4 a.m. the next day.
Vikir was taken to the workshop as soon as he awoke.
Even the strongest and most ferocious prisoners have no business having the BDISSEM chains around their necks forcibly pulled by a giant pulley in their sleep.
Countless prisoners were dragged out and lined up in the corridors like rotting zombies.
Then the guards on duty at dawn would come out and count the prisoners from a distance, out of their reach.
That's the morning count.
The prisoners were generally well behaved.
They might be chronically sleep deprived and malnourished, but that didn't stop them from being irritable and sensitive.
There was a risk of being killed by a fellow prisoner, but mostly because they didn't have the energy to be angry in the first place.
Standing in front of the massive iron gates to the workshop, Vikir waited to be given his tools.
As he waited, he could see the prisoners on the next lower level lined up to get their tools.
"Hey, give me more nails. I can't work with these today."
"Guard. The pickaxe is too dull to dig the tunnel."
"The sledgehammer is loose, do you have anything else?"
The prisoners were jockeying for every bit of good equipment they could get.
They knew that the quota was always set, and if they didn't meet it, horrible corporal punishment awaited them.
The guards were also relatively cooperative with the prisoners' demands, as they were punished in terms of wages and vacation time if the prisoners in their group did not complete their assigned areas on time.
Some guards even fought with other guards to ensure that the prisoners in their group received good tools.
Vikir tried to estimate the number of guards in the Nouvelle Vague based on the number of roaming guards and their chain of command.
'The number of combat-capable guards is roughly 3,000, and the number of non-combatants is at least 4,000.'
Due to information prior to the return, he also knows that there are five 'chief guards' in charge of these guards.
The numbers are higher than expected, and he needs to be careful what he does.
Then.
A sack of tools was placed in front of Vikir.
The familiar face of the guard, Lieutenant Garm, was calling out the tools to Vikir.
'Strange how often we meet.'
Without thinking, Vikir took the tools from him.
Lieutenant Garm gave him instructions in a businesslike tone.
"Work tools are strictly controlled to prevent prisoners from getting carried away. You must return your work tools intact at the end of your working hours, and if you lose them, you will be sent to solitary confinement until they are found. If your tools are broken or lost, you must have a note from the guards to prove it, otherwise, of course, you will be sent to solitary until they are found."
If you lose your tools, you're dead.
So prisoners guard the tools they were given at the beginning of their work like their lives.
Sneaking them away to escape or fight is unthinkable.
And, of course, the prisoners had to fill out and sign an inventory form before going to work, stating what tools they had been issued.
Every strand of rope and every nail had to be meticulously written down and inspected by a guard before the prisoner could leave for the workshop.
"Come on, don't waste time, let's get moving!"
"If we miss the construction deadline, we'll be sent to solitary confinement again!"
"Hurry up and write the status board and get the hell out of here, you slug!"
The prisoners were anxious to get out of the workshop.
Not because they liked the work, but because they were afraid of the harsh corporal punishment they would receive if the project was delayed.
Vikir was also silently gathering his tools.
"You're early."
A sledgehammer, a bundle of chains, and a handful of nails were all he had.
Prisoners at Level Nine aren't given much in the way of tools.
The conditions in which they work are so harsh that wood burns and iron quickly turns to molten metal.
So they have to break rocks and scoop up dirt with their bare fists.
They must endure the heat with their bare skin, and they must climb barefoot, no matter how high or deep.
Anything sharp and pointy, anything hard and tough, anything rough and heavy, they had to deal with.
This, of course, was something Vikir had been preparing for since he was imprisoned in Level Nine.
Then.
"What's with this kid, are you a level nine too? Kuru-kuru!"
A sarcastic laugh came from the back of the next row.
Vikir turned his head to see a man with a huge frame, fearsome eyes, and a nasty birthmark.
Sakkuth De Leviathan.
The prisoner who had been labeled a "Level 8" at yesterday's intake was openly arguing with Vikir.
Every time he bursts into laughter, a foul odor spreads.
