"Welcome to hell."
So read the dialogue box of my roommate.
The gloomy prison setting and the well-timed background music, oh, quite a few RPGs begin with protagonists imprisoned, with their first quest being to escape the cell.
There are usually three ways to escape: the first is for the protagonist to find specific game items or mechanisms within the cell to complete the escape; the second is for the protagonist to receive escape methods from a剧情 NPC in the cell; and the third is to defeat the guards when they open the cell to take the protagonist away.
It doesn't matter, I don't intend to escape. I am someone destined to die in hell, and I hope this hell difficulty is truly high. For the sake of the Zoldyck family's百年 reputation, I must die a glorious and brilliant death, not casually by the hands of some minor character.
After all, the Zoldycks raised me to this point. Trying not to damage their family's reputation is my way of repaying their kindness, and they can't stop me from wanting to die here.
This is what is called being clear about favors and grievances.
Prison food, regardless of the world, is always the lowest standard of sustenance. I've seen the dry bread and clear water that are most common in Meteor City again. Oh, the living standards in the slums are truly on par with prison food.
Along with the prison food, a roll of bandages was also delivered. Once a day, it's so humanitarian, I'm almost overwhelmed with gratitude. I had prepared for the worst, like eating raw flesh and drinking blood, but I didn't expect Meteor City to be not as bad as I imagined.
Changing bandages is like changing clothes, a rather private act. So I would shrink into a corner, turning my back to others to change.
Regarding the competitive multi-person projects in Meteor City, many fanfiction settings have established special talent selection facilities such as arenas, gladiatorial arenas, and beast-fighting arenas. What I face here is a beast-fighting arena.
When I used to practice [Steal] in the past, I poked every animal I could find in the Zoldyck mountains. My proficiency in using [Steal] on animals is quite high. Surviving among a pack of hungry beasts with my fellow inmates felt… like coming home.
The only trouble is not being able to break the chains of the shackles. Even if the length of the chains hinders my running, it's still not allowed. They released me to fight but did not unlock my shackles, indicating that they believed ordinary chains could restrain me. If I were to break this expectation, who knows what more solid shackles they would inflict upon me.
The hungry beasts with blood-red eyes, sharp fangs, and dripping saliva are actually friendlier than humans.
The best proof of this is that I was ambushed by a human as the battle was about to end.
It was very baffling.
Logically speaking, with a common enemy and a common goal of survival, and no conflict of interest, all prisoners should be on a united front, with no need for infighting.
However, humans are emotional beings, and most of the time, they cannot be viewed entirely rationally.
For example, my roommate, the one who ambushed me, is him.
"Quite a good reaction," he said, offering a brief compliment in a judge-like tone, without any trace of shame for failing his ambush.
"..." I don't need it, thank you.
Fighting with shackles on is not just my special treatment; my roommate also has it. Based on my observations, among the twenty-odd people who went out to fight, our combat abilities were not the absolute top, yet we were the only two wearing shackles in the cell and in the arena. This leads me to ponder, besides combat ability, why do my roommate and I receive such differential treatment?
Speaking of my roommate, at first, I didn't associate him with any specific plot character from the original work, because after he said, "Welcome to hell," he remained silent. Afterward, he stayed in the shadows, and I couldn't see his face.
Entering the arena felt very novel. I was so engrossed in watching the scenery and the battles that I had forgotten about my taciturn roommate until he ambushed me. After dodging, I finally saw his full face.
Narrow phoenix eyes, long thin eyebrows, a pointed chin, and unkempt, nearly black navy blue hair, with multiple scars on his face that still couldn't hide his delicate features. What a cute uke… no, 155… no.
As expected of a plot character, especially one with high popularity in the original work, the original author surely put considerable thought into their character design. It's like God's special favoritism when creating humans. As long as you have a certain understanding of the original work, it's not difficult to recognize them in a crowd, even if their appearance is at an age not depicted in the original work – this is the so-called aura.
Counting on my fingers, according to the original work's setting, this character named "Feitan" should be three years older than me. I am currently eight years old, so he is eleven.
Characters like Feitan, whose height remains at 155cm even after reaching adulthood, cannot be estimated by height alone. Fortunately, I remember the data from the original work, as his adult age of 28 compared to his childish appearance was very memorable, haha.
Alright, I feel relieved. He's a genuine little kid, and considering his malnutrition and stunted development, he certainly doesn't possess adult capabilities!
According to the original work's setting, he will become one of the most brutal and bloody members of the Phantom Troupe, with a penchant for torture. His most famous scene is when he reads an adult picture book titled "The Taste of Candy and Pain."
The way he reads about abused loli, the evocative picture book, his sadistic tendencies and perverse hobbies, his counter-attack ability which grows stronger the more severely he is injured, all three combined, are often thought by readers to have a very "storied" past. Consequently, in the early days of fanfiction, his plots mostly began with "he rapes a loli" or "he is raped by someone." He even has the nickname "Number One Rapist in Fanfiction." (Laughs)
Unfortunately, he's just a little tyke now. Regardless of whether he truly has a penchant for rape, oh, no, let's be professional, this is called a "forced love" hobby, but he currently lacks the capability. (Laughs)
Even if he really wanted to "force love," he wouldn't choose me, with my face covered in bandages, unless he was blind, or so desperate that he'd go for a bandage monster… Please no, his taste wouldn't be that heavy, right? No, I'm just kidding.
His attacking me is not an isolated incident; he attacks other prisoners indiscriminately as well. I don't know how his mind works. Perhaps he's been alone in his cell for too long and is mentally unstable. This is probably why he's been shackled.
