Chapter 17:

The Human Experimentation Facility

Reincarnated as a High Elf Sage, I’ll Burn Down This Rotten Kingdom from Within



The air in the basement they had chosen as a hiding place felt heavy. The smell of dampness mixed with dust, and only the dim light from an oil lantern gave color to Lyselle's and Caelan's faces. The table between them was covered with a spread-out map, pen scribbles, and a worn document they had snatched from a Drezhen officer that afternoon.

Caelan looked at the paper as if he were peeling poison from a snake's skin.

"This... isn't just a logistics note," he said slowly, his eyes narrowed. "There are supply routes that aren't recorded in the official list. And... there's a code I don't recognize."

Lyselle leaned forward, her finger tracing the lines of numbers and symbols on the side of the document.

"That code... I've seen something similar in Ardellon. It's used to mark shipments considered 'sensitive'." She paused, holding her breath, as if something heavy was on her mind. "'Sensitive' means... they don't want the public to know. This is usually... people, Caelan. Not goods."

Caelan fell silent, his jaw tightening. The faint clink of the steel plate on his hip was heard as he gripped the hilt of his sword.

"If that's true... then the facility isn't just holding prisoners of war. They're—" "—experimenting," Lyselle cut in quickly, her eyes staring deeply.

Silence filled the room, broken only by the occasional sizzle of the lantern's flame.

Caelan moved a wooden piece on the map, marking the potential routes to the facility.

"If we storm it directly, we'll be dead before we even reach the front yard. The security must be tighter than the central garrison."

Lyselle shook her head.

"We don't storm it. We infiltrate. If we want to see what they're hiding, we need to enter as... a part of them."

"You want us to pretend to be officers?" Caelan raised an eyebrow. "It'll be difficult. Our faces are too unfamiliar here."

"Not if we have the right identities," Lyselle replied, opening her small bag. From inside, she took out two Drezhen military medals that she had stolen at the port a few days ago. "These medals belonged to two officers who won't be coming back... at least not in one piece."

Caelan looked at the objects, then at Lyselle. There was a tension on his face—a mix of admiration and worry.

"You always make me wonder... who you really are, Lyselle."

Lyselle just smiled faintly, then refocused on the map.

"All you need to know is that I have a reason not to let this facility stand."

Their plan was simple on paper: to impersonate officers guarding the next "sensitive" shipment. However, for that, they needed official travel documents.

"There's one person who can make them," Caelan said. "A scribe in the garrison's administration. His name is Ferrik. Corrupt, but smart. If we can pay or threaten him, we can get genuine documents, not imitations."

Lyselle nodded.

"And once we have those documents, we'll 'escort' the shipment. Once inside, we'll split up. I'll search for the laboratory section. You'll—"

"—watch the escape routes," Caelan finished. "If there's any sign of danger, we get out together. No solo heroes."

Lyselle looked at him, wanting to argue, but finally just sighed.

"Alright. No solo heroes."

Even though the plan seemed solid, Caelan remained uneasy.

"I'm still not sure you understand who we'll be up against. General Thorne... he's not just a soldier. He's a monster born on the battlefield. He'll smell a lie from a mile away."

"So what? We call off the plan?" Lyselle stared sharply.

"No," Caelan shook his head quickly. "I just... want us to be careful. Thorne is like an old lion—he may seem slow to the average person, but once he pounces, you won't have time for regrets."

Lyselle leaned her back against the chair.

"That's exactly why we have to be fast. The longer we wait, the more victims will die at his hands."

The tension between them increased, but they both knew that this argument was just a sign that each cared for the other's life.

The next morning, they met Ferrik. The scribe lived in a small house on the edge of the administrative district. His body was thin, his eyes were sunken, and his fingers were always moving as if writing in the air.

Ferrik looked at the two strangers in front of him with a wary gaze.

"Who are you? I don't receive guests without an appointment."

Caelan slid a pouch of coins onto the table.

"Consider this a very urgent appointment."

Ferrik looked at the coins, then at Caelan, then at Lyselle.

"What do you need?"

Lyselle leaned forward, her voice low.

"Two travel documents. Status: special cargo escort officers. Official Drezhen stamp."

