Deathmatch Club

Ash's first impression of the Deathmatch Club was that it was dim.

Unlike the rest of the Prison, which was brightly lit everywhere, the Deathmatch Club had very few lights. Apart from the incandescent lamps shining over the central Deathmatch Arena, the spectator stands on the surrounding platforms were almost completely dark. The audience seemed submerged in shadow, leaving only the two people fighting desperately in the arena.

This was also the place where Ash had seen the most prisoners. He had only encountered a scattered few while following Lang Na here; even when passing the Library and Gymnasium, he had only glimpsed around a dozen prisoners. Yet after entering the Deathmatch Club, even without bright lighting, Ash could tell from the whispers in his ears and the indistinct silhouettes in the darkness that there were nearly a hundred people here!

"Lang Na, you're here?"

"A newcomer? ...Oh, the leader from the Four Pillar Gods. Damn, kid, you even dared get involved with the Four Pillar Gods."

"Gourmet Lang Na is here!"

"Lang Na, is that your little boyfriend? Changing tastes, huh?" A burly man teased with a grin.

"Desmond, if you keep talking nonsense and ruining my relationship with my boyfriend, believe it or not, I'll bite you to death!?" Lang Na snapped back indignantly. She did not sound genuinely angry, though; she sounded more embarrassed than anything.

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

Lang Na snorted, seemingly deciding not to pursue the matter. Only then did Desmond breathe a sigh of relief and quickly retreat into the crowd.

Seeing that, Ash silently edged farther away from Lang Na.

He could already tell that any bald passerby who looked "weak and easy to bully" might actually be a notorious killing god in this Prison.

"This is Ash Hiss, a newcomer who came in two days ago. He wants to join a deathmatch, so I brought him here to take a look." Lang Na smiled. "Who's fighting now?"

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

"Rudolph, how... Ah, Tiger's an old hand, so why wouldn't he let even this little bit of Contribution Points go? Didn't you challenge Rudolph first?"

"Of course we didn't want to let such a juicy piece of meat go either, but Rudolph had never seen Tiger in a deathmatch. He thought Tiger looked easier to bully, and Tiger's stake was higher, so..."

Ash moved up to the spectator stands and looked down at the one-sided slaughter in the arena—a frail old man with white hair was fighting barehanded against a muscle-bound Green Orc.

Yes, it was a one-sided slaughter. Both sides attacked without defending, throwing punches at each other, yet even when the old man took a fist the size of a casserole dish, he did not sway or gasp for breath. Not even a red mark appeared on his skin, as though the Green Orc were merely pounding his chest with a baby's strength.

On the other hand, every punch from the white-haired old man carried the weight of a thousand pounds. When they struck the Green Orc, they made sounds like rocks shattering, enough to make anyone's scalp tingle.

By the time Ash arrived, the Green Orc had already been beaten bloody all over. Not a patch of flesh on his body was intact, several teeth had fallen out, and his swollen eyes had narrowed to slits.

With one heavy blow, the Green Orc was sent flying several meters away. He slammed into the wall with a smack, dragged a blood trace down it, and collapsed onto the ground, unable to rise again.

Yet the white-haired old man merely glanced overhead before rushing over and continuing to punch the Green Orc again and again.

He was like a bathhouse scrubber working off old grime, rubbing the Green Orc's flesh and blood away with every punch.

Ash could not bear to watch. "Isn't Victory Decided already? Why hasn't it ended?"

"Victory Decided? Not yet." Someone beside him laughed. "Try reaching your hand out."

Ash did so and found himself touching an invisible Air Wall, sending ripples spreading outward. Four invisible Barriers emerged in the air, completely isolating the lower arena from the surrounding stands.

"Only when one side dies or loses consciousness completely will the isolation barrier come down. Then the Healer will come through that door and drag the body back to the Medical Room for treatment."

The man pointed at an inconspicuous door in the arena. "As long as the barrier hasn't vanished, you can never let your guard down. You have to keep suppressing, crushing, and killing your opponent."

"And there's no surrender in a deathmatch. The loser has only two possible outcomes: death or unconsciousness."

"Who knew how many idiots who prided themselves on their martial prowess had underestimated their opponents, treating this place like some friendship-first, competition-second stage? They stopped halfway through the fight, only to be killed by their opponents in return, losing a huge amount of Contribution Points and shooting straight to the Upper Position of the Judgment Sequence... But that's the meaning of the Deathmatch Club: transferring Contribution Points you don't deserve to someone more deserving."

Thud!

Hearing that dull impact, Ash felt that even the Orc's hotpot seasoning had been punched out of him. He could not help asking, "Can he really be saved after this?"

"He hasn't lost consciousness yet. But even if they can save him, it won't be much different from dying. Look up."

Ash raised his head and realized that the glowing spot on the ceiling was actually a display Light Screen showing the match information:

"Tiger Norris wagered 35 Contribution Points"

"VS"

"Rudolph Tooth Attack wagered 5 Contribution Points"

Ash said in surprise, "Those stakes aren't equal. Why is Tiger putting up so much?"

"As long as both sides agree, even unequal stakes can be accepted." The man said leisurely, "And deathmatches rarely have equal stakes. According to the rules, every time you enter a deathmatch, you must wager slightly more than you did in the previous one. Tiger has fought 34 deathmatches before this, so this time he has to wager 35 Contribution Points."

