Blood Moon Nation, Broken Lake Prison, Dining Hall.
Ash stared at the luxurious spread before him: Moonflower Crab, Lemonberry Custard Cake, Divine Ralafat, and Golden Pineapple Juice. The aromas of the exquisite dishes filled the air, yet he couldn't muster the appetite to eat.
These weren't just ordinary meals—they were from the dining hall's secret menu, inaccessible even to inmates with high contribution points. Rumor had it that outside the prison, such delicacies were treasures, with ingredients like the Divine Ralafat costing nearly a third of an average worker's monthly salary.
Their taste lived up to their reputation. The first bite alone was so divine it nearly made Ash swallow his tongue, a rare feat for a city dweller raised on MSG and cheap broth.
But no matter how heavenly the food was, his looming execution sapped away any desire to enjoy it.
Ash wasn't alone in his somber mood. His fellow condemned inmates were equally apathetic. Some took small, hesitant bites; others cried silently as they ate. One even turned his utensils upside down as though the act of eating was beneath him. If the cutlery had been sharp, it might've triggered the "Suicide Prevention Warning" in their neck implants.
Only two inmates ate normally: a blue-skinned ogre who devoured dish after dish with his hands and Valcasse, the elven swordsman.
Unlike the ogre's barbaric feasting, Valcasse dined with the grace of a royal at a skyscraper's revolving restaurant, demonstrating ten different ways to use a knife and fork.
"Struggling to eat? Need some help?"
The voice of Warden Naghu cut through the air like a whip dipped in saltwater. Every death row inmate flinched, straightened, and resumed eating with trembling hands.
Even Ash, despite his lack of appetite, forced himself to shovel food into his mouth.
It wasn't that Naghu had physically hurt them. He hadn't laid a finger on any of them during the day's "supervision."
Yet, by now, the inmates' spirits were crushed. Any trace of defiance had been ground into the dirt by Naghu's control over their neck implants. His authority was absolute.
Naghu's methods were simple yet terrifyingly effective.
If an inmate refused to eat, Naghu would calmly issue commands:
"Open your mouth. Insert the food. Chew once, twice, three times. Swallow."
Refuse to watch a movie? Naghu made them model viewers:
"Sit up straight. Hands on your knees. Focus on the screen. Blink every five seconds."
During their "relaxing" visit to the scenic viewing deck, Naghu insisted on group photos to reflect their "good spirits" and "harmonious camaraderie." Those who failed to meet his standards of neat attire and cheerful smiles found themselves assisted into compliance.
Ash considered himself lucky to only be forced into a reclining position with a grin slapped on his face. Valcasse, however, had been made to sit on the ogre's shoulders, mimicking cat ears with his hands while smiling sweetly for the camera.
The photo shoot wasn't limited to one picture. They had to pose with various "team dynamics," from stoic camaraderie to borderline inappropriate embraces. By the end, the inmates were utterly numb, their sole desire being to speed through the day and get the Blood Moon trial over with.
"End it already. I'm tired."
The oppressive atmosphere weighed so heavily that when Naghu spoke again, commanding them to eat faster, the inmates obediently complied. At this moment, the looming trial felt less terrifying than the warden's omnipresent control.
"Why's the dining hall empty?" Ash whispered to the man next to him, a fellow inmate named Archibald Harvey. "No one showed up at lunch, and now dinner's the same."
Harvey, a dark-skinned man with curly hair and the build of a laborer, was anything but ordinary. By trade, he had been a "cleaner," disposing of bodies for underground organizations. His crimes? Well, in the Blood Moon Nation, only corpses declared dead by a licensed healer were legally considered deceased.
Harvey had "cleaned" over a hundred bodies. Without a healer's certification, those were technically a hundred counts of murder.
"I didn't notice it this morning, but why are they avoiding us?" Ash pressed.
"Tradition," Harvey said with a shrug.
The word felt alien in the context of condemned prisoners.
Harvey explained: "First, nobody wants to be near us in the morning when the eight chosen inmates are summoned. Sure, the selection's based on trial sequence, but who knows? You might cross paths with a warden who decides you walk too cocky, and bam, you're on the list."
"They can do that?"
"Don't know. Do you want to test it?"
Ash shook his head vigorously.
"Exactly. After the morning, even though the eight are already chosen, the rest stay holed up in their rooms. Why risk swapping places with someone else?"