Ferrik narrowed his eyes.

"That... could get my head hung in the town square."

"Or you could refuse, and the secret that you're selling weapons to bandits in the south will get out," Lyselle replied coldly.

Ferrik fell silent. His face paled.

"...Alright. Come back tonight. I'll have what you need."

That night, they returned, and Ferrik handed over two genuine documents—complete with the garrison commander's stamp and signature.

"Use them quickly, and never come back here," he said with a tone of fear.

Lyselle and Caelan left the house without another word.

The Point of No Return

The next day, they stood in the garrison courtyard, joining a cargo convoy that was set to depart for the military's "Medical Research Facility." The horses neighed, the wagon wheels creaked, and fully armed soldiers lined up around them.

Caelan whispered into Lyselle's ear.

"Remember, we're just escorts. Don't stand out."

Lyselle smiled faintly.

"I'm always discreet... unless I need to be."

The convoy began to move, the wooden wheels hitting the stony ground. The air grew colder as they left the city, and the road began to ascend toward an area marked only as "Restricted Zone" on the official map.

In the distance, the silhouette of a large building with towers and high walls appeared behind the fog. Lyselle felt something cold creep up her spine—the feeling that behind those walls, there was a secret that even the night was reluctant to touch.

A thin layer of snow covered the stony ground in front of the five-meter-high steel gate. Giant chains and gears loomed on the left side, ready to pull up the gate whose weight was probably equivalent to a small warship. The Drezhen flag fluttered above it—black and red, with the symbol of a sword and crown.

The convoy stopped a few steps before the gate. The creak of the wooden wheels slowly faded, replaced by the sound of boots approaching.

An officer in thick black armor came toward them. His gaze was cold, even more piercing than the winter air.

"Identification," he said curtly.

Caelan held up the official documents they had gotten from Ferrik. His hand movements were calm, but I knew—Lyselle knew—that under the leather gloves, his fingers were slightly tense.

The officer looked at the documents, then at them one by one. His gaze lingered, as if trying to recall their faces from a personnel list.

"You're not part of the regular unit," he stated.

Lyselle took a half-step forward, her tone flat but full of confidence.

"We were just assigned from the northern barracks. A sudden shipment. Direct orders from High Command."

The officer raised a thin eyebrow.

"High Command? And who do you mean?"

Caelan answered quickly, taking advantage of the pause before suspicion grew deeper.

"Colonel Varrick."

That name was not just any name—Varrick was a well-known figure in the Drezhen military, famous for being harsh and not liking to be disturbed. Mentioning his name was a gamble, but also a form of protection. The officer snorted, then stepped back.

"Wait here," he said before walking toward the guard post.

The wind grew more biting. Above the gate, soldiers with bows and spears watched from behind their helmets. Lyselle felt those gazes like needles measuring her patience.

"He's checking our story," Caelan whispered.

"Let him. The longer he checks, the less likely he is to ask too many questions once we're inside," Lyselle replied.

However, time felt like an enemy. Seconds turned into minutes, and the tension built up.

Finally, from behind the fog that shrouded the inner courtyard, a tall, large figure appeared. Black steel armor with gold ornaments, a long fur coat, and a face that seemed carved from stone. General Thorne walked closer, his steps heavy and steady.

All conversation around them stopped. The soldiers straightened their bodies. Even the inspecting officer from before bowed his head respectfully.

Thorne looked directly at Lyselle and Caelan.

"Who are these two?" his voice was heavy, almost like the rumble of distant thunder.

The officer answered quickly.

"New escort officers, General. They claim to be from the northern barracks. Direct orders from Colonel Varrick."

Thorne didn't respond immediately. He approached, just a few steps away from Lyselle. His gaze was piercing, scanning her face, her demeanor, even her breathing.

"Northern barracks, huh?" Thorne spoke slowly but with pressure. "I know every face from that barracks. And you... are not in my memory."

Caelan took a step forward, standing parallel to Lyselle.

"With all due respect, General, perhaps that's because we're assigned to a special unit. The assignments are unusual, not all of them are recorded publicly."

Thorne smiled faintly—a smile that held no warmth, only a signal that he was weighing whether to tear that lie apart or let it grow.

