Deathmatch Club

The first impression the Deathmatch Club gave Ash was one of gloom.

Unlike the rest of the prison, which was bright everywhere, the Deathmatch Club had very little lighting. Aside from the incandescent lamp illuminating the Deathmatch Arena in the center, the surrounding high-rise spectator stands were almost entirely in darkness. The spectators seemed to be submerged in the shadows, leaving only the two people fighting on the stage visible in the world.

This was also the place where Ash had seen the most prisoners. He had followed Lang Na the whole way here and had only encountered a handful of inmates on the road; even when passing the library and the gymnasium, Ash had only spotted a dozen or so. However, upon entering the Deathmatch Club, even without bright light, Ash could tell from the whispers he heard and the shadowy outlines in the dark that there were nearly a hundred people here!

"Lang Na, you're here?"

"A newcomer?... Oh, the leader of the Four Pillar Gods, huh? You're bold, kid, daring to even get involved with the Four Pillar Gods."

"Gourmet Lang Na is here!"

"Lang Na, is that your little boyfriend? Changing your taste, are we?" a burly man teased with a grin.

"Desmond, if you keep spouting such nonsense and ruining the relationship between me and my boyfriend, see if I don't bite you to death!?" Lang Na retorted indignantly. It didn't sound like he was truly angry; rather, he sounded a bit shy.

However, the surrounding laughter died down. The burly man named Desmond hurriedly pressed his palms together in apology: "Haha, Lang Na, I didn't mean it like that. By the way, aren't you going to introduce the newcomer?"

Lang Na snorted, seemingly deciding not to pursue the matter, and only then did Desmond breathe a sigh of relief and hurriedly shrink back into the crowd.

Seeing this, Ash quietly moved a little further away from Lang Na.

He had already sensed it; any bald passerby he found who looked "weak and easy to bully" was likely a notorious, murderous god in this prison.

"Ash Hiss, a newcomer who just arrived these past two days. He wants to participate in a deathmatch, so I brought him to take a look," Lang Na said with a smile. "Who is fighting right now?"

"'Diamond' Tiger and 'Blind Beast' Rudolph."

"How is Rudolph... Ah, Tiger is an old-timer after all, how could he not even let go of this little bit of Contribution Points? Didn't you guys try challenging Rudolph?"

"We certainly weren't willing to let go of this piece of fat, but Rudolph hadn't seen Tiger fight before and felt Tiger was easier to bully. Plus, Tiger's stake is high, so..."

Ash leaned toward the spectator stand, watching the one-sided slaughter in the arena below—a frail, white-haired old man and a muscular Green Orc fighting with their bare hands.

Yes, a one-sided slaughter. Even though both sides were attacking without defense, the white-haired old man didn't sway or pant even after taking punches the size of sandbags. Not even a red mark was left on his skin, as if the Green Orc were merely tapping his chest with the strength of an infant.

Conversely, every punch from the white-haired old man was as heavy as a thousand catties, striking the Green Orc with the sound of cracking stone, enough to make one's scalp tingle just listening to it.

By the time Ash arrived, the Green Orc had already been beaten until he was covered in blood, with not a single patch of good flesh left on his body. Several teeth had been knocked out, and his eyes were swollen into slits.

With a heavy hammer-like blow, the Green Orc was sent flying several meters, slamming into the wall with a wet thud. He left a smear of blood on the wall as he slumped to the ground, unable to rise again.

Yet, the white-haired old man glanced at the ceiling, then rushed over to continue punching the Green Orc, blow after blow.

He was like a bathhouse attendant scrubbing off grime, peeling away the Green Orc's flesh and blood with every strike.

Ash couldn't bear to watch: "Isn't the Victory Decided already? Why hasn't it ended?"

"Victory Decided? Not yet," someone nearby chuckled. "Try reaching your hand out."

Hearing this, Ash reached forward, only to find himself touching an invisible wall of air. Ripples spread out as a four-sided intangible barrier emerged in the air, completely isolating the lower arena from the surrounding spectator stands.

"The isolation barrier only opens when one side is dead or completely unconscious. Then, a Healer will appear from that door to drag the corpse back to the Medical Room for treatment."

The man pointed to an inconspicuous door inside the arena: "As long as the barrier hasn't disappeared, you must never lower your guard. You must continue to suppress, crush, and blast your opponent."

"Furthermore, there is no such thing as surrender in a deathmatch. The loser has only two possibilities: death or loss of consciousness."

"I don't know how many fools who relied on their own martial prowess and looked down on their opponents have ended up here. They treated this like a stage where friendship comes first and competition second, stopped halfway through, and were then killed by their opponents in a counterattack. They lost a massive amount of Contribution Points and were instantly promoted to the upper ranks of the Judgment Sequence... But this is the meaning of the Deathmatch Club: to transfer Contribution Points that don't belong to you to those who deserve them more."

Thud!

Hearing that dull sound of a punch, Ash felt as if the orc's very innards were being pulverized. He couldn't help but ask: "Can he really be saved from this?"

"He hasn't lost consciousness yet, but even if he could be saved, it would be no different from being dead. Look up there."

Ash raised his head and realized that the glowing area on the ceiling was actually a Light Screen displaying the match information:

"Tiger Norris bets 35 Contribution Points"

"VS"

"Rudolph Tooth Attack bets 5 Contribution Points"

Ash said in surprise: "These stakes aren't equal. Why would Tiger put up so many points?"

"As long as both parties agree, even unequal stakes can be established," the man said leisurely. "And there are rarely deathmatches with equal stakes. According to the rules, for every deathmatch you participate in, you must bet more than your previous match. Tiger has fought 34 deathmatches before, so he must bet 35 Contribution Points this time."

"Then is this Rudolph's fifth deathmatch?"

