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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 6
Chapter Title: The Real Killer! (1)
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Puck! Puck!
Sounds of bowls shattering echoed from all around.
In the Thunder Prison, water bowls were incredibly precious. They were the only containers for the single ladle of water handed out each day. Without one, you couldn't even drink, and you'd die suffering from thirst.
A water bowl.
The water bowl was a small clay cup fired from earth. It was too tiny to really call a bowl—more like a shot glass.
It was the only piece of tableware in the Thunder Prison and the sole weapon available here. The only thing that could serve as a weapon in this place was this little cup that fit snug in one hand.
There had been guys in the past who'd used water bowls as weapons. Naturally, when you broke one, you got a jagged edge. Rough, but somewhat sharp—it could tear flesh.
They'd rake it across an artery over and over until it finally split open.
Some even went for the throat. Of course, it didn't slice cleanly. Porcelain fired at high temperatures had reasonably sharp breaks. But this was practically rough earthenware. Even the broken edge was blunt. So "raking" was more accurate than "slashing."
Who in their right mind would self-harm with something like this?
These were madmen whose heads whipped around so wildly they couldn't even feel the pain of ripping their own flesh.
The ones breaking bowls now were smashing their one lifeline.
They were desperate. Desperate enough to shatter their water bowls. They were too pathetic as weapons, but better than nothing—they were creating sharp edges out of sheer desperation.
Everyone kept one ear cocked for the guards' footsteps while preparing for battle on the other side.
- Sss! Ssss!
Finally, the sound they'd been expecting rang out.
The crisp footwork of martial artists! The flutter of robes slicing through the air as they moved.
Martial artists could move silently. But no matter what, they couldn't hide the whisper of fabric against the air. That's why they tightly bound their collars—but no one in the Thunder Prison bothered with that.
The guards withdrew.
The martial artists who'd come with them pulled out too.
The Life-Death Trial was finally underway. First floor against first floor, fourth floor against fourth floor... Fights to the death—one kill or ten, until one side was completely wiped out. You had to utterly snuff out their breath.
Rumble! Bang!
Everyone was out, and the Thunder Prison door slammed shut.
It always took the guards two tries to close it, but with the martial artists lending their strength, it sealed in one go.
The Thunder Prison plunged into pitch-black darkness.
The prisoners who'd been raging like mad a moment ago fell eerily silent.
Those taking part in the Life-Death Trial moved quietly to hide themselves. No point drawing attention and eating the first strike. Their opponents would thrash like cornered beasts to survive even a scrap longer.
Even those not joining kept silent.
They had to judge the situation by ear alone. Who was attacking whom, how... All by sound. So they clamped their mouths shut and focused every nerve on their hearing.
He picked up the water bowl beside him and took a sip.
"Hey! Four Thousand Four, time to come out, yeah?"
"Let's wrap this up quick. We're both tired. I'm a pro at killing—no need to freak out. You'll feel a little sting, then lights out. Won't even have time to hurt."
The Murder Volume prisoners joining the Life-Death Trial crept forward agonizingly slow, one cautious step at a time, hands groping the walls.
But... he had no intention of fighting.
He ignored the ones approaching him and focused on the first floor. Ears wide open, zeroed in on the action down there. That was way more entertaining to him.
"Body's hurting anyway. Stay put and rest."
Fatty clapped the Fox of Bireung Mountain on the shoulder and abruptly stepped out of the Thunder Prison.
"Hey! Wait...!"
The Fox of Bireung Mountain didn't even get a chance to speak. He'd clearly said he'd listen to him.
'Damn it! That guy's pride!'
The Fox of Bireung Mountain's head throbbed.
The stupid bear cub had stormed out on a point of pride—what a mess now?
There were ten men in the corridor.
Five Strength Volume prisoners, and five Deception Volume prisoners the guards had brutally shoved into the fray by yanking open the iron doors.
Five were geared up to fight, five were dragged in against their will.
Thud!
Someone slapped the wall.
'Ah, damn! That bear!'
The Fox of Bireung Mountain sighed deeply.
By stepping into the corridor, Fatty had exposed his own position.
It was an invitation—whoever came, let 'em. A bold show of confidence.
But that was dead wrong.
Fatty was still deluded into thinking he was a guard. The difference between his sealed qi meridians and before was night and day, but he didn't realize it. He figured he couldn't wield power properly, but his battle instincts were intact.
Fat chance! Even battle sense dulled.
"Kekeke!"
"Hee hee hee!"
Cruel laughter began bubbling up from everywhere.
"Heh heh heh! Wild Boar, you think your strength scares us?"
"You calling us out, punk? Come if you dare—that what you mean? Fine, we'll gut your belly first..."
"Kekeke! Kekekeke!"
The Strength Volume prisoners burst into collective mad laughter.
Once the door shut... it was the prisoners' world. Unless you were a peak master with senses honed to the absolute limit through deep martial arts cultivation, you couldn't keep up with them in the dark.