Ash nodded. The idea of being swapped out, giving someone else a free pass at his expense, made his blood boil.
"Second reason's superstition," Harvey continued. "They think running into us will curse them to be chosen next time. A death row version of bad luck."
"And the third?"
"They don't know how to talk to us." Harvey dabbed his mouth with a napkin. "Would you greet us? Encourage us? Comfort us? Imagine what it feels like to be in our shoes."
Ash opened his mouth to protest, then paused.
He could already imagine it. Any well-meaning words from others would feel like mockery. Seeing others breathe while he awaited death—it would all seem like a cruel joke.
"Encouragement? Insult. Comfort? Condescension. Empathy? Pity."
The distance between the condemned and the spared was an unbridgeable chasm.
"That's why," Harvey concluded, "on the day of the Blood Moon trial, all inmates stay in their rooms. It's both self-preservation and a gesture of respect to those chosen."
Harvey looked Ash in the eye. "If you survive tonight, remember this tradition. It's the only kindness we can afford to give each other in here. But…"
"But what?"
Harvey smirked. "I've seen your case on the news. Honestly? Odds are, you're the one who'll die tonight."
"It's random, isn't it?" Ash felt his chest tighten.
"Sure, random enough to make it seem fair. But not really. Sometimes, more than one person dies… Haven't you seen the Blood Moon trials before?"
"No!" Ash blurted. "I don't know the rules!"
Harvey chuckled darkly. "You'll find out soon enough. The Blood Moon trial… it's quite the spectacle. I won't spoil it for you. Besides, death is the ultimate mystery, and I wouldn't want to ruin the surprise."
Ash clicked his tongue. "If it's definitely me, why are you nervous?"
Harvey leaned back, his smile fading slightly. "Because the trial isn't fixed. Sometimes, things happen. People panic, screw up, and end up killing themselves."
Ash swallowed hard, suddenly feeling like he couldn't even enjoy his last meal.
Chapter 49: The Traditional Virtues of Death Row Inmates
Blood Moon Nation, Broken Lake Prison, Dining Hall.
Ash stared at the luxurious spread before him: Moonflower Crab, Lemonberry Custard Cake, Divine Ralafat, and Golden Pineapple Juice. The aromas of the exquisite dishes filled the air, yet he couldn't muster the appetite to eat.
These weren't just ordinary meals—they were from the dining hall's secret menu, inaccessible even to inmates with high contribution points. Rumor had it that outside the prison, such delicacies were treasures, with ingredients like the Divine Ralafat costing nearly a third of an average worker's monthly salary.
Their taste lived up to their reputation. The first bite alone was so divine it nearly made Ash swallow his tongue, a rare feat for a city dweller raised on MSG and cheap broth.
But no matter how heavenly the food was, his looming execution sapped away any desire to enjoy it.
Ash wasn't alone in his somber mood. His fellow condemned inmates were equally apathetic. Some took small, hesitant bites; others cried silently as they ate. One even turned his utensils upside down as though the act of eating was beneath him. If the cutlery had been sharp, it might've triggered the "Suicide Prevention Warning" in their neck implants.
Only two inmates ate normally: a blue-skinned ogre who devoured dish after dish with his hands and Valcasse, the elven swordsman.
Unlike the ogre's barbaric feasting, Valcasse dined with the grace of a royal at a skyscraper's revolving restaurant, demonstrating ten different ways to use a knife and fork.
"Struggling to eat? Need some help?"
The voice of Warden Naghu cut through the air like a whip dipped in saltwater. Every death row inmate flinched, straightened, and resumed eating with trembling hands.
Even Ash, despite his lack of appetite, forced himself to shovel food into his mouth.
It wasn't that Naghu had physically hurt them. He hadn't laid a finger on any of them during the day's "supervision."
Yet, by now, the inmates' spirits were crushed. Any trace of defiance had been ground into the dirt by Naghu's control over their neck implants. His authority was absolute.
Naghu's methods were simple yet terrifyingly effective.
If an inmate refused to eat, Naghu would calmly issue commands:
"Open your mouth. Insert the food. Chew once, twice, three times. Swallow."
Refuse to watch a movie? Naghu made them model viewers:
"Sit up straight. Hands on your knees. Focus on the screen. Blink every five seconds."