"No, this is his tenth. Every prisoner starts with 50 Contribution Points. Following the rule of increasing the bet by one point each match, he has bet a total of 45 points over his previous nine matches, leaving him with only 5 points for his tenth."

The person next to him sneered.

"So, if Rudolph loses this match, he won't have a single Contribution Point left, and he will never be able to earn them through deathmatches again. Unless he can pull gold coins out of his own stomach, he will remain at the bottom of the Judgment Sequence forever."

Ash let out an "oh," then suddenly realized something: "Wait, does that mean he lost all nine of his previous matches!?"

"That's why he's called 'Blind Beast' Rudolph; he always picks opponents he can't beat."

Thud!

With an explosive blow, the Green Orc's head seemed ready to burst. At the same time, the Light Screen on the ceiling chimed, displaying the words "Victory Decided."

The arena's barrier dissipated instantly, and the door inside the arena swung open. Three Black-Robed Men wearing raven masks entered the arena. Without even using a stretcher, they simply dragged the Green Orc away like a corpse.

"The old man is too vicious, playing the pig to eat the tiger and swindling the orc's Contribution Points."

"How is this swindling? I knew from the start that the old man wasn't easy to deal with—Rudolph doesn't just have poor judgment; he doesn't have a brain. You could figure out with your toenails that any old man, woman, or child who can survive in the Deathmatch Club is not someone to be trifled with."

"How many people has the old man carried off now?"

"Counting from the day I arrived, the old man has carried off at least five."

"Old man, you already have so many Contribution Points; next time, leave such opportunities for us youngsters to toil over. That beast is something else, too—since he's handing out points anyway, he might as well give them to me."

The darkness was filled with the bustling noise of the crowd. The white-haired old man wiped the blood from his knuckles with a towel, then suddenly coughed twice, spitting out several mouthfuls of bloody phlegm. He said with feigned terror, "That Orc's punch really packs a wallop; I think I've suffered internal injuries..."

"Who would believe you!"

The crowd roared in unison. It seemed they had seen others fall for the old man's act of playing the pig to eat the tiger twice over.

"In this arena, he is strong."

Ash looked to his right and found that the Sword Maiden had appeared again.

Unlike the others, the dim light had no effect on her. She sat perched on the railing, looking as if she were emitting her own light to disperse the darkness, appearing quite abrupt.

More curiously, she had changed her clothes. She now wore what looked like a tight-fitting kendo uniform for training, and her long red hair was tied up, making her look like a spirited swordswoman.

Ash subconsciously blurted out, "Why is he strong?"

"Because this arena only grants permission to attack, but still restricts the output of Spell Power."

The person beside him and the Sword Maiden spoke in unison.

The Sword Maiden glanced at Ash, who was covering his mouth, and continued, "There are many types of Artificers: craftsmen, warriors, scholars, physicians... but most Artificers can only drive their Spell Spirits through Spell Power. As long as their Spell Power output is restricted, they are no different from ordinary people."

"But there is a small minority of Artificers who, even without Spell Spirits, possess strength that surpasses mortals—these are the Body Artificers."

"Generally speaking, all Artificers involved in physical cultivation can be called Body Artificers, such as the Swordsman, Boxer, Gun Artificer, Spear Artificer, or Axe-Sword Artificer... As long as they have a suitable weapon, they can fight against many. However, compared to physical strength, they only have an advantage in 'technique'; their physical constitution is not much stronger than an ordinary person's."

"But there is a type of Body Artificer that, through constant physical strengthening and even using Spell Spirits to modify and mutate their flesh and bone structure, treats their own body as a weapon, thereby gaining near-crushing violence. Even if such Body Artificers lose their Spell Spirits, the strengthening effects within their bodies do not disappear. That might be fine elsewhere, but in this prison where Spell Spirits are forbidden, their advantages are maximized!"

"This type of Body Artificer is called—the Ascetic."

"Flesh is weak; their bodies are no longer constructed of mere flesh and blood."

Ash looked over and saw that as the white-haired old man left the arena, his fingers brushed against the railing, actually causing it to crumble into dust!

"Diamond" Tiger... so that's what it meant!

"Since you've come here, hurry up and start fighting," the Sword Maiden said. "Just don't fight that old man. Oh, right, for your first battle, it's best to choose an unarmed opponent, and you should also be unarmed yourself."

"Why?"

"Because your body is too weak. If you pick up a real sword, you'll likely be beaten to a pulp before you can swing it a few times. If your opponent also uses their fists, you'll at least have the ability to trade blows for a few rounds, buying time for the experience transfer." The Sword Maiden crossed her arms. "I'm actually more afraid of you having your sword snatched away and being decapitated by it—to avoid such an eyesore of a scene, you should stick to unarmed combat for your first match."

"I don't expect you to know how to fight, but you at least know how to take a beating, right?"

Ash followed her advice and turned to the person who had been chatting with him the whole time. "I want to participate in a deathmatch. The opponent should preferably be unarmed. Do you have any recommendations?"

"Unarmed combat? You've asked the right guy, brother. I'm a practitioner of unarmed combat myself. Let's have a match; I promise not to bully you."

"Sure, sure. But this is my first deathmatch, so I'll only bet 1 Contribution Point. Even if you want to play the pig to eat the tiger, you won't earn much," Ash joked.

"Don't worry, brother. Not only will I not take your Contribution Points, but I'll even give you some. I'm very weak, after all—"

At that moment, the lights in the Deathmatch Club suddenly flared to life. The darkness of the spectator stands was swallowed by the radiance, and the room became bright.

Only then did Ash realize that the "kind-hearted person" who had been chatting with him was actually an acquaintance he had met not long ago.

"—even you would want to punch me in the face."

Igula looked at Ash and smiled. "We meet again, Ash, the student with the adorable fists."