The next morning at 4 a.m.

As soon as Vikir woke up, he was dragged to the worksite.

No matter how strong and ferocious a prisoner might be, there was no escape from the sensation of the BDISSEM chains connecting to his throat being forcibly pulled by the massive winch while he slept.

Numerous prisoners, like zombies, were dragged out in a rotten mass and lined up in the corridor.

Then the guards on duty would come out and count the number of prisoners from a safe distance where the prisoners couldnt reach.

That was the morning roll call.

The prisoners were generally quiet.

Even though they suffered from chronic sleep deprivation and malnutrition, they didnt show irritation or sensitivity, knowing they lacked the energy to even complain, let alone fight back, despite the risk of being murdered by fellow prisoners.

Vikir stood in front of the huge iron door leading to the workshop, waiting momentarily to receive his work tools.

While waiting, he could see prisoners from the lower levels lining up to receive their work tools.

Hey, cant you give me something better? I cant work with this.

Guard, the pickaxe is too dull to dig the tunnel easily.

The hammer handle is loose, dont you have anything else?

The prisoners were vying for better equipment, knowing that if they didnt meet their assigned workload, dreadful punishment awaited them.

The guards, too, were relatively cooperative with the prisoners demands because if the prisoners in their charge didnt complete their tasks on time, the guards themselves would face penalties such as reduced wages or vacation time.

There were even guards who fought with other guards to provide good work tools to the prisoners under their supervision.

Considering the number of patrolling guards and their command structure, Vikir tried estimating the number of guards in the prison

There are roughly 3,000 guards capable of combat, and if we include non-combatants, it would be at least 4,000.

He also knew from previous information that there were five Majors commanding these guards.

There seemed to be more guards than he had initially thought, so he needed to be cautious in his actions.

Then, before Vikir, a bundle of tools was placed.

The familiar face of the guard, Garam Nord, whom Vikir had seen before, was issuing tools to him.

Its strange how often we meet.

Vikir accepted the tools from him without much thought.

Garam Nord also gave instructions in a bureaucratic tone.

To prevent misconduct by prisoners, work tools are strictly managed. After work hours, you must return the tools as they are, and if lost, youll be in solitary confinement until the tool is found. If a tool is damaged or lost, you must have a guards report to prove it. Otherwise, youll be in solitary confinement until the tool is found.

Losing a tool meant imminent death.

Therefore, prisoners guarded the tools they received for work as if their lives depended on it.

It was unthinkable to secretly keep them for escape or fight.

Of course, prisoners had to write down and sign what tools they received before going out to work, after which they would be inspected by a guard, from a rope to a mere nail, everything was accounted for.

Come on, stop wasting time and move quickly!

If we miss the construction deadline again, itll be solitary confinement!

Hurry up and update the status board and get lost, you lazy bum!

The prisoners were restless, eager to get to the workshop as quickly as possible.

Not because they enjoyed the work, but because they feared harsh punishment if the construction fell behind schedule.

Vikir, too, silently gathered his work tools.

Its modest.

What Vikir held in his hands were just a hammer, a bundle of iron chains, and a few nails. Level-nine prisoners like him werent given any special tools. After all, their working environment was so harsh that wood would burn away, and iron would quickly turn into molten metal. So they had to break rocks and spread dirt with their bare fists. They had to endure the heat with their bare skin and crawl up even the lowest and deepest places barefoot. They had to endure sharp, hard, rough, and heavy things with their bodies alone. Naturally, Vikir had been prepared for this to some extent since he was imprisoned at Level Nine.

Then came a voice from behind. Hey, whats this little guy doing here? Are you a Level Nine? Heh heh!

Turning his head, Vikir saw a giant figure with sinister features and unpleasant marks.

Sakkuth de Reviadon.

The prisoner who had received a Level 8 classification in yesterdays intake was openly provoking Vikir.

Every time he chuckled, a foul stench filled the air.

The other prisoners around were afraid of catching some contagious disease and kept their distance.

Did you hear? They say even sulfur showers cant disinfect that crazy guy.

If you get too close, youll definitely catch something. Even the guards seem unsure of what to do.

Darn it, I aint afraid of shit, i avoid shit cause its dirty.

Is that weirdo really that scary?

As Sakkuth continued his ramblings, the surrounding prisoners murmured, but there was no interference. They were wary that Sakkuth might spread disease.

The guards, wearing masks and protective suits, frowned from a distance, but did nothing.

However, Vikir remained motionless, standing in place, solely focused on writing down the list of tools he received on the status board.

Seeing this, Sakkuth, as if emboldened, pushed through the surrounding prisoners and approached Vikir.

Hey, little guy, cant you hear me?

Oh-ho. Saw you yesterday. Looked pretty tough. Are you really a Level Nine?

Hey. Just because Im on the eighth floor and youre on the ninth, you dont think youre stronger and more dangerous than me, do you?

Sakkuth poked Vikirs head with his finger as he spoke.

Let me tell you. I came here to serve Him. I deliberately came to Nouvellebag for that purpose.

But whats this? He is on Level Nine, so why should I be on Level Eight? Somethings wrong, isnt it? Its only natural for someone like me to be assigned to Level Nine. Why should a weakling like you be Level Nine and not me? Send me to Level Nine too! So I can serve Him by His side!

As Sakkuth became more agitated, a dark aura began to emanate from his entire body.

It was a poisonous aura that couldnt be stopped by BDISSEM restraints, a venom that rose naturally from the accumulated toxicity in his body, unrelated to mana.

Why am I Level 8? Is it because of my past offenses!? Is that why they wont send me to Level 9!? If thats the case, then Ill just flip this place upside down! Shall I spread some plague around!? Would you like to taste the Red Death Ive developed!?

As Sakkuth ranted madly into the air,

I think I know why.

A brief voice caught Sakkuths attention.

It was Vikir, who had finished his writing and was picking up his tools.

Sakkuth looked slightly bewildered as he asked, Did you just say something, little guy?

Yes.

Heh heh heh! Heh heh!

Sakkuth erupted into a laughter that seemed to boil from the depths of his throat. Then, with a menacing expression, he leaned closer to Vikirs face.

So, why do you think I havent made it to Level Nine in your eyes?

Because you lack the basics.

Basics? What do you mean?

Just as Sakkuth was about to open his mouth to inquire further,

Shiik-

Vikirs hand moved.

He swiftly stuffed a nail into Sakkuths gaping mouth and then raised his fist, striking Sakkuths jaw with force.

Thunk!

Sakkuths head snapped back.

At the same time, the nails in his mouth bounced off, piercing through Sakkuths cheeks, nose, jaw, and throat, flying in all directions.

Blurgh!? Ugh!

As Sakkuth writhed, blood spraying, Vikir looked on with a faint smile.

You should know whether youre a predator or prey and fucking live accordingly.

Simultaneously, from the stairs near the door leading to the workshop, the clamor of many military boots echoed loudly.

Whats this commotion, Night Hound!

The blood drained from the faces of all the prisoners as they heard the shout from the work commander, Lieutenant Captain Bastille.

Night Hound. Sentenced to life imprisonment a total of 3,021 times. Level Nine prisoner.

Who would have guessed that the terrifying monster, whose rumors had been rampant, would turn out to be such a delicate-looking boy?