The clang of my manacle echoed off the obsidian walls of the Penitent’s Vault, a sound that grated more on my nerves than the Karkara’s death-rattle. My wrists, chafed raw, were cinched to a heavy iron ring embedded in the cell’s floor, forcing me into a perpetual slump. Overhead, a single luminescent orb pulsed, casting long, distorted shadows that danced like mocking spirits. The air reeked of ozone, wet masonry, and cold sweat. My head throbbed, a dull counterpoint to the buzzing silence. The Inquisition, in its infinite wisdom, had seen fit to strip me of everything but my tattered academy tunic and a single, unhelpful thought: *this is precisely why I wanted a desk job.* A metallic click preceded the hiss of the cell door. It swung inward with the slow, deliberate grace of a guillotine blade, revealing a figure silhouetted against the sterile corridor light. Lucera Valmont. Even in the gloom, her presence was stark: impeccable, severe, and utterly unyielding. Her charcoal uniform, tailored stiffly against her throat, bore the silver sigil of the Vanguard of Divine Purity. Her eyes, the color of a winter sky, were already dissecting me. She carried a slim data-slate, its surface glowing faintly, and a single, pristine white glove. “Galderos Muntaz,” her voice clipped out each syllable like shearing metal. “Cadet of the academy. Current charge: Heresy through Demonic Exploitation. Penalty: Public Immolation.” I managed a weak, sarcastic grin. “A bit dramatic, don’t you think? I mean, I saved your precious city. One might expect a medal, or at least a warm meal, before the fiery death sentence.” She ignored my quip, stepping fully into the cell. The door hissed shut behind her, sealing us in. The glowing orb above intensified slightly, highlighting the faint dust motes dancing in its beam. “Your ‘salvation’ involved the manifestation of a Class-Omega entity from a blood-stained artifact. We have yet to ascertain whether it was a summoned daemon, an abominable construct, or something far worse.” “It was an ink-dragon,” I supplied helpfully. “From a sketchbook. Hardly the stuff of ancient rituals. Unless, of course, the ancient rituals involved poor quality parchment and a surprising lack of self-preservation.” Lucera’s gaze sharpened, her focus unwavering. She paused, then tilted her head fractionally. “The System flagged your ability as ‘0% Tame’ for nearly a decade. Its output has never registered on any known mana-spectrum. And yet, you conjured a leviathan-killer.” She tapped a finger against her data-slate. “Tell me, Muntaz, what exactly did you ‘tame’?” “Nothing,” I deadpanned, shifting uncomfortably against the chains. “That’s kind of the point of ‘0% Tame’, isn’t it? It’s famously useless. My mentor, Master Hectas, always said it was a statistical anomaly, a quirk of my genetic code, a constant reminder of my unsuitability for the field.” Lucera’s brows furrowed, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes. “Master Hectas. Yes, he spoke quite eloquently about your… shortcomings. He also supplied the ‘blood-stained artifact’.” My cynical facade wavered. “He *what*?” She offered no further explanation, instead bringing her data-slate up. The screen flared, showing a high-resolution scan of the sketchbook. A complex mana-signature overlay pulsed over the parchment, a serpentine pattern of energy. “The residue from the pigment, Muntaz. It’s not just ink. It’s a highly refined arcane medium, saturated with a unique mana signature. A signature that, after cross-referencing guild registers and restricted archives, matches a proprietary formula known only to a select few.” My mouth felt dry. “And whose is it?” Her eyes met mine, cold and direct. “Master Hectas’s.” [Notification: Sub-Optimal Cognitive Dissonance Detected. Threat Assessment Recalibration Initiated.] The cuffs bit deeper into my wrists. Hectas. The one who always pushed me, always *guided* me, even with my useless skill. The one who had given me the sketchbook just before the exam, saying it was a ‘good luck charm’. Lucera, seemingly noticing my internal turmoil, shifted the data-slate. The screen now displayed a live broadcast. The familiar, ornate hall of the city's Grand Tribunal filled the view. At its heart, beneath the colossal, gleaming Apex Ledger display, stood Master Hectas. He was weeping, his shoulders shaking, his face a mask of profound grief. “—a betrayal,” Hectas’s voice, amplified and broadcast throughout Oraz via the ‘Truth-Speaker’s Vigil’ network, cracked with emotion. “A profound sorrow to witness such promise twisted by forbidden arts. Galderos Muntaz… I groomed him. I believed in him. But the darkness… it took hold. He trafficked in abominations, corrupted his very essence for power. He is a heretic, a danger to Oraz! I can only pray… pray for his soul, and for the purity of our beloved Conservatory.” He then bowed his head, a picture of heartbroken virtue. Copper flooded my tongue as I ground my teeth flat. The old snake. He was selling me out, condemning me to the pyre, all to protect his own skin. And the ink… the ink was *his*. He’d set me up. The ‘blood-stained artifact’ wasn’t just a prop; it was a deliberate trap. [Notification: Optimal Synergy Achieved. Core Directive: Survival. New Stat Boost: Clarity of Purpose. +5 Intelligence.] A mirthless laugh rattled in my chest. “Well, isn’t that just exemplary corporate performance? Master Hectas, weeping for the integrity of his manicured reputation, while his student gets to be the poster child for demonic corruption. What a stand-up fellow.” Lucera observed me, her expression still unreadable. “You are not denying the skill, only the intent.” “The skill is a loophole, not heresy,” I retorted, meeting her gaze. “My 0% Tame skill doesn’t *bind* monsters. It draws them. It creates them from an arcane medium, an extension of my will, not a capture. The Ledger calls it ‘Unauthorized Demonic Exploits’ because it doesn’t fit their neat little classification. It’s not a summon; it’s a manifestation. It’s… *art*.” Her eyelids narrowed, then lifted as she stared down at the readout. A flicker of something akin to understanding, or perhaps intrigue, crossed her features. She looked from me to the data-slate, then back again. The meticulous investigator connecting the dots. She walked to the cell door, her back to me, and examined the electronic lock panel. Her pristine white glove traced the faint energy conduits. “The Apex Ledger is absolute,” she murmured, her voice lower now, almost to herself. “Its definitions are law. But if a skill’s output exists outside its defined parameters, is it truly a violation, or simply… undefined?” She tapped the lock panel with her gloved finger. A faint spark crackled, too soft to be heard over the hum of the cell. [Notification: Sub-Optimal System Functionality Detected. Lock Mechanism Integrity Compromised. Error Code: 733. Re-calibration required.] Lucera turned back, her expression once again composed. “My apologies, Muntaz. It seems there’s a minor malfunction with your cell’s locking mechanism. A System error. It will require a full diagnostic, which may take some time. Unfortunately, the integrity of your detention cannot be guaranteed during this period.” A subtle, almost imperceptible shift in her eyes suggested a deeper meaning. She had just bought me time. Or given me an opportunity. [Notification: Optimal Synergy Achieved. Core Directive: Escape. New Stat Boost: Opportunistic Insight. +5 Dexterity.] Before I could fully process this unexpected turn, a low, guttural roar vibrated through the very foundations of the Inquisition headquarters. The luminescent orb above flickered wildly, then died, plunging the cell into near darkness. A blaring, screeching alarm pierced the sudden silence, echoing through the facility. The heavy, reinforced walls of the Penitent’s Vault groaned, a sound of immense strain, as if something colossal was pressing in from outside. A deep fissure spiderwebbed across the obsidian surface, just above my head.

Sub-Optimal Interrogation