Chapter 184

Chapter 184: Interrogation

At 10:15 a.m., Song Cheng returned to the containment zone for high-risk prisoners.

A pure-white corridor stretched ahead, empty of decoration. Bright ceiling lights bathed everything in sterile glare. At regular intervals, rings of dark-red lights were embedded into the walls, floor, and ceiling. Fully armed guards stood watch at T-shaped intersections on both ends, while sensors, cameras, and sentry weapons hid inside countless alert modules overhead.

Heavy blast doors punctuated the corridor every few meters. Above some, a green light glowed. Above others, red burned like a warning.

This was one of the Special Operations Bureau’s highest-level prisons, built specifically for the most dangerous and escape-prone humanoid prisoners. Anyone locked up here was either a criminal responsible for massive destruction in the Borderland, awaiting judgment, or a figure considered so dangerous that releasing them would be enough to make seven or eight factions jointly post bounties.

Angel cultists, naturally, belonged here.

Song Cheng stopped before the blast door at the far end. He checked the light above it and the information on the wall screen, then nodded to the guard beside him. “Status?”

“Calm. No abnormal activity recorded,” the guard reported through a heavy mask. “No self-harm, no escape attempts. Aside from eating, drinking, and basic needs, the prisoner has been sitting in that chair the whole time. Looks like long-term meditation.”

“Mental monitoring? Barrier devices?” Song Cheng asked.

“All systems normal,” the guard said. “We can confirm the prisoner can’t contact any hidden existence or communicate with accomplices. We detected a few gestures resembling silent prayer, but no supernatural response. Likely ordinary prayer behavior.”

Song Cheng nodded. “And the other one?”

“Held separately in Area B. Same situation—quiet, refuses to cooperate,” the guard said. “Routine interrogations and hypnosis sessions haven’t gotten anything. To be honest… these cultists’ mental barriers are extremely tough.”

“Normal,” Song Cheng said, exhaling. “Sometimes it’s not that the barrier is tough. It’s that these lunatics don’t have normal minds anymore.”

His eyes sharpened. “Open it. I’m going in to ‘talk’ again.”

“Understood.” The guard stepped forward to operate the lock. “Communication time: one hour. During this period, all security systems will remain on high sensitivity. Please watch your safety—and control emotional fluctuations.”

A low hum rose from within the door. Mechanical pressure hissed, followed by a soft system chime. The silver-white alloy slabs slid apart, revealing the cell.

A translucent blue light curtain divided the room. The outer section near the door was empty. Beyond the curtain was only the bare minimum: a bed and a chair. Walls, ceiling, and floor were coated in a tough, slightly elastic material. Several sturdy dome-shaped devices were mounted overhead, occasionally pulsing red or emitting a cold, warning hum.

A tall, thin, bald man in a white prison uniform sat on the chair. Restraints locked his neck and hands in place. With no expression at all, he stared at the bare wall opposite him.

The blast door sealed behind Song Cheng. He walked to the light curtain and pressed his palm against it. After a few breaths, the curtain dissolved, and he stepped through toward the prisoner—one of the two captured angel cultists.

The bald man finally shifted his gaze to Song Cheng. No joy. No anger. Only a calm so complete it felt inhuman.

“You’re here again,” the cultist said flatly. “A poor soul trapped in a cage.”

“In your eyes, I’m trapped,” Song Cheng replied, unbothered. “You treat the real world like a cage—and your lord is trapped in another one. Look at yourself. Aren’t you trapped too?”

“I am confined here for now,” the cultist said, a faint smile touching his lips, “but I enjoy freedom and peace far beyond your understanding. And my lord’s confinement is a more exalted martyrdom.”

His eyes didn’t blink. “He will break free as promised and descend into this pitiful world. The faithful will be blessed. And fools like you will receive suffering worthy of you.”

Song Cheng’s expression didn’t change. Only a small spark of curiosity surfaced. “I’ll ask again. You and your partner—which angel do you follow? There are many dark angels. Angel cultists split into branches. Some worship several. Some follow only one. Which is yours?”

The cultist’s smile deepened, almost indulgent. “You’re already on the path. In the name of interrogation, you ask about my lord’s secrets. Then you grow interested in our faith. You seek teachings from me. After that, you’ll pretend to be moved… and you’ll start listening to the ‘voices’ on your own.”

His tone was calm, like someone reciting history. “A few days later—perhaps ten, if you want to be cautious—you’ll behave like a trainee quietly influenced by my lord. Like one of us.”

He leaned forward slightly, eyes fixed on Song Cheng’s face. “On the seventh or eighth day, I will lower my guard. In that process, I will reveal too many secrets about my lord and my compatriot, and you will report them upward.”

He tilted his head, almost curious. “Save your effort. The scent of sanity suppressant is already seeping from your pores.”

Song Cheng stared at him for several silent seconds. Then, slowly, he smiled. “Good. You’re experienced. But your partner’s experience is average.”

“Oh,” the cultist said, as if mildly disappointed. “Then it’s the second route. You separated us to make us doubt each other’s loyalty and faith.”

He shook his head. “Your methods are simpler than I expected.”

Song Cheng looked at the cultist’s shining bald head and felt a fresh wave of irritation.

After a moment, he exhaled and sat down on the bed.

“It’s fine. We have time,” he said. “I’m not an interrogation specialist. More professional people will handle that part. For now…”

He looked up. “Let’s just talk. Pure chatting.”

…

An hour later, the blast door opened, and Song Cheng walked out.

A guard approached. “Did you get anything?”

“Same as last time. Mouth hard as hell,” Song Cheng said, letting the curse fly as he reached for a cigarette. “I’m starting to think even if the apocalypse hits and the universe explodes, the last things left will be the two mouths of these cultists, still refusing to open.”

He shoved the cigarette between his lips anyway. “And this one has a special trick. After any word I say or move I make, he can divine the likely direction things will go. No wonder the interrogation specialists can’t break him.”

“…A prophet?” the guard asked carefully.

“Hard to say,” Song Cheng muttered. “I’ve never heard of a prophet joining angel cultists. And if he really were one, how did we catch him this easily? More likely he’s been influenced by the angel behind him and gained some kind of spirit-vision ability.”

He grimaced. “I’m really unlucky.”

The guard listened in silence. When Song Cheng flicked his lighter, the guard reached out and stopped him. “…Captain. No smoking here.”

Song Cheng froze, then awkwardly pocketed both lighter and cigarette.

Right then, his phone rang.

He glanced at the screen. The irritation drained from his face so fast it was almost funny. He answered immediately, forcing a bright smile into his voice. “Director? No, no, I just got free. Go ahead…”

His expression shifted. He listened for a few seconds, then hesitated. “Tell him… is that appropriate? If we let him get involved… he’s not bureau staff…”

He listened again, then sighed. “Okay. If that’s your judgment, I’ll call him.”

When he hung up, he stared at the screen for a moment, dazed, as if his emotions were tangled.

The guard watched, curious behind the mask.

Song Cheng waved a hand for the guard to stand by, then stepped aside and dialed a number.

After a short wait, a voice answered. “Hello? Captain Song?”

“Ahem.” Song Cheng coughed. “Yu Sheng. Something to tell you. You remember those two angel cultists you gave us clues about? The bureau caught them. Our director asked me to ask if you have any inter—”

“Yes!” an urgent voice cut in.

Song Cheng paused. “…Uh. All right, then I’ll send someone to pick—”

“Send someone to pick me up on the 54-1/2 floor,” Yu Sheng said. “I’m already here.”