The Thunder Prison was utterly black.
A normal prison might have torches or light seeping in, but in the Nineteen Hells, you never saw light twelve months a year.
Naturally, the prisoners had grown accustomed to the dark. They had no choice.
They could spot guards in the darkness. Feel them with their whole bodies. Hear their breaths, smell their sweat. Sense the fear leaking from their snorts.
They relied on ears, but it was sharper than sight.
Thud!
The guard slapped the wall again.
He wasn't tense. One step, one step... full of confidence.
He could see everything clearly.
"Don't worry, punk. I'll end it quick."
"Gonna hurt plenty, though. Brace yourself."
"Kekeke! Wonder what scream you'll let out."
"Bet it's like a pig squealing at slaughter. Kahahaha!"
The prisoners taunted the guard as they slunk closer.
Thud!
Fatty slapped the wall once more.
"Heh heh heh! Crazy bastard's itching to die."
"Kek! Hee hee hee!"
The wild bears accustomed to darkness circled the torch-dependent bull.
Sss! Thwack!
The first blow landed.
A fist slamming full-force into the gut—like a drumhead caving in.
"Kgh!"
The guard let out a choked groan.
Too easy for a first hit. He'd expected some counter when Fatty moved so boldly, but he hadn't even gotten a hand up—straight to the belly.
"Huff!"
Fatty's ragged breath echoed.
He probably hadn't seen this coming either. Couldn't figure why his body moved so sluggishly. Or maybe he was shocked at how fast the prisoners were.
The classic delusion of a newly arrived martial artist with sealed meridians.
Puck! Puck! Puck!
Second, third, fourth blows landed in rapid succession.
"Hup!"
The Fatty guard only grunted shortly.
Back to the wall, scanning sharply—but what could he do against attacks he couldn't track? Nothing but take it helplessly.
Puck puck! Puck puck!
"Kuh!"
Finally, the Fatty guard clutched his gut and dropped to one knee.
This barrage was to the face. Bridge of the nose, jaw, temple... relentless.
Thud!
The guard collapsed, unable to hold out.
"Punk... Already down? Thought you'd last longer. This is boring."
"Guy's too soft."
"These types always look tough but fold easy. Gut full of shit, caves right in. Kek!"
Thwack! Crunch!
"Argh!"
The guard bellowed like a bull in agony.
'Wrist bone. Forearm probably snapped too.'
The crack of bone told the story.
He could picture it vividly: the mighty bull surrounded by predators, getting pummeled senseless.
The guard was done for.
'Stupid bear cub, should've listened.'
He realized there was no time to waste. Any longer, and Fatty would croak—then he'd have to face them all alone. Not just Deception, but Strength too.
He'd felt secure allied with the Strength guard... now he was a liability.
'Damn! No choice.'
He bolted from the Thunder Prison into the corridor.
Swish! Swish!
He moved. No sound. Something zipped through the dark like a rat—no one sensed it. Too fast.
Among countless ways to survive, he chose the most aggressive: dive in from the start and seize control.
Sss! Swish swish!
The Fox of Bireung Mountain moved with sly precision.
He ran. No footsteps. Blazing speed. Full sprint. Yet silent as a martial artist's footwork.
He didn't know any footwork techniques.
All prisoners here had their qi suppressed. You could mimic forms, but without qi backing it, you'd stumble midway and falter.
The Fox of Bireung Mountain ran on raw stamina, pure leg power.
Among vagrants, some had this gait.
Cat Step, aka cat walk. In slang, thief's tread.
Sss! Swish!
Running, but no running sound. Moving, but the blackness hid it.
In this moment, he was a ghost.
He reached where Fatty had fallen.
Sss! Thwack!
A heavy whoosh of air. Solid impact. Like a pestle smashing a rice sack.
"Kgh! Gah!"
The guard groaned.
Not a conscious groan. Hit too hard... pure reflex. He probably didn't even know he'd screamed.
"This guy's a real bear. Anyone else would've dropped. Still hanging on?"
"Should've hit precise."
"It was precise, asshole!"
"Where do you get off flapping your trap? Watch it before I crack your skull."
"What? You little..."
As two bickered, the third cut in.
"Ha! Listen to you two yapping... Quit jawing and settle it between us first? Think I don't curse or flex 'cause I'm weak? Enough!"
The third man's words worked.
Not so much agreement, but simple math: no gain fighting now.
"You, outside."
"Yeah, punk. Outside."
They had killer instincts for survival. Those who'd slain plenty sniffed danger fast.
This wasn't enough to break their alliance.
Fatty the guard wasn't dead yet. Just beaten down. They could scrap later, after.
"Finish this punk first. Smash his skull proper."
"My fists used to be iron—years rotting turned 'em to mush. Usually one-shot kills. Fine, this time I'll pulverize his head to paste."
Sss!
Even in the dark, he felt a hand cocking back overhead.