The prisoners around him were too afraid to go near him for fear of catching a plague.
"Did you hear? That lunatic wasn't even disinfected by the sulfur shower when he came in."
"They say you can't go near him without catching the plague. The guards don't know what to do."
"Damn, I'm afraid of shit. I avoid it because it's dirty."
"... That shit was scary."
Hearing the chatter around him, Sakkuth became even more agitated and began to giggle.
A foul stench of poison and fetid odor emanated from his teeth, which had fallen out due to the vile poison.
"Kid, what did you do to get in here? You must have messed with somebody's delicacy, I've heard of people being imprisoned like that sometimes. Yesterday, after the entrance ceremony, I went to the room and there was a guy who looked like a gisaeng old lady. I think his name was Casanova or something. Well, it doesn't matter now, because I ate him yesterday. I chewed him alive. Kuru-kuru."
There was no interruption from the other prisoners.
The other prisoners cringe, fearing they might spread the plague.
The guards, in their masks and hazmat suits, stood at a distance, frowning arrogantly.
But.
"...."
Only Vikir stood there, unmoving.
He was simply scribbling a list of the missing tools on the status board.
Then, as if on cue, the prisoners around him shuffled to his side.
"Hey, kid. Can't you hear me?"
"...."
"Ohora, I saw you yesterday at the entrance ceremony, and you seemed to have a lot of nerve. Are you a level 9?"
"...."
"Hey. Just because I'm on the 8th floor and you're on the 9th floor doesn't mean you think you're stronger and more dangerous than me, does it?"
Sakkuth said, running his fingers through Vikir's hair.
"I came here to the Nouvelle Vague on purpose to have 'him' by my side."
"...."
"But what's this? He's at Level Nine, why should I be at Level Eight? Isn't there something wrong with this? Someone like me should be at Level Nine, why is a weakling like you at Level Nine and I'm not? Send me to Level Nine, too, so I can be by 'His' side!"
As he shouted in excitement, a dark aura began to emanate from his entire body.
It was a poisonous aura that could not be blocked by the BDISSEM restraints, and the poisonous energy he had accumulated in his body naturally rose up regardless of his mana.
"Why am I a level 8? Is it because I turned myself in? Isn't that enough to send me to level 9? If so, why don't I just turn this place upside down? Let's see if I can sprinkle some plague on it! Let me give you a taste of my 'Red Death'!"
While roaring maniacally into the air.
"...I think I know why."
A brief voice caught Sakkuth's attention.
It was Vikir speaking, gathering up his tools after he'd finished cleaning up.
Sakkuth sounded a little confused.
"Kid, did you just say that?"
"Yes."
"Kurururu! kururu!"
Sakkuth spat out a laugh that sounded like a thousand fires boiling deep in his throat.
And with a terrifying expression, he thrust his face in front of Vikir.
"I see. Why do you think I haven't reached level nine?"
"Because you don't have the basics."
"Basic? What's that...?"
He opened his mouth to ask.
Shhhh.
Vikir's hand moved.
Vikir shoves a handful of nails into Sakkuth's gaping mouth.
Then he raised his fist and punched him in the jaw.
ppeo-eog!
Sakkuth's head turned.
At the same time, the nails in his mouth clattered together, piercing his cheeks, nose, chin, and neck, and sticking out in all directions.
"Puhak!? Keueeeeekh!"
Vikir smirked as he stepped over the blood-spattered, struggling Sakkuth.
"You should at least learn to recognize whether you're the predator or the prey."
At the same time, the sound of numerous military boots clattered up the stairs above the door to the workshop.
Guards ranging in rank from major to lieutenant colonel and above were running frantically.
"What's the commotion, 'Night Hounds'!"
The blood drained from the faces of all the prisoners as they heard the shout from the work commander, Lieutenant Colonel Bastille.
The Night Hound. Sentenced to life imprisonment 3,021 times. Prison level 9.
Who would have guessed that the scary resident who had only been rumored so far would actually be such a handsome boy?