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"Good evening, dear Lord Earl."
Corleone finally spoke.
His voice was not loud, even peaceful, like a doctor inquiring about a patient's symptoms.
"Normally, I do not drink before surgery, because alcohol affects the stability of my hands."
He raised his left hand.
Only then did Gales notice that Corleone was holding an exquisite glass goblet filled with a deep red liquid.
Not far away, a trickle flowed slowly from the tap of an oak barrel; he knew it well—it was his own twenty-year-old sweet red wine from The Reach.
Produced in Highgarden, the best vintage, the best grapes.
"But today is an exception." Corleone held the glass to his eyes, observing the wine's legs through the firelight, his manner even more elegant than that of the Earl himself.
"After all, today I do not have to worry about the patient's probability of survival."
"Mmph... Mmph!!!"
Earl Gales struggled with all his might, the chair legs scraping harshly against the stone floor.
But it was completely useless; his mouth was gagged so tightly that he could only let out muffled whimpers.
Corleone did not look at him at all, simply taking a sip of wine, savoring it for a moment before nodding.
"Good wine."
"The fruitiness is still there, and in the finish, there is a hint of oak and... the fragrance of a maiden's breast?"
"I must say you have excellent taste in wine, my Lord Earl."
He praised with narrowed eyes, then set down the glass and took two steps forward, stopping just an arm's length away from Gales.
The torchlight cast from behind stretched his shadow long, completely enveloping the trembling old Earl.
"Generally speaking, crude kidnappers would simply cut out a person's tongue, but that does not stop them from screaming."
Corleone leaned down, staring straight into Gales's terrified eyes, explaining patiently, "But that is actually very inefficient. The base of the tongue is rich in blood vessels; it would spray everywhere."
"And someone with a severed tongue can still let out wheezing shrieks. To be honest, that sound... is truly unpleasant."
His tone was incredibly calm, yet it was this attitude—as if lecturing on human anatomy—that terrified Gales even more, making his whole body shake uncontrollably.
However, Corleone's explanation was not over. He extended his right index finger and tapped the air lightly. "So, I used a more efficient method."
"Using a piece of damp linen, slid completely along the surface of the tongue into the pharynx, pressing just right against the vocal cords."
As he spoke, he gestured to the position on his own throat with his finger.
"Like this, the vocal cords cannot vibrate properly, just like... blocking the holes of a flute."
As he continued, Gales's struggling grew increasingly feeble.
It was not that he had given up, but rather he realized the person before him was no ordinary kidnapper or assassin. He forced himself to calm down and stared at Corleone as if asking a question.
"Very good."
Seeing this, Corleone nodded with satisfaction, took a scroll of parchment from his breast, and slowly unfurled it before Gales. "Now we can talk business."
Gales looked at the parchment, which glowed a soft yellow in the torchlight.
The handwriting was neat, written in the standard Common Tongue of the realm, and the format was also very familiar.
"In the name of the Seven, I, Gales Rosby, Earl of Rosby and Lord of the same, do hereby make this my last will and testament..."
A will!!!
After silently reading the opening, Gales's eyes widened again immediately.
He looked up at Corleone in disbelief, only to see the other man placing a finger to his lips.
"Shh..."
"~~~~"
"Be patient, dear Lord, and finish reading it."
The tone was so gentle it was as if he were soothing a lover. Gales's chest heaved several times before he finally calmed down and looked back at the will.
"Looking back on my long life, I recognize that wealth and power are both trials granted by the Seven."
"My distant kinsman, Sven Rosby, committed crimes that have left me sleepless, and I feel deeply that the family has an obligation to atone for them..."
"Therefore, I have decided to bequeath Rosby and all its subsidiary lands to my faithful cousin and kinswoman by marriage, Lady Tanda Stokeworth."
"May she rule this land in a more just manner..."
"At the same time, half of the gold dragons currently in the family vault, approximately fourteen thousand coins, shall be donated to the Black Hand Poor Relief Foundation in King's Landing's Flea Bottom."
"This is to atone for Sven's soul and as a penance for my own failure to restrain my kinsman sooner..."
"I beseech the Seven to forgive my sins. May the Mother have mercy, the Father be just, the Warrior grant my successor courage, the Crone grant them wisdom, the Smith bless the land with prosperity, and the Maiden protect the purity of the people..."
3
When he finished reading the last word of the will, Earl Gales's breathing almost stopped completely.
His eyes widened to the limit, staring fixedly at the words on the parchment, and then, as if scalded by boiling water, he began to struggle frantically.
Unfortunately, he was not a dead pig.
Giving Rosby to House Stokeworth?
Donating fourteen thousand gold dragons to the Black Hand Poor Relief Foundation?
What the hell kind of organization is that!
"It will be established very soon."
Seemingly sensing Gales's question, Corleone answered him promptly, though his tone held a hint of mockery.
