The cold stopped registering somewhere around hour four.
John's consciousness had narrowed to a pinpoint. Not thoughts anymore, just the animal awareness of still being alive. His body had stopped shivering, which some distant part of his brain recognized as bad. Shivering meant the body was still fighting. When it stopped, that meant shutdown.
The guards shifted occasionally. Made notes. One checked his pulse at the three hour mark. Found it, apparently decided he'd live.
Hour six arrived like a distant bell.
The door opened. Footsteps descended.
Saunder appeared with a bundle of fabric. Not servant clothes. Something nicer. He set them on the ground near John's curled form.
"Time's up. Get dressed."
John couldn't move. His muscles had locked.
Saunder nodded to the guards. They hauled John upright, held him while his legs remembered how to function. His skin had gone waxy, bluish at the extremities.
They dressed him like a doll. The clothes were warm, lined with something soft. Quality fabric. The kind of thing minor nobles wore.
"Good," Saunder said, studying him. "Can you walk?"
John managed a nod. His jaw wouldn't unclench enough to speak.
"Excellent. Come. We're going upstairs."
Not down. Up.
They climbed, past the lower cells, past John's original monk room, higher still into sections of the manor he'd never seen. The walls here were finished properly, plastered and painted. Tapestries hung at intervals. This was real estate with value.
Saunder led him to a door with actual guards posted outside. They opened it without question.
The room beyond looked like a study but bigger, more official. Maps on the walls showing regions John didn't recognize. A large table covered in documents. And in the corner, another door. Heavy oak with iron reinforcement.
Saunder gestured John to a chair near the fireplace. Actual fire, blessed heat. John's body gravitated toward it instinctively.
"Sit. Warm yourself. We need to talk."
John sat. The warmth hurt worse than the cold at first, pins and needles everywhere as circulation returned.
Saunder settled into the chair across from him, the leather journal in his lap.
"I've completed my documentation. Everything you've told me about Earth, about isekai narratives, about your delusional framework. It's all here." He patted the journal. "Comprehensive analysis of a mind constructing elaborate fiction to cope with inadequacy. Quite valuable from a psychological standpoint."
John said nothing. His teeth were still chattering too hard.
"Which means I no longer need your yappings, as you so eloquently call them. That phase of research is concluded."
Something fell through John's chest. The yapping sessions had been the only time he felt almost human. Almost valued, even if just as a curiosity.
"However," Saunder continued, "I've observed something interesting during our trials. You have a particular understanding of suffering. An analytical approach to cruelty that most people lack. When I described the flogging, you immediately began calculating efficiency. When I disproved your Earth superiority arguments, you understood the methodology even as it destroyed you."
He leaned forward.
"You have psychoanalytical cruelty deep inside. Buried under layers of delusion and passivity, but present. And I think that can be weaponized."
John's mouth had started working again. "What?"
"Come. I'll show you."
Saunder stood and walked to the iron reinforced door. Unlocked it with a key from his belt. Beyond was a corridor that looked like it belonged in a different building entirely. Stone walls, narrow, descending into darkness.
Political prison.
They walked down together, Saunder carrying a torch. Cells lined both sides, larger than the ones below but still clearly meant for confinement. Most were empty. A few held occupants who pressed against the bars as they passed.
"These are specialized prisoners," Saunder explained. "Captured bandits awaiting execution. Political enemies who need interrogation before death. Military recruits who failed their trials. All requiring psychological breaking before their ultimate use."
He stopped at a cell containing three men. "My lieutenants handle this work, but they're crude. All physical intimidation, basic torture, no finesse. You, however, understand what actually breaks people. The mental erosion, not just physical pain."
John stared at the three prisoners. Young men, maybe early twenties. Bruised but not seriously injured yet.
"I want you to assist. Choose punishments, design psychological pressure, apply your understanding of human fragility in practical ways." Saunder's tone made it sound like an opportunity. "Think of it as applied research."
"No."
The word came out before John could stop it.
Saunder raised an eyebrow. "No?"
"I won't. I can't. That's not..."
"Not what? Not something the protagonist would do?" Saunder's smile had teeth. "You're not a protagonist, John. You're property. Valuable property now, property I'm offering specialized work, but still property. Refusal isn't an option."
John's hands shook. Not from cold anymore.
Saunder pulled out a sheet of parchment. "We'll start simple. This is a list of fifteen prisoners currently held in this section. I need three executed tomorrow for administrative efficiency. You'll choose which three."
He held out the list and a quill.
"Choose based on whatever criteria you prefer. Age, crime, physical condition, psychological resilience. Your choice. Consider it practice for more complex selections later."
The parchment hung in the air between them.
John's mind screamed. He couldn't. Wouldn't. This was beyond everything. Choosing who died wasn't weaponizing psychology, it was just murder with extra steps.
"If you refuse, I select all fifteen. Your choice saves twelve lives."
John's hand reached out. Took the parchment.
Fifteen names. Brief descriptions. Ages. Crimes ranging from theft to attempted desertion to political dissent.
His eyes scanned without processing. How did you choose? What criteria made one life more disposable than another?
Saunder waited, that analytical gaze fixed on him.
John's hand moved. Three names. He marked them almost randomly. Couldn't look at the descriptions too closely or he'd never finish.
Mikhel, age 24, desertion.
Gregor, age 31, banditry.
Thomas, age 19, theft.
He handed the list back, his hand shaking so badly the parchment rattled.
Saunder reviewed the choices, making notes. "Interesting. You selected the youngest thief rather than the oldest. The deserter over the political prisoner. And only one bandit despite three being available. Let's analyze this."
He pulled out his journal.
"Subconsciously, you've preserved your own reflection. Thomas, the young thief, reminds you least of yourself. Easier to condemn. Mikhel, the deserter, represents escape attempt, which you view as weakness worth punishing. Gregor, career bandit, you see as already committed to death. But you protected the political prisoner because you identify with powerlessness against authority."
Each word was a scalpel, cutting open John's reasoning and displaying it like a dissection specimen.
"Fascinating. Your cruelty is narcissistic. You'll condemn others to protect your self image. That's actually more useful than random selection."
Saunder closed the journal with satisfaction.
"The executions happen at dawn tomorrow. You're welcome to watch if you'd like to see the consequences of your choices."
John's voice was hollow. "No. I don't want to watch."
"Understandable. Confronting the results of your decisions can be uncomfortable." Saunder stood. "But you'll participate in future selections whether you watch or not. This is your function now. Applied psychological cruelty. Welcome to your new position."
He walked toward the exit, then paused.
"One more thing. The names you chose? I'd already decided on different prisoners for execution. But I'll use yours instead. Seemed more scientifically interesting to test if your selections were viable."
The words took a moment to penetrate.
John had just killed three men who wouldn't have died otherwise.
For science.
For Saunder's intellectual curiosity about narcissistic cruelty.
"Get some sleep," Saunder called back. "Tomorrow we begin properly training your skills. Such potential shouldn't be wasted."
The door closed behind him.
John sat alone in the corridor outside the cells, wearing nice clothes, warm and fed, staring at nothing.
Three men would die at dawn.
Because he'd picked their names.
The protagonist of his own story had become the villain in theirs.