THE GENERAL'S DISGRACED HEIR
Chapter 41 - 41: THE DEVIL’S INTERROGATION

A monstrous form, sleek and silver as moonlight, materialized from thin air. Its eyes burned with an unnatural golden fire, a predatory intelligence gleaming as it stared down the hapless goons. This was no ordinary beast; it was a creature of legend, a nightmare given flesh: Luna, the Blood Alpha, Lord of the Beasts.

A whirlwind of carnage. Luna, a nightmare unleashed, tore through the goons. Her obsidian fur rippled with power as she moved, a monstrous Fenrir twice the size of any normal beast. Razor-sharp claws ripped and tore, her fangs finding flesh and bone with sickening ease. The air grew thick with the stench of blood and offal. Screams were cut short, replaced by choking gurgles as life was snuffed out in an instant.

Luna tore through the goons with brutal precision, ripping heads, piercing hearts, and shattering bones. Each savage act was a tribute to her master's wish, exacting vengeance on every soul that had dared touch Vivian. David, his grip like iron, hoisted Gareth by the neck, forcing him to witness the carnage. With a calculated strike, David's fist connected with Gareth's gut, jolting him from unconsciousness. Gareth's eyes widened in terror as he beheld the blood-soaked demon's dance.

The massacre took no more than twenty minutes, a span of sheer horror that left Gareth trembling and pissing his pants. David hurled him across the room, crashing into the tavern wall. "Luna," David called, his voice cold and commanding. The frenzied Fenrir responded instantly, "Yes, master."

"Take Vivian to my bedchamber and return to me as soon as your done," he ordered, his icy gaze fixed on the quivering Gareth. "Understood," Luna replied, bowing slightly. She approached Vivian, who had never witnessed such madness and horror. Despite her fear, she knew the young master had come to save her. Luna scooped Vivian up in a princess carry, and a black liquid enveloped them both, vanishing from sight.

Only the devil incarnate remained, alone with the condemned soul destined for the pits of hell.

David grabbed a wooden chair and dragged it slowly across the blood-soaked floor, the scraping sound echoing ominously in the silent room littered with corpses. He approached the quivering Gareth, who pleaded for his life, desperation dripping from every word. "Please, spare me," Gareth begged, his voice trembling. "I'll do anything, I'll be a dog that serves you, please don't kill me." His eyes were swollen from tears, his body shaking like a leaf in a storm.

David, his face a mask of cold indifference, stopped in front of Gareth and sat down on the wooden chair. "Interesting," he mused, a cruel grin spreading across his lips, devoid of humor and full of malice. "A dog that tried to bite its master's hand is now begging for another chance." His icy gaze bored into Gareth's soul, igniting a flicker of hope only to snuff it out with a chilling declaration.

"Please, please, I'll do whatever you want," Gareth continued, clinging to false hope.

"Alright," David said with a sinister calmness, "but first..." His eyes narrowed, the cold fire in them burning into Gareth's very being. "Isn't your head a little too high?"

"Huh?" Gareth stammered, confused and terrified. The question hung in the air for a heartbeat before David brought his foot down on Gareth's head, smashing it into the floor. Gareth yelped in pain, his vision blurring as stars danced in his eyes.

"Now that's perfect," David taunted, his voice dripping with mockery. "We can continue."

David's boots found a repugnant perch atop Gareth's skull, the man's whimper swallowed whole beneath the weight. Fear, a metallic tang in the air, bled from Gareth's every tremor.

"First question," David's voice scraped like glaciers grinding, "who are your puppeteers?"

Gareth's tongue stumbled over the lie, "Wh-what puppeteers? You're the one giving the orders, master."

A sneer contorted David's face. "Wrong," the word cracked like a whip. His foot slammed down, a sickening crunch echoing in the sudden silence. Gareth's scream, a high-pitched keening, was quickly choked by another boot pressing into his face.

"One more chance," David's voice, a monotone devoid of warmth, sent shivers down Gareth's spine. "Who are your masters, Gareth?"

Panic, a serpent coiling in his gut, squeezed the breath from Gareth. "The Fingers! The Fingers, young master!" he blurted, the words tumbling over each other. The weight of his confession settled on him, heavy and suffocating. What unholy game was afoot? How much did this boy know? David's question sent a jolt of terror through him - the young master wasn't a naive fool, he knew there was someone pulling the strings, and Gareth was nothing but a tangled pawn.

A cruel amusement flickered in David's eyes. "Not so bad, was it, Gareth?" His smirk was a viper's grin, mocking the fear that now coiled tightly around Gareth's heart, squeezing out the embers of his initial anger.

