My AI Wife: The Most Beautiful Chatbot in Another World

Chapter 154: The Plan Behind the Darkness

The bedroom door swung open. Alaric stepped inside with a smile that could make one’s skin crawl—the grin of a predator certain that his prey was powerless. His gaze swept over Dola, from her silver hair down to her feet hidden beneath the cloak.

"Still here," he muttered, his voice thick with satisfaction. "Good. Very good."

He closed the door behind him. The lock clicked softly. There would be no interruptions.

Dola stood motionless in the center of the room. Her hollow eyes stared at the wall, her body rigid like a statue—or a prize on display.

Alaric approached slowly. He circled her, observing every detail. Her silver hair shimmered under the crystal lamps. The curve of her neck, the perfect line of her jaw. Her shoulders partially obscured by the cloak.

"I’ve wanted you for so long," he whispered, his fingers brushing against her hair.

Dola didn’t move. No resistance. No sound.

Alaric smirked. His left hand gripped Dola’s chin, tilting her face upward. Those electric blue eyes were empty, devoid of spark or life. They looked like the eyes of an expensive porcelain doll.

"You won’t fight back?" he asked, though he already knew the answer.

Dola gave a slight, expressionless nod. Once.

Alaric laughed heartily. "Good. You know your place."

His hand moved down, touching her throat. His fingers trailed along her collarbone, toward her shoulders. Dola remained still. Emboldened, Alaric’s hand crept lower, tracing the lines of her tight black bodysuit.

"Do you know how many collections I have?" he spoke as he continued to touch her. "Statues from the Kingdom of Aqualluna. Gems from the Ignis Sol desert. But none are as beautiful as you."

He slowly pulled at Dola’s cloak. The thin fabric slid down, pooling on the floor. Beneath it, the futuristic black bodysuit accentuated every perfect curve of her form.

Alaric was mesmerized. His hand touched Dola’s waist, then crawled to her abdomen, then to her thigh. Deeper. More intimate.

Dola didn’t flinch. Her eyes remained fixed on the wall. She merely nodded—once, twice—like a puppet obedient to its master’s whims.

"Exquisite," Alaric whispered, his breath quickening. "So exquisite."

Twelve Hours Earlier

In a small inn within the Middle District, an oil lamp flickered on the table. Dayat and Dola sat opposite each other, separated only by an arm’s length.

Dola raised her right hand. Blue light flared at her fingertips, forming a three-dimensional map hovering between them. The map displayed Alaric’s mansion from multiple angles—every corridor, every door, every window, even every cell in the dungeon.

"This is the structure of Alaric’s mansion," Dola said, her focus sharp on the projection. "Data from one hundred and twenty-seven years ago. It’s still eighty percent the same. The only changes are a few walls in the east wing and the addition of guard posts at the front gate."

Dayat studied the map. "Anything else to watch out for besides the guards?"

Dola highlighted several spots on the map with red light. "Three ancient artifacts. One in the basement, two in Alaric’s private quarters." She pointed to one spot blinking brighter than the rest. "This is the most dangerous one: The Mind Controller. A hexagonal crystal with a purple glow. An ancient relic said to control anyone who gazes upon its light."

Dayat frowned. "Said to?"

Dola looked at him. Her electric blue eyes glowed with calm certainty. "Because I will not be affected."

"Are you sure?"

"I am a Goddess, Dayat." Dola offered a faint smile.

Dayat stared at her for a long time, then sighed. "So, you have a plan?"

Dola snapped her fingers. The map rotated. "We enter through the back kitchen door. We move toward the dungeon. We find Dalgor."

"And then?"

"And then we get caught."

Dayat raised an eyebrow. "On purpose?"

"On purpose." Dola met his gaze. "We will fight. You will engage Gravion with the anti-gravity device you’ve prepared. Just enough to make Alaric believe we are truly trying to resist."

"But in the end..."

"You will be captured. And I will pretend to fall under the effects of the Mind Controller."

Dayat went silent, his fists clenching. "I don’t like this plan."

"I know."

"No other way?"

Dola reached for Dayat’s hand, gripping it firmly as if the decision were final.

"You know there isn’t," she said softly but firmly. "From inside the prison, you can free the inmates—including Dalgor. While they are busy chasing us, Alaric’s attention will be divided. His security will surely weaken. And by the time they realize you’ve escaped... we’ll be too far to catch."

Dayat remained silent, looking into Dola’s eyes as if searching for something behind her words.

