Another World Witch Training Manual

100. Simondo suffers another setback.

When Sinlai stood at the dungeon entrance again, the expressions of the two guards clearly changed.

The guard on the left was an old soldier with a scar on his face. He stared at Xin Lai for two seconds before tentatively asking, "Third Prince, you've come again?"

The tone was more polite than last time, but still carried a hint of cautious skepticism.

After all, dungeons are not places that just anyone can enter or leave.

Last time, Sinlai was turned away at the door and didn't even get to see the Marquis of Tanstin before Simondo dismissed him with a few words.

Xinlai didn't waste any words. He took out a roll of parchment from his pocket and slapped it directly in front of the guard.

The parchment unfolds, revealing a bright red royal seal at the bottom, depicting a winged lion treading on thorns—the emblem of royalty.

Next to the seal is the King of Bemmil's own signature, the handwriting strong and powerful, with the hard edges left by years of wielding a sword.

The guard took a closer look and his expression changed drastically.

He quickly stepped back, clenched his right fist and placed it against his left chest, giving a standard military salute: "Your Highness, please come in! Lord Simondo is inside; I will take you there."

Xinlai put away the parchment, rolled it up, and put it back into her bosom.

He could feel the edge of the parchment digging into his chest, like a protective talisman.

No one stopped him, and no one gave him that dismissive, half-smiling look anymore.

The taste of power is so subtle; a piece of paper or a seal can turn yesterday's obstacle into today's guide.

The guard walked ahead, his iron boots clattering dully on the stone pavement. Xinlai followed behind, passing through the dark passage once more.

Various sounds came from the cells on both sides of the passage.

Someone was groaning softly, like a wounded beast licking its wounds; someone was muttering to themselves, repeating a name over and over; and someone was scratching the wall with their fingernails, making that sharp, teeth-grinding scraping sound.

As Xinlai walked through an iron gate, a hand suddenly reached out from a small window in the gate. The five fingers were withered and thin, and the nails were full of black grime. The hand was grabbing wildly in his direction.

Xinlai stepped aside without changing her expression.

This wasn't the first time he'd witnessed such a scene.

At the age of sixteen, he once accompanied the Royal Guard to wipe out a group of bandits entrenched in the northern border.

Having witnessed firsthand what villages ravaged by bandits looked like—charred corpses pressed under charred roof beams, wells filled with stones and mud, and elderly people lying on the ridges of fields, their eyes wide open, staring at the sky—the scene in the dungeon wasn't too outrageous compared to that.

The guard stopped in front of a half-open wooden door and stepped aside: "Your Highness, Lord Simondo is inside."

Xinlai pushed open the door and went inside.

Simondo was still drinking, his fleshy face squeezing his eyes into slits. When he saw Sinlai enter, a disdainful smile slowly crept onto his lips.

"Your Highness, you really are—"

He stopped mid-sentence when he saw the document that Xinlai had taken from her bosom.

Sinley unfolded the parchment and laid it flat on the table in front of Simondo, covering up the wine stains.

The king's seal reflected a dark golden luster in the dim light, and the signature strokes were distinct, each turn carrying an unquestionable authority.

"His Majesty the King has appointed me as the deputy judge in the case of the Marquis of Tanstin, with veto power."

Sinley's tone was calm, as if stating a fact unrelated to herself, but every word pierced Simondo's ears like nails.

"According to the kingdom's laws, judges have the right to interrogate prisoners. Lord Simondo, you wouldn't dare disobey even the king's orders, would you?"

Simondo's face turned a deep purplish-red.

His hand holding the wine glass trembled slightly, whether from anger or from the alcohol, it was hard to tell.

He gritted his teeth, staring intently at the document, as if trying to bore two holes through it with his gaze. If gazes had warmth, that parchment would be burning by now.

Xinlai didn't urge her, but stood quietly, looking down at Simondo sitting in the chair.

This silence itself is a form of pressure, more effective than any aggressive questioning. Sinlai had lived in the court for twenty years; while her other skills might be mediocre, her ability to read people and gauge situations was already unparalleled.

He knows when to advance, when to retreat, and when to use silence to force the other party to comply.

The stalemate lasted for about ten breaths.

"I wouldn't dare."

Simono spat out two words through gritted teeth. He slammed his glass down on the table, spilling wine that left a small, purplish-red wet stain on the edge of the parchment.

"Then lead the way." Xinlai rolled up the documents, her movements unhurried. "I want to see Marquis Tansting."

Simondo stood up, the chair leg scraping against the floor with a piercing scream.

He walked ahead without saying a word, his steps heavy and fast, his iron boots thumping on the stone slabs, as if venting some kind of anger that had nowhere to go.

His back was etched with reluctance; his shoulders were stiff, his neck was red, and his fists were clenched tightly. But the king's command was imminent, and no matter how unwilling he was, he had no choice but to obey.

The two passed through a deeper passage.

The further down you go, the colder and more gloomy the air becomes.

The dungeons were dug downwards along the mountainside. Ordinary cells were on the first level below ground, while the cells for serious offenders were located deeper down. The passageways were very steep, and in some places, one even needed to hold onto the walls for balance.

The number of oil lamps on the wall decreased, and the spacing between them increased, making the light increasingly dim. Simondo's burly figure appeared and disappeared in front of him, like a moving shadow.

The Marquis of Tanstin's cell has been moved...?

A sense of foreboding rose in Xin Lai's heart.

The wails and the sound of chains dragging on the ground came from all directions, clearer and more mournful than those above.

Xinlai heard a violent cough coming from a cell to her left. The cough was muffled and deep, as if something was stuck in her throat and she couldn't cough it up.

In the cell on the right, someone was banging their forehead against the wall, making dull "thump, thump" sounds, the rhythm slow and even, like a broken pendulum.

Xinlai's footsteps slowed down without her realizing it.

It wasn't out of fear, but because of an increasingly intense sense of oppression. This depths of the dungeon was like another world, completely isolated from the sunlit, flower-filled world above.

Here, suffering is not the exception, but the norm; here, human dignity is peeled away layer by layer, like peeling an onion, until nothing is left.

Finally, Simondo stopped in front of the deepest cell.

This cell was located almost at the end of the entire dungeon. The passage ended here, and in front of it was a bare rock wall, with water droplets seeping out and shimmering dimly in the light of the oil lamp.

Three large padlocks hung on the iron door of the cell: one at the top, one in the middle, and one at the bottom, each as big as a grown man's fist. The iron door was rusted, with dark red rust growing along the edges, like congealed blood.

A putrid smell wafted from under the door.

Xinlai's brows furrowed sharply.