"Then this is Rudolph's fifth deathmatch?"

"No, it's his tenth. Every prisoner starts with 50 Contribution Points. With the stake increasing by one for each match, he wagered 45 Contribution Points across his first nine matches. By the tenth match, he only had 5 left."

The person beside him sneered.

"So if Rudolph loses this match, he'll have no Contribution Points left, and he'll never be able to earn any through deathmatches again. Unless he can pull gold coins out of his stomach, he'll remain in the first position of the Judgment Sequence forever."

Ash gave an "oh," then suddenly realized something. "Wait, does that mean he lost all nine previous matches!?"

"That's why they call him 'Blind Beast' Rudolph. Every time, he picks an opponent he can't beat."

Thud!

With another devastating blow, the Green Orc's head seemed about to explode. At the same time, the Light Screen on the ceiling chimed, displaying the words: "Victory Decided."

The arena's barrier instantly dispersed, and the door inside the arena opened in response. Three Black-Robed Men wearing Raven Masks entered the arena. They did not even use a stretcher, simply dragging the Green Orc away like a corpse.

"The old man's too sly, pretending to be weak and fooling the Orc out of his Contribution Points."

"How is that fooling him? I knew from the start that the old man wouldn't be easy to deal with—Rudolph doesn't just have bad judgment, he's stupid. You could figure it out with your toenails: among the old-timers, women, and children who stay in the Deathmatch Club, which one is easy to get along with?"

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

"Since the day I came here, the old man has carried off at least five."

"Old man, you already have so many Contribution Points. Next time, leave opportunities like this for us young people to work for. And that beast, honestly. Since he's giving away Contribution Points anyway, why not give them to me?"

The crowd in the darkness buzzed noisily. The white-haired old man wiped the blood from his fists with a towel, then suddenly coughed twice in succession, coughing up several mouthfuls of bloody phlegm. He said in alarm, "That Orc's punches were pretty strong. I think I suffered internal injuries..."

"Who would believe you!?"

Everyone roared in unison. It seemed they had seen people fall for the old man's trick before, only for him to pretend to be weak and crush them again.

"On this arena, he is very strong."

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

And unlike everyone else, the dim light did not affect her at all. She seemed to glow from within, dispersing the darkness as she sat conspicuously atop the railing.

Even more strangely, she had changed clothes. She now wore what looked like a fitted kendo uniform for training, and her red hair had been tied up, making her look like a valiant female swordswoman.

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

"Because this arena only permits attacks, but still restricts Spell Power output."

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

The Sword Maiden glanced at Ash, who had covered his mouth, then continued, "There are many types of Spellcasters: craftsmen, warriors, scholars, physicians... But most Spellcasters can only command Spell Spirits through Spell Power. Once their Spell Power output is restricted, they are no different from ordinary people."

"But a small number of Spellcasters still possess power beyond mortals even without Spell Spirits—those are Body Artificers."

"Generally speaking, any Spellcaster who practices body tempering can be called a Body Artificer. For example, Swordsmen, Boxers, Gun Artificers, Spear Artificers, Axe-Sword Artificers... With a suitable weapon, they can fight many opponents alone. But compared to physical strength, their advantage lies only in their 'skill.' Their physical constitution is not much stronger than that of ordinary people."

"Yet one type of Body Artificer constantly strengthened their bodies, even using Spell Spirits to alter and transform the structure of their flesh and blood. They wielded themselves as weapons, gaining almost overwhelmingly violent power. Even without Spell Spirits, the enhancements within their bodies do not disappear. That would be one thing elsewhere, but in this Prison, where Spell Spirits are forbidden, their advantage can be brought to its fullest!"

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

"Flesh is bitter weakness. Their bodies are no longer made of flesh and blood."

Ash looked over and saw that as the white-haired old man left the arena, his fingers brushed across the railing, scraping flakes from it!

"Diamond" Tiger... So that was what it meant!

"Since you came here, hurry up and start fighting." The Sword Maiden said, "Just don't fight that old man. Oh, right. For your first match, it's best to pick an unarmed opponent, and you should go unarmed too."

"Why?"

"Because your body is too weak. If you use a real sword right away, you'll probably be crippled before you can swing it a few times. And if your opponent uses fists too, you'll at least be able to hold out against them for a few rounds and buy time for experience transfer." The Sword Maiden crossed her arms. "I'm more afraid that your opponent will take your sword and cut off your head with it—so to avoid such an eye-searing sight, go barehanded for your first match."

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

Ash readily accepted the Sword Maiden's suggestion. Turning to the person who had been chatting with him all this time, he asked, "I want to join a deathmatch. My opponent should preferably be unarmed. Do you have any recommendations?"

"An unarmed fight? Then you came to the right person, brother. I specialize in barehanded combat. Come have a match with me—I promise I won't bully you."

"Sure, sure, but this is my first deathmatch. I'll only wager 1 Contribution Point, so even if you're pretending to be weak, you won't earn much." Ash joked.

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

At that moment, all the lights in the Deathmatch Club suddenly turned on, swallowing the darkness in the spectator stands and flooding the place with brightness.

Only then did Ash realize that the "kindhearted person" who had been chatting with him all this time was an acquaintance he had met not long ago.

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

Igula looked at Ash and smiled. "We meet again, Ash, owner of such adorable fists."