Chapter 112: In a Prison once again

Ishiki woke to the smell of rot and rusted iron.

His consciousness returned slowly… the first thing he checked was, the hole in his chest. Which it seemed, wasn’t there.

Then he felt cold, seeping through his clothes and into his bones like water through cracked pottery. Then the pain radiating from his wrists where iron manacles bit into flesh.

Finally, awareness of the darkness, that surrounded him.

He tried to sit up and immediately regretted it. His head slammed into something hard—stone, by the feel of it and he collapsed back onto the floor with a grunt that echoed strangely in the confined space.

“Easy there, mate,” a voice drawled from somewhere to his left. “You’ve got about four feet of clearance. Any higher and you’ll be kissing the ceiling.”

Ishiki blinked, waiting for his eyes to adjust. Slowly, shapes emerged from the darkness.

He was in a cell that was carved directly from dark stone, lined with irregular patterns.

The walls were rough-hewn, bearing the marks of crude chisels, and the floor was slick with a film of something he desperately hoped was just water.

“What… the hell…” he rasped, his voice hoarse.

The last thing he remembered was a guard suddenly appearing out of nowhere and thrusting the spear into his chest and then the impossible darkness.

Had it been real? A nightmare? An illusion?

Ishiki sat up and looked around with narrowed eyes. He was indeed behind iron bars.

A single torch burned somewhere beyond the iron bars, casting flickering orange light that barely penetrated the gloom. It was enough to see the shape of his cellmate: a man sitting against the far wall, knees drawn up, watching him with eyes that reflected the torchlight like a cat’s.

“Where…” Ishiki’s voice came out as a croak. He swallowed. “Where am I?”

“In a prison,” the man replied, as if that explained everything. “Secondary Ring’s dirty little secret prison. Three levels down, carved into the bedrock beneath the pretty white streets. You’re in the deep cells, friend.”

Ishiki processed this slowly. He activated [Ghost Blade] instinctively, letting the skill’s enhanced perception wash over him.

The world sharpened. He could hear the distant drip of water echoing through unseen tunnels. The faint vibration of footsteps—far above, muffled by layers of stone.

The slow, rhythmic breathing of other prisoners in adjacent cells, separated by thick walls. And then he saw the city above… it was actually dark now and the city was illuminated by the hundreds upon hundreds of lamps.

Underground. He was definitely underground.

“How deep?” he asked.

The cellmate tilted his head. “Perceptive. Most fresh meat takes a day or two to figure it out. We’re about 100 meters down, give or take. Deep enough that screaming won’t reach the surface and if the torches go out, you’ll never find your way back up.”

Ishiki’s stomach turned. He looked at the man more closely. He was in his mid-thirties, maybe, with a gaunt face and hollow cheeks that spoke of prolonged malnutrition.

His hair was long and matted and his beard was unkempt reaching almost to his chest. He wore the remnants of what had once been nice clothing—a merchant’s tunic maybe… now it was torn and filthy.

“Name’s Carver,” the man offered, extending a hand that Ishiki didn’t shake. Carver withdrew it without offense, shrugging. “Suit yourself. You’ll warm up eventually. They all do.”

“What are you in for?” Ishiki asked, settling into a sitting position against the opposite wall. The stone was cold enough to leech the heat from his body within seconds.

“Murder,” Carver said simply. “I Killed a cloth seller near a park… I stabbed him seventeen times.”

Ishiki was taken aback… ’How ruthless.’

He swallowed hard before asking another question. “What… what for?”

Carver’s smile was a jagged thing, more grimace than grin. “I don’t know? They said that I did…”

Ishiki’s eyes narrowed… what the hell was this guy talking about? Was he alright in the head? Ishiki doubted that now.

But still, curious he asked. “Did you?”

Carver didn’t speak for some time and then shrugged. “Does it matter? I’m here either way. But since you asked—no. The real killer was someone’s spoiled son. That bastard had a gambling debt, killed the shopkeeper when he wouldn’t extend more credit. But you know… daddy’s rich, daddy’s connected, so they needed a scapegoat.”

