Even though Ash had expected it, hearing confirmation that the Blood Moon Trial was a death sentence still sent a chill down his spine.
Deep down, he had been holding onto a sliver of hope. Maybe someone would realize he wasn't actually a cult leader. Maybe there would be a drawn-out legal process. Maybe his death sentence would be commuted to a two-year stay of execution...
That hope had grown even stronger upon arriving at the prison. After all, what kind of death row inmate gets a private room with an ensuite bathroom?
What kind of death row inmate gets to roam freely around a facility?
What kind of death row inmate enjoys all these perks?
But Ronna's words shattered those fantasies. The truth was painfully clear—because they were destined to die, the prison treated them so well.
"So the prison is fattening us up just to make our deaths more spectacular?" Ash asked, his voice trembling. "Isn't that... wasteful?"
"Do you complain when fireworks aren't bright enough?" Ronna chuckled. "I'm surprised you don't know more about the Blood Moon Trial. It's a nationwide live broadcast, shown in every city. Most people gather at home at 8 PM on the 1st and 15th of each month to watch criminals meet their end. The show's ratings? Around 70%."
"By the way, the ad revenue from Blood Moon Trial makes the cost of keeping us alive utterly insignificant."
The idea of public executions as a prime-time TV spectacle made Ash's stomach churn.
He let out a hollow laugh. "That's absurd! How can 70% of people have time to watch a show at 8 PM? Don't they have jobs? Maybe they wouldn't if they were overworked like normal people..."
Ronna wasn't fazed. He had seen plenty of death row inmates crack under the pressure of the Blood Moon Trial. They ranted about systemic injustice, cursed society for being ignorant, and condemned everyone but themselves. Spend enough time in this prison, and you'd witness every possible meltdown.
"But if you want to avoid the Blood Moon Trial," Ronna said, "there is a way."
Ash immediately perked up. "What is it?"
Ronna didn't string him along. "Every Blood Moon Trial claims one life, but it sends eight people to the stage. Those eight aren't chosen randomly—they're selected based on their Contribution Scores."
"Every death row inmate starts with 50 contribution points. Each month, 10 points are deducted. If your points drop to zero, nothing happens—except that your name creeps closer to the top of the Blood Moon list.
"The eight participants for the trial are simply the eight inmates with the lowest Contribution Scores. But if you can keep your score high enough, you can push your turn further down the line."
Ash's mind raced. "How do you earn points?"
"There are many ways to contribute," Ronna explained. "Even though memory extractors have already combed through our heads for valuable intel, leaving our secrets worthless, we can still create new value:
"Some inmates—former corrupt officials—offer solutions to prevent future corruption.
"Others—banned researchers—conduct legal experiments and publish papers while in prison.
"Some have marketable skills, like writing books that become bestsellers."
Ronna's grin turned sharp as he gestured at himself. "But most of us? We're the kind who ended up here for murder, robbery, and sheer disdain for hard work. People like me."
He pointed a finger at Ash. "People like you."
"So how do we earn points?" Ash asked, starting to piece things together.
"That's where the Deathmatch Society comes in," Ronna said.
Ash frowned. "You mentioned earlier that participating in deathmatches came at a cost..."
"Exactly," Ronna replied. "Aside from the pain and the risk of dying, the biggest cost is Contribution Points. Every deathmatch requires both participants to wager points. The winner takes all; the loser moves one step closer to the Blood Moon."
"In this place, the Blood Moon Trial is the end of the road. The Deathmatch Society? It's the blood-soaked pitstop along the way. Most inmates eventually participate, gambling everything they have to delay the inevitable. They claw, fight, and bleed until they're finally dragged onto the stage—a spectacle for millions to see."
"This is how we contribute: by weeding out the weak and sustaining the bloodlust of the strong," Ronna continued, his tone eerily calm. "That's why the prison allows the Deathmatch Society to exist. After all, actors need makeup before stepping onto the stage."
Actors need makeup—because a drab, lifeless performance won't hold the audience's attention.
Even without ever watching the Blood Moon Trial, Ash understood what Ronna meant.
Just like flashy mobile game characters need polished artwork to draw players, the deathmatches were a way to "polish" the inmates. The gambling, the fighting, the fear, the pain—it all turned them into something primal, something wild.
A defeated, desperate inmate, driven mad by repeated losses, became a perfect "main course" for the audience. Instead of a dull, unfeeling shell, they would see a feral "beast," trembling with rage and terror, yet still defiant.
Compared to a lifeless human, a raging beast was far more satisfying to watch die.
This was a masterful ploy, a trap no death row inmate could escape.
Losers became fodder for the prison's gruesome market, while winners merely delayed their fate. Eventually, everyone wound up on the same stage, their every ounce of value squeezed dry before their final act.
The luxurious rooms, the delicious meals, the top-notch facilities—all of it was meant to fatten them up for slaughter.
It was a cruel zero-sum game. Either you died, or someone else did.
But it made sense. Ash couldn't argue with the system's logic. If he were still on the outside, he might've even clapped in admiration.
Too bad Heath had to drag him into this mess—weak, idiotic cult leader that he was. Now Ash was stuck figuring out how to survive.
"So," Ronna asked, "are you still interested in joining the Deathmatch Society?"
"Of course!" Ash said without hesitation.
Ronna didn't seem surprised. He finished his milk and stood. "Follow me, then. If we're lucky, we might even catch some fresh meat on the ground."
"People fight this early in the morning?" Ash asked, curious.
"Sure. The first few matches don't require huge bets—just one point for the first match, then two for the second, and so on.
"It's low stakes at first, so inmates use these matches to size each other up, figure out where they stand in the prison hierarchy.
"With the 15th approaching, the lower-ranked inmates are all scrambling to avoid the Blood Moon. I'd bet the arena floor hasn't dried all week."
As they walked, Ronna turned and grinned, flashing his teeth. "By the way, interested in buying some meat?"
"Meat? What kind?" Ash asked, confused.
"The kind that falls off bodies in the arena. It's one of the few ways to spend Contribution Points around here.
"Sometimes, if you're lucky, you can get a nice chunk of thigh meat. Great as sashimi or cooked—highly recommended."