Chapter 46: Prelude to Interrogation

"Safe journey, Commander," Lyra replied, raising a slender hand to shield her eyes from the sudden burst of wind as the rotor wash rippled against her dark mantle.

Her pointed wolf ears flattened against her head from the roaring vibration of the twin turbine engines. She stared at the matte-black aircraft resting on the grass, her amber eyes wide with unmistakable fascination and lingering awe.

To her, the machine looked like a massive, predatory iron bird sent from another realm. There were no dragon wings flapping, no glowing magical circles carved into its hull, and no visible mana radiating from its fuselage—yet it hovered and descended through the night sky with seamless grace.

"Commander..." Lyra called out, raising her voice slightly over the rhythmic chop of the spinning blades. "This iron carriage of yours... what kind of high-tier wind enchantment keeps something so heavy aloft? Is it fueled by refined mana crystals?"

John paused near the cabin door, turning back with a faint, amused smile.

"No enchantments, Lady Lyra," John answered clearly. "There isn’t a drop of magic in this machine. It runs purely on refined fuel, mechanical engines, and aerodynamics. We design spinning blades that generate enough physical lift to overcome gravity."

Lyra’s breath hitched slightly as she processed his words. "No magic at all...? A construct of cold iron and steel that flies on its own ingenuity alone?"

"Just pure science and engineering," John said smoothly. "Get used to seeing them around your skies. You’ll be seeing a lot more of our hardware in the coming days."

John gave her a final nod, grabbed the cabin handle, and hoisted himself up into the transport. Ritcher followed right behind, racking his carbine and clipping his safety harness into the floor ring.

The crew chief flashed a thumbs-up to the cockpit and slid the heavy cabin door closed, muffling the roar of the exterior wind.

Through the reinforced cabin window, John watched Lyra take a step back toward her warriors, her gaze remaining fixed on the aircraft in deep reverence and curiosity.

The twin turboshaft engines pitched into a high-whine shriek. The Black Hawk lifted smoothly from the turf, banked westward over the moonlit waters of the bay, and sped into the night, leaving the glowing ring of sacred funeral fires burning brightly along the distant coast.

The flight across the dark, open channel took less than fifteen minutes.

Ahead in the moonlight, the massive silhouette of the island fortress came into view. Powerful coastal searchlights swept across the perimeter reefs, illuminating the concrete seawalls, automated CIWS turrets, and the sprawling runway of the military installation.

The Black Hawk flared above the brightly lit flight deck, touching down smoothly onto the designated helipad.

The moment the wheels locked, the crew chief slid the cabin door open. The warm island breeze mixed with the scent of jet fuel and salt spray washed over them.

John unclipped his safety harness, hopped down onto the tarmac, and set a brisk pace toward the main compound. Ritcher fell in two paces behind, keeping his carbine secured across his chest.

A pair of armed security personnel snapped to attention at the blast doors, swiping their access cards to let the commander through.

"Welcome back, sir," the shift lead said. "TOC is running, and the intelligence team has the high-value detainees separated in Interrogation Rooms 1 and 2 in Sub-level B."

"Good," John said without breaking stride. "Who’s conducting the prep?"

"Captain Hayes and the military intelligence team, sir. Both targets were stripped of all their clothings and were replaced with standard prisoner outfits. They’re locked down and secured to the chairs."

John took the central elevator down into the reinforced subterranean levels of the base. The industrial hum of ventilation ducts and clean fluorescent lighting replaced the roar of the exterior airfield.

Stepping out into the polished concrete corridor of Sub-level B, John unstrapped his tactical gloves, tossed his helmet onto a staging bench, and walked directly toward the observation suite.

Behind the one-way mirrored glass, Captain Hayes looked up from a tactical clipboard and saluted. "Commander on deck."

"Report, Captain," John said, turning his cold gaze toward the two monitors displaying live feeds from the adjoining interrogation rooms.

On the left screen, Grand Inquisitor Lord Valerius was strapped into a heavy steel chair, his gilded armor replaced with an orange jumpsuit. His jaw was swollen from the rifle butt earlier, and he was glaring venomously at the surveillance camera in the corner of the ceiling.

On the right screen, Father Corvin was trembling so hard the restraints rattled against the metal frame, his pale face covered in cold sweat as he muttered frantic prayers to Goddess Viona.

"The priest is already cracking from isolation and panic," Captain Hayes briefed smoothly. "The Inquisitor is still trying to play the righteous imperial nobleman, demanding imperial immunity and divine vengeance."

John let out a dry, chilling chuckle. Typical of other world villains. Their lines are too similar.

"Well, the information we need is everything about the Holy Solarian Empire," John continued, crossing his arms as he watched the two monitors. "Military strength, naval routes, church hierarchy, internal political factions, and most importantly—the status and abilities of the Japanese class, the summoned heroes and the Goddess herself."

Captain Hayes nodded, tapping a digital stylus against his tablet. "Understood, sir. Which one do you want to crack first?"

"Start with the priest," John replied with a faint, cold smirk. "Corvin’s already having a religious meltdown. Break the weak link first to get our baseline facts, then use his testimony to dismantle the Inquisitor’s aristocratic pride."

"Right away, sir," Hayes said, signaling the two interrogation officers.

John stepped away from the observation glass and walked toward the steel door labeled Interrogation Room 2. The electronic lock chimed green, and the heavy pneumatic door hissed open.

The sudden mechanical sound made Father Corvin jump so violently that the steel chair screeched against the polished concrete floor. His bloodshot eyes darted toward the entrance, widening in sheer terror as John stepped into the sterile white room, followed by Sergeant First Class Ritcher, who took up a imposing position by the door, arms folded over his chest rig.

"You..." Corvin choked out, his voice cracked and trembling. "You cursed heretic... Where have you brought me? What is this godless dungeon?!"

John pulled out the metal chair across from the priest and sat down smoothly, resting his forearms on the cold steel table.

"Father Corvin," John began calmly. "You’re in a modern military detention facility. And we have some questions."