"Improve the plan's margin for error? Outline an escape route after hijacking the ship?"
On the ocean-view platform, Igula listened to Ash's request with a puzzled expression. "Shouldn't your priority be figuring out how to survive the upcoming Blood Moon Trial in a few days? Don't tell me you think you'll dodge being picked for the lucky eight, or worse, you believe only one person will die in this 'bonus' trial."
Even the average death row inmates could sense that the upcoming trials would be particularly bloody—Lakebreak Prison was nearly at full capacity.
With an increasing number of inmates and no room for expansion, the prison couldn't reduce the standard living space or downgrade the facilities. Such moves would breach the Guidelines for Prisoner Living Conditions and invite the wrath of human rights organizations, who'd leap at the chance to accuse the prison of mistreating its inmates.
Thus, the most viable solution was to ensure an "appropriate attrition rate" among death row inmates. This approach also happened to maximize profits from Blood Moon Trials—massively popular live events streamed to eager audiences.
Take the trial on the 15th as an example. Complex, intense, with built-in opportunities for inmates to betray and kill each other—it had everything. And with figures like Valkas involved, there was always the possibility of a catastrophic chain reaction: if he had gone down, he could've easily dragged the rest into the abyss with him.
The irony wasn't lost on Igula: the same human rights advocates who opposed worsening prison conditions would happily turn a blind eye to mass executions disguised as entertainment.
"I wouldn't be surprised if some of the Blood Moon Trial's ad revenue finds its way into the human rights association's pockets as political donations," he muttered.
Ash leaned against the railing. "So, what's your brilliant idea for surviving the Blood Moon Trial?"
Igula smirked. "Oh, I don't know… maybe you could pray to one of your four gods? Or perhaps switch sides and beg for the Blood Moon Lord's mercy?"
"Think of Lakebreak Prison as a cage," Ash replied. "The trial roster? That's the butcher outside, picking their next meal. Us animals in the cage can't do much about the butcher's choices—unless one happens to be an old friend, which, sadly, isn't the case. On the contrary, I suspect I have more diners than friends eyeing me hungrily."
Ash crossed his arms. "So rather than fretting over the trial, I'd rather assume I'll miraculously survive and focus on refining the escape plan. There are still nine days before the next transport ship arrives—we can't afford to waste that time."
"Sounds like a waste of time," Igula muttered.
"No, Ash is absolutely right!" Ronald interjected, his voice brimming with energy. "Even if we reduce the risk by just 1% or increase our chances of success by 1%, it's worth it. Our time is precious, friends. If you want to relax, save it for when we're back in the free world. Right now, we should focus all our energy on escaping. Agreed?"
"Exactly!" Longard added with a grin. "Besides, I don't think Ash here is the type to die so easily."
The vote was 3-to-1. Igula had no choice but to comply with the majority. Not that he was genuinely against refining the plan—he just enjoyed arguing with Ash for sport.
"Because of the chip's restrictions, our plan has significant vulnerabilities," Igula began, cutting to the chase. "The most glaring one is the time between stealing a medic's uniform and boarding the ship.
"If the unconscious medic is discovered, or if we exceed our ten-minute window, or if something else goes wrong along the way, the guards will immediately realize we've deactivated our chips. The moment they alert the transport ship, our escape attempt is as good as over."
He glanced around at the group. "That's the weakest point of the plan. Any ideas to shore it up?"
Ash racked his brain. Longard stayed silent. But Ronald's hand shot up. "Why don't we just kill all the guards beforehand?"
"Unless we manage to kill them all simultaneously, even one survivor can sound the alarm," Igula retorted, exasperated. "And the guards are always on shifts, with some stationed in areas we can't access. It's impossible to wipe them out in one go."
"Then we find a way to lure them all to one spot!" Ronald declared with conviction.
"What, by having Ash pray to the gods again? Or maybe you're suggesting he prays for all the guards to drop dead at once—"
"What if we purify someone's chip and have them go on a rampage, attacking other inmates and guards? Would that force the guards to converge?"
Igula opened his mouth to dismiss the idea but hesitated. He started pacing, nibbling on his thumbnail as he sank into thought.
Ash's eyes widened. "That… actually sounds more reliable than just leaving things to chance!"
"Ronnie, you're a genius!" Longard clapped Ronald on the shoulder, laughing.
"Of course, the details still need fine-tuning, but it's definitely workable!" Igula's eyes gleamed with excitement. "Using a decoy to divert the guards' attention could make everything—from ambushing guards to hijacking the ship—much easier. We could even prepare backup measures, like freeing more inmates to trigger a full-blown riot!"
"Right under their noses, with the guards watching, we'll turn Lakebreak Prison upside down!"
The sheer scale of the chaos he envisioned sent a thrill down Igula's spine. For the first time in ages, he felt a surge of genuine enthusiasm for his work.
"Then let's get moving!" Ash said, his energy infectious. "We need to find a suitable candidate to play the decoy!"
Without further debate, the four made their way to the Dueling Club.
Their ideal candidate? Someone reckless, rebellious, obedient enough to follow instructions, and gullible enough to be manipulated. Most of these traits were commonly found in the Dueling Club's regulars.
On the way, Ash sidled up to Igula and whispered, "Ronald's acting weird today."
The typically dry and withdrawn Ronald was now beaming, enthusiastic, and even proactive. His sunny demeanor was so at odds with his usual self that it gave Ash chills.
Igula whispered back, "This means the ritual is nearing its final stages. If Ronald's cell gets cleared out tomorrow, I won't be surprised."
"I'm pretty sure I mentioned before that I've enhanced my hearing with a spell, right?" Ronald suddenly turned to them, shaking his head. "Unless you mask your voices, I can hear everything."
Ash and Igula froze, their faces the picture of innocence. Their synchronized "I didn't say anything" expressions were almost comical. If nothing else, the two shared an unparalleled shamelessness.
"You don't have to worry about me," Ronald said, patting his chest confidently. "I'll make it to next month, no doubt about it. And whatever's going on between me and Longard won't affect the plan. If anything happens, it'll be after the escape."
Ash couldn't help but ask, "So… what's with the sudden transformation?"
Ronald raised a finger to his lips. "Secret."
With that, he extended his arm, leaving space for Longard to link his own. The pair walked off, their close bond belying the fact that they were mortal enemies.
Igula, however, was deep in thought. He wondered if Longard had deliberately influenced Ronald's behavior to better support the escape plan.
After all, this vibrant, cooperative Ronald was much more helpful to their efforts than his withdrawn, brooding counterpart.
If that were true, it would mean Longard had extraordinary confidence in the plan—so much so that he was willing to adjust the timeline of his ritual to ensure its success.
But how could Longard be so confident when even Igula, the plan's architect, estimated their chances of success at less than 10%? Even with the improvements, the odds still didn't exceed 30%.
What was Longard banking on?
Igula's gaze shifted instinctively to Ash, who caught the look and tilted his head in confusion. After a moment, Ash smirked and offered his arm with exaggerated flair.
"Didn't think you'd be jealous of that. I guess I can lower my standards for you."
Igula's composure snapped. He wanted to hit him. He wanted to scream.
But all he could do was fume silently, his fraying patience held together by the thinnest thread of self-restraint.