[Yo! Walker! Alexander! Gotcha contact from the big boss! Name’s V. I’m a Warden here at Marr Penitentiary #4. Good news? I’m joining you on your road contracts. Bad news? You kinda… will have to pay my salary? Either way! I’ll send my dossier file over. Can’t wait to work with you, boss! PS. At the gatehouse, give them your Walker license. It’ll have Freddy, that lazy bastard, finally do some work and escort you to me.]

  I stared at the message, rereading it twice.

  What?

  I turned to Cordelia, my face probably broadcasting my confusion, but she just arched an eyebrow, looking at me like I was the weird one.

  "I take it you didn’t just get contacted by a Warden named V?" I asked, still processing what I had just read.

  Cordelia just shook her head, the expression on her face somewhere between apathetic and mildly amused.

  "If it’s the Warden assigned to the prisoner, they’d have contacted you, not me."

  That made sense, but it didn’t explain anything.

  I exhaled, rubbing my temples. "Okay, so just to confirm—I now have a Warden assigned to me, I have to pay them, and no one thought to warn me?"

  Cordelia shrugged. "Apparently not."

  I let out a short, dry laugh, feeling a headache creeping in. "Anything else I should know before I step through that gate?"

  Cordelia just gave me that flat, knowing look before casually reminding me:

  "You are not just an international asset now. You are an international asset of the highest priority."

  I froze for half a second, processing that sentence all over again.

  "Three weeks ago, I was running from you while you sent spikes of bramble bushes at me."

  Cordelia nodded, her tone completely unbothered. "And now you are the second most important person in Marr."

  She gave me a sidelong glance, her lips almost quirking into a smirk.

  "Interesting how that works, isn’t it?"

  I groaned, pinching the bridge of my nose. Three weeks ago, I had been a kid desperately trying not to die.

  Now?

  Now I was hiring a Warden, conscripting a criminal, and walking through the gates of a prison full of murderers.

  ***

  I handed my Walker license to the Gatehouse attendant, expecting the usual—a quick scan, maybe a halfhearted nod, and then I’d be let through.

  Instead, the moment his eyes flicked over the ID, I saw his entire body stiffen.

  His face paled.

  "Oh shucks. It's you."

  His hands visibly trembled as he scanned the license, the small beep from the machine echoing through the otherwise quiet gatehouse.

  I sighed internally. Here we go.

  "Uhh. Pardon me, sir. I didn’t know, sir. I’m gonna make it up to you, sir—"

  I cut him off before he could dig himself any deeper.

  "If you say 'sir' one more time, I’m going to file a strongly worded complaint."

  His mouth snapped shut.

  I leaned forward, keeping my voice calm but sharp enough to cut.

  "Just shut up. Please."

  The venom in my tone must have hit him like a brick wall, because he swallowed hard, nodding rapidly.

  "I’ve had the worst day already." I exhaled. "Get me to this 'V' that contacted me. And do whatever job you are assigned. Okay?"

  The attendant practically tripped over himself to comply, fumbling with the gate controls before motioning hurriedly for me to follow him inside.

  “Moons’ light. I’m not built for this…”

  “No. You’re not.” Cordelia agreed.

  The prison was… dreary.

  Not just in appearance, but in atmosphere—like the very air was saturated with violence, despair, and barely-contained rage.

  The moment we stepped inside, it became painfully clear that the guards here weren’t particularly interested in maintaining order—or if they were, they were doing a terrible job of it.

  Prisoners were brawling openly. Fists cracked against flesh, bodies slammed into walls and metal railings, the sheer brutality of it making the hall echo with grunts, shouts, and the sickening crunch of bones breaking.

  Even through the chaos, I noticed the restraints—magnetic locks coiled tightly around their necks and wrists, clearly inhibitors of some kind.

  I didn’t have time to analyze them further, because just as I was processing the situation, a shadow loomed in my peripheral vision—something moving fast, too fast—

  I jerked back, barely avoiding the inmate that had just been hurled across the entire block.

  They crashed into the wall inches from where I had been standing, groaning as they slumped to the floor in a heap of bruises and barely-conscious regret.

