Reincarnated with a Country Creation System

The intensification of tactics within each interrogation room continued to ratchet up, a meticulously calculated move by Taylor and his team to dissolve the spies' resistance through relentless, calculated suffering.

Taylor's gaze was fixed on each screen, reading every micro-expression with a calculated eye. He could sense that they were getting closer to a breakthrough, their defiance slowly eroding.

In Major Grau's room, his interrogator circled him slowly, pausing to make the silence as oppressive as possible. The cold water continued to seep through Grau's clothing, an unceasing trickle that combined with the remnants of the electric shocks to heighten his discomfort.

"You understand that silence only worsens things, don't you?" the interrogator asked, his tone dispassionate, as if discussing something mundane.

Grau didn't answer, keeping his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the interrogator's shoulder, refusing to give even the smallest reaction.

The interrogator's eyes flicked over Grau, taking in his state with an almost clinical interest. He moved closer, dropping his voice, his words deliberately steady, devoid of inflection.

"You don't belong here," he said softly. "You stick out. No history, no documentation, no origin. So why continue this charade?" He leaned closer, his voice a harsh whisper. "Why allow yourself to suffer for a cause that you know will eventually discard you?"

Grau's jaw tightened ever so slightly, a minute reaction that the interrogator noticed immediately.

"I wonder," he continued, voice lowering further, "if the empire even cares about you. The Triesenberg Empire has no shortage of pawns to use and dispose of. Do you think they'll lift a finger to save you now?"

He waited, watching as Grau's lips pressed together, his breathing just slightly deeper than before.

Outside the room, Taylor leaned forward, his gaze trained on the screen. He could sense that this line of questioning was making a small dent in Grau's resolve. He signaled to his aide, who relayed further instructions to the interrogator.

Back in the room, the interrogator picked up a small vial, letting it dangle in his hand, swinging it gently so that the faint sound of liquid inside filled the silence.

"This vial contains something very special," he said, his tone deceptively mild. "A simple solution that enhances sensitivity to pain. Just a few drops and every nerve in your body becomes hypersensitive. Imagine that—every minor sensation amplified until even a whisper of wind becomes unbearable."

Grau's eyes followed the vial, his expression still, yet his posture tightened ever so slightly. The interrogator caught it, his smirk widening.

"Or you can talk," he continued, his voice dropping to a murmur. "One name, one reason for why you're here. That's all it takes."

Grau's eyes lifted to meet the interrogator's, steady and unyielding. His silence was answer enough.

The interrogator didn't wait. He unscrewed the cap, tipped a drop of the liquid onto a small cotton swab, and brushed it along Grau's arm, right where the previous needle had left a faint mark. Within seconds, Grau's muscles tensed, his entire arm flaring with an intense, fiery pain that radiated through his nerves.

"Go on, then. End this." The interrogator's voice was barely a whisper, leaning in so Grau could hear him clearly, feeling the searing pain as it intensified with each passing second.

In Lieutenant Lind's room, her interrogator had dimmed the lights completely, leaving only a single faint bulb that cast distorted shadows across the room. The near-darkness, combined with the continuous stream of disorienting sounds, created an oppressive atmosphere that made time seem endless.

He leaned close, his voice low, methodical. "You're from the Triesenberg Empire, aren't you?"

Lind's gaze didn't shift, her posture as still as stone. But the interrogator sensed a slight tightening in her shoulders.

"You can keep quiet," he said, his tone casual, leaning back in his chair as if unconcerned. "But it's pointless. We already know enough. We know why you're here. The only thing you can gain by resisting is more time spent alone in this room, where there's nothing but you, me, and endless silence." He paused, letting the weight of his words settle over her.

Lind's breathing remained steady, her expression unmoved, yet there was a flicker in her eyes—a fleeting moment of tension that the interrogator caught.

He leaned forward, his voice barely a whisper. "You think you're clever. You think you can hold out, that the empire will somehow reward your loyalty. But what you don't understand is that we're patient. We don't need you to speak immediately. Eventually, everyone succumbs."