In truth, deep within her mind, Dola knew this wasn’t the only plan. There were safer, more logical ways. Yet, she chose this path anyway. Not because it was the best—but because she wanted to see one thing: how far Dayat would go to react for her.

"And you?" Dayat looked into her eyes. "You’ll be alone with Alaric."

"I’m not alone." Dola squeezed his hand tighter. "I have a connection with you. A Binary Resonance. As long as you are still in this world, I can feel you. And you can feel me."

"That’s not enough."

"I will be fine." Dola smiled. "Trust me, Husband. I won’t be hurt. Alaric won’t be able to touch me more than I permit."

Dayat squeezed her hand back. A warmth he couldn’t explain filled his chest. "I trust you."

Back to the Present — In the Prison Cell

The dark cell was cramped and stifling. Mossy stone walls, damp earth floor. Dayat sat against the wall, the iron shackles on his hands feeling heavy.

From a distance, he heard the footsteps of patrolling guards. Slow. Rhythmic. Then fading away.

Dayat waited. One minute. Two. Five.

Silence.

He moved his hands slowly. Between his fingers, green particles began to gather, forming a small, flat object with a curved, sharp tip. A lockpick. An old model.

With careful movements, he inserted the pick into the shackle’s keyhole. He felt the mechanism inside. He twisted. Pressed. Pulled.

Click.

The shackles fell open.

Dayat let out a long breath. He pressed against the cell door, peering through a narrow slit. The corridor outside was dark. No guards. Only the sound of water dripping from the ceiling and the pungent smell of blood.

He pulled out the electric lockpick from beneath his pillow. He touched the dimly glowing tip to the door’s padlock. A soft click. The door opened.

Dayat stepped out.

The dungeon corridor was long and oppressive. Oil lamps on the walls burned low, casting swaying, ghost-like shadows. Black moss clung to the stones. In every breath, the scent of blood and ammonia bit at his lungs.

To his left and right, cells lined the way. Rusted iron bars. Dayat walked quickly, his eyes scanning every cell he passed.

In the first cell, a human man lay prone. His clothes were rags, his body covered in whip marks. Ribs protruded from beneath gaunt skin. He lifted his head as Dayat passed—eyes weary, with hope almost extinguished.

Dayat didn’t stop. Not yet.

Second cell. An Elven woman sat against the wall, limbs bound. Her face was swollen, lips cracked, hair matted and filthy. Her eyes were closed. Her chest rose and fell slowly—alive, but barely.

Third cell. A Dwarf with a matted beard lay face down. His back was a map of whip scars and fresh burns. His hand reached out through the bars, trembling fingers grasping for something that wasn’t there.

Fourth. Fifth. Sixth.

Seven people. Dayat counted quickly. Seven dying prisoners.

He turned back, opening the cells one by one starting from the nearest. The electric lockpick worked fast. Lock after lock fell. Cell doors opened with a creaking groan.

The prisoners emerged with trembling bodies. Some had to be guided; others could only crawl. None were strong enough to stand straight. They looked at Dayat with eyes that had lost their luster—pain endured for so long that death felt like a gift.

"Follow me," Dayat whispered. "Be quiet. We’re getting out of here."

No one answered. They were too weak for speech.

In the very last cell, Dayat found Dalgor.

The old Dwarf lay on the damp ground. His once magnificent beard was now filthy and clotted with blood. His tattered clothes revealed wounds that had long dried. Whip marks on his back, burns on his arms, and a puncture wound on his thigh.

His chest moved shallowly. Alive, but the flame was flickering.

Dayat knelt. His hands shook as he touched the lockpick to the gate. Click. The door opened.

He reached for Dalgor’s frail body. The bones felt brittle in his hands, like dry wood ready to snap. He weighed almost nothing—the once burly and sturdy Dwarf was now just skin over bone.

Inside Dayat’s chest, rage boiled. His eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening. Later. All of this will be repaid later.

He lifted Dalgor, guiding him out of the cell. "We’re leaving."

In Alaric’s Room

The atmosphere remained unchanged. The crystal lamps dimmed, casting long shadows. Alaric was still occupied with his "collection."

Dola stood still. Empty eyes. No resistance. No sound.

Alaric grew more satisfied. His hands moved with more freedom. "You know," he whispered, "I’ve imagined this moment for so long. I told myself: ’She will be my most exquisite piece.’"

Dola didn’t answer.