"Special unit... always the excuse used by people who want to avoid records."

Lyselle held her breath.

"We are here to carry out our duty, General. If you have objections, we are ready to return to Command and let them explain directly to you."

It wasn't a threat, but a subtle way to poke at the ego of a high-ranking officer—no general wants to look like he's questioning Command's orders in front of his men.

Thorne looked at them for a long time, then gestured with his hand to the inspecting officer.

"Check the cargo. If it matches the list, let them in."

The steel gate began to move, the chains creaked, and the sound of metal echoed the tension. The air inside seemed darker even though the daylight penetrated the fog.

As they entered, Lyselle saw rows of stone buildings with small windows, barbed wire along the walls, and armed patrols walking in a strict pattern. In the distance, a tower loomed, and around it were long buildings that emitted thin smoke from their chimneys.

"Welcome to the military's version of hell," Caelan muttered softly, just loud enough for Lyselle to hear.

Lyselle just nodded. She knew that behind one of those steel doors, they would find things that shouldn't exist in this world.

Their footsteps echoed softly on the stone path, which was clean of snow thanks to underground heating pipes. To the left and right, barracks were neatly lined up with a dull gray paint. The smell of iron, weapon grease, and wood smoke mixed in the air—the typical aroma of dense military life.

An instructor's shout was heard from the training ground on the west side.

"Formations! Do it again!"

Dozens of soldiers lined up, weapons raised, their movements synchronized like a machine. In the corner of the field, a group of younger soldiers practiced with longbows, each pull of the bowstring accompanied by a cold breath that formed a thin mist.

The delivery officer—an old sergeant named Gared—led them to the middle-ranking officer's barracks building.

"Your room is on the second floor. Here's the key. Dinner is at seven in the mess hall, don't be late."

Caelan took the key, holding back a formal smile.

"Thank you, Sergeant."

As soon as Gared left, they went into the room. The space was small, just enough for two iron beds, a wooden table, and a wardrobe. On the wall, there was a map of the Drezhen military area—not the latest model, but enough to give them an idea of patrol routes and warehouse locations.

Lyselle closed the door slowly.

"If we play it safe, we won't get the information we need."

Caelan put down his bag.

"And if we're too conspicuous, Thorne will call us in for an 'inspection'. We have to find a balance."

They decided to go out after storing their belongings. The streets inside the garrison were patrolled every ten minutes. Every corner had a small watchtower. There were no civilians—only soldiers, logistics workers, and medical staff.

Lyselle noticed the difference in treatment: well-dressed officers received respectful nods, while ordinary soldiers were more often shouted at or kicked if they moved slowly.

In front of a large warehouse, a group of soldiers was unloading crates. One of them fell, and its contents spilled out: not food or weapons, but chains, shackles, and iron masks. An officer quickly shouted.

"Pick it up! Don't let anyone see!"

Lyselle and Caelan exchanged glances, then pretended to continue walking.

In the mess hall, the atmosphere was different—it was more crowded, but still controlled. The sound of chatter mixed with the clatter of spoons and metal plates. They sat at a corner table, near a group of soldiers who looked like they had just returned from a patrol.

A young soldier—with tired eyes and trembling hands—was whispering about something. Lyselle only caught snippets of sentences.

"...those children... moved again... they say to the western facility..."

Another soldier kicked his foot under the table.

"Shut up! Do you want to lose your head?"

Caelan pretended to sip his soup, but his eyes caught all the expressions.

"They're talking about 'children'. This must be related to what we're looking for," he whispered softly to Lyselle.

That night, they divided the tasks. Caelan would try to enter the logistics warehouse under the pretext of checking the weapon inventory. Lyselle would strike up a conversation with the medical staff to find out the entry and exit routes of patients—or prisoners pretending to be patients.

As they parted ways in the hallway, Caelan looked at Lyselle for a long time.

"Don't go too far tonight. We've just arrived, and many eyes are watching."

Lyselle smiled faintly.

"I know how to disappear in a crowd."

The First Night in the Garrison

At eleven o'clock that night, the garrison began to quiet down, with only the sounds of patrols being heard. From behind her room's thin curtain, Lyselle watched two soldiers carrying a small wooden crate quickly, heading northwest—to an area surrounded by a higher fence.

