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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 3
Chapter Title: The Chosen Ones
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Clunk!
The sound of a lock being undone rang out.
'Once.'
Drk! Clack!
The door slid open partway before grinding to a halt, as if caught on a small stone or twig.
'Twice.'
Drk! Clack!
The second jam happened.
That door was always like this. It seemed like a little maintenance would make it open smoothly, but no one ever bothered to fix it.
'Damn this blasted door.'
That was the voice that would come after the door finally swung wide.
The prison guard muttered those words every time he opened it.
He came once a day to deliver a rice ball the size of a nightsoil pellet and a single bowl of water. And every time, he grumbled the same thing. A bit of work and it would slide open nice and clean with a satisfying rumble.
"Damn this blasted door!"
A thick, gravelly voice boomed out.
Thud! Thud! Thud!
The heavy footfalls echoed as usual. A massive bear of a man lumbered in. In that instant!
Paf!
His eyes flashed open.
In the pitch-black darkness, the feral gleam of a wildcat's eyes—green with venom—flashed.
'Huh?'
Something felt off. Completely different from before... A chilling shiver ran down his spine.
'One, two, three, four! Five! Six! Seven!'
It took no time at all to count to seven. He tallied them incredibly fast.
Four familiar sets of footsteps, three unfamiliar ones!
This was different from any other time. Strange things happened inside the cells every day, but change never blew in from outside the door.
Footsteps three! Four!
Three were familiar sounds, four were new.
All the guards had entered. He knew the warden's footsteps too... but he wasn't coming.
This had never happened. Normally, just the one bear came in, fed them, and left.
Today, a bunch of people had come inside. He didn't know what was up, but they had business in the Thunder Prison.
Fresh air from outside, from the world beyond, wafted in. Signs of change were rushing toward them. But he didn't care. Whatever upheavals came, they had nothing to do with him.
- Never come out. I'll make sure you never do. Rot in the dark until your flesh peels and your bones crumble. Endure it, endure until you can't endure anymore, and when you truly can't take it, come crawling to me. Until then, you'll never get out.
No matter what changes swept in from outside, they were irrelevant to him.
"First time in here, huh? The stench is awful."
The voice was fairly deep.
'Age forty to forty-five, height five feet five. Guy who thinks he knows people like the back of his hand.'
He pictured the man to match the voice.
The one who'd just spoken was middle-aged. On the shorter side, voice heavy with authority, speaking naturally. Proof he'd commanded plenty of men.
The gruff voice—the most brutal-tempered among the guards—replied at once.
"Mold. Being underground and all."
It wasn't just mold. Piss stench, shit, blood, sweat—all mixed together. But the worst by far was the smell of rotting flesh.
"I'll go meet One."
Someone else spoke.
'Straight-arrow type. Won't bend, even if he breaks. Short or tall, not average height. Lean build... Folks like that don't slack off enough to get fat.'
He imagined this second man too.
In the darkness, this was all he could do.
He waited for the third newcomer to speak.
'Between those two, the first one's the leader. Older.'
"I'll come too. He's the one I picked."
The third voice finally opened up. In that instant!
"Wooah!"
"Whoa!"
"It's a woman!"
Cheers erupted throughout the entire Thunder Prison. The massive space shook like it was hit by an earthquake from the roars.
"Hey, girlie! Come over here! Lemme sniff a woman for once! Ahh! Look at my dick already standing up."
"Shut your trap, you punk! Why scare the young lady? If she bolts, you're dead meat!"
"Uahaha! When it comes to goods, ain't this old man the best? I'll handle you gentle-like, so come here. Walk in, crawl out on all fours. Just thinkin' about it gets me hot, eh? Hahaha!"
The Thunder Prison turned into a cauldron of excitement.
Some bellowed nonstop. Others spewed filth you couldn't repeat.
But he furrowed his brow. Instinctively, he breathed shallow and deep. Trying not to reveal his presence to those three—especially the woman who'd just spoken.
'Killing intent! Savage killing intent, you idiots!'
He held his breath.
Icy killing intent laced the woman's voice. No businesslike air about visiting One. It felt like the cold breath of an executioner ready to lop off heads right then.
What good was cheering at a woman like that?
He caught the scent of blood.
He had a nose for blood. Ever since that day, strangling his sister, he'd smelled it. She hadn't bled. Strangled to death. But strangely, he'd smelled blood. An eerie, fishy tang had stung his nose.
That same scent drifted now.