"Next question," David rumbled, steepling his fingers in a pose that seemed far too mature for someone so young. The thoughtful facade did little to hide the glint of steel in his gaze. "Let's compare apples and assassins, shall we? How does Draven stack up against the seventh platoon's vice-captain?"

Gareth's mind reeled. The name itself, a venomous hiss in the underworld, hung heavy on the air. Draven? The leader of the Fingers? Did this scrawny boy truly know about the very puppet master who controlled Gareth's strings?

The notion of a powerful backer flickered for a moment – but quickly died. Gareth had seen David arrive alone, that monstrous creature his only companion. So, how? How could this seemingly naive fool possess such knowledge? Panic clawed at his throat, the realization settling over him like a suffocating shroud. He was a fly trapped in a spider's web, and David, with his newfound power and chilling intellect, was the spider, savouring the hunt.

A dangerous edge crept into David's voice, shattering any hope of playing dumb. "Stuck, Gareth? Need a little help answering question number two?" The cold threat slithered down Gareth's spine, leaving him trembling. Denial died a whimpering death in his throat.

"N-no, young master," Gareth stammered, his voice barely a whisper. The truth spilled from his lips, a bitter concession. "Draven... Draven is a master swordsman."

An hour bled into another, and by the time Gareth's voice croaked its final confession, David had squeezed every last secret from him like blood from a stone. The tapestry of the underworld unfurled before him, its tangled threads revealing the Fingers' organization, their strengths, and their weaknesses. Some of the questions David had thrown his way left Gareth reeling, a chilling premonition creeping in. Who was this boy truly? David De Gor, or someone far more formidable draped in a familiar name?

With the interrogation over, David delved into the wellspring of knowledge he held. The novel, 'Trials of Valor' – a forgotten relic from his past life as Mark, the MMA fighter on Earth – now served as a divine script, whispering the future into his ear. The Fingers, he learned, were a twisted hand with five cruel digits: Draven, the rogue Knight who called the shots; Orkler, the Minotaur whose fists were battering rams; Stripe, the archer who painted death with every arrow; Mace, the Archmage who wove shadows into spells of destruction; and Seraphina, the enigmatic witch whose wisdom was as sharp as a poisoned blade.

David rose, his gaze a glacial shard pinning Gareth in place. "Seems your loyalty is as thin as your knowledge," he mused, a hollow echo of amusement in his voice. "Take me to their nest."

Gareth, a broken marionette, could only comply. A flicker of desperate hope, a fragile ember in the hurricane of his fear, danced in his chest.

Perhaps the Fingers, the ruthless underworld organization notorious for their brutality, would crush this arrogant boy and his monstrous companion. They were known for their dark magic, their relentless assassins, and their leader, Draven, a rogue Knight whispered to be leagues above any other fighter in the land. Yet, Gareth was unaware of the true power David wielded. The beast he had brought with him was but a taste of David's newfound prowess.

In the dimension tower, David had faced Luna, a creature of pure nightmare, and emerged victorious. Here, in this strange new world, armed with stolen knowledge and a thirst for vengeance that burned brighter than any pyre, David was a force to be reckoned with.

The moon hung heavy in the sky, a silent witness as David marched towards the manor house where death had already cast its chilling shadow. The Fingers, basking in their ignorance, awaited their inevitable demise.

****

A pearlescent orb, the moon, dominated the night sky, bathing the Earl's castle in an otherworldly luminescence. The air itself vibrated with a tension so thick it felt like a physical weight pressing down. Luna, with the deceptive agility of a shadow despite her monstrous form, wove through the castle walls. Her senses, honed to razor sharpness, latched onto David's scent, guiding her like an unseen tether.

Silent as a stalking wraith, she navigated the labyrinthine halls, her monstrous form somehow melting into the darkness. Finally reaching David's bedchamber, she gently deposited Vivian onto the plush bed. Dazed and reeling from the night's horrors, Vivian struggled to focus. Gratitude, a fledgling ember, flickered within her.

She yearned to express it, to ask about David's fate, but the words died on her tongue before they could take flight. Luna, in that same instant, transformed into a swirling vortex of inky shadows, vanishing into the night like smoke on the wind.

Vivian, alone once more, was left with a mind ablaze with questions. "Who, on ternion," she breathed, her heart hammering against her ribs, "is the young master?" The memory of David's power, raw and untamed, surged back – a brutal storm that had left her both terrified and strangely awed. This enigmatic savior, shrouded in mystery and wielding a force beyond human comprehension, had become her unlikely knight, leaving her adrift in a sea of uncertainty.