"Yo, isn't that Edmond from the Tax Bureau? I told you, you'd end up here with me someday!"
"Hey, everyone, this guy and I have some bad blood. Let me have him for the first five death matches. You can have the next five, alright?"
"Man, look at this parade of big shots. So the Andreia Eternal Wine Club is completely finished, huh? The mayor didn't hold back—took down every single one of them."
"Kaimon City isn't a city anymore—it's Fennenshe's personal playground."
The central hall of Broken Lake Prison was packed with death row inmates, who eagerly welcomed the new arrivals with mocking laughter. Unlike the veterans, who reveled in schadenfreude, the newcomers were far quieter, obediently following the guards' instructions and pressing their fingers into the bronze ledger one by one.
"Huh, weird," Ash murmured, watching the scene unfold from the sidelines. "When I got here, nobody threw me this kind of welcome party."
"That's because you're special," a voice chimed in.
Ash turned to see none other than Harvey, the chatty necromancer. As usual, Harvey acted like they were old friends, picking up the conversation as if they'd been talking for hours.
"Everyone knows about the Four Pillars God cult, Ash. You're the first cult leader in over a century to actually get caught. Until the prison had fully adjusted your permissions, they couldn't risk letting you near the other inmates."
"Adjusted my permissions?" Ash frowned.
"See that bronze ledger?" Harvey gestured to the book. "That's the Inmate Directory. When we're brought in, we have to press our fingers into it. That's how the prison system officially takes control of our permissions—stuff like combat capabilities and mana output."
"Wait, what? I thought all that got disabled the moment we were captured," Ash said.
"It was, but at first, those restrictions are managed by the Scourge Bureau. Once we're inside the prison, they hand over control."
"Why go through all that trouble?"
"It's necessary," Harvey explained, raising a finger. "First, if the Scourge Bureau kept control, they could theoretically disable our restrictions remotely. If something went wrong here, who do you think would get blamed? The prison. So naturally, the Bureau transfers authority to avoid liability.
"Second, the Bureau's systems are too far away. Over time, the restrictions could degrade."
"Wait, the restrictions can wear off?" Ash blinked.
"All shackles rust eventually," Harvey said cryptically before pushing through the crowd to grab a snake-scaled inmate by the collar.
"Harbron, where's Nalbel?" Harvey demanded.
The snakefolk's scales paled visibly. "Archibald… How do you even remember me? You shouldn't be able to!"
Archibald Harvey. That's right—Harvey's full name. It was so long Ash had mentally trimmed it down. But what did the snakefolk mean by "shouldn't remember"?
"I'm a necromancer," Harvey sneered. "Adding a backdoor to a soul isn't that hard for me. Memory doesn't disappear; it just gets harder to find. Now, where's Nalbel? Why isn't she here with you?"
Ash assumed Harvey and this Nalbel person were enemies—after all, this was death row. Who wouldn't want their nemesis locked up?
But the snakefolk's answer was dripping with melodrama.
"Why dig up her memory, Archibald? Do you enjoy suffering that much?"
"Did she betray you? Escape? Or did she—"
"She's dead," the snakefolk said flatly. "When Andreia fell, hunters caught up to us while we were fleeing. She took a shot to the head. There was no saving her."
Harvey's jaw twitched. "You promised me. The boss promised me. You…"
"The boss is dead too. I was the weakest, so I got caught first," the snakefolk muttered. "The Scourge Bureau sent an entire enforcement squad. Fennenshe leaked our escape plans just to draw us out. We were nothing but loose ends to them—easy to snip off."
"I don't care! I don't care!" Harvey's voice cracked as he collapsed to his knees, tears welling in his eyes. "It can't be true… Not Nalbel. She can't just… be gone."
The guards didn't intervene. They knew the inmates couldn't escalate things—thanks to the restrictions, the worst they could do was grab collars and shout.
The rest of the inmates quickly lost interest, treating the outburst as another bit of prison drama. Ash, curious about Harvey's soap opera backstory, decided it wasn't the best time to pry and headed to the cafeteria instead.
The cafeteria was already buzzing. A group of sailors and blood-crazed hunters sat on one side, while the inmates clustered on the other. No one dared cross the invisible line. Even in a place like this, the pecking order was crystal clear.
Today's special? Red bean puree with "lala fat," orc cheese salad, and coconut custard tart. Ash had barely started eating when a meek-looking man approached and sat across from him.
"New here?" Ash asked, eyeing him.
"Yeah… My name's Balaka," the man replied nervously.
"Ash," he introduced himself. But his instincts screamed, This guy's no innocent lamb. Outwardly shy types were usually the most dangerous. "How'd you end up eating with us?"
"Uh… It's lunchtime?"
"No, I mean, shouldn't you be locked in your cell, waiting for food delivery?"
"Nope. After they showed us our cells, they said we could move around freely," Balaka said.
Ah. So being locked in solitary on day one really was a cult leader exclusive.
"You here because of political drama? Gotta admit, for someone so young, you've got potential as a political scapegoat."
"No, no. I'm actually… a writer."
Ash raised an eyebrow. "They throw writers in here now? What, you write something controversial? Smut?"
"Well… I didn't actually write it," Balaka admitted.
"What?"
"I pitched the idea to my editor, and he said, 'If you insist on writing this, I'll have to report you to the Scourge Bureau. You'd better do it in prison so we don't get shut down.'"
"…And you just… turned yourself in?"
"Yep. The Bureau looked into my memories, decided my idea was too dangerous, and sentenced me to death for 'endangering public safety.'"
Ash blinked. "Couldn't you just not write it?"
"I'm not a creator—I'm a messenger. I couldn't let such a brilliant story rot in my mind."
Ash gave him a thumbs up. "Good luck, then. Hey, any spicy romance in it?"
"Uh, no."
"Eh, I'll cheer for you from the sidelines. Books aren't really my thing."
Ash spotted Igula near the entrance. Tossing his tray into the disposal chute, he hurried over.
"You ready? The hunters are almost done eating. Action signal's coming soon. Where are Longna and Ronald?"
"They're not coming."
"What?"
"I called it off."
Ash didn't explode or panic. He simply looked at Igula, his calm gaze unyielding.
"You know I can't go against the contract unless absolutely necessary," Igula said. "And honestly? I wanted this too. If you hadn't asked, I might've come up with a plan like this myself."
"But today isn't the day. The plan won't work—not with everything that's changed this week. Too many variables. Too many risks."
At that moment, the doors swung open, and the second wave of hunters entered.
Ash sighed. "There's the signal."
"No," Igula whispered. "That's the danger signal."
The hunters all snapped to attention, bowing toward the figure striding in behind them.
"Captain!"
"Good afternoon, everyone."
The man was dressed in dark crimson with a black half-cloak draped over one shoulder. His stark white hair and crimson eyes screamed danger.
"Scum," he said casually, glancing at the prisoners. "Good afternoon."
"You can't talk to us like that!" one prisoner shouted.
"Sure I can. Costs me a month's salary, but it's worth it to call you all what you are: scum." He grinned. "Hell, I like the number three. Let's make it official. Scum, scum, scum! Ah, the way your faces twist—beautiful."
Ash's heart froze as he recognized the man. The last time they met, Ash had been on the receiving end of his blade.
"Gerard Westminster," the man announced, his smile sharp enough to cut. "Scourge Bureau Blood Hunter, Unit 307791. When you meet the Blood Moon Sovereign, don't forget to say hi for me."