Palmer felt he should set aside the conflicts with Vasilina for the moment, as there was a more pressing matter at hand.

Outside the window, the blazing firelight was unending, and the roars of the Bloodthirsty echoed like the symphony of the apocalypse.

Yet inside, it presented a scene of harmony. Zefirin sat on the bed, the horrifying Chain Saw Scythe laid across her knees, while Palmer was tied to a chair, bound like a carefully wrapped holiday gift.

The room was filled with a faint red mist, casting a gentle pink glow under the refracted light, but Palmer felt no beauty in it; with every breath, he inhaled large amounts of toxins.

It was over, all over.

Palmer tilted his head upwards, trying his best not to let his tears flow.

Am I really such an unlucky guy? Why did I sleep so deeply, not even noticing the enemy's invasion? Forget about that, how did I even get captured? Worse still, of all people to be captured by, it was the Night Race.

The heir of the Clarks family, captured by the mortal enemy Night Race, what an utter disgrace!

If Palmer were excessively prideful, he might have already bitten his tongue and ended himself... Fortunately, Palmer didn't really care about such things, so he turned his gaze back to Zefirin, pondering on a glimmer of hope.

"It's not a big problem, Palmer, haven't you seen much greater storms before..."

Palmer consoled himself inwardly; he had faced worse situations than the current crisis, so why panic?

At the very least, he should believe in his Blessing! What if he just got lucky this time?

Such as... a meteor suddenly falling from the sky, crushing Zefirin to death, while he miraculously survives...

"Hey! I'm asking you a question, what are you daydreaming about?"

Zefirin slapped Palmer again, abusing him at will, "Bologue Clarks? I remember there's no one by that name in the Clarks family."

This operation was extremely crucial, and the Clarks family's names had long been etched into Zefirin's mind. She was certain that the guy in front of her was deceiving her; there was no Bologue in the Clarks family.

"You, you should be Palmer, right?"

Zefirin pinched Palmer's face. As the son of Fuen, Palmer was at the top of the list, and the person in front of her claiming to be Bologue closely resembled Palmer... He was definitely Palmer Clarks.

Palmer was doing his final act of resistance, "No, I'm not."

Zefirin frowned, "What are you up to?"

"Nothing... nothing, I have facial paralysis and need to move my facial muscles."

Palmer made exaggerated faces, hoping this foolish method would make Zefirin fail to recognize him.

With another crisp slap, half of Palmer's face went numb, looking at Zefirin with tearful eyes. Facing Palmer who had quieted down, Zefirin confirmed again.

"You truly are Palmer."

The Night Race had conducted extremely thorough investigations on the Clarks family, and although Palmer hasn't lived in the Wind Source Highlands in recent years, he was still within the scope of their investigation. The information the Night Race obtained was not comprehensive, mostly being lower-level secret intelligence within the Order Bureau.

For instance, Palmer's poor work attitude and his detestable demeanor.

Zefirin was initially unsure of her success in catching the heir of the Clarks family so easily, but when Palmer foolishly made faces, she realized she had hooked a big fish.

It was over.

Palmer cried out internally, starting to pray for external aid, hoping someone would quickly find him in his plight.

"I'm asking you again, how do I get to the Wind Cellar?"

"The Wind Cellar?"

The mention of the Wind Cellar cleared Palmer's mind of all wild thoughts, his mournful expression turning serious, now showing some semblance of a Field Staff's resoluteness.

"So your target is indeed the 'Dawn Oath.'"

"What else? Who would attack this damned place for any other reason."

Zefirin slowly stood up, the lethal Chain Saw Scythe placed aside, she grabbed Palmer's hair and forcefully dragged him up, throwing a heavy punch to his abdomen.

Previously, such an attack hardly affected Palmer, but under the influence of the deadly toxins, the slight pain was magnified several times. Palmer clenched his teeth but his body still involuntarily trembled and spasmed.

He felt as if he had been hit by a car.

"Ha... Ha..."

Palmer lowered his head, gasping for breath, saliva mixed with blood staining the ground.

Zefirin said, "I am quite good at interrogations. You better not resist, it'll be beneficial for both of us."

"Is... is it this mist?" Palmer disregarded Zefirin's words and instead started analyzing the situation, "Does this mist affect my nerves?"

The body's numbness, intermittent fainting sensations, even hallucinations... the negative effects appended by this mist were manyfold, not something Secret Energy by a First Stage Condenser could create. Hence, it could be concluded that Zefirin's Tier was at least above the Prayer Believers.