'Thank your stars for that door. Otherwise, that woman would've drawn her sword already.'
Among the three strangers, the woman had the strongest killing intent.
Her voice barely cut through the cheers.
"Which cell?"
"Third one there. I'll lead."
The woman's voice drowned in the noise, the guard's booming loud enough to catch snippets now and then. With all the racket from hearing a woman's voice after so long, he had to strain to pick up bits.
But he caught their whole conversation.
The Thunder Prison had four floors. A hundred cells per floor, enough for four hundred inmates—a massive prison.
Now, only ninety-seven were occupied.
A lot of cells stood empty.
Lately, hardly any new prisoners arrived. One or two now and then, otherwise dead quiet.
Forgotten by the world.
Thud! Thud! Thud!
The woman and the tall man walked the cells. The familiar heavy steps of the burly bear-man walked with them.
Then, the gruff voice shook the prison.
"Quiet! Quiet! Quiet!"
The Thunder Prison fell mouse-still.
The guard spoke.
"We're setting up Life-Death Trials on the first and fourth floors."
"Ugh!"
"Ah!"
The prison stirred again.
This time, a hushed murmur. Tense, wary groans leaked out.
"Targets are One-Four-Six."
"Wooah!"
"Uahaha! Finally some blood to taste! Uahaha!"
"Damn it! Why not call for Four-Seven?"
The prison boiled with cheers and curses again.
The inmates knew: sometimes, very rarely, fellow prisoners got dragged out.
They never came back.
Executed? Fine by them. As long as they got some outside air.
Truth was, no one here would complain if executed on the spot. They all figured they deserved death anytime, anywhere. Of course, nobody wanted to die.
But even rarer... fights broke out inside the prison.
That was the Life-Death Trial.
When it started, eleven cell doors opened.
Those were the participants.
The guard called out solo fighters by cell number... If none, then that guy and ten others fought. In the cells, in the corridors.
You couldn't see the fights.
Torches were banned here. Fights happened in total dark. Grope through blackness to kill.
So how did inmates see Life-Death Trials?
Ten beating one to death. Bored out of their skulls in the gloom, it was prime entertainment.
Killers loved smashing someone after ages. Spectators cheered the sounds, throats raw.
Good diversion for days of excitement.
'Life-Death Trial... More will die.'
He narrowed his eyes too.
Trial or no, irrelevant to him. Couldn't leave anyway, wouldn't even if he could. Planned to die here.
But they said fourth floor too.
Meant fights on his floor. Ten bloodthirsty bastards would volunteer, one unlucky sod picked to get beaten dead.
He'd have to hear the pounding, like it or not.
'Annoying.'
He grimaced without thinking.
Even if fights on fourth, not his problem. Other cells might open, but not his. Sealed so no one could, ever.
In the end, he'd hear it all from outside the iron door.
'Annoying. Wish they'd fight somewhere else.'
He lay back, arms pillowed under his head.
The guard's voice drifted distant, like cheers from a far-off land, like a dream half-sleep.
He meant to sleep. Already halfway there.
"Any One-Four-Six itching for a taste of my fists, stick your hands out the doors. We'll cuff you before opening, so no peep out of you! Everyone else, shut it like mice and just listen! Noisy ones get smashed after the trial—brace yourselves!"
He frowned. But didn't sit up. Lay there, enduring the grating noise.
Clank! Clunk!
Cold metal grated. The padlock on the iron door strained open.
Thunder Prison doors had two locks.
First: padlock. Standard.
Key had nine layers. No average smith dared pick it.
Second: massive iron bar across the whole door.
Nearly a hundred jin heavy—even two strong men struggled.
The guards here lifted it like a toy. Martial arts training, sure, but their internal energy was no joke, forms aside.
Every cell had this double lock.
Not just to stop escapes. Twenty zhang underground—no flying out of that depth.
Locked so tight to say: Go in. Come out dead.
All dead till ninety-seven left? How many were they originally?
He knew of two suicides.
One hanged himself day one.
Another raged three days about his crime, begged two for mercy, then bashed his head on the wall.
Those with much left behind in the world didn't last.
Clank! Clank!
The guard fumbled the padlock.
Ink-iron made, usually smooth. But rust came with time. Faster, worse in damp underground.
This lock untouched five or six years at least.
Clank! Clank! Bang! Thud!
Wouldn't budge, so the guard lost patience like always. Tried six times, then smashed it with a hammer.
Bang! Clunk!
Padlock shattered, door opened. One man stepped in.
Vanguard.