She noted the time and direction in her small notebook.

"Tomorrow night, we'll see what they're hiding there," she murmured.

In the next bed, Caelan had already returned, carrying a stack of fake logistics notes. He just said briefly before closing his eyes.

"We're getting closer, but this is just the surface."

A light rain fell that night, making the stone paths wet and slippery. The cold air bit to the bone, but the garrison atmosphere was maintained by routine patrols. Lyselle and Caelan wore dark coats that disguised their faces, navigating the narrow corridors on the west side—heading toward the high-fenced area Lyselle had seen last night.

"Two watchtowers, four guards shifting every five minutes," Caelan whispered while looking at the small map he had scribbled on.

"And in the gap between the shifts, we have... seventeen seconds," Lyselle replied with a faint smile.

They waited behind an empty warehouse until a patrol squad moved away. Lyselle moved a finger, channeling a little sound-silencing magic, making their steps almost silent on the wet stones.

As soon as the shift gap arrived, Caelan slipped a wire into the padlock of the fence. Two seconds, the lock clicked open. They entered, closing the door behind them.

Inside, they found a row of wooden warehouses, darker and quieter than the other areas. Some of them were heavily guarded, with double doors that were tightly locked.

Lyselle pointed to the third warehouse from the right.

"That one. The smell of iron is the same as the chains I saw yesterday."

Caelan approached, but before he could tamper with the lock, the sound of hurried footsteps approached from behind the warehouse. They moved into the shadows. Two soldiers appeared, carrying an oil lamp and a list.

"Crates number 12 to 20—to be sent to the eastern pier tomorrow night," one of them said.

"What's inside?"

"None of our business," he replied quickly, but his tone was clearly nervous.

As they left, Caelan looked at Lyselle.

"The eastern pier... that means this isn't just for Drezhen. They're sending them out."

From inside the warehouse, a faint sound was heard—a soft moan. Lyselle knocked on the door in a specific pattern, then slipped her thin magic into a gap in the boards, making the sound from inside clearer.

"Please... water..." a child's voice, hoarse and weak.

Lyselle's eyes hardened.

"We're opening it now."

Caelan nodded, but as he began to open the padlock, a shout echoed.

"Hey! Who's there?!"

Three guards ran toward them, weapons drawn. Caelan moved quickly, parrying the first slash with his dagger, then twisting his body to hit the opponent's chest with the hilt of his weapon. The guard stumbled.

The second guard tried to stab Lyselle, but she raised her hand, creating a small blast of wind that knocked her opponent back. The rain made the ground slippery, and the guard's body slammed hard against the fence boards.

"We can't stay long!" Caelan exclaimed while holding off the last opponent's sword.

With a quick motion, Lyselle channeled a thin electrical current through her fingertips, hitting the opponent's wrist. His sword flew from his grasp, and Caelan punched his jaw until he was unconscious.

Without wasting time, they unlocked the warehouse. The door creaked open, and a stale smell assaulted them. Inside, a dozen children sat tied up, their eyes wide with fear.

"We're not the guards... we're going to get you out," Lyselle said softly, although her voice trembled with anger.

Caelan began to cut the ropes, while Lyselle checked for any serious injuries. One of the children pointed to a corner of the warehouse—there was a small door that seemed to lead to an underground tunnel.

"That's the way... they use it to take us without being seen..." the child whispered.

A whistle sounded in the distance—the patrol alarm. Caelan looked at Lyselle.

"We can't get out through the front door now."

"Then we'll use this tunnel."

They led the children into the small door, descending a narrow staircase into the darkness, accompanied only by the sound of heavy rain above and the echo of their own footsteps.

At the end of the corridor, Lyselle turned to Caelan.

"We've only seen a drop of this festering ocean. There's so much more."

Caelan stared into the darkness ahead.

"And we'll dive deeper."

The smell of iron and blood still hung heavily in the air. The crystal lamps on the facility's ceiling flickered, some shattered by the explosions and magic that had hit the walls a few minutes ago. The cold floor was covered with broken glass, strange liquids from experimental tubes, and blackened bloodstains.

