Chapter 6: The Inquisitor

Inside a low-lit dungeon room, Hugo Krämmer was slowly winding up his mother’s old, worn music box. Hugo was a man with piercing dark grey eyes and neatly styled short grey hair. As a man of the faith, he always wore his white clergy stole over his shoulders. They contrasted nicely with his black Inquisitor uniform. The music box was his last memento of his mother, and he liked to listen to it while working. The ratcheting sound of the mechanism echoed softly in the silence, interrupted only by the faint drip of water somewhere in the distance. On the table across from him sat a pretty young woman, bound tightly to a chair. She had been accused of heresy, promiscuity, crop curses, and worst of all, consorting with demons.

Finally, the ballerina popped out of the box, spinning gracefully to the tune of a melancholic melody. Hugo placed the music box gently on the table and picked up his pencil and notebook. He was serenely calm and composed. The tear-streaked face of the woman in front of him elicited no emotional response within him.

“Please,” The woman sobbed. “I—I would never say or do anything against the church. I’m faithful, I’m faithful, I’m faithful.”

“Shhhh,” Hugo shushed softly, leaning forward slightly. There was gentleness to his tone, as though he were cooing a child, but the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed his intentions. “I’m just trying to figure out the truth. If you cooperate fully, the church believes in leniency.” He had to keep himself from laughing. The Church’s promise of leniency was laughable—an elaborate ruse designed to ensnare the desperate, who clung to it like drowning sailors grasping at driftwood. “You’ve been accused of heretical beliefs and practices by multiple very credible witnesses,” he continued, opening his notebook. “I hope you know how serious that is.”

He started sketching her exquisite, terrified expression. Each line captured her anguish, her defiance, her soul. He always sketched those he interrogated; it gave him mystical insight into their character, allowing him to understand them far deeper than they might even understand themselves. And their sketch would stay with him forever as a token of his conquest over them. He liked to keep trophies like that, little trinkets to remember his victories. It even gave him power, oddly enough. An aura that he could call on to break his prey.

As he sketched, he could feel the knowledge settling into him, threading through his mind like a whisper from something beyond. Every trembling breath she took, every flicker of defiance in her eyes, became his to unravel.

As the lines took shape on the page, so did his understanding of her. A lonely girl. An outsider. Prone to silence, which others mistook for arrogance. She longed for belonging but feared the rejection she had already suffered too much. The revelation unfurled inside him like scripture being illuminated by candlelight.

The woman knew the people who had accused her, liars and superstitious folk. They had made her into an outcast. All she wanted was to live her own life. “I love god,” She choked. “I would never do something heretical. Please, there’re plenty who’ll vouch for me.”

It was true, there were some Hugo had found who were remarkably sympathetic to the young woman, but such people could be found anywhere. Misled people who’ve fallen under the charms of a young maiden. For the Inquisition, their words rarely spoke volumes.

“You’re mistaken,” Hugo said smoothly, leaning back in his chair. “Many who’ve vouched for you have started second-guessing themselves. What with all the accusations coming in, how could they not? It would be easier for you to confess your sins and beg the Almighty for forgiveness. Your exposed sins have been an unbearable burden for many of your loved ones. Don’t drag them down with you.”

“No, no, no. Why? Why? Why is everyone against me? I haven’t done anything. Please. I haven’t done anything.” She broke down in more sobs.

Hugo waited patiently for her to finish crying. The music played eerily to her sobs and whines. Then he unleashed his Aura of Righteous Terror, silencing her. “The only way out of this is your confession. Beg for forgiveness, seek redemption for your crimes, and perhaps your family won’t become total outcasts.”

The aura suffocated her, pressing down like a weight too heavy to bear. She could feel the wrongness of it, the malice cloaked in false piety. In that moment, she understood the truth—the inquisitor before her was no agent of god; he was a sadistic monster. “I can’t confess,” she whispered hoarsely, staring defiantly through tear-filled eyes. “I didn’t do anything.”

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Hugo’s eyes twitched lightly, irritation creeping in. She had won their little game, but it didn’t matter. He stood, smoothing away any trace of emotion, and drew his Blade of Sanctity. “I admire your resilience. Truly, I do." A smirk. "Almost makes this a shame.” He held the sword aloft and cast his Light of Cleansing. A beam of light shot out of the blade, enveloping the woman in it. It forced her to relive all her darkest memories, and the weight of all her sins bore down on her.

