Sorcerer’s Handbook

Blood Moon Kingdom, Shattered Lake Prison’s restaurant.

Ashe looked at the Hibiscus Crab, Lemonberry Milk Cake, divine Lala Fatty, and Golden Pineapple Juice in front of him, his nose filled with the scent of these delicacies. Yet, his appetite was nowhere to be found.

These dishes were no ordinary offerings; they existed only on the hidden menu of the restaurant, usually inaccessible to prisoners regardless of how many Contribution points they spent.

The dishes were said to be exceptionally high-end delicacies outside the prison walls. The Lala Fatty alone, for example, was worth a third of an average person’s monthly salary just for the raw ingredients.

Their taste was worth the price as well. Ashe suspected the chef might have used Sorcerer techniques, as he—a city dweller long tested by the trials of monosodium glutamate and chicken powder—almost swallowed his tongue after the first bite, the flavor so exquisite it could make one die without regrets.

But the thought of actually dying soon quenched his hunger.

The other Death row inmates shared similar sentiments, some eating without tasting, some weeping as they ate, and others reversing their forks and knives in a grim parody of proper use, thankfully blunted to prevent triggering the ‘suicide prohibition warning’ from their neck chips.

Only two Death row inmates ate heartily: a blue-skinned Ogre and the Elf Valcas.

They seemed genuinely indifferent to the upcoming Blood Moon Tribunal, the Ogre eating with his hands, ordering dish after dish, while Valcas demonstrated ten different ways to use a knife and fork, as elegantly as if dining in a high-rise rotating restaurant.

The seemingly kind voice of Prison Guard Nago was like a salt-coated whip, sending a shiver through all the Death row inmates, who bowed their heads and ate voraciously, Ashe included.

The reason for their fear was that an afternoon of ‘supervision’ had already worn down their defiance. Facing Nago, who controlled their neck chips, even the most rebellious had to comply—if not willingly, then by force.

To be fair, Nago hadn’t done anything overtly harsh to them.

He hadn’t laid a finger on them.

He hadn’t harmed them at all.

He had simply made all the Death row inmates follow his schedule.

For instance, at meal times, if someone refused to eat, Nago would activate the Chip control system, using voice commands to make the Prisoner eat:

“Open your mouth, put the food in, chew once, twice, thrice, swallow…”

As for watching films, if anyone was not paying attention or fidgeting, Nago would turn them into model cinema-goers:

“Sit up straight, hands on knees, eyes on the Holographic Screen, remember to blink every five seconds.”

And when taking in fresh air on the Seaview Terrace, Nago announced that the higher-ups required all Prisoners to take a commemorative photo, with the following stipulations: neat attire, smiling faces, a display of good spirits, and reflecting the harmonious group atmosphere of Shattered Lake Prison…

Undoubtedly, the Death row inmates alone could not meet these requirements, so Nago ‘helped’ them, in his own way.

Ashe was doing relatively well; he was just lying on the ground with a smile on his head, while Valcas was quite impressive—he sat on the Ogre’s shoulder, his hands on his head pretending to be cat ears, and his gaunt, cold face smiled sweetly at the camera.

One picture wasn’t enough. They had to take several, showcasing a range of ‘spirited’ poses from cool and suave to embracing each other with a playful charm.

The Death row inmates, posed in eighteen different ways by Supervisor Nago, had become completely numb, only thinking about quickly and efficiently meeting Nago’s demands, even wishing to fast-forward to the Blood Moon Tribunal.

Destroy it, hurry up, I’m tired.

So, when Nago spoke, they immediately abandoned their sentimental sorrows and rushed to eat.

At this moment, the pressure from Supervisor Nago on them surpassed that of the Blood Moon Tribunal.

After all, they hadn’t yet seen ‘death’.

But a ‘life worse than death’ was right before their eyes.

Ashe glanced at the empty restaurant and asked the person next to him in a low voice, “Why isn’t anyone coming to eat? Skipping lunch is one thing, but it’s not like everyone else would also skip dinner, right?”

The Death row inmate next to him was named Archibald Harvey, with dark skin and curly hair, looking like he did heavy labor during the day, but he was actually a night shift worker: a cleaner who specialized in handling bodies.

Some might wonder why dealing with bodies would at most be considered a crime of desecrating a body, how could one end up on Death row?

This naturally has to do with the standards of death: in the Blood Moon Kingdom, a body is only considered a corpse if a licensed Medic has declared it dead.

Without a Medic’s declaration, even if your head falls off, legally you are still alive.

Because Medics can really bring a decapitated person back to life, many bodies, although breathless, can still be resuscitated.

Hence, someone like Harvey, who specifically dealt with bodies for underground organizations, naturally wouldn’t be treated as an ‘accomplice’ but was regarded as a ‘serial killer of extremely bad nature’: having handled over a hundred bodies, if each body is considered alive, few Prisoners in the Prison could compare to Harvey’s sins.

However, this doesn’t mean that Harvey was some unjustly wronged good person.

Although he didn’t reveal much about his dark past during an afternoon chat, the fact that he was a Necromancy Faction Sorcerer and his comment “What’s so good about warm women” were enough to judge his preferences as quite unconventional by current Human standards.

But being a bad person has nothing to do with being a good internet friend, and in this afternoon of shared misfortune, Ashe quickly became familiar with him.

Harvey replied, “They came to the restaurant early, before 5 o’clock, to finish eating.”

“Ah? Why?”

“To avoid us, of course. Apart from us eight, other Prisoners will try not to leave their dormitories today. Those with extra Contribution points ordered in, and those without also tried to avoid our meal times.”