He gestured to himself with a theatrical flourish. “One expendable merchant with a previous grudge against the victim. Perfect patsy.”

Ishiki heard it with a dark expression on his face… and then went silent, he didn’t have words to say further. This was the dark side of the paradise apparently.

’How in the goddamned hell did I come here?’ He was puzzled. He didn’t remember a thing of what happened?

Anyways… wasn’t it a bit funny? After so much time, he was back at square zero. In a prison once again.

He started off in a prison too during his trial… back then the conditions were much more harsher and he was destined to die…

Carver suddenly laughed and then asked in a low voice. “What did they catch your for? You are pretty young… is it because of some girl?”

Ishiki blinked and grimaced. “No… for murder apparently.”

“Oh!” The man seemed a little excited. “Did you actually do it?”

Before Ishiki could respond, the sound of boots echoed down the corridor. Heavy, measured steps. Two sets.

“Ah,” Carver said, settling back against the wall. “Your welcoming committee. Enjoy.”

The cell door screeched open, rust grinding against rust. Two guards stepped outside the bars—both large men in leather armor reinforced with iron plates. Their faces were hidden behind visored helms, rendering them anonymous and vaguely insectoid.

“Prisoner 447,” one of them barked, voice distorted by the metal. “On your feet for Interrogation.”

Ishiki first crawled out of the small space they called prison cell and then stood up with his chains clinking. The guards grabbed him by the arms and dragged him without ceremony.

Ishiki gritted his teeth… and looked around. They took him through a dark corridor lined with cells on both side with people inside looking at them with amusing smiles.

He could actually break free and run from here if he wanted… using his exclusive skill. Honestly that would be a very bad move.

He didn’t knew what happened to him and how did he ended up here. First he needed to get some information and then think about running.

The interrogation room was exactly as miserable as Ishiki had expected.

A single table. Two chairs. A torch mounted on the wall, guttering and smoking. The interrogator was a wiry man with a thin mustache and eyes like chips of flint. He wore the insignia of the captain in the army.

“Sit,” the man commanded.

Ishiki sat.

The interrogator leaned forward, steepling his fingers. “Do you know why you’re here, 447?”

“No,” Ishiki said flatly.

“Let me refresh your memory. Today evening, a representative of the Partike Organization—one of the three largest food distribution companies in the capital—was found dead in an alley near the merchant district. And you were brought here by the merchant’s guards.”

“I didn’t kill anyone,” Ishiki replied.

“Witnesses place you fleeing the scene.”

“I was running from the guards, of course, I didn’t wanna get arrested for something I didn’t do.”

The interrogator’s smile was thin and joyless. “How convenient. And what, pray tell, were you doing there?”

Ishiki hesitated. “I… saw something, I guess… I shouldn’t have.”

“Elaborate.”

“Child trafficking. A carriage with crates full of kids…. So, I followed it.”

The interrogator’s expression didn’t change, but something shifted in his eyes. “Child trafficking. That’s a serious accusation. Do you have proof?”

“I saw it with my own eyes.”

“Ah, yes. Your eyes.” The interrogator leaned back. “Tell me, 447, do you suffer from delusions? Hallucinations, perhaps? Did you use drugs for the first time?”

Ishiki’s jaw tightened. “I know what I saw.”

“What you think you saw,” the interrogator corrected. “The representative you murdered was a pillar of the community. A man of standing. And you… you’re a vagrant. Whose word do you think carries more weight?”

The interrogation lasted two hours. They asked the same questions in different ways, circling, probing, looking for inconsistencies. Ishiki stuck to his story. Eventually, they dragged him back to the cell.

Carver looked up as Ishiki was thrown inside. “How’d it go?”

“Peachy,” Ishiki muttered, slumping against the wall.

“They’ll be back. Until you eventually accept. You’ll get fed once, around midday. Gruel, mostly. Sometimes bread if you’re lucky.”

Ishiki closed his eyes… ’This is so… wrong.’

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