She met his gaze with a cold glare, the faintest smirk on her lips. "You seem to enjoy listening to yourself speak."

He gave a thin smile in return. "Oh, believe me, Lieutenant, it's not about enjoyment. This is a matter of time." He turned the sound in her headphones to the lullaby again, letting it play for only a few seconds before switching to static, then to silence. He watched her, noting each time her breathing changed, each minute shift in her posture.

"I can see it's getting to you," he murmured, more to himself than to her. "It's only a matter of time."

In Hoffmann's room, the cold continued to gnaw at his bones, and his captor, seeing his resolve starting to waver, decided to push further.

The interrogator placed his hand on Hoffmann's shoulder, the icy fingers pressing down hard enough to cause pain in the already chilled muscles. He leaned in, his voice barely above a whisper, laden with contempt.

"I wonder if you're truly as loyal as you pretend to be," he murmured. "Do you think your superiors will even remember your name when they learn you've been captured? Or will you be just another expendable pawn in their games?"

Hoffmann's jaw tightened, but he said nothing, focusing on his breathing, mentally detaching from his body as best he could.

The interrogator leaned back, smirking. "You're willing to endure this much suffering for people who will forget you the moment you're no longer useful to them. Tell me, what do you think they'll tell your family? Or have they already trained them to expect that you may never come home?"

Hoffmann forced himself to remain steady, clenching his hands behind his back to suppress the urge to react. He had been trained for this—to disconnect his mind from his body's pain. But the interrogator's words dug at him in a way that physical pain couldn't.

Outside, Taylor watched, his gaze focused and analytical. He could see Hoffmann's resolve beginning to chip away under the combined effects of cold, exhaustion, and psychological pressure. He gave a subtle nod to his aide.

"Bring in a personal item from each of them," he ordered. "Something they had on them when they were captured. Let's see if that triggers a response."

A few moments later, Hoffmann's interrogator returned, holding a small item—a watch Hoffmann had been wearing at the time of his capture. He placed it on the table in front of Hoffmann, saying nothing, letting the silent implication hang in the air.

For the first time, Hoffmann's gaze flickered. His eyes lingered on the watch for just a moment before he forced himself to look away.

"Meaningful, isn't it?" the interrogator said softly, his tone almost mocking. "I wonder who you think about when you look at this. Someone waiting for you back home, perhaps? Or maybe… someone you won't see again?"

Hoffmann's shoulders tensed, his control wavering as the interrogator's words drilled into the place where his resolve was weakest.

In Grau's room, the interrogator placed a small, weathered photograph on the table, one that had been tucked into his clothing. It was a faded image of what appeared to be Grau in his younger years, possibly taken during his training days.

"Didn't expect to see this again, did you?" his interrogator said smoothly. "It's remarkable, really, the small things we hold onto."

Grau's eyes lingered on the photograph, and he clenched his fists, fighting to maintain his composure. The interrogator leaned forward, his voice soft but insistent.

"They probably don't even remember you anymore," he whispered. "To them, you're just another lost soldier. Replaceable. Forgettable."

Each word was a calculated blow, a small, precise erosion of Grau's carefully built defenses. Taylor observed the small cracks forming, sensing that they were getting closer.

"They're near the edge," he murmured to his aide, satisfaction creeping into his tone.

Turning to his aide, he muttered, "We're certain now. The agents' tactics, their responses, everything points to Triesenberg. His Excellency will want to know immediately."

The aide nodded and hurried to make the necessary arrangements to brief Valoria's Supreme Leader. Taylor stayed behind, watching the screens with. These agents were formidable, yes, but they were human, and humans could be broken.

"I'm sure that His Excellency would be pleased if they were to find out that the Triesenberg Empire had already made their move in the realm of infiltration. Too bad for them, Valoria is unlike any other country where one doesn't have identifications."