She screamed in agony, the sound echoing off the stone walls as the music box continued its eerie melody. Hugo hummed along softly, savouring the symphony of despair.

A short while later, he stepped out of the dungeon room into a quiet corridor. Flickering torches cast strange shadows across the damp stone, their light dancing unpredictably. Two guards stood ready; their expressions grim as they awaited his report.

“The accused is ready to confess,” Hugo said.

The guards nodded grimly. She would confess in front of her village before being burned at the stake. Hugo reached into his pocket and retrieved a small locket. Inside was a faded picture of the woman and her mother, their smiles frozen in time. He studied it briefly, his lips curving into a faint, giddy smirk. Another trinket for his growing collection—a memento of yet another conquest.

He went to the Bramholt Cathedral. It was exactly how one would imagine a cathedral: big, gloomy, with high buttresses and plenty of spires. Inside, high vaulted ceilings stretched upward, painted mosaic windows cast colorful light across the floor, and frescoes depicted angels triumphing over fallen demons. Hugo had walked through the cathedral countless times and barely paid any attention to it.

Today, he was here to meet with His Excellency Bishop Karl von Königsfeld. Apparently, there was another assignment—and a new Inquisitor named Conrad von Sternengipfel.

He greeted his eminence with a polite bow. The other Inquisitor was already standing by—a young man with sharp cheekbones, piercing blue eyes, and straw-blond hair. His demeanor screamed idealism. Hugo hated those. They were always so sanctimonious.

The bishop wasted no time, outlining their task in clipped tones. It was simple enough: a debtor to the Church had fallen behind on payments. Their job was to retrieve either the debtor or their money. Normally, the Church avoided such transactions—it was, after all, against God’s law to charge interest against a fellow faithful—but politics often demanded sacrifices of principle.

Hugo naturally didn’t mind, he was a pragmatist at heart; However, the scowl in his partner's face delighted him.

A short moment later, they were out in the rain, standing in front of an old mansion’s door. The building clearly had seen better days, its cracked stone facade and sagging roof hinting at decades of neglect. Bramholt was a city where it poured constantly, the relentless rain soaking everything in sight.

After some knocks, an elderly man opened the door. He was tall and lean, with sharp features that might have been handsome in his youth but now reminded Hugo of a half-sunken fancy boat in a bog, covered in algae. Crowsfeet lined his eyes and mouth, and his luxurious but mismatched clothes spoke of a desperate attempt to cling to a more glorious past.

Hugo studied him with detached curiosity. Despite his evident struggles, the man carried himself with a quiet dignity, straight-backed and almost defiant. His calloused fingers showed that he was likely a card player, a gambling addict. No wonder he’d fallen on hard times, Hugo thought.

“Inquisitors,” the man said before getting his face slamed by the door.

Hugo kicked the door wide open and stepped inside. His artificer pepperbox was drawn. The artificer pepperbox was a semi-auto with a rotating gun-barrel. It had a magical crystal primer that would ignite the blackpowder charge inside the barrel everytime it was struck by the hammer. Hugo’s pepperbox held eight barrels in total.

He levelled the gun at the splayed out elder in front of him. “You owe us money, Lord Aldric Nachtdorn. Where is it?”

“I—I’ll get the money soon,” Aldric said, licking his split lip. “I have a way to make money.”

Hugo cocked the hammer, “When.”

“There’s a tournament tonight. I have a surefire way to win,” Aldric said with steady eyes.

Hugo laughed and then fired a shot. The bullet missed by a hair, sending hot powder and chunks of plaster flying into Aldric’s face. The old man screamed, first in shock and then in agony as blood trickled from fresh wounds.

Hugo bent low, his gun still pointed at Aldric’s face. Grasping the old man’s shirt, he lifted him slightly off the ground. “Listen very carefully, You’ll have one chance to recoup your money and pay us back. Fail, and you’ll soon discover what the inside of a dungeon feels like.”

“Inquisitor Hugo, you’re going too far.” Conrad stepped forward hesitantly.

Hugo waved him off without looking away from Aldric. Leaning closer, he whispered, “Understood?”

Aldric nodded frantically, blood dripping from his ear onto the floor.

“Good,” Hugo said, his grin widening. “And just to ensure your cooperation, I’ll be keeping a close eye on things tonight. Don’t disappoint me.”