Ever since arriving in this world, Ash had heard the term "Bloodmoon Trial" more times than he could count.
At first, he assumed it was some sort of execution.
Then, he thought it might be a live-streamed execution show.
After that, he figured it could be an interactive betting game where viewers guess who gets executed.
Now, Ash was convinced it was some kind of no-holds-barred gladiatorial deathmatch, broadcast for entertainment.
"Yes," the medic confirmed, "when death row inmates participate in the Bloodmoon Trial, all restrictions are lifted. You'll be able to use your spirit power and activate your spirits."
She extended her hand, and an elderly, kindly-looking spirit materialized in her palm.
"In theory, you might even have a chance to trade spirits during the trial. But realistically? No one's ever managed it. Do I need to spell out why? Surely you've watched a Bloodmoon Trial before."
"I haven't!"
"Do you think I'm stupid enough to believe that?!" the medic nearly shouted. "What kind of idiot lie is that?!"
The medic refused to divulge anything more after that. Ash's clumsy lie had insulted her intelligence. Fool her all you want, but at least put some effort into it.
Ash felt wronged. He truly hadn't seen the Bloodmoon Trial before. But everyone here treated it as common knowledge, so no one bothered explaining it.
With no more information to gain, Ash decided it was time to grab some food. But just as he was about to leave, the medic stopped him.
"Why did you ask about that elf earlier? You worried about him?"
"'Worried' might be too strong a word," Ash said, scratching at the fresh, pale skin on his shoulder. "It's just... curiosity, I guess. He was the first person I've ever killed. Isn't it common for murderers to revisit the crime scene? Same thing here."
"Seriously? He was your first?"
"The way you're saying that makes it sound way weirder than it is..."
"You're a death row inmate in the Lakebreak luxury suites! Taking lives should be as easy as breathing for you. Torturing souls should come as naturally as getting dressed."
"I never claimed to be a saint, but I am innocent!"
"Fine. I'll believe the first part."
The medic glanced down at her spirit, seemingly lost in thought.
"Alright," she said after a pause, "let's say I believe you. So why do you care if that elf lived or died? Do you want him dead, or do you want him alive?"
"Both," Ash replied.
"Both?" The medic chuckled. "You want him both dead and alive?"
"Honestly, we don't have enough bad blood for me to wish death upon him. If anything, I'd prefer to clobber him with a wet noodle in the shape of a geoduck clam, just to vent my frustration. Plus, I still have questions for him, so I'd rather he stay alive."
Ash shrugged. "But if he did die, I'd probably just muse about the fragility of life before bed tonight. Something like, 'Life is like the ocean—only the strong-willed can reach the other shore.' So, yeah, I wouldn't lose much sleep over it."
"You really might be new to this whole killing thing," the medic mused. "That's not how you win anyone over, though. If this were a court proceeding, you could claim you're soft-hearted and get the human rights groups on your side. Or you could say you're thorough and win the favor of extremists. But this wishy-washy answer? Nobody's going to like it."
"Sounds like the world outside is just as harsh," Ash sighed. "But how many people are really decisive? Most are as wishy-washy as I am."
The medic blinked, then shrugged. "Maybe. But indecisiveness works better if you've got the looks to back it up. Like this—"
She pulled out an album and started flipping through it in front of Ash. "These are the trending handsome templates from the past five years. Want to pick one for a new face? I'd recommend Face No. 1—super popular, looks 90% like a current idol. You'll love it!"
"Looks like you love it more than I would!"
"So what if I do? You'd still benefit!"
"Who cares? I'm not staring at my face all day. Other people are the ones who'd enjoy it. Why should I sacrifice myself for their benefit?"
Ash made such a convincing argument that even the medic wavered. Her raven mask drooped as she sighed. "You're not wrong..."
"But," Ash said, switching gears, "you're the only one in this cold, indifferent prison who's listened to me ramble. That's the only warmth I've felt here. If a friend asks, how can I refuse?"
"Wait, we're friends now?"
"Not? Then I'll just leave—"
"Fine, fine! So you're saying you'll let me perform the surgery?"
"Not really..." Ash hesitated. "I've gotten kind of attached to this face. I've had it for years, after all."
"So...?"
"Add more money."
"Deal!"
The medic perked up. "When should we start? Wait, let me review some procedures tonight—I'm still rusty on a few. Don't worry! My spirit prevents any nasty complications, like flesh collapse!"
Ash forced a smile. "Sure, sure. Take your time. No rush!"
Money may be the lifeblood of society, and spirit power the lifeblood of mages, but Ash still couldn't see a way out of this prison. He needed funds, though. And since all the inmates here were broke freeloaders, Ash figured his face was his only marketable asset.
But now? The risks seemed huge. A bad surgery could ruin him. He was second-guessing everything.
No wonder medics kept their identities secret. They probably planned to disappear after building up their skills here. Who would inmates complain to, anyway?
As Ash reached the door, he paused and looked back.
"By the way, are your coworkers giving you a hard time?"
"Huh?"
"Every time I wake up, it's just you here. Where's the rest of the staff? Are they dumping all the hard cases on you while they go chill somewhere?"
"No! But you are one of the hardest cases, so..."
"Really? Well, if they're bullying you, let me know."
The medic raised an eyebrow before snickering. "Why would I tell you?"
"Aren't we friends? Friends support each other during tough times. Or at least laugh at each other's misfortune."
"Out! Get out!"
Ash waved as he left. "Thanks, Doctor [222]. The apples were great!"
The treatment room fell silent again as the medic packed up her kit. She opened the door to the private staff lounge—a space completely separate from inmate areas—and nearly jumped when she saw a crowd of medics waiting outside.
Her heart stopped, thinking they'd come to confront her.
But then she noticed one figure without a raven mask: Medic [176], a tall, blue-scaled fishman. His blood-red eyes gleamed like rubies, and he stood with his hands bound behind him.
A faint green foam necklace encircled his neck.
The medic recognized it immediately: Miracle: Veinfoam.
A signature blood mage technique, it was a trap and execution device. The foam connected to a target's veins—shattering it meant instant, fatal blood loss.
Even the weakest blood mage could end a life in a blink.
Being wrapped in Veinfoam? That was a death row-level offense.
"What did he do?"
"He attempted to observe your healing techniques without authorization," reported Medic [201], bowing deeply. Even the mask's voice modulation couldn't hide his reverence.
"Stealing proprietary knowledge from the Bloodcry Research Institute is a clear violation of the constitutional principle: 'Personal and collective property are sacred and inviolable.' It is, beyond doubt, a crime."