Kallen gave a faint shrug, turned, and began to move.

His feet shifted into stance, his breath evened out, and then he swung.

It was fluid, effortless, and powerful.

The blade cleaved the air like it was dancing to a rhythm only Kallen could hear. One swing became two, two became three, and three—a flow. He twirled, dipped, lunged, reversed, using the blade with an elegance that didn't belong to someone his age.

Kallen kept moving until he seemingly lost himself to the rhythm.

His movements continued fluidly—until his eyes suddenly widened. Without hesitation, he brought the blade down in a cleaving arc, aiming to split forward with deadly precision.

Democles sidestepped with ease, catching the flat of the blade and pushing it aside. The strike veered off course, leaving Kallen wide open.

The sword crashed into the floor. The impact reverberated up his arms, nearly shattering them, and sending a numbing jolt through his bones. But that pain wasn't his concern. A blade was already at his neck the next moment, and he instinctively leaned his head back—just enough to avoid the edge.

Democles didn't let up. With speed far superior, he seized Kallen by the collar, dragging him forward. His knife pressed tightly to Kallen's throat. A few thin drops of blood began to trickle down the boy's neck.

Their eyes locked.

Democles' pupils were dark, emotionless voids. In them, a faint reflection of Kallen's surprised and slightly stunned face shone.

But the surprise on Kallen's face slowly melted away—replaced by a chilling calm.

"I'm only going to ask you once," Democles said coldly. "And depending on your answer, you either die... or live. I don't care about the consequence."

He leaned in, voice like sharpened ice.

"Who killed Nestor?"

Inwardly, Kallen was grinning.

Ofcourse he'd expected this. He had anticipated every of Democles actions since he started watching him.

Psychopaths, when stripped of their intellectual control, often leaned into strategic violence. Democles, didn't escape it either.

Kallen's expression, outwardly calm, now twisted into anger. And as usual, his killing intent leaked.

Democles asking who killed Nestor, rather than directly asking if Kallen was the one, confirmed that every seed Kallen had been planting from the very beginning had taken root and begun to sprout.

It was a subtle shift in phrasing, but the implications were colossal. First, it revealed that Democles was already at his wits end, and already had his doubts, about Kallen being the killer. Second, it backed Kallen into a corner, leaving no room for a misstep... any answer he gave, would be a trap.

That is... if Kallen were just a normal person.

"Why are you asking me?" he spat, voice low and dangerous.

Democles' face darkened. That wasn't the response he'd expected.

If Kallen had pleaded innocence, he would have kept pressing—cornering him until he slipped and gave up Menelaus. Then, he'd deliver that information to Menelaus himself.

If Kallen was lying, Menelaus would strike him down in rage, regardless of consequence... if killing Nestor was not enough to force his hand, disrespecting his death, and accusing him of killing his own biological son, definitely would.

If Kallen died, the one protecting Kallen would retaliate, and Menelaus would be killed. Maybe they'd be left alone, in that way, they'll all be free. It was good riddance.

And if Menelaus was the killer, his reaction would betray him, and Democles would find out. He could even consider an alliance with Kallen to kill him, since he would understand the amount of hate Kallen had for Menelaus.

That was the answer he wasted.

"Answer me," Democles growled. He seemed unfazed, or rather, uncaring about the waves of killing intent crashing over him.

He had the upper hand, after all. The reason for the waves of killing intent, was literally in his grasp, his life or death, his' to decide.

"And die?" Kallen snapped, irritated, as more killing intent leaked from his body.

"I can kill you too!" Democles roared, his own intent erupting like a storm.

Inwardly, Kallen was very pleased. All this was textbook performance.

Then, with eerie calm, his eyes darkened. A demonic shade flickered across his irises. His face returned to stillness, as he spoke in a low, bone-chilling octave:

"You wouldn't dare."

"What makes you think so?" Democles growled, pressing the knife harder against Kallen's throat. A fresh stream of blood flowed from the deepening wound.

"Because you need me alive," Kallen said coldly, unfazed. His didn't seem to care as the blade bit deeper with every word.

"Do you think you're in a position where you hold an ounce of value?" Democles questioned with narrowed eyes, but inwardly, he knew Kallen was right.

"You can't kill me," Kallen replied. "Because you don't want to die. Sure, you want me dead... maybe even Castor too, but you know Menelaus would kill you the moment you did it."

Democles' jaw tightened. His grip on Kallen's collar grew vicious, drawing more blood, threatening to crush his windpipe.

"Even though I didn't do it," Kallen continued, voice strained, "I can't tell you who did. I don't want to die. And you won't kill me, because you're scared to die too."

For a moment, the two locked eyes in a frozen, deadly standoff.

Then, with a low snarl, Democles shoved him back. Kallen crashed to the ground, coughing as he clutched his neck.

Without another word, Democles turned and walked away—silent, furious, and defeated.

He watched Democles disappear from the forge, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. The moment Democles was out of sight he stood up.

Wasting no time, he grabbed a steel bar and hurled it into the furnace. When it reached forging temperature, he pulled it out with precision and slammed it onto the anvil.

His movements were flawless—each strike a mirror imitation of Democles'. Every swing, muscle twitch, pause between hammer blows, echoed the orc's technique. The only difference was in the force behind each swing.

The blade took on the same silhouette as the sword Democles had crafted, only smaller, more personal. When he sharpened it and wiped it clean, a two-inch silver-black dagger? rested cold in his palm.

Its records flashed instantly in his mind. But before he could read them, another window appeared. The moment his eyes registered the set of words on the new window, his smile vanished.

A wave of killing intent surged from him like a silent scream.

[You have gained a Title]

[Slaving Smith]