The Lust System: Hunt beyond worlds-Chapter 64: QUESTIONING

In the suffocating dark, the only sound William could hear was his own shallow, ragged breaths. His body was drenched in cold sweat, bruises and cuts marking his once-proud physique.

He was completely naked, tied tightly to a heavy wooden chair. The ropes weren’t ordinary — they glowed faintly with a blue hue.

Mana ropes. He could feel it — his own magic was sealed, suffocated inside him, unable to answer his will.

A single dim lamp hung near a heavy wooden door, barely illuminating the space.

The walls around him were too dark to see clearly, like shadows devouring the room.

But directly in front of him stood an old, cracked mirror leaning against the wall. Its glass was smudged and broken in some places, yet the reflection it gave was clear enough.

William stared. He blinked, thinking his eyes were playing tricks on him. But the horror did not fade.

On the left side of his face, there was nothing but burned, raw flesh — skin completely melted away. His cheekbone exposed, the tissue blackened and red, as if the fire still lingered inside the wound. He could barely recognize himself. His once sharp, commanding features were now twisted and monstrous.

His mouth quivered, a mix of fear and fury rising, but his throat was too dry to even scream.

The reflection stared back, mocking him. Somewhere in the dark, footsteps echoed faintly, approaching — slow and deliberate.

When the door creaked open, William raised his head weakly. A figure stepped in — the shape of a young man, that much he could tell, but the darkness made it hard to see his face. William tried to speak, but all that came out were broken, muffled sounds from his torn throat.

The figure dragged a chair across the stone floor and sat directly in front of him. The faint light of the nearby lamp finally revealed the man’s face — even if faintly, William recognized him.

Christopher Zadberg. The first prince. The adopted son.

Though his vision was blurred, William was certain. His body trembled, the noises in his throat grew frantic, but he still couldn’t speak clearly.

Then Christopher finally spoke, his tone as cold as steel:

"Tell me, Sir William... why would a man like you — who has everything — be seen having a relationship with the queen?"

William tried to respond, his lips moving pathetically, but no sound formed. He winced, desperate, but silent.

Christopher’s eyes didn’t change. His voice remained flat, devoid of anger, of sadness — just an abyss.

"Here. A speech healing potion."

He pulled a small bottle from his pocket, held it out to William.

"This is a speak potion. It’ll heal your throat. But listen closely — if you say anything other than the answers to my questions... I will kill you."

His words were heavy, firm, inescapable.

"I will ask you three questions. If you lie or try to twist the truth, I’ll kill you here — then I’ll kill your entire family. Remember that."

Without waiting, Christopher uncorked the potion, pressed the bottle to William’s mouth, and forced it down.

As the liquid slid down his throat, William coughed, but slowly... he began to feel his voice returning , his throat started to heal .

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William gasped as his throat healed. His breaths were rough, but he could finally speak. Yet before he could utter anything, Christopher’s voice echoed in the dim room:

"Three questions. Answer properly."

William stared at him, his mind racing, his heart pounding.

"First," Christopher said, his cold eyes watching every twitch of William’s face.

"When did your relationship with the queen start?"

William swallowed hard. His mind scrambled for memories, for a timeline. The darkness, the cold, the pain — all of it blurred things. But he remembered... the queen’s touch, her whispers.

"I... I don’t remember the exact time," William muttered, his voice shaky. "But... a few months ago. Yes. It started a few months ago..."

He lowered his head, ashamed, eyes closing tight.

Christopher didn’t react. His voice just came again — deeper, slower.

"Second question."

He leaned forward slightly.

"Do you think... the queen is personally related to King Adam’s death? Yes or no."

William froze. His eyes stared at the floor, unmoving. The question hammered at his brain.

If I say yes... will he kill me? If I say no... would he believe me?

Thoughts tangled, sweat mixed with dirt on his face. Finally, after what felt like forever, he whispered —

"...Maybe."

The answer slipped out, like a reluctant breath.

Silence.

Then the third question fell like a blade.

"Are you, directly or indirectly, involved in the king’s death?"

This time, William’s body jerked up, his voice cracking, desperate.

"No! No, I am not! I swear! Maybe I’ve enjoyed knowing he died... but I’m not responsible, not directly, not indirectly— please, don’t kill me! I beg you!"

His voice broke, his body shaking, eyes pleading in the dark.

Christopher didn’t speak. He just stood up slowly. William flinched, fearing the worst.

But then, without a word, Christopher opened his hand. In his palm was a bottle of water.

He held it out, silently.

William stared, panting. He didn’t understand.

Yet Christopher said nothing. He simply waited, bottle in hand, his face an unreadable mask.

Christopher stood up, his cold eyes never leaving William’s broken face.

He opened William’s clenched, trembling hands himself, forcing the fingers apart, then gently placed the bottle of water in his palms.

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