"I asked Rorger. Although I do not know why the young Earl Gales Rosby, who spent his days indulged in gambling, drinking, and whoring,"
"and was keen on exercising the right of the first night, has now become such a devout believer in the Seven."
"But this will is indeed written quite well, isn't it?"
Gales looked up to see Corleone smiling confidently. "I drafted it myself. Come now, transcribe it once, and we can call it a day."
"Mmph!! Mmph!!!"
At those words, Gales struggled violently once more, the whimpers from his throat turning sharp and shrill, like the wail of a dying animal.
Fear and anger intertwined in his eyes as he glared at Corleone, as if trying to tear apart the man who had unilaterally sentenced him to death with his gaze.
However, at that moment, Corleone unexpectedly reached out and pulled the linen from Gales's mouth.
"Rickard!!"
"Herbert!!!"
"Guards! Where the fuck are you all!!!"
Instantly, Gales's voice echoed through the cellar: "Help!! Assassin! May the Seven curse you!!!!"
Corleone just watched him quietly, making no move to stop him, even taking half a step back to give him enough space to scream.
Gales shouted for a full two minutes, but there was no response.
Perhaps he was tired, or perhaps it was his poor health, but Gales finally stopped, his chest heaving, feeling a burning pain in his throat.
Yet he still glared viciously at Corleone, his eyes full of ferocity.
"I must say, this really is a fine place."
However, Corleone was not at all intimidated; there was even a hint of a smile in his voice as he looked around. "A nearly completely enclosed stone structure, with walls three feet thick."
"Perfect soundproofing, perfect temperature and humidity control—ideal for storing fine wine."
"The air circulation is just a bit poor; carbon dioxide accumulates easily, and oxygen levels are low. Staying inside for long periods causes dizziness and fatigue, and in severe cases, even unconsciousness."
"But don't worry, my Lord, I opened the door to vent it beforehand."
"So... scream away. It's useless no matter how loud you shout."
"By the time they realize you're missing, start searching the castle, and find this place, it will be tomorrow morning at the earliest."
Gales did not understand this string of technical terms at all, but he could see the other man's confidence. Clearly, the quality control during the construction of this wine cellar had been very thorough.
"What do you actually want?"
Gales took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down and negotiate. "I have money, lots and lots of money. I can give you a title..."
"You still have not understood my meaning."
Unfortunately, this bribe was useless; Corleone simply interrupted him.
He leaned closer, the firelight illuminating half his face while the other half remained submerged in shadow, like a devil's whisper vibrating in his ear: "Don't be in a hurry, my Lord Earl. We have the entire night."
Looking at the stubborn man before him, Gales's lips trembled. He wanted to shout again, but his aching throat would not allow it.
Finally, he could only threaten hoarsely, "You will go to hell... the Seven will punish you... *cough cough cough*... even the Mother will not forgive you!"
He spoke very slowly, but every word carried a bone-deep hatred.
Hearing this, Corleone tilted his head. "Interesting."
He straightened up, eyeing Gales meaningfully. "I've investigated you, my Lord Earl."
O
"Before the war broke out, you visited the sept no more than three times a year, and your donations... were zero. You had at least seventeen mistresses and countless bastards."
"Moreover, you are a rather stingy man; the tax collectors often complained that you always tried to underpay the royal taxes."
"But now, you act like an incredibly fanatical and devout believer."
With that, Corleone took a step forward, his [Majesty Lv3] unfolding, bringing an infinite sense of pressure to Gales as he questioned, "What changed you, my Lord?"
"Was it Sven's death that terrified you, or... have you recently come into contact with certain people or things?"
However, facing Corleone's interrogation, Gales was oblivious, instead repeating like someone possessed, "Your soul... will burn forever in the fires of the seven hells, beyond redemption for all eternity!"
"You will fall into hell forever..."
Seeing this, Corleone knew that without some 'methods', he would not be able to pry anything out of the old man's mouth.
"We are all in hell, Gales Rosby."
He set the parchment aside, elegantly adjusting his already rolled-up sleeves, and said softly, "It's just that some people lie on silk sheets drinking fine wine, thinking they're still in the mortal world."
"Hell?"
"That is just going home."
The cellar fell into a dead silence.
Gales, who had been like one possessed, suddenly jerked his head up and looked at the man before him, realizing a terrifying truth.
He... seemed to fear nothing!
How do you threaten or negotiate with a man like this?
"Now."
Corleone picked up the scroll of parchment again and waved it in front of him. "Please transcribe it once, my Lord, and at the signature line, write your name and yesterday's date."
"Of course, you can choose to refuse."
Before Gales could answer, Corleone took an item from his portable toolkit.
It was a pair of pliers.
"Do you know... how many nerve nodes in the human body can produce intense pain without being fatal?"
"It's alright, I'll teach you."
With that, Corleone crouched down, bringing his gaze level with Gales's.
The tip of the surgical pliers hovered lightly in the air, just an inch from Gales's left pinky finger.
"Please tell me, Earl Gales..."
"What is 1000 minus 3?"
E Middle