"Thinking about a counter-strategy?" Zefirin took out a small bag from her waist. "Then you better think faster."

Zefirin opened the small bag and took out one bizarre-looking metal tool after another under Palmer's gaze. Palmer tried to maintain his composure at first, but as the bed filled with an array of intricately designed small torture devices, even the steadiest heart would be terrified.

"Stop! Stop!"

Palmer screamed while trying to think of a stalling tactic.

He couldn't think of any.

"Isn't this too much? We've only known each other a few minutes and you're already going this far!" Palmer began joking awkwardly, hoping his comedic talent could influence Zefirin. "How about we start by getting to know each other first?"

Zefirin ignored Palmer as she skillfully drove a spiked metal handle into Palmer's abdomen. The barbs twisted into his flesh, and under the influence of the potent poison, the intense pain almost caused Palmer to pass out.

"Hi there, I'm Bologue Clarks, and you?"

Even so, Palmer still gathered his strength and animatedly spoke to Zefirin, as if he was genuinely trying to make a friend in this hellish scenario.

Actually... it's not impossible. Palmer had already gotten quite chummy with the Night Race Lord; meeting Zefirin should be no big deal.

Zefirin frowned slightly, twisting her wrist.

Visibly, Palmer's face grew even paler, but he forced himself to remain calm and seriously said to Zefirin, "I understand everyone has their own preferences, but I think before implementing them, you should consult the other party's opinion—mutual respect, don't you think?"

Zefirin released her grip, retrieved another hook-like torture device, and her expression took on a slightly troubled look.

In the past, under Zefirin's torment, most enemies couldn't last long. Even the most strong-willed would show expressions of struggle and near-collapse.

The feeling of conflicted struggle brought Zefirin an indescribable sense of pleasure. Although she didn't want to admit it, she truly found satisfaction and joy in torturing enemies.

However, when applied to Palmer, it was different. Zefirin felt no satisfaction but instead found Palmer's chatter irritating, like trying to slaughter a stubborn duck that won't stop quacking though half-drowned in the pot.

Seeing the new torture device, this time Palmer felt he was truly at his limit. Previously, he could at least comfort himself with the iron will of a field staff member, but now, he really couldn't take it anymore.

As Zefirin approached, Palmer summoned all his remaining strength and tried to knock her down, but he overestimated himself.

Under the poison's influence, not only could Palmer barely summon strength, but his Rectangular Soul Critical had also been corrupted, and he struggled even to mobilize Ether.

Unable to stand, Palmer fell awkwardly to the ground with the chair, clumsily squirming away from Zefirin.

Seeing the heir of the Clarks family groveling at her feet, Zefirin abruptly burst into laughter, which to Palmer, seemed like a sadistic killer amused.

He thought Zefirin would probably have lots of common interests with Bologue.

"I... I know Serey! Serey Villeries! The Night Race Lord!"

Palmer tried to save himself by citing his connections, but strangely, though she belonged to the Night Race, upon hearing Serey's name, Zefirin's expression turned grim and murderous.

What the hell? Serey, are you really that unpopular within the Night Race?

Palmer screamed internally; he had been knocked out and taken away by Vasilina that night, missing Fuen's story.

"Wait a minute, at least... at least set up a safe word first! What if you really kill me?"

Palmer desperately crawled toward the door, keeping up his chatter to buy time.

Zefirin ignored Palmer and took up the Chain Saw Scythe with one hand and a hook-like torture tool with the other. It was time for her pleasure-filled torment.

"Sunshine! What do you think of that word?"

In this situation, Palmer could only argue over words, "How about silverware? I think silverware's quite nice too!"

The Chain Saw Scythe slammed down beside Palmer's head, cutting a shallow line on his cheek.

"Help!"

Palmer completely broke down, screaming helplessly, a cascade of names flashing in his mind, until he shouted the most reliable one.

"Help! Bologue!"

No sooner had he spoken than a surge of Ether resonated, and Zefirin quickly withdrew the Chain Saw Scythe to defend but was still too late.

A silver battering ram crashed through the wall without slowing down, smashing directly into Zefirin, driving her through wall after wall and burying her deep in the rubble.

Amongst the collapsing debris, a thin flame flickered by, like a nearly burnt-out fuse, then Red Mercury fully exploded, the blazing light burst to the ends of the ruins, scattering everywhere.

A familiar figure stepped from the breach, Bologue looked at the tied-up Palmer and asked in confusion, "Were you just calling for me?"

Palmer froze for two seconds, then shook his head.

"No... I was calling out a safe word."

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