  Freddy, the attendant, had stopped beside me, his face taut with tension.

  "I’m sorry si—" He caught himself mid-word, swallowing it down. "Please be careful. This is A Block. These are the best of the worst."

  I exhaled slowly, keeping my voice level.

  "Yeah. Noticed."

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  This wasn’t a prison. It was a war-zone contained by walls. I shifted closer to Cordelia, ensuring that I remained inside her Bias Field. It was one thing to see the violence. It was another to feel it. The weight of the chaos, the rage, the madness—it pressed against the edges of my mind, threatening to bleed in. If not for Cordelia’s presence, I had no doubt I’d be dragged into it, whether by fear, instinct, or something much worse.

  As a precaution, I projected my image outward—the same mental trick Cordelia had drilled into me. The one she had warned me wasn’t good enough.

  She shook her head again, clearly unimpressed. But it was the best I had for now.

  If A-Block was a lawless brawl, then B-Block was a full-blown warzone.

  Gunfire. Actual gunfire.

  Bullets zipped through the air, ricocheting off walls, some deflected by skillcubes or artes, while others found their mark—with deadly finality.

  People were dying. Left and right. I was wading through an ocean of cadavers, my boots sticking slightly to the blood-slicked floor.A severed arm twitched beside me, residual Arte energy still flickering in its mangled fingertips. I swallowed hard, forcing myself to keep moving, to not stop and think too hard about what I was stepping over.

  And then—I saw them.

  Someone, kneeling over a fresh corpse, knife in hand, carving something into the flesh.

  I really, really hoped they weren’t carving those inmates for what I thought they were.

  A shudder ran through me. What the hell was happening here?

  Compared to B-Block, C-Block was almost… civilized.

  It had the same brawling chaos as A-Block, but here? It was organized.

  Disciplined. The inmates had rules.

  The guards? Not so much.

  Above the block, massive banners displayed the rules of conflict and duels, listing detailed regulations for organized fights.

  And right next to those? Betting pools.

  Tables filled with guards laughing, gambling, exchanging money, treating the lives of these prisoners as entertainment.

  "What… what the hell do the guards even do here?!"

  The words ripped out of me before I could stop them.

  I turned to Freddy, my frustration boiling over, grabbing the man by his collar and shaking him hard enough to make his teeth rattle.

  "Explain. Now."

  Freddy's eyes went wide with fear, hands raised defensively, his lips trembling for an answer.

  "W-we uhhh… in this block?"

  I let out a long, measured exhale, forcing myself to release him.

  I had no energy to waste throttling this poor bastard when I needed answers.

  "No." I said, barely restraining my temper. "I meant in the prison. Entirely."

  Freddy hesitated, glancing at Cordelia, who remained stone-faced. Then, with a deep gulp, he finally spoke.

  Freddy's hands trembled slightly as he regained his footing, clearly shaken by my earlier outburst. His face was pale, and it was clear he wasn’t accustomed to answering questions with this much intensity.

  “In general…” He paused, trying to regain his composure. “We don’t have the manpower. We don’t have enough forces to keep each block civilized. B-block is the worst.”

  I narrowed my eyes. If B-block was the worst, then I couldn't even begin to imagine what the rest of the prison was like.

  Freddy seemed to sense the weight of my growing impatience, but he continued, explaining the madness.

  “A-block is just rowdy. You’ll note that no one there is dead. Beaten up? Yeah.” He cleared his throat, glancing around nervously. “But here? Here in C-block? The guards and inmates both make bets on the gladiatorial arenas.”

  I stared at him, the words sinking in.

  “Gladiatorial arenas?”

  He nodded quickly. “Yeah. The best gladiators have perks. They’re celebrities of the prison. The ones who win the most matches, the ones with the most brutal victories—people worship them. The guards even give them better food, and they’re allowed to live with more privileges. It’s messed up but, well, it works for the prisoners.”

  I shuddered. The idea that this prison system—a system meant for punishment—had created an entire entertainment industry centered around violence and bloodshed was almost beyond comprehension.

