The difficulty of the beast arena couldn't kill me, but it was enough to exhaust my stamina and energy, much like working in "real life" in the later stages. Despite being dead tired, I could barely keep going, and my mood grew increasingly irritable. I gradually lost my appetite for grilled meat, cleared my mind, and extended my claws.
[Steal Heart: Level 5]
Animal blood doused me, emitting a foul, fishy odor. It didn't matter; after a day, the guards would blast the prisoners with high-pressure water hoses. The water jet was strong, so no need to undress. This was recycled water, treated wastewater mixed with seawater from near Meteor City, then processed. It couldn't be drunk. Except for making food, almost all water used in Meteor City was this type, so clean drinking water remained very expensive.
I felt nothing, like I was doing meaningless, repetitive, tedious work. I rushed to the next animal, and then the next.
Wandering the beast arena, killing whatever I could, I wished to die from exhaustion.
In the end, I slaughtered them all. When I looked towards the humans, the fences opened, and guards entered the cells, escorting everyone back.
For game balance, the next day's animals were of different species. I looked at the swaying health bars and eagerly charged forward.
I fought until the game time ended, and still hadn't killed them all.
Back in the cell, for the first time, I fell asleep as soon as I sat down, utterly exhausted.
A sleep that was both warm and cold.
I floated in darkness.
Like a cradle.
Immersed.
My body suddenly felt heavy, falling, and hitting the ground.
I opened my eyes and saw a gray, somewhat aged ceiling.
This wasn't the cell ceiling. The sensation of a pillow beneath my head made my heart sink. I thought, "Did I actually succeed in dying, triggering the 'rebirth' mechanism and starting the 'game' again from somewhere else?!" An infinite cycle?! No way!!!
Sighing in despair, I rolled my eyes to look around.
The smell of disinfectant. Every meter, there was a hospital bed. This was the concentration point for those injured in battle.
Yes, the beast arena wasn't an absolute death trap. Otherwise, they wouldn't provide bandages for me to change daily. They gave the prisoners a certain degree of treatment, as combat personnel were valuable human resources in Meteor City. It would be too wasteful to raise a蛊 (gu - a type of poison or spell) only to be left with one survivor.
A small figure, due to the perspective effect of "near large, far small," approached and blocked almost my entire line of sight.
Golden, snake-like pupils. I remembered a famous rogue ninja, Orochimaru. No, wrong track. The character before me was Feitan.
"Losing consciousness in a place like this is dangerous. You never know what you'll become when you wake up," he whispered in my ear, like a viper flicking its crimson tongue. "Some people, regardless of gender or looks, if there's a hole, they'll take it."
Oh, I suspect your intelligence source is your own personal experience. So, ultimately, you can't escape the classic fanfiction trope of being forcefully penetrated by a man, can you?
I'm not sure if anything happened to me, but before I passed out, I was covered in wounds and everything ached.
"This place is for those who disrupt order. 'Freedom' rotting with garbage, or 'freedom' dictated by order and serving others," Feitan straightened up and asked me, "Which do you choose?"
What? A choice between two? Did unlocking "hospital room" trigger a quest?
To be honest, I hadn't considered the future of my cell life. It didn't matter. Why think so much?
"Is this your answer?" I don't know how Feitan interpreted my silence.
"Speaking of which..." Feitan grabbed my right hand with one hand and felt my finger joints with the other. "I've always wanted to know, how do you transform your hands into claws?"
"..." That's a Zoldyck family heirloom. Passed down within the family, not to outsiders.
He didn't seem to intend to get an answer from me immediately. He wasn't looking at me when he asked, but was caressing the joints of my hand.
He must have observed me for a long time, noticing that the key to my claw transformation was controlling my joints.
As expected of the future interrogation expert of the Phantom Troupe. To excel in interrogation, one must not only understand how to inflict physical pain but also possess keen observation skills to find the target's weaknesses and strike effectively to extract secrets.
In this Zoldyck curriculum, as an ordinary person, I performed averagely without question. Kikyo said Illumi received an "Excellent" in this subject again. Oh, as expected of the Zoldyck eldest son. Or rather, those who get "Excellent" in this subject are either intelligent or perverted. Illumi is both, so it's no wonder he got "Excellent"! I don't care for it!
After feeling my finger joints, Feitan began to touch my fingernails. I suddenly remembered that one of his common actions in the original work was pulling out fingernails, and I instantly tensed up. He敏锐地 (minruì de - keenly) caught my tension, held my fingers firmly, stared at me with his dark golden eyes, and the corners of his mouth curled up slightly.
"The key is here?" His voice was a bit hoarse, from suppressed excitement.
As the saying goes, "You can tell at six what someone will be like at sixty," or in other words, perverts were perverts from childhood. The wisdom accumulated by the masses is truly marvelous.
"..." The Zoldyck professional curriculum was somewhat useful, allowing me to be too lazy to resist when my fingernails were about to be pulled out.
I knew that when my wounds tore, it would be more painful than this. Between two evils, I chose the lesser one.
Interrogation is a bit like sex; it requires mutual engagement for enjoyment. Once the masochist reacts blandly, the sadist's pleasure diminishes significantly... It's not impossible for the sadist to become more determined with setbacks, fine, it's too troublesome.
Feitan played with the removed index fingernail for a while. This time, he held my middle finger. His fingertip pressed against my fingernail, and his gaze on my face was expectant. It seemed he liked a challenge.
"..." Should I resist with all my might? httpδ:/m.kuAisugg.nět
I looked at his delicate face, uncharacteristic of a sadist, and carefully considered the pros and cons.
He very slowly lifted my middle fingernail, stopping halfway. "You and I are both madmen, to be tortured like this."
Hey, brother, either pull it out completely or don't pull it at all. What's with pulling it halfway?!
"But there's one difference: you want to die, I want to live." He saw my frustration and stopped pulling. He gently fiddled with the partially lifted nail. "There's no one here I like. It's really boring, so I won't let any of you get your way. Remember, anyone."
Are you sick?! Is the urge to take revenge on society this strong?!
As he said, he put down the partially lifted nail, intending to force my obsessive-compulsive disorder.
"..." I thought about it, then pushed the fingernail back, hoping it would return to its place and heal slowly.
He grabbed my hand again, pulled out the fingernail I had just pushed back, and watched my surprised and gloomy expression.
"..." It's pointless to argue with a lunatic. I pulled up the quilt and covered my head.
To my surprise, he left. I figured he really needed to rest. His appearance in the infirmary wasn't for visiting; such freedom didn't exist in the cells. He appeared in the infirmary because he was also seriously injured.
There's not much to say about the following days; it was a monotonous repetition. Some cellmates died from severe injuries, some accepted recruitment and left the cell, and new cellmates vomited upon eating grilled meat. I was very pleased that someone finally shared my taste.
I was too lazy to remember the faces of those passersby. I didn't know how many had left or how many had arrived. My roommate, however, never changed – it was still Feitan.
He was getting more proficient at grilling meat. Unfortunately, the ingredients themselves tasted too poor and didn't meet consumption standards, making me increasingly unwilling to grill.
Feitan, who no longer sharpened his nails and had unintentionally mastered a low-tier version of "claws," was a quiet roommate. The only annoying thing was that every time I lay down in the infirmary, he would follow. Or rather, every time I dragged myself back to the cell and then fainted, it was he who would bang loudly on the cell bars with his handcuffs, alerting the guards to carry me away.
He was handcuffed, unable to get close to check my condition. I thought he was judging whether I was dying based on my breathing.
Oh, for an interrogator, ensuring the subject doesn't die before the interrogation ends is a basic requirement.
It's easy to get himself admitted to the infirmary. He has plenty of ways to injure himself... Are you sick?!
Losing my claws would reduce my combat effectiveness. He didn't pull my fingernails, but instead decided to pull out my tongue, which I didn't need, to punish me for my silent desire to die.
Hey, aren't you encouraging survival by doing this, or urging people to die faster?
"I believe there are two types of tongues that don't need to be kept. One is the tongue that can't say anything good; it's superfluous. The other is the tongue that never speaks; it's the same whether it's there or not," he pinched my jaw. "Open your mouth."
"..." Nonsense. Tongues can also taste; they're important when eating, you know?
