The Sorcerer's Handbook

At the Shattered Lake Prison’s cafeteria.

Ashe stared at the dishes in front of him, which consisted of Hibiscus Crab, Lemon Berry Cream Cake, Supreme Braised Pork, and Golden Pineapple Juice. The aroma alone was intoxicating, but he couldn’t summon a single ounce of appetite to eat them.

These were no ordinary dishes. They came from the restaurant’s premium menu. Even prisoners willing to spend all their Contribution Points rarely got the chance to order them. Rumor had it that outside the prison, these dishes were considered rare, top-tier delicacies. The Supreme Braised Pork, for instance, had ingredients worth nearly a third of a commoner’s monthly salary, and its taste more than justified its cost. Ashe suspected the chef had incorporated some kind of spell into the recipe.

Having grown up in the city, accustomed to MSG and chicken powder, Ashe nearly swallowed his tongue after the first bite. The taste was so exquisite that it made one feel they could die without regrets. Ironically, it was also the thought of his impending execution that killed every ounce of his desire to eat.

The other condemned prisoners felt the same. Some nibbled reluctantly, others ate while crying, and a few even attempted to hurt themselves with forks and knives. Fortunately, the utensils weren’t sharp, or the chips embedded at the back of their necks would have triggered a Suicide Forbidden warning.

Only two prisoners ate with genuine appetite. They were the blue ogre and the elf, Varkas. Neither seemed concerned about the upcoming Blood Moon Tribunal. The ogre devoured his meal with his hands, plate after plate, while Varkas displayed ten elegant ways to wield his knife and fork, dining as though he were in a revolving restaurant atop a skyscraper.

”Having trouble eating? Need some help?”

The sharp, saltwater-laced voice of Warden Nagu made every condemned prisoner flinch and focus on their food. Ashe was no exception.

Their fear was well-founded. After a whole afternoon under his watch, their spirit had been worn to nothing. Against a guard capable of controlling the chips at the back of their necks, even the most defiant prisoners had no choice but to obey or be forced into compliance.

In truth, Nagu hadn’t physically harmed anyone. Not a single hair was touched. He merely ensured that the condemned prisoners followed his plan accordingly.

Refuse to eat, and Nagu would activate the chip system. ”Open your mouth. Put the food in. Chew once, twice, three times, and swallow.”

Fidget during a film, and Nagu would turn them into the model cinema-goer, ”Sit properly. Hands on your knees. Watch the screen. Remember to blink every five seconds.”

Even when they went to the ocean-view terrace for fresh air, Nagu had them pose for photos. He required them to be smiling, neatly dressed, and showing good spirits to represent the harmonious atmosphere of Shattered Lake Prison.

Clearly, the prisoners awaiting the Blood Moon Tribunal couldn’t meet such standards, so Nagu ”helped” them along. Ashe lay on his side and smiled like a model posing for a beach photo. Varkas, on the other hand, took it a step further. He climbed onto the ogre’s shoulder, placed his hands behind its head with fingers spread like rabbit ears, and turned toward the camera with a sweet smile.

One photo wasn’t enough. Several shots were taken, capturing them in cool poses, cuddling, and everything in between. Every detail of their ”good spirits” was recorded.

By the end, the prisoners had grown numb and cared only about completing Nagu’s demands as efficiently as possible. Some even wished the Blood Moon Tribunal would come sooner. Just let it end. We’re tired.

So when Nagu spoke, they abandoned their pointless melancholy and ate hastily. In that moment, his pressure outweighed even the fear of the Tribunal itself. They had yet to face death, yet the sensation of ”worse than death” was already pressing down on them.

Ashe glanced around the empty cafeteria and asked softly, ”Why isn’t anyone else eating? I can understand skipping lunch, but surely they won’t skip dinner too?”

The prisoner next to him, Archibald Harvey, looked just like an ordinary day laborer, with dark skin and curly hair. In reality, he worked the night shift, specializing in handling corpses.

Some might wonder why a corpse-handler would end up on death row. After all, that usually amounted to at most a desecration charge. But it all came down to the Blood Moon Kingdom’s definition of death. Only corpses declared dead by a licensed healer counted as such.

Without a healer’s declaration, even a decapitated person remained legally alive. Healers could revive the headless. Many beheaded bodies, believed to have no chance of survival, could still be saved.

Harvey, responsible for disposing of hundreds of bodies for underground organizations, thus didn’t qualify for leniency as an accomplice. He was treated as an extremely heinous serial killer. If each corpse he handled was considered alive, few prisoners’ crimes could rival his.