  But C-block—it was organized chaos. And in a way, that was more terrifying than the sheer lawlessness I had witnessed in A-block.

  Still, it was his next words that struck me like a physical blow.

  “D-block is way more what you’d expect of a prison.” He sounded almost relieved to move onto the next topic. “It’s organized. Contained. Security’s tighter there. But…”

  He faltered again, eyes darting nervously toward the far end of the hallway, as though he expected someone to burst through the doors at any second.

  “But E-block…” Freddy’s voice dropped to a near whisper, and he gulped audibly.

  “E-block is…”

  He hesitated, looking around once more before leaning in, almost conspiratorially.

  “I’m uhh… not allowed to talk about E-block. Sir.”

  I stared at him, perplexed, but his wide eyes, coupled with the sheer fear in his expression, told me everything I needed to know.

  Something about E-block was beyond bad. Something too dangerous, too horrifying for even Freddy to speak about without breaking the rules.

  I swallowed.

  "What the hell is in E-block?"

  Freddy’s expression shifted into one of guilt—or maybe it was fear—and his lips pressed into a tight line.

  He didn’t answer.

  I sighed, turning to Cordelia. She was already studying the prison layout, as though she had anticipated this. Her face remained as unreadable as ever.

  I couldn’t help but wonder—just what kind of hellish nightmare had they locked away in E-block?

  ***

  We were brought into the yard, the heavy steel gates creaking shut behind us. The air was thick with the stench of sweat, smoke, and burnt flesh. A man, with a cigarette dangling from his lips, stood before a raised metal platform, one hand cupping the smoke as he took a long drag. His outfit—a trilby perched atop his head, and a shoddy two-piece suit—looked like it belonged to someone far more disheveled than he appeared.

  "Yo!" He called out, as if he hadn’t just been watching us approach. "V here! You’re Alexander, right? Gosh, you’re young for this test."

  I glanced at Cordelia, her expression unreadable, but her nod confirmed that I wasn’t imagining it.

  "You are indeed young for this known test," she said, her voice low but carrying the weight of experience. "However, you have good reason to do it early."

  I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself for whatever was about to come. This was it—the moment of truth.

  "It is my pleasure, V," I said, offering a stiff nod, hoping to make a good first impression. "As you said. I’m Alexander. This is Cordelia."

  V flashed a smirk, the smoke from his cigarette curling up between his fingers like a living thing.

  "Protip! Have Cordelia introduce you," he said, eyes glinting with amusement. "You’re the S+ class Walker, after all."

  I gave a small, uncomfortable nod, unsure if he was giving me a compliment or just trying to make me feel out of place. He turned his attention back to the group of inmates surrounding us, his tone shifting to something more businesslike.

  "You get their portfolios of criminal acts?"

  I glanced at Cordelia, who nodded again, confirming that I had received all the necessary details on the prisoners before arriving.

  "Yeah," I said, "There’s only three I’d consider. The rest..."

  "The rest you can butcher," V interjected, his voice completely devoid of remorse. The words came so casually, as if this was just a routine.

  I felt a sickening twist in my stomach. I was used to the idea of harsh decisions, of life-or-death choices—but this? This was different.

  V didn’t seem to notice the weight of his words, or maybe he just didn’t care.

  "They didn’t tell you what you are required to do, did they?"

  I swallowed hard.

  "No."

  V audibly tsked, shaking his head with a disappointed sigh.

  "Typical. They never harden you before this," he muttered. "Always leaving it to the wardens to tell you for the shock value. When I mentioned 'butcher,' I meant it."

  He leaned in, his tone gravelly and cold.

  "Today, everyone you don’t choose dies. By you."

  The words slammed into me like a physical blow.

  I stood there, frozen, feeling the weight of the decision pressing down on me. Was I really expected to kill these people? Even if they were murderers, terrorists, monsters? My gaze wandered over the inmates. There were so many faces—some of them grinning, some of them weeping, some of them with eyes that seemed to hunger for more. They were all criminals, all deserving of punishment. But even so…

  How could I decide? V’s casual demeanor didn’t help. I wanted to ask, what happens if I choose none of them? But I knew.

  The choice was never mine.

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