The guards outside wouldn't bother to intervene if there wasn't too much noise in the infirmary. Feitan's fingers and my biting force competed until his fingers were stained with blood, leaving two blood dimples on my cheeks, but I still didn't let go.
Feitan, you've added to my disfigurement; I'll remember you for this.
Twisting wounds with fingers is a common practice. The Zoldyck professional curriculum taught it, and I'd experienced it. The taste of revisiting it was truly sour and refreshing. However, I still didn't let go, nor did I resist, vowing to remain a salted fish to the end.
Oh, [Clench Teeth: Level 9] is indeed well-deserved.
Feitan didn't want to cripple me, otherwise, I would have succeeded in dying on the spot as soon as I entered the arena. With this premise, when I was forced to review the "family warmth" similar to the Zoldycks, I even had the leisure to think about when my [Clench Teeth: Level 9] would upgrade to the next level.
Fortunately, Feitan was an amateur, and the props and venue were limited. After he made a mess of my wounds, he grudgingly called for a doctor, got the medicine, and then proactively offered to "help" me with my wound treatment, disinfecting and bandaging. His movements were extremely rough, but his technique was exceptionally professional. Perhaps he had become skilled through long-term illness?
No, if this continues, will it turn into a sadist and masochist route? No, I, with my [Clench Teeth: Level 9], am also afraid of pain and firmly reject such development.
So, the salted fish made a move. The current angle wasn't suitable for removing a heart. As Feitan was about to finish wrapping the bandage, my claws went straight for his throat.
The bandage in Feitan's hand snapped taut as he leaned back, revealing a bloodline on his throat. The wound wasn't deep enough to be fatal.
An unsurprising outcome. Although he wasn't popular in the beast arena, he could still survive this long, meaning he had some skills. His speed was superior to mine. After all, he was the future fastest (meaningful) man of the Phantom Troupe.
Watching him touch the wound on his throat to confirm the injury, I narrowed my eyes slightly, thinking that the disinfection and bandaging would have to be redone.
"Did I hurt you?" He relaxed the bandage in his hand.
"..." No, sadist, what's wrong with you? Did your soul get transmigrated by someone else? And clearly, the previous actions were more painful than this!
"I understand. You're a guy who just ruins everyone's mood," Feitan said as he tied the final knot on the bandage.
Oh, you're right. My specialty in "real life" is ruining people's moods. The conversation terminator of chat groups. No matter how lively the group chat was, my participation would always make it go cold. Isn't that a strange phenomenon?
"Did you do something bad to end up here?" He pushed my arm inward, sat on the edge of my bed, and his mouth curved upwards at the end of the sentence, as if he was eager to chat.
"..." Don't try to understand the thought process of a pervert unless you are one too.
I thought he might be trying a different approach to trick me into speaking so he could pull out my tongue, but unfortunately, he didn't know I was mute.
"..." I closed my eyes, adopting the state of a salted fish willing to be slaughtered, letting him do whatever he wanted.
Feeling bored, he left.
Thanks to his extra troubles, I spent the night in the infirmary for the first time.
As the saying goes, "Whether beautiful or ugly, male or female, it's all the same with the lights off," so the infirmary at night was lively. [Steal Heart: Level 5] was used twice. The bloody smell of two hearts placed by the head of the bed was enough to make people detour to crawl into someone else's bed.
I felt I had sufficiently offended Feitan by not giving him any face regarding interrogation and by not answering him when he sat down to chat. He stopped talking to me, but he still timely sent me, who was waiting to die in the cell, to the doctor next time.
"..." Waking up to see Feitan's face meant I failed to die again, again, again, and again. I felt very helpless.
After living in a single cell for a long time, it must be boring. Has Feitan learned to cherish the existence of a roommate?
The number one rapist in the fanfiction world is repeatedly escorting my life and chastity (huh?)?
Just kidding. What's the difference between a roommate who never speaks and no roommate at all?
"You have a fever," Feitan said, touching my throat, not my forehead. "So you really are mute. No wonder you're so stubborn."
"..." I was relieved to find my tongue was still in my mouth.
"I can pardon you."
"???" Pardon what? Why pardon? By what right do you speak of pardon? Who do you think you are?
"From now on, you'll be in charge of grilling meat."
...Huh?