That didn’t mean Harvey was innocent. He revealed little during small talk, but as a Necromancer, and with comments like, ”What’s so good about a warm woman?” it was clear his tastes far exceeded modern norms. Nevertheless, it didn’t matter whether he was good or bad. During that difficult afternoon together, Ashe quickly grew close to him.

”They came to the cafeteria before five and finished their meals early,” Harvey explained.

”Ah? Why?”

”To avoid us. Besides the eight of us, the other prisoners today will try to stay in their cells. Those with enough contribution points will order food directly, while those without will avoid our mealtime as much as possible.”

”I get that, but why avoid us?”

”Traditional virtues.”

Ashe blinked. It wasn’t that he didn’t understand the term. It was just that applying it to the condemned prisoners here felt... strange.

Harvey said, ”Firstly, the eight chosen prisoners are summoned to the cafeteria at noon. Until then, no one comes out. The selections follow the trial sequence, but who knows? You might run into a supervisor along the way, and if they think you’re walking too arrogantly, they could put you on the list.”

”Do supervisors have that kind of authority?” Ashe asked.

”Don’t know. Would you bet on it?”

”No.”

Harvey shrugged. ”Exactly. Even after noon, when the eight are chosen, no one dares move around. The first reason obviously has to do with the supervisor. If they dislike you and swap you with one of the lucky ones, wouldn’t you regret it until your veins feel like they’d explode?”

Ashe nodded. Indeed, nothing made a person angrier than seeing someone else benefit from their misfortune. Just thinking about it made his stomach feel like it was burning from the inside.

”The second reason is a bit superstitious. Prisoners believe that anyone seen by a bunch of unlucky souls like us has a high chance of being picked for the next Blood Moon Tribunal.”

Ashe thought, Understandable. Everyone fears catching bad luck. If some unlucky soul looks at you in the afternoon and you cannot even poop at night, it clearly is not a health issue. It is just gravity going haywire thanks to them.

”The third reason is that... they don’t know how to face us.”

”Huh?”

Harvey wiped his mouth with a napkin. ”Shall they greet us? Encourage us? Or comfort us? Put yourself in our shoes. No, wait, you already are. If you saw prisoners who didn’t get picked for the Tribunal, wouldn’t everything they said sound like it was dripping with superiority?”

Ashe thought about it. It was true. Knowing he was about to die while they would live, Ashe could not help but see them as unbearably arrogant. It was not just in their words. Even the simple fact that they were still breathing felt like a mockery.

Encouragement? Or sarcasm? Comfort? Or ridicule? Pity? Or contempt?

No matter what they said, to Ashe and the other seven, it would sound like a curse. The fear of death had erected a miserable, thick wall between the eight condemned and everyone else.

”That’s why on the day of the Blood Moon Tribunal, all prisoners stay in their cells. It’s for their own protection, and for the protection of those being judged.”

Harvey looked at Ashe. ”If you survive, when the next Blood Moon comes, you’ll follow this same tradition. It’s the only kindness we can, and must, uphold. But...”

”But what?”

Harvey shrugged. ”I’ve read your news reports. Honestly, you’re probably the one dying tonight.”

Ashe tensed. ”Isn’t it supposed to be random?”

When he first learned that one of the eight would be chosen for execution during the Blood Moon Tribunal, he had assumed it was a random ritual. Otherwise, he couldn’t understand why they would draw eight just to pick one to die.

”It’s not entirely random. Sometimes more than one dies... haven’t you watched the Blood Moon Tribunal before?”

”I really haven’t! I don’t even know the rules!”

Harvey laughed. ”Then you’ll see soon enough... When I watched it as a child, I was utterly shocked. Who would’ve thought this world held such a spectacular form of entertainment? I won’t tell you the truth. Necromancers hate prophecy. Exploring the unknown is a sorcerer’s joy, and death is the greatest mystery of all.”

Ashe clicked his tongue in confusion. ”If it’s definitely me who’s dying, then why is everyone nervous?”

Harvey shrugged. ”Because the Blood Moon Tribunal isn’t set in stone. Sometimes, accidents happen, and prisoners panic, accidentally... playing themselves to death. You’re right. Once I get to the site, I’ll just close my eyes and lie down. As long as I’m not the one chosen from the eight, I don’t need to do a thing. I won’t die.”

Hearing this, Ashe’s nerves tightened even as he ate the Supreme Braised Pork. No way... am I done for? Is there really no chance of survival? The Virtual World Exploration went so smoothly this morning. I even drew the Virtual Telescope. Maybe tonight I could have collected the Slash Me Miracle... The Swordswoman and I are getting stronger, and the world of sorcery is only beginning to reveal its secrets to me...

I just defeated Varkas, foiled Syrin’s scheme... I’m still developing... Why can’t I get just a little more time?

Ashe felt like a marksman saving up for powerful gