I Died and Became a Noble's Heir

Chapter 796: Crimes

A man in the fourth row back was named Valerien. He had murdered seventeen elves over the course of three decades, selecting victims based on particular characteristics that were based on his pattern of depravity.

He had been imprisoned for two hundred and thirty-seven years. He sat in his cell, his pale skin marked by the pallor of prolonged confinement, his eyes carrying the weight of centuries of regret and rage combined in equal measure.

Two cells to his left was a woman named Thessala. She had orchestrated the kidnapping and enslavement of forty-three elves, selling them to outside powers for profit.

She had been imprisoned for one hundred and ninety-two years. Her body bore the marks of violence.

Others imprisoned had attempted to exact their own justice within the confines of the dungeons. She remained alive through sheer will.

In the corner cell was a young elf named Korin. He had participated in a series of gang assaults, targeting elves who had refused his advances.

He had been imprisoned for eighty-nine years. His mind had begun to fracture under the weight of prolonged isolation. He spoke to walls that could not respond. He maintained conversations with phantoms that existed only in his consciousness.

Jack moved through the chamber with the particular composure of someone observing resources rather than people.

His eyes tracked the prisoners without emotion. He noted their conditions. He observed their reactions to his presence.

Some prisoners recognized Maelor. Their bodies tensed. Some of them began to murmur, understanding that a king’s presence in the dungeons meant something significant was about to happen.

Valerien’s eyes met Jack’s for a single moment. Something in that meeting conveyed understanding.

Not complete comprehension, but the recognition that this man carried power operating at levels the prisoner could not fully process.

Thessala rose from her bench. Her hands gripped the iron bars of her cell. Her breathing elevated slightly. Her eyes tracked a Jack with the iy of a predator assessing threat.

Korin simply stared at the wall, unaware that anything had changed.

Jack stopped before a pedestal positioned at the chamber’s center. Maelor stood beside him. The king’s breathing was controlled, but his jaw remained clenched.

Jack withdrew a flask from his possession. The glass was dark, the liquid inside appearing to be water or weakthe alcohol. Th,eindicatingsk was ancient. The glass bore marks of age that it had been crafted centuries ago.

“Pour this into their evening meal,” Jack said, his voice carrying absolute clarity and certainty. Each word landed with precision. “One drop per prisoner. Nothing more. Distribute it through their drinks after the food is served. Ensure that every prisoner consumes a portion of the water containing the compound.”

Maelor accepted the flask. His hand trembled slightly as his fingers contracted around the glass. His eyes traced the surface of the liquid inside.

“What will occur?” Maelor asked, his voice barely audible. Though his tone suggested he already und;rstood the a

The questat all, ion carried weight, it was not truly a question but a confirmation that he grasped the magnitude of what was being proposed.

“They will consume their food,” Jack replied. His expression remained unchanged. His eyes remained fixed on the prisoners occupying the chamber. “They will consume their drinks. Their bodies will process the compound I have provided. And then you will observe what occurs when someone consumes something designed specifically for elven biology.”

Jack turned to face Maelor directly. His eyes met the king’s.

“Ten minutes,” Jack said. “That is all the time you need to allow between the consumption of the water and the moment when their bodies begin to fail. After ten minutes, they will all be dead.”

Maelor’s grip on the flask tightened. His knuckles went completely bloodless.

“Afterward?” Maelor asked, and the single word carried the weight of comprehension.

He understood what was coming, what Jack had planned, and the purpose of this genocide.

“Afterward,” Jack said, “I will handle the rest.”

Jack turned and walked toward the exit. His footsteps carried him away from the chamber, leaving Maelor standing alone among one thousand prisoners, holding a flask that contained the instrument of their collective death.

————-

The evening meal was served at the appointed time.

Maelor stood in the shadows above the dungeon chamber, watching as guards delthree-hornedto each prisoner. Honey bread, tea, three horned deer, and soup. It was considerscrapsrious for the prisoners who normally got scrapes of shit to eat every day.

But today was different.

Today, Maelor had instructed the guards to prepare additional water. Maelor had personally overseen the distribution of the poisoned compound into the prisoners’ drinking vessels. One drop per prisoner. Nothing more. Invisible in the water. Undetectable except through magic specifically designed to perceive it.

The prisoners were confused by the change in routine.

Over two hundred years of confinement had established a particular rhythm. Food arrived at specific intervals. The portions were always the same. The preparation never varied. Prisoners who had spent centuries in this place understood the routine so much that any deviation meant something significant was the cause for it.

Some of the prisoners recognized the change as portent.

A sign that their long confinement was about to end, though they could not calculate whether that end would come through release or death.

Others recognized the opportunity.

The older elf named Valerien, the serial murderer who had killed seventeen elves, raised his bowl and drank deeply.

His eyes closed in something approaching contentment. The water was cool. It carried a faint taste.

Almost imperceptible, but present. His tongue detected something that his mind could not identify. He dismissed the sensation as imagination.

Around him, hundreds of other prisoners began to eat.

A young elf with tattoos covering his visible skin consumed his portion with the particular desperation of someone who had learned never to waste food.

His hands trembled slightly as he raised the bowl to his lips. The water entered his mouth. He swallowed.

A woman whose eyes carried the weight of atrocities she had accepted her portion and consumed it without hesitation.

Her body had adapted to decades of confinement. She understood the rhythm of meals. She understood the are necessity of nutrition.

One thwere ousand criminals eating. One thousand prisoners consuming the meal that had been poisoned with the substance Jack had provided.

Maelor counted the minutes in his consciousness with the precision of someone timing a ritual.

One minute.

Two minutes.

Three minutes.

His hand gripped the stone railing before him. His fingers contracted with increasing tension as the moment approached.

Four minutes. Five minutes. Six minutes.

The prisoners continued their meal. Some had finished eating. Some still consumed their portions slowly, savoring ft transcended their normal rations. Some simply sat, their meal completed, their water consumed, waiting for what would come next.

Seven minutes. Eight minutes. Nine minutes.

Maelor’s breathing became shallow. His jaw remained clenched so tightly that his temples throbbed with tension. His eyes tracked the prisoners occupying the chamber, waiting for the moment when the poison would activate, when the compound would begin its work within their bodies.

Ten minutes….

The first prisoner to collapse was Valerien, the serial murderer who had drunk so eagerly.

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