Chapter 89 — One Thousand Minus Three Equals What?
"Normally, I don't drink before surgery," Odin continued. "Alcohol affects hand stability."
He raised his left hand.
Only then did Gyles notice the delicate glass goblet Odin was holding, filled with a deep crimson liquid.
Not far away, the spigot of an oak cask dripped steadily. Gyles recognized it instantly—
his twenty-year-aged Reach sweet red, a Highgarden vintage, perfect harvest, perfect year.
"But today is an exception," Odin said, lifting the glass to eye level and studying the way the wine clung to the crystal, his manners more refined than Gyles' had ever been.
"After all, tonight I don't need to worry about the patient's survival rate."
"Mm—mmph!!"
Gyles struggled with every ounce of strength he had. The chair legs scraped harshly across the stone floor.
Useless.
The gag was packed too tightly. Only muffled, animal sounds escaped his throat.
Odin didn't look at him.
He took a sip, savored it, then nodded.
"Excellent wine."
"The fruit is still there. A hint of oak in the finish, and…"
"…the fragrance of a young girl's skin?"
He smiled faintly.
"You have excellent taste, Lord."
Setting the glass aside, Odin stepped closer—one arm's length away.
Torchlight from behind stretched his shadow long and warped, completely swallowing the trembling old noble.
"Most crude kidnappers cut out the tongue," Odin said calmly.
"But that doesn't actually stop screaming."
He bent forward, eyes level with Gyles', speaking with patient clarity.
"The root of the tongue is dense with blood vessels. It sprays everywhere."
"And even without a tongue, the victim still screams—air leaking through the throat."
"Honestly… an unbearable sound."
His tone was instructional, clinical.
That made it worse.
Gyles shook uncontrollably.
"But that method is inefficient," Odin continued, raising his index finger slightly.
"So I used something better."
"A linen cloth, soaked and slid flat along the tongue, pressed just right against the vocal cords."
He gestured lightly at his own throat.
"Like covering the air hole of a flute."
"As long as the cords can't vibrate… there's no sound."
Gyles' struggles weakened—not from surrender, but from realization.
This wasn't a thug.
This wasn't an assassin.
This was a professional.
"Good," Odin said, satisfied.
He withdrew a rolled sheet of parchment and slowly unfurled it before Gyles' eyes.
"Now we can discuss business."
The parchment glowed softly in the firelight.
Clean handwriting.
Standard royal script.
A familiar format.
In the name of the Seven, I, Gyles Rosby, Lord of Rosby and its lands, hereby establish my final testament…
A will.
Gyles' eyes went wide.
He jerked his head up in disbelief—but Odin simply raised one finger to his lips.
"Shhh."
"Be patient, my lord. Read it all."
The tone was almost tender.
Breathing heavily, Gyles forced himself to look again.
In reflecting upon my long life, I have come to understand that wealth and power are but trials granted by the Seven…
My kinsman, Swyft Rosby, committed grave sins, leaving me sleepless with guilt. Our house bears responsibility for his transgressions…
Thus, I bequeath Rosby Castle and all attached lands to my loyal kinswoman and in-law, Lady Tanda Stokeworth…
May she rule with greater justice…
Furthermore, I donate half of my family treasury—approximately fourteen thousand gold dragons—to the Black Hand Relief Fund of Flea Bottom…
As atonement for Swyft's soul, and for my own failure to restrain him…
When Gyles reached the final line, his breathing nearly stopped.
Then he exploded into frantic struggle, eyes bulging in pure terror.
Rosby Castle—to Stokeworth?!
Fourteen thousand gold dragons—to some Black Hand charity?!
What in the Seven Hells was that?!
"It will exist very soon," Odin said lightly, as if answering a casual question.
"I asked Rorge. No one understands why the Gyles Rosby of old—
the gambler, the drunk, the brothel-goer, the lord who loved invoking the right of first night—
suddenly became such a devout man of the Seven."
"But this will?" He smiled.
"It reads beautifully, don't you think?"
Gyles looked up in horror.
Odin's smile widened.
"I drafted it myself."
"Now," he said pleasantly, producing a fresh sheet,
"copy it once by hand, and we can clock out for the night."
"MMMPH—!!"
