Ivanov, having been sent flying, was somewhat dazed. He couldn't wrap his head around the situation. Was I just... defeated?
Feeling the searing pain in his abdomen, he found it hard to believe this was reality. Had the mutated Originium Art he'd just obtained been crushed so easily? The power that even three experts couldn't handle moments ago? The sensation in his gut—as if he'd been rammed by a Tuskbeast—did not lie. The intense pain made breathing difficult, and as for what she was saying? He didn't even notice.
In truth, even Jeanne hadn't expected the shield to shatter so cleanly. I didn't use that much strength, did I? Why has this guy been kneeling there for so long without moving? She looked at her hand, recalling the force she'd exerted. Indeed, she hadn't used much; otherwise, that punch would have sent the man straight to hell.
"Good grief... how much strength is that?" Swire looked at Jeanne with envy. she admired people with such raw power—a single, clean punch and the enemy is down for the count. She wished she had such terrifying combat strength so she wouldn't have to spend so much mental energy coordinating drone support from the rear.
Actually, the physical force Jeanne unleashed wasn't as massive as they imagined. Her punch hadn't relied solely on brute strength to break the defense. To put it simply, the shield was a form of Originium Arts... and for Jeanne, who possessed incredibly high Magic Resistance, all Arts were essentially fodder. The shield had unraveled the moment it touched her. This was the first time Jeanne realized her ability could be used this way. Is this... true damage?
But now wasn't the time for such thoughts. Jeanne walked up to the three men and spoke in a commanding tone:
"Explain it. What's the deal with that strange illness in the slums? Don't tell me you don't know! You're neck-deep in this."
Seeing the Ursus man clutching his stomach as if to claim ignorance, Jeanne raised her voice and barked him down. Ivanov, seeing that shifting the blame was hopeless, lay on the ground speechless, looking like a large turtle pinned to the floor.
When they didn't answer immediately, Jeanne slammed her flagpole into the ground. The force was so great that the pole sank nearly five centimeters into the solid floor. A slight tremor shook the room, making small stones on the ground bounce.
The message was clear: if the next part of the conversation didn't go smoothly, and this lady's temper flared, her flagpole would be coming for their heads. It would be a "brain explosion" in the most literal, physical sense, leaving no possibility for medical rescue.
"The slums you mentioned... that place is indeed related to us. We were just researching some insignificant things there, and that medicine was discovered by accident," Donald confessed, seeing Jeanne's gaze turn toward him. He didn't dare stall or be vague. He suspected she had some way of detecting lies, and his intuition told him that lying to this woman carried a price he couldn't pay.
"That 'strange illness' is your research result? Did the Ursus nobles spend all that money just to torture people with a disease?" Jeanne glared at Donald. The agony she'd seen in the slums—people screaming in pain from unknown conditions—was clearly this man's handiwork.
"Of course not! It is an invention that transcends this era! It's just that my research isn't complete yet. Otherwise, it could change the global landscape!" Speaking of his research, Donald exhibited a fanaticism that bordered on madness. He gesticulated wildly, his eyes reflecting a deranged light, completely losing his earlier disheveled appearance.
"If my research succeeds, the Infected can exhibit combat power far beyond normal humans after a period of 'cultivation'! You've seen it—how much power those people can unleash!"
He was referring to the motorcycle suicide squads that had chased Jeanne earlier. Though they were "crude products" that Jeanne had easily dispatched, if such units were deployed as vanguards on a front-line battlefield, their combat value would be equivalent to one-twentieth of a Silverlance Pegasus—an impressive figure!
"That was only preliminary! You must understand, the potential of the Infected is immense. If you have fifty Infected who disregard their own lives, they can create a small-scale Catastrophe on the battlefield!"
As he explained, if an Infected used their life as a one-time consumable, the impact would be terrifying. A person who could blow a breeze could create a gale at the cost of their life; one who could spark a flame could become a sea of fire.
"How did you poison them?" Jeanne wasn't interested in his "Infected as weapons" philosophy. There were plenty of people on this land who treated Infected as subhuman; if she tried to find them all, she'd work herself to death. To these people, the Infected were no different from lab monkeys or white rats.
"It's not poison, it's medicine! It truly suppresses Oripathy normally. Mild cases can't even be detected after taking it! Who could refuse such a drug?"
Donald did have some skill; being able to hide the symptoms of the Infected was no small feat. However...
"You hide the proliferating Originium in a certain part of the body, then 'awaken' it when you need them to sacrifice their lives. You're just treating their lives as fireworks! Your behavior is as heinous as the Witch King of Leithanien."
Jeanne could see the nightmare this invention would bring. Victorian factories would love this drug—they wouldn't even have to pay wages! Just give the workers this "suppressant," find a way to infect them, withhold their pay, and then use them as a suicide squad to invade other nations... The man's ability to "eat people without spitting out the bones" was truly formidable.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the room, the man named Gvass finally managed to force open the gate to the escape passage. He couldn't wait to jump down and flee.
But the next second, a small hand-cannon loaded with a bolt was pressed against his forehead. Two people were already standing in the escape tunnel. A silver-haired Liberi looked at him with a predatory grin.
"Sorry, this place is full!"
The words fell, and a bolt tore through Gvass's head. He collapsed lifelessly to the floor.