CH389 Silver-haired Deceiver I

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There existed a special class of professionals crucial to any interplanar expedition—particularly those venturing into planes with an established Pantheon.

Healers.

Not the "fraud" type like Alex, who only knew healing spells.

Real Healers—those trained in the formal lifestyle profession—could do far more than heal injuries or throw out buffs. They carried a vast repertoire of supportive techniques and utilities that made life on expeditions significantly easier.

A lesser-known secret, at least within Pangea, was that trained Healers were the natural nemesis of clerics and paladins who channelled the power of Navi.

As a Virellian Empire princess and a certified Enclave Healer, Eleanor received the best education money—and the Enclave—could provide.

As with everything branded Enclave-grade, Eleanor was not merely a world-class potion alchemist for her Tier; she was equally a world-class Healer.

Here, stranded in a foreign plane with no rescue and no reinforcements, Alex silently thanked Zora again for insisting he 'snag the princess'.

When Silver and Mogal dragged their captive back to camp, Alex immediately recognised the man's nature: a devout follower of this world's Navi.

And according to everything the chosen Pangeans were taught, Navi devouts were famously dogmatic—often outright fanatical.

Extracting information from them was notoriously difficult, especially once they stepped onto the clergy path—a cleric or paladin's path.

Fortunately, Alex had the perfect workaround… one far simpler than torture or persuasion.

"Kavakan, Eleanor. With me," Alex called, walking towards the bound man.

"#%$##*$%&@!"

The prisoner spewed a torrent of words in their unknown tongue—accompanied by flying spit and an expression full of manic hatred. Even without understanding, the meaning was pretty obvious: curses, insults, and/or threats.

"Eleanor, if you would be so kind." Alex smiled.

Eleanor nodded gracefully.

She raised her hands and began a silent chant. It lasted just over a minute—a record-time, considering most Healers of her level required five.

[Translate]!

She cast one of the Healer-exclusive spells that made them indispensable in interplanar travel.

After all, many diplomatic—or hostile—situations were made infinitely easier by being able to understand the natives.

"You heretics—spawn of the Beast God! Release me this instant if you do not wish to incur the wrath of Juror, the God of Light and Justice!"

Suddenly, Alex and Kavakan understood him perfectly.

Technically, [Translate] did not convert the language itself.

Instead, it conveyed the intent behind the target's words directly into the listener's mind.

Thus, Alex and Kavakan still heard foreign speech with their ears, but their minds received the meaning as clearly as spoken Pangean common tongue.

Alex squatted down until he was eye level with the man tied to the tree a short distance from camp—close enough for the others to watch, far enough that no one would interfere.

Kavakan loomed behind Alex, arms folded, radiating an intimidating, gangster-like menace.

"Hello. Can you stop cussing so we can have a proper conversation?" Alex asked politely.

Thanks to [Translate], the meaning of his words flowed straight into the captive's mind as well.

"Ptui!"

The man spat to the side. "I will not speak with infernals from the dark outside world—creatures bent on extinguishing Verdantis' sacred light!"

"Oh? So this world is called Verdantis?" Alex smiled lightly. "See? We're already talking. Progress."

"You… you infernal! You won't trick me! I will not speak!"

Alex chuckled softly.

For a supposed devout, the man was surprisingly… shrewd.

Truly fanatical Navi believers would've spat right into their captor's face, consequences be damned. This man, however, spat at the ground, carefully avoiding provoking an immediate execution.

Smart enough to keep himself alive.

"I can understand your position," Alex said. "We are outsiders to your plane—but we are not Infernals."

Mid-sentence, Alex's lips twitched.

A strange gut feeling told him… he was lying.

After all, his bloodline's ancient root traced back to the Infernals. And his bloodline was very pure. One could argue that part of him was infernal.

"No Infernal would admit they are one," the man shot back.

"No, no. Infernals are very proud—they would absolutely tell you they're Infernals," Alex corrected matter-of-factly.

And that was true. Pure-blood Infernals rarely hid their nature.

Perhaps that was why Alex felt a subtle internal poke—his bloodline disagreeing with his denial.

"But I believe it's in your best interest to speak with me while things are still civil," Alex continued. "Otherwise, we may have to explore… irreversible means."

"Torture?" the man sneered. "I worship the god of light and justice. Do you think I fear your torture?"

"Boss, let me have him for a few minutes."

Kavakan cracked his knuckles, grinning with a cruelty that could make even hardened killers flinch.

Alex quickly raised a hand.

"No. We're not torturing anyone. We are not brut—"

He stopped.

He wanted to say that they were not brutes, but looking at Kavakan, that was exactly what he was.

"We are not barbari—"

He paused again.

There was an actual barbarian—Mogal—in their expedition party.

"…we are not sava—"

Another stop.

He wanted to say they were not savages, but then he realised Orc where technically categorised as Savages, making Mordor one.

Alex pinched the bridge of his nose.

This interrogation was veering far off script.

Kavakan and the captive both stared at Alex in bafflement, wondering if something was wrong with his head.

Eleanor, meanwhile, wore a worried expression.

Alex cleared his throat.

"Cough. Don't worry—we're not going to torture you unless we absolutely have to. We're all civilised people here."

Civilised, indeed.

His expedition team included a wolf who could cook better than most royal chefs, and a Nightmare Eagle who refused to eat anything short of high-grade gourmet meals (exaggeration).

If that wasn't civilised, Alex didn't know what was.

"If you're not going to torture me," the man snarled, "then release me. No matter what you say, I won't speak. Lord Juror's wrath will fall upon you soon enough!"

Alex let out a dramatic sigh.

"He hasn't noticed, has he?" he asked.

"Seems not," Eleanor replied, falling right into step, also sighing pitifully. "Should we tell him?"

"I suppose we have to. We are trying to prove we're not Infernals, after all," Alex said 'reluctantly'.

"Tell me what?" the man demanded, frowning.

"You really haven't realised?" Alex asked softly.

"Realised what?!" The captive snapped, unable to withstand the psychological pressure.

"Oh, I see…" Alex smiled faintly. "It seems your devotion to Lord Juror isn't as strong as I expected."

That smile—gentle yet glacial—sent a cold shiver down the man's spine.

For a brief moment, Alex looked even more terrifying than Kavakan.

"You haven't noticed that your connection to your false god has been cut," Alex revealed calmly.

The man's face drained of colour.

He finally realised.

One of the biggest reasons the Navi commanded such powerful devotion—why they could mislead, indoctrinate, and enslave entire civilizations—was because they were tangible.

Humans trusted what they could see and feel.

The Navi exploited this ruthlessly.

Unlike the distant Creator God revered by Pangeans—a being who created existence yet could not be perceived directly—the Navi regularly manifested avatars before their followers.

And when a believer's faith reached a certain threshold, their mind automatically forged a link with their chosen Navi.

This gave their followers a false sense of intimacy.

A sense of divine favour.

A sense of belonging.

But these were merely convenient tools for harvesting Faith Energy.

An Avatar's manifestation temporarily amplified the Faith Energy generated by believers.

The mind-link allowed the Navi to harvest that energy the moment it formed—

and to monitor the believer's actions to prevent betrayal or doubt.

To Pangeans, this 'divine connection' wasn't devotion or goodwill. It was a slave brand.

A shackle forged from stolen Providence.

**39**

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