Broken Lake Prison Cafeteria.
Arriving earlier than usual, Ash noticed the dining hall was unusually crowded. As he scanned the room, his curiosity piqued—humans, orcs, and goblins weren't the only inhabitants. There were creatures crawling on all fours, beings with horns, others with four arms…
One in particular caught his attention: a provocatively dressed female with hooves and fluffy ears. Her species was unknown to him, but she sparked a flood of thoughts about this world's healthcare industry and its… fascinating possibilities.
Not that I'm into furries, but…
"Are you getting food or not?"
The sharp voice of the cafeteria worker snapped Ash back to reality.
He hastily ordered a few items to fill his stomach, his attention drawn to an enticing dish labeled "One per person only."
"What's this?" he asked.
"It's Royal Seafood La-La Fat," the worker replied. "Seasonal specialty, very limited. If you were any later, you'd have missed it."
"Great, I'll take—"
"I'll take five!"
A booming voice interrupted him. Turning, Ash saw a green-skinned orc placing his order. Without hesitation, the worker dumped the remaining portions into the orc's oversized bowl.
"Hey, what gives? Why does he get five?"
Ash was flabbergasted.
"He's an orc," the worker replied matter-of-factly.
"And?"
"Orcs are allowed five portions. It's always been like that."
"But that means I don't get any! How is that fair—"
Ash's words caught in his throat as a red warning flashed across his vision.
WARNING: Your speech has triggered potential racial discrimination. This is prohibited! In the Bloodmoon Nation, racial equality is the foremost principle. Please comply!
What?! Complaining that orcs eat too much is considered racist?!
Frustrated, Ash took his tray to find a seat. After searching through the crowded cafeteria, he finally spotted an open spot—right next to a massive, blue-skinned creature taking up two seats.
Had this been his past life, Ash would have turned around and left. But here in Broken Lake Prison, physical altercations were off the table. With newfound courage, he approached.
"Hey, you're taking up two seats. Move over."
The blue-skinned creature, mid-bite, glanced at Ash before returning to its meal.
"I'm an ogre."
"And? That doesn't mean you can—"
WARNING: Your speech has triggered potential racial discrimination. This is prohibited! In the Bloodmoon Nation, racial equality is the foremost principle. Please comply!
Ash was speechless. Even calling out seat-hogging is racist?
He considered flipping his tray onto the ogre's lap but found his hands immobilized. The neck implant ensured that every prisoner adhered strictly to the rules. Within the bounds of the law, they had freedom—but any violation, no matter how minor, was immediately and absolutely suppressed.
Just then, a hand patted Ash's shoulder. A burly man stood up, offering his seat with a curt nod.
"Thanks," Ash muttered, recognizing the man from the Deathmatch Club.
"Desmond," the man introduced himself, casting a disdainful glance at the ogre and a goblin crouched nearby. "I'll see you at the club. Maybe we'll have a match."
Other prisoners, overhearing their connection to the Deathmatch Club, subtly edged away.
As Ash sat down, the sound of the ogre's tractor-like chewing filled the air, and the goblin's messy eating habits made the space feel suffocating.
I need to get out of here.
This wasn't just about escaping prison anymore. The environment was unbearable. It reminded him of a past job, stuck under an idiotic boss. With incompetent colleagues, you could fight back or work around them. But with an incompetent boss, you were trapped.
Back then, quitting was the only solution. If every job meant working overtime, why stay under a bad manager?
Here, though, it wasn't just a bad boss—it was the entire system that was broken.
You couldn't complain.
You couldn't resist.
You couldn't escape.
Ash began to understand Broken Lake Prison's true nature. It wasn't about "rehabilitation."
It was psychological torture.
They smothered your anger.
Crushed your hope.
Destroyed your courage.
Stripped away your pride.
Prisoners were left as hollow shells, shambling toward their inevitable doom under the Bloodmoon's judgment.
Suddenly, the Deathmatch Club made sense. It was the only outlet for their suppressed frustrations—a rare, fleeting reprieve in a suffocating existence. A place for the system's "garbage" to be processed and recycled.
And in this system, Ash realized, he was the garbage.
The real model prisoners were those who adapted, who could exist comfortably in this twisted environment.
Ash quickly finished his meal and made his way to the Deathmatch Club, the only place left where he could breathe.
At the Deathmatch Club
The arena was empty, brightly lit in preparation. In the distance, Ash saw Lana lounging in her boyfriend's lap.
Wait… is it just me, or does her boyfriend look skinnier than yesterday?
"Don't tell me… Lana's the one doing the draining?"
"Yo, Ash!" Lana waved. "You're early! Done with breakfast already? Wanna warm up before Valkas arrives?"
Ash nodded and found a spot to sit. Before long, someone joined him.
"Shillin Dorr."
"Huh?"
Ash glanced at the man, suddenly on alert.
"Igula," the man clarified, raising an eyebrow. "Relax. I'm not here to challenge you. I don't fight battles I can't win, and I won't waste time on meaningless things like pride. I lost yesterday. Fair and square."
"I don't trust schemers like you."
"Fair. Let's cut to the chase—how about a trade?"
"What kind of trade?"
"Information. You answer one of my questions, I'll answer one of yours."
"I don't need anything from you."
"Really? Don't you want to know why Valkas, that elf, challenged you?"
An elf? Ash raised an eyebrow but kept his face neutral.
"Fine. I'm curious. But how do I know you won't lie?"
"You don't," Igula said with a sly smile. "But that's the risk we both take."
"Then what's the point?"
"Because I trust my ability to spot lies. And you can trust yours—"
"I can't. I don't read enough. You'll definitely fool me."
Igula was stunned into silence. This might have been the first time he'd encountered someone so… self-aware.
Finally, with a resigned sigh, he said, "Fine. I'll give you information first. If you think it's valuable, you can answer my question."
Ash thought about it and nodded cautiously.
"Valkas Urr," Igula began, "was a researcher at Kaiman Comprehensive University. He was imprisoned for stealing proprietary technology, raising a child illegally, and murdering a colleague. As an elf, he's the only prisoner in five years to have avoided even a single Bloodmoon trial."
"Wait, what? I thought every inmate had to face the Bloodmoon at least once. Isn't that what qualifies them to contribute here?"
Igula's lips curled into a cryptic smile.
"In the Bloodmoon Nation, all races are equal."
"…But some are more equal than others," Ash muttered, rolling his eyes.
Still, something didn't sit right. "Why did he challenge me, then?"
"Because of the child," Igula said simply. "Raising a child illegally is his greatest crime—not theft or murder."
"What?!"
"Private child-rearing is strictly forbidden," Igula explained.
"But then… how do people grow up? Who raises the kids?"
"Orphanages. Every single one of us was raised in a state-run facility. It's one of the Bloodmoon Nation's foundational policies."
State-run orphanages…?
"Wait… so you're saying… we're all—"
Ash wanted to say "orphans," but the word stuck in his throat.
It wasn't the implant stopping him this time.
It was the realization that the word didn't exist.
Frantically searching his borrowed memories, Ash found no equivalent for "mother" or "father" in Heath's vocabulary. The closest term was guardian.
No parents. No family. No concept of heritage or lineage.
A chilling thought crossed Ash's mind.
The orphanages. The implants controlling speech and actions.
What kind of world have I stumbled into