Back in the cell, I hear the sound of him sharpening his nails on the floor. The beast-fighting arena doesn't provide weapons, so he sharpens his nails to imitate the claws of beasts. Oh, what a simple method. Looking at it this way, the Zoldyck family's hereditary skill of "transforming hands into claws" is indeed the most practical weapon early on.
The repetitive "shashasha" sound of sharpening nails is no less disturbing than the sound of filing nails. The inmates in the opposite cells start cursing again. They might be wary of Feitan being a mentally unstable person with considerable combat strength, so they don't curse Feitan directly but curse indirectly, their scolding covering the sound of nail sharpening, making me feel much better.
Feitan, however, lets out a chilling cold laugh, making him seem even more like a mental patient. No wonder he's been shackled.
"..." Then why am I shackled? And why am I roommates with someone like this? It's probably a revenge act by the man who wanted to "adopt" me because his intentions were not met, targeting me and Illumi.
Whatever!
I take out a piece of meat hidden in my top. This is what I tore off an animal in the beast-fighting arena.
Dark blue blood, purple flesh, seemingly unsuitable for consumption, but I believe my [Poison Resistance: Level 7] should be able to withstand it.
The prison food, which lacks any oil, is only one meal a day, but the beast-fighting arena is a whole afternoon's ordeal, leaving me weak and exhausted. This is clearly intentional. The inmates kept here are all people with considerable combat power. By reducing their combat power through hunger, they can prevent widespread rebellion.
I believe that before me, others must have thought of eating the meat of the arena animals. Trying it now, I can fully understand why the meat of the arena animals is not used for consumption, because the meat is fishy and pungent, extraordinarily foul-smelling, not at a level that humans can eat.
Without seasonings like ginger, garlic, or cooking wine to remove the fishy smell, the only remaining method to improve the taste is to cook the raw meat.
Cooking raw meat doesn't necessarily require an open flame; anything that can generate high temperatures will have a similar effect.
Considering the many settings in this world that violate the logic of the "real world," I thought for a long time. I tied the bandages I changed yesterday around my hands as oven mitts, and the ankle that touched the shackles was wrapped with cloth torn from my sleeves. Then, I picked up the chain on the shackles and started rubbing.
The disturbing level of metal friction is no less than that of sharpening nails. The inmates in the opposite cells start cursing again. They say, "As expected, another lunatic."
Hmph, what do they know? I'm trying the principle of "friction generates heat"!
In the "real world," the friction generated between metal under strong pressure and high-speed friction can create temperatures of 1000 degrees Celsius.
Of course, such high temperatures can only be achieved mechanically; human power cannot reach them. However, the human physical limits in this world are extremely high, so perhaps it's possible to do it with bare hands. And I'm not asking for much; just around fifty degrees should be enough, as too high a temperature would also make my hands unbearable.
With ton-like wrist strength and the hand speed of someone single for years, I rubbed vigorously until it was so hot that I couldn't help but let go, dropping the chain onto the piece of meat. With a "hiss—," the part of the meat that came into contact with the chain turned a grayish-purple.
Pulling the chain, before the residual heat of the chain was completely absorbed by the meat, half of the meat's surface had successfully changed color.
Alright, there's hope!
I was overjoyed and used my claws to make deep criss-cross patterns on the meat. This way, if I wedged the hot chain into the lines of the pattern, it wouldn't just cook the surface, but also the meat inside.
From the first "hiss—" to the gradual release of the aroma of protein and fat, the cell grew quieter, and I could even hear the sound of someone swallowing.
A private cell is truly good, and my roommate is also shackled, so he can't snatch it from me. I patiently continued to rub, drop the chain, rub again—a steak, I like it well-done.
In the watchful eyes of everyone, including my roommate, I, with a sense of accomplishment, picked up the slightly charred piece of meat. It had to be slightly burnt; the smell was too strong. The burnt smell could mask some of the fishy and pungent odor of the meat itself, making it barely edible.
I took a bite—Oh, ugh.
If it weren't for my efforts and the expectant gazes of the crowd, I would have almost spat it out immediately.
It was incredibly disgusting, bitter, sour, astringent, and pungent.
For this damn thing, my hands and arms ached from rubbing the chain.
While the tongue is a picky organ, the stomach is quite accepting. It accepted this incredibly unpalatable meat and didn't throw it back up my throat for me to vomit immediately.
Covering my mouth, I didn't know whether to take a second bite.
"Don't waste food," my roommate Feitan said, his voice low.
His tone was so unfriendly, like a reprimand from a dean of students.
"..." I tossed the piece of meat to him in the shadows opposite.
The sound of the chain moving, he raised his hand and caught the meat.
After taking a bite, his movements paused. I waited for him to spit it out, but he didn't. He took a second bite, then a third. What a tough person.
Words cannot express my admiration, so I'll use the emoji "(ooo)" to represent it.
He ate it all.
My admiration for him reached its peak.
"It's really unpalatable," he concluded after finishing.
Despite this, Feitan began to imitate my method and make his own grilled meat daily. I, on the other hand, only grilled meat to test its taste when I encountered new species in the beast-fighting arena. Either way, they were all unpalatable, just to varying degrees. The people in the opposite cells had no chains to use, and their faces were filled with envy and jealousy.
I would throw the particularly unpalatable grilled meat to them. Their acceptance level was as terrifying as Feitan's; they actually ate it all.
Uh, is my palate actually quite discerning?
"Bandage Kid, is today's meat unpalatable?" they would ask expectantly every time I finished grilling.
My face was wrapped in bandages, and my body had not developed at all. They couldn't tell my gender, so they called me "kid," probably because all the people in these cells were men.
Thinking about it, concealing my gender and appearance is quite important, otherwise, it might turn into an ultra-restricted material.
Damn Illumi, considering this situation, should I be grateful to him for disfiguring me… So annoying!