"Ash Heath, if you're awake, get moving. Dinner time will pass you by, and we don't serve meals in bed here."
The harsh glare of the fluorescent light had already warmed Ash's eyelids. He quickly sat up, rubbing his face and abdomen. To his surprise, there wasn't a hint of swelling or pain, as if the beating from Igula had been nothing more than a bad dream.
This wasn't Ash's first encounter with the advanced healing methods of this world, but he still marveled at them every time. Back on Earth, the wound the Bloodhunter had inflicted—stabbing straight through his body—would've landed him in the ICU for weeks, teetering on the edge of life. Yet here, he'd been patched up before the interrogators even started asking questions.
It almost felt like they wanted to fix him up first to ensure he was in peak condition for their "enhanced questioning techniques."
Ash glanced around the room. Unlike the sterile, clinical spaces he had imagined, this treatment facility had a peculiar ambiance. While meticulously clean and devoid of any bloodstains or debris, the dominant color scheme of gray, black, and brown gave the room a grim, chaotic vibe.
The so-called medics didn't help dispel that impression. They were clad in pitch-black robes that fully concealed their bodies, and their faces were obscured by eerie raven masks. One of them held a gleaming scalpel that caught the room's dim light.
Instead of looking like doctors, they seemed more like cultists preparing to offer Ash as a sacrificial lamb.
The medic who spoke was shorter than average. Judging by the distorted voice emanating from their mask, the equipment was deliberately designed to make their tone unnerving and genderless.
Noticing Ash staring, the medic tilted their head. "Is there a problem?"
Ash shrugged casually. "I think there's still something wrong with my face."
"What?" The medic sounded genuinely puzzled. "I've healed all your injuries. Did I miss something internal—ruptured blood vessels, perhaps?"
"I don't feel as handsome as before," Ash said, deadpan. "Maybe you didn't fix me properly. Do you offer cosmetic surgery here?"
Ash was just trying to make some friendly conversation, hoping to leave a good impression for any future visits. What he didn't expect was for the raven-masked medic to perk up, moving closer with unmistakable enthusiasm.
"Absolutely! We offer everything: eye reshaping, nasal adjustments, jawline contouring, chin fillers. Whatever you want! We can even transform you into another species if that's your preference! May I recommend the 'Kassalandé Technique'? It's particularly effective for enlarging—"
"Whoa, back up!" Ash grimaced, pushing the medic away. "Your beak is practically poking me in the face!"
"My apologies! If you're interested in lip enhancement, we also have the newest 'Sweet Rabbit' method—it makes your lips taste naturally sweet…"
The medic's overzealous sales pitch made Ash wary. "I don't have any money for this!"
"Oh, I don't need your money. I just need you!"
Ash's body stiffened. "That escalated quickly. We barely know each other! Wait, are you male or female? What species are you, anyway?"
The medic seemed to realize their phrasing and waved a gloved hand dismissively. "I mean, I only need your consent for the surgery. It's completely free!"
Ash hesitated. "What if I asked you to pay me?"
"How much?"
The medic actually started reaching for a wallet, prompting Ash to wave his hands frantically. "Stop, stop! I was joking. I don't actually want you cutting into my face."
"Shame," the medic sighed. "Are you sure? I'm a certified silver-tier healer with three spirits at my disposal. You won't find anyone else offering this kind of service for free!"
"And if you suddenly charge me mid-surgery?"
"Do you even have money?"
"No."
"Then what are you worried about!?"
It was, Ash had to admit, a compelling argument. If he had no money, they couldn't swindle him for it. Still, he shook his head. "In my industry, we have a saying: 'The free stuff always costs the most.' If I take you up on this 'free' offer, I'm sure I'll pay for it one way or another."
Seeing Ash's skepticism, the medic relented. "Fine. I'll admit, there is a small risk involved."
"How small?"
"Very small." The medic held up thumb and forefinger, barely a centimeter apart. "My surgical techniques aren't exactly... polished. I need to perform more procedures to refine my skills. But don't worry! My three spirits guarantee you won't die!"
With the explanation, Ash pieced together the truth behind the seemingly generous offer. The "silver-tier" medics weren't as altruistic as they appeared.
Unlike the evidence-based medicine of Ash's previous life, this world's medical practices revolved around spirits. One of the most commonly used was the water-path spirit, Water Therapy.
As long as a patient had water in their body, the spirit could accelerate cellular regeneration, allowing wounds to heal rapidly. However, this method had its limitations.
Most medical procedures involved bleeding or excising damaged tissue before using the spirit to regenerate new, healthy cells. Over time, the spirit would "learn" from the ailments it treated, becoming faster and more effective with repeated exposure.
The more cases a healer handled, the more their Water Therapy spirit would evolve. Eventually, it could even ascend to a two-winged spirit, significantly enhancing the healer's abilities.
For silver-tier medics, gaining experience was a desperate necessity. Unfortunately, patients preferred paying higher fees to be treated by gold-tier medics, who had far more reliable spirits. That left silver-tier medics struggling to find opportunities.
In this context, the prison was a haven for silver-tier healers. With a steady supply of battered and broken inmates needing urgent care, the medics could rapidly "grind experience" in a safe, controlled environment. Even better, there were no lawsuits if a patient didn't survive.
Ash's suspicions deepened. "So this whole deathmatch system isn't just about pitting us against each other—it's also a scheme to turn us into practice dummies for rookie medics."
The medic's mask tilted curiously. "You're surprisingly observant for a first-time patient."
Ash laughed dryly. This prison really was a masterpiece of efficiency, turning death-row inmates into renewable resources. Between the deathmatches and the medics, it was a self-sustaining economy of exploitation.
Still, he couldn't help but mutter, "Even if the treatment is free, you're missing a big opportunity. If this were my company, you'd be charging contribution points for every visit."
"Why's that?"
Ash sighed, his thoughts drifting to his past life. "Because back home, my boss wouldn't just sell me life insurance for sudden death—she'd also dock my paycheck for the electricity I used while working overtime. She made sure I couldn't even break even on my own hustle."
The medic paused. "...What kind of world do you come from?"
"Somewhere way worse than here," Ash said.