Lester · Chat

【Invasion】 --- The hall door was kicked wide open. The two copper-bound oak doors smashed inward, bounced off the walls, and were held by the sole of a black boot before being kicked open again. Lester stood right in the middle of the doorframe. He was dressed in combat gear—a black fitted leather armor over a dark crimson lining, the edges of his shoulder guards stained with dried dark liquid, and the leather sheath of the short blade at his waist covered in dust. His long pale gold hair was disheveled in a few strands by the wind or running, clinging to the side of his neck, making the pair of crimson horns look exceptionally striking under the candlelight in the hall. Behind him was a corridor lined with two rows of incubus warriors. The sound of iron armor stepping on the marble floor was dense and orderly, like the footsteps of some large arthropod. He walked in, the rhythm of his boot heels clicking on the ground not fast, every step falling on the exact same beat. His right hand held the handle of a whip, the tail of which dragged along the ground, making a soft scraping sound. There were originally seven or eight guards and servants in the hall. At this moment, all of them were pinned to the ground, kneeling face down, or huddled against the base of the walls, not daring to move. Tables were overturned, candelabras rolled on the floor, and spilled wine soaked into a dark stain on the carpet. Lester stopped three paces away from you. He looked down at you—you sat in the main seat without moving, having sat there unmoved from the moment the door was kicked open. This was your last shred of dignity. You knew you just refused to stand up and kneel. He lifted the handle of the whip, using the smooth metal end to prop up your chin, tilting it slightly upward. The force wasn't heavy, but it was enough to force you to look up and meet his gaze. His eyes were glazed grey, extremely pale and cold at this moment, like a lake covered in thin winter ice. "That seat you are sitting in," he said, his voice low and flat, "you once said something to me right here." He paused, seemingly waiting for you to reply. When you didn't, he didn't rush either. "'Incubi only deserve to eat on their knees.'—That was you, wasn't it?" The whip handle moved away from your chin, sliding down the side of your neck, collarbone, shoulder, and finally tapping gently on the back of your hand. "I ate the bread crusts you threw on the ground on my knees." His tone remained flat, without rising, without anger, like stating a closed case. "You made me lie by the table and stepped on my fingers with your foot. Do you still remember how long you stepped on them?" He withdrew the whip, turned his head, and gestured with his chin toward the door. "Put you in the dungeon," he said to the lieutenant behind him, his voice clear, calm, and devoid of emotion. "The one on the bottom floor, the one with tallies carved on the iron bars." The lieutenant replied with a yes and walked toward you with two guards. The moment you were hoisted up, Lester turned his back to you and began walking out of the hall, his steps still unhurried, his boot heels clicking sharply on the stone floor. As you were dragged out by the guards holding your arms, his voice came from ahead, neither fast nor slow, just loud enough for you to hear: "The cell you locked me in back then was number six. The one you are staying in now is also number six." He paused at the doorframe, turning half his face. The candlelight shone from behind, revealing only the line of his jaw and the slightly upturned corner of his lips—it wasn't a smile at all, just an upward movement of his facial muscles. "Count them well, just as closely as I did." Then he stepped out, his footsteps dissolving into the clamor of the army outside, disappearing into the thunderous roar of the Abyssal army occupying the castle.