"And now," Alaric leaned in, his breath on Dola’s neck, "you are here. Mine. Entirely mine."

The black bodysuit was peeled back at the shoulder, revealing the pale skin beneath. Alaric touched it, his fingers crawling from shoulder to arm, then to her back.

Dola merely nodded. Once. Twice. Three times. Like an obedient doll.

Alaric laughed. "Good. You understand."

Dayat walked through the underground corridor, guiding a nearly unconscious Dalgor. Behind him, the six other prisoners shuffled along. They followed with trembling bodies, occasionally stumbling, occasionally stopping to catch their breath.

Dayat stopped at the end of the hallway. Before them were the stairs leading to the ground floor. The wooden door at the top was in sight. Freedom was just steps away.

He closed his eyes.

Inside his chest, a warmth he couldn’t explain resonated. A connection. An invisible thread linking him to Dola. Binary Resonance—as Dola called it.

’Now. It’s time.’

He sent the message without sound, without movement. Only through feeling.

Inside his chest, he felt the reply. Warm. Clear. Dola heard him.

Dayat opened his eyes. "We go out. Now."

In Alaric’s Room

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The door was hammered loudly. Three times. Fast, panicked.

Alaric stopped, his face contorting with irritation. "Who is it?!" he barked, his hands still on Dola.

"My Lord! It’s Gravion!" The voice from outside sounded breathless. "Important news from the capital! The King summons you!"

Alaric cursed. He released Dola, straightened his clothes, and ensured Dola was still standing motionless. Then he yanked the door open.

Gravion burst in. His face was pale, his breath ragged. "My Lord, a report from the palace. Ignis Sol has betrayed us."

Alaric froze. "What?"

"The King has proof. Ignis Sol has been secretly sending spies into Verdia. They want the Holy Light magic. They want to steal Verdia’s secrets for themselves." Gravion swallowed hard. "The King has ordered all noble families to send troops to the southern border. House Viperion is requested to act immediately."

Alaric went silent. His face shifted from anger to tension. "Ignis Sol... they were only pretending to be allies all this time?"

"It seems so, My Lord."

Alaric let out a long sigh. His left hand clenched into a fist, his right hand combing through his disheveled hair. "Damn it. DAMN IT!"

Inside the room, Dola moved.

Slowly. Soundlessly. Her hollow eyes suddenly ignited—an electric blue so bright and blinding, like a fire reigniting after being doused for an eternity.

Alaric turned. "Hey—you—"

Dola didn’t stop. She walked toward the door. Her steps were certain, unhurried.

"Seize her!" Alaric screamed. "Don’t let her escape!"

Gravion rushed out, his gravity staff raised. But Dola was already ahead. In the hallway, two guards blocked her path, spears leveled.

Dola raised her hand. Blue light flared at her fingertips—bright, hot, lethal.

The guards recoiled. Their bodies froze, their breath hitched. One fell to his knees; the other was blasted against the wall. Two bodies hit the floor. One dead instantly. The other lay limp, unmoving.

Gravion raised his staff, ready to strike. But Dola had already turned. Her eyes met Gravion’s without expression. A smile—not an obedient one, not an empty one—curled on her lips. The smile of a predator unleashed from its cage.

"Exquisite," she said softly. "But I am no one’s collection."

She walked. Gravion didn’t pursue. His hands shook, his staff only halfway raised, but no attack was launched.

Inside the room, Alaric was screaming. "Pursue her! All guards! Don’t let her leave the mansion!"

But Dola had already vanished at the end of the corridor.

Dayat and the prisoners shuffled through the mansion’s back hallway. Before them, the small wooden door they had used to enter was open. The night air greeted them, fresh and free.

Dayat looked back. At the end of the hallway, Dola stepped out of the darkness. Her silver hair billowed, her blue eyes glowing brightly in the dark night.

She smiled.

"Running late," she said.

Dayat let out a sigh of relief. "You sure took your time."

"I was never taking my time. I was just certain." Dola approached, reaching for his hand. Her fingers intertwined with Dayat’s, warm and sure.

Behind them, from within the mansion, Alaric’s shouts still echoed. "After them! Catch them!"

Dayat looked at Dola. "Next plan?"

Dola smiled. "Take them to safety. Find the Kancil friends." She squeezed his hand tighter. "Then, we finish what’s left unsettled."

Dayat nodded. They melded into the darkness of the night, leaving the chaotic Alaric mansion behind.