During their "relaxing" visit to the scenic viewing deck, Naghu insisted on group photos to reflect their "good spirits" and "harmonious camaraderie." Those who failed to meet his standards of neat attire and cheerful smiles found themselves assisted into compliance.
Ash considered himself lucky to only be forced into a reclining position with a grin slapped on his face. Valcasse, however, had been made to sit on the ogre's shoulders, mimicking cat ears with his hands while smiling sweetly for the camera.
The photo shoot wasn't limited to one picture. They had to pose with various "team dynamics," from stoic camaraderie to borderline inappropriate embraces. By the end, the inmates were utterly numb, their sole desire being to speed through the day and get the Blood Moon trial over with.
"End it already. I'm tired."
The oppressive atmosphere weighed so heavily that when Naghu spoke again, commanding them to eat faster, the inmates obediently complied. At this moment, the looming trial felt less terrifying than the warden's omnipresent control.
"Why's the dining hall empty?" Ash whispered to the man next to him, a fellow inmate named Archibald Harvey. "No one showed up at lunch, and now dinner's the same."
Harvey, a dark-skinned man with curly hair and the build of a laborer, was anything but ordinary. By trade, he had been a "cleaner," disposing of bodies for underground organizations. His crimes? Well, in the Blood Moon Nation, only corpses declared dead by a licensed healer were legally considered deceased.
Harvey had "cleaned" over a hundred bodies. Without a healer's certification, those were technically a hundred counts of murder.
"I didn't notice it this morning, but why are they avoiding us?" Ash pressed.
"Tradition," Harvey said with a shrug.
The word felt alien in the context of condemned prisoners.
Harvey explained: "First, nobody wants to be near us in the morning when the eight chosen inmates are summoned. Sure, the selection's based on trial sequence, but who knows? You might cross paths with a warden who decides you walk too cocky, and bam, you're on the list."
"They can do that?"
"Don't know. Do you want to test it?"
Ash shook his head vigorously.
"Exactly. After the morning, even though the eight are already chosen, the rest stay holed up in their rooms. Why risk swapping places with someone else?"
Ash nodded. The idea of being swapped out, giving someone else a free pass at his expense, made his blood boil.
"Second reason's superstition," Harvey continued. "They think running into us will curse them to be chosen next time. A death row version of bad luck."
"And the third?"
"They don't know how to talk to us." Harvey dabbed his mouth with a napkin. "Would you greet us? Encourage us? Comfort us? Imagine what it feels like to be in our shoes."
Ash opened his mouth to protest, then paused.
He could already imagine it. Any well-meaning words from others would feel like mockery. Seeing others breathe while he awaited death—it would all seem like a cruel joke.
"Encouragement? Insult. Comfort? Condescension. Empathy? Pity."
The distance between the condemned and the spared was an unbridgeable chasm.
"That's why," Harvey concluded, "on the day of the Blood Moon trial, all inmates stay in their rooms. It's both self-preservation and a gesture of respect to those chosen."
Harvey looked Ash in the eye. "If you survive tonight, remember this tradition. It's the only kindness we can afford to give each other in here. But…"
"But what?"
Harvey smirked. "I've seen your case on the news. Honestly? Odds are, you're the one who'll die tonight."
"It's random, isn't it?" Ash felt his chest tighten.
"Sure, random enough to make it seem fair. But not really. Sometimes, more than one person dies… Haven't you seen the Blood Moon trials before?"
"No!" Ash blurted. "I don't know the rules!"
Harvey chuckled darkly. "You'll find out soon enough. The Blood Moon trial… it's quite the spectacle. I won't spoil it for you. Besides, death is the ultimate mystery, and I wouldn't want to ruin the surprise."
Ash clicked his tongue. "If it's definitely me, why are you nervous?"
Harvey leaned back, his smile fading slightly. "Because the trial isn't fixed. Sometimes, things happen. People panic, screw up, and end up killing themselves."
Ash swallowed hard, suddenly feeling like he couldn't even enjoy his last meal.
"Dinner's over. Clean up, use the restroom, and report to the central hall in 30 minutes," Naghu's voice boomed.
No one questioned him. Plates were wiped, chairs pushed back, and a synchronized march to the restroom began.
As Ash approached the bathroom, he heard Naghu's final instruction:
"7:45 sharp. Assemble at the Blood Moon site for tonight's show."