“I get that, but why would they want to avoid us?”

“Traditional virtues.”

Ashe blinked.

It wasn’t that he didn’t understand the term, but using it to describe the Death row inmates here always felt a bit odd.

Harvey said, “First off, the eight selected individuals will be summoned by the Supervisor to gather at the restaurant at noon, so nobody will come out in the morning. Although the selection is based on the Judgment sequence, who knows if you’ll encounter the Supervisor on the way and they decide to put you on the list simply because they don’t like the way you walk?”

“Do Supervisors have that kind of power?”

“Don’t know. You willing to gamble?”

“No, I’m not.”

“That’s it then,” Harvey shrugged his shoulders. “Even after noon when the eight have been chosen, no one dares to wander about. The first reason, of course, is the presence of the Supervisor. What if they take a dislike to you and swap you with a ‘lucky’ one? Wouldn’t you just regret it till your veins pop?”

Ashe nodded.

Indeed.

What’s more infuriating than your own misfortune is seeing someone else profit from it. Just the thought of it makes you so angry you could burst.

“The second reason is a bit superstitious. Prisoners believe that those who are seen by us unluckies are highly likely to be chosen for the next Blood Moon Tribunal.”

That’s understandable. Everyone is afraid of catching bad luck. If a jinx looks at you in the afternoon and you can’t poop at night, it’s surely not a physical issue; it’s the jinx messing with gravity.

“And the third reason is that they don’t know how to face us.”

“Huh?”

“Say hello? Offer encouragement? Comfort?” Harvey wiped his mouth with a napkin. “If it were you… oh wait, Ashe, you’re the one facing judgment now. Right at this moment, if you saw the other Prisoners escaping the Blood Moon Tribunal, wouldn’t you feel that every single punctuation mark they say reeks of condescension?”

Ashe opened his mouth, thought about it, and realized it was true.

Knowing that I’m going to die while you don’t have to, I’d definitely feel like you reek of an offensive stench of decay.

It’s not just about speaking.

Just seeing you breathe.

Makes me feel like you’re mocking me.

Encouragement? Irony!

Comfort? Ridicule!

Sympathy? Contempt!

No matter what nice things they say, to Ashe and the seven others, it all sounds like filth.

Because of the fear of death, a tragic, thick wall has emerged between the eight Prisoners and all the others.

“So on the day of the Blood Moon Tribunal, all Prisoners voluntarily stay in their dormitories and don’t go out. It’s to protect themselves, as well as those facing judgment.”

Harvey looked at Ashe, “If you survive, you’ll have to respect this tradition of virtue when the next Blood Moon comes. It’s the only kindness we can and must hold onto. But…”

“But what?”

“I’ve seen your news reports,” Harvey shrugged, “To be honest, you’re likely to be the one who dies tonight.”

“Isn’t it supposed to be a random killing?”

Ashe was a bit nervous; when he learned that the Blood Moon Tribunal was about randomly selecting one person to be executed from among eight, he guessed it had to be a random Ritual—if it weren’t random, there’d be no need to pick one out of eight.

“It’s random, but not entirely random, and sometimes several people die… Have you really never seen a Blood Moon Tribunal?”

“Really haven’t! I have no idea about the rules of the Blood Moon Tribunal!”

Harvey laughed: “Then you’ll find out soon… The first time I watched the Blood Moon Tribunal as a kid, I was deeply shocked by the show. I never imagined such wonderful entertainment existed in this world. I’m not going to tell you the truth because the most despised action of a Necromancer is prophecy. Exploring the unknown is the greatest pleasure for a Sorcerer, and death is the ultimate mystery.”

Ashe clicked his tongue, still a bit puzzled: “If it’s certain that I’ll die, then why are you all nervous?”

Harvey shrugged: “Because the Blood Moon Tribunal isn’t fixed, sometimes there are changes that make the Prisoners nervous, and they might accidentally get themselves killed… You’re right, when I get to the scene later, I’ll just close my eyes and go to sleep. As long as I make sure I’m not the one chosen out of the eight, then by doing nothing, I’ll definitely not die.”

Harvey said this, and it made Ashe nervous even eating his Lala Fatty.

Could it be that I’m done for?

Really no chance at all?

I’ve been doing so well in Exploration in the Virtual Realm, got the Virtual Realm Telescope this morning, maybe tonight I could even gather all the spirit pieces for the Slay Me Miracle…

The Swordswoman and I are getting stronger, and the world of the Sorcerers has just begun to unveil its mysteries to me…

I’ve just defeated Valcas and thwarted Sylin’s plot…

I’m still in my developmental phase, can’t I have a little more time!

Ashe felt like an archer who’s saving up for big equipment but is suddenly pulled into a team fight.

Victory seems within reach in the distance, yet the immediate struggle dangles in front of you.

He suddenly remembered the WeChat Moments post his boss made before: Life isn’t like cooking; it doesn’t wait for all the ingredients to be ready before starting the pot. When you see yourself sprinkled with cumin, you should realize you’ve become the ingredient— who could have guessed that the next day he’d announce the company was switching from Big and Small Week to a 996 schedule?

“Dinner time is over, wipe your mouth, go to the restroom to take care of personal hygiene, gather in the Central Hall within half an hour.”

Note that Supervisor Nago was not ‘ordering’ but ‘inputting commands’—everyone wiped their mouths with their napkins at the same time, then stood up and headed to the restroom.

Before Ashe entered the restroom, he heard Nago’s last instruction:

“7:45 PM, arrive on time at the Blood Moon Tribunal site and wait for the show to begin.”

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