Gyles thrashed violently, the muffled screams rising into something sharp and desperate—
The sound of an animal realizing it was already dead.
Fear and rage twisted together in Gyles' eyes as he stared at Odin, as if he could tear apart the man who had already sentenced him to death with nothing but his gaze.
Then—unexpectedly—Odin reached out and pulled the linen gag from Gyles' mouth.
"Rickard!!"
"Herbert!!!"
"Guards! Where the hell are you bastards?!"
Gyles' voice exploded through the cellar.
"Help! Assassins! By the Seven, curse you!!!"
Odin merely stood there, watching.
He didn't stop him.
He even stepped back half a pace, generously giving him space to scream.
Gyles shouted for nearly two full minutes.
No answer came.
Perhaps from exhaustion, perhaps from his failing body, he finally stopped. His chest heaved violently, his throat burning as if scraped raw.
Yet he still glared at Odin with naked hatred.
"I have to say," Odin remarked calmly, a faint smile touching his lips as he looked around, "this is an excellent place."
"Solid stone construction. Completely enclosed. Walls nearly three feet thick."
"Perfect sound insulation. Stable temperature and humidity. Ideal for storing wine."
"Ventilation is the only flaw—carbon dioxide builds up easily, oxygen levels stay low. Prolonged exposure causes dizziness, weakness… in severe cases, unconsciousness."
He waved a hand casually.
"But don't worry. I aired it out in advance."
He looked back at Gyles.
"So go on. Scream all you like."
"No one can hear you."
"By the time they realize you're missing, search the castle, and finally reach this cellar—at the very least, it'll be tomorrow morning."
Gyles didn't understand most of the terminology.
But he understood the confidence.
And that confidence terrified him.
"What do you want?" Gyles finally demanded, forcing himself to calm down and bargain. "I have money. A lot of it. I can buy you a title—"
"You still don't understand," Odin interrupted softly.
He stepped closer. Firelight illuminated half his face; the other half sank into shadow. His voice dropped to a whisper, like the devil speaking into a confessional.
"Don't rush, Lord."
"We have the entire night."
Gyles' lips trembled. He tried to scream again, but his abused throat refused to obey.
At last, he rasped hoarsely, each word dripping with venom:
"You'll go to hell… The Seven will punish you… Even the Mother won't forgive you…"
Odin tilted his head.
"Interesting."
Straightening, he studied Gyles with open curiosity.
"I looked into you, Lord."
"Before the war, you visited the sept no more than three times a year. Donations—zero."
"You kept at least seventeen mistresses. Bastards too numerous to count."
"And you were notoriously stingy. Tax collectors constantly complained about you underpaying royal dues."
He took one step forward.
"And yet now," Odin said mildly, [Presence Lv.3] unfurling like an invisible weight, pressing down on Gyles' chest,
"you act like a fanatical believer."
"What changed you?"
"Was it Swyft's death that frightened you…
or did you recently encounter something—or someone—new?"
Gyles didn't answer.
Instead, he seemed possessed, repeating over and over:
"Your soul… will burn forever in the Seven Hells… No salvation… eternal damnation…"
Odin exhaled softly.
So be it.
"We're all in hell already, Gyles Rosby."
He set the parchment aside and carefully adjusted his rolled-up sleeves.
"The difference is that some people lie on silk sheets, drinking fine wine, convincing themselves they're still in the world of the living."
"Hell?"
"That's just going home."
The cellar fell silent.
Gyles suddenly looked up.
In that moment, he realized something far worse than death.
This man… felt no fear at all.
How do you threaten someone like that?
How do you negotiate with them?
"Now," Odin said, lifting the parchment again and giving it a gentle shake,
"please copy this out once, Lord. Sign your name. Use yesterday's date."
"You may, of course, refuse."
Before Gyles could respond, Odin opened a small leather kit and removed an object.
Pliers.
"Do you know," Odin asked conversationally,
"how many places on the human body can produce unbearable pain without being fatal?"
"No matter. I'll teach you."
He crouched down until his eyes were level with Gyles'.
The tips of the pliers hovered in the air—
less than an inch from Gyles' left pinky.
"Tell me, Lord Rosby," Odin said gently.
"What is one thousand… minus three?"