Lyselle stood in the middle of the corridor, her breath ragged. Her eyes were fixed on one of the rooms at the end—where the children they had saved were now huddled, being calmed by Caelan and some of the soldiers they had managed to persuade to their side.

Faint cries were heard. "I... want to go home..."

"My sister... was taken... they—"

Lyselle clenched her fist. How long had this been happening right under the nobles' noses?

Korlen had already escaped with most of the experimental notes, aided by his elite troops. General Thorne also disappeared as soon as Lyselle managed to cut off the magic binding the main room. Neither of them died tonight—but what they left behind was undeniable proof of their corruption.

Caelan came over, his military coat stained with blood at the hem. "They're safe for now. I've ordered the trustworthy guards to take them to a shelter in the eastern district."

Lyselle nodded, but her eyes were still cold.

"For now... isn't enough. As long as Thorne and Korlen are free, this will continue."

Caelan took a deep breath, his gaze slightly wavering. "Lyselle, you... you look different. More... ruthless than usual."

"If seeing children tortured like that doesn't make you want to tear this whole kingdom down, you're blinder than I thought."

Silence hardened between them. Only the crackle of the remaining fire in the corridor was heard.

That night, they left the facility with heavy steps. The air outside was fresher, but it felt just as heavy. The mercenary troops guarding the gate had been defeated—and their corpses were silent witnesses to this bloody night.

However, before Lyselle and Caelan could truly reach the outer limits of the military district, the sound of heavy footsteps was heard from the west.

Clank—clank— The sound of metal scraping approached, accompanied by the strange jingle of a small bell. From behind the night fog, a tall, towering figure appeared, wearing white armor that reflected the moonlight. A long sword with a dripping tip was slung over his shoulder.

His blonde hair was neatly arranged, and a faint smile was on his face—a smile that strangely made the air feel more suffocating.

"Captain Sirea," Caelan muttered, almost like a curse.

Lyselle raised an eyebrow. "You know him?"

"Not just know... He is the 'angel' of Virelion's pride. A hero in the eyes of the people... but I know how his hands are already stained with innocent blood."

Sirea stopped three steps in front of them. "Prince Caelan... I heard you caused a disturbance at a facility that is very important for the kingdom's security." His tone was calm, but his eyes were judging, piercing.

"Security?" Lyselle cut in. "You call the torture of children 'security'?"

Sirea smiled faintly, then without warning, threw something onto the ground in front of them. Plop! A human head—still fresh, eyes wide open in a frozen gaze—rolled at Lyselle's feet. Fresh blood seeped out, mixing with the damp soil.

"He was a guard who tried to escape after you attacked. I just gave him... a worthy death."

His tone was light, as if he were just talking about the dinner menu.

Lyselle didn't blink. "Are you here to stop us?"

"I am here," Sirea raised his sword, "to ensure that the kingdom's version of the truth is what the people will hear. And unfortunately, you two are not in that version."

Caelan moved quickly, standing slightly in front of Lyselle. "If you touch her, Sirea, I will let the entire palace know who you really are."

Sirea laughed softly. "A beautiful threat, Prince. But... let's see, who will be able to speak after tonight."

His steps moved forward slowly, but the aura around him immediately intensified. Lyselle felt a sharp magical pressure, like thousands of needles pricking her skin. He wasn't just a regular soldier... he was a monster disguised as an angel.

However, before the clash could truly erupt, a shout from the east broke the tension. "Captain! The fire is spreading to the weapons warehouse!" Sirea stopped, turning his head for a moment. His face showed annoyance, but he lowered his sword.

"It seems we'll have to postpone... this pleasure." His gaze shifted to Lyselle, cold as steel. "You... will be my next business."

Then he turned, walking toward the blaze, leaving a suffocating scent of iron in the air.

Lyselle remained standing still, her eyes following Sirea's back as he disappeared into the fog.

Caelan let out a heavy sigh. "We've just seen the true face of that 'angel' of pride."

"No," Lyselle corrected, her voice cold.

"We've just seen the tip of the hell he carries."

That night, they knew—the next battle would bring them face to face with Captain Sirea, and this time, there would be no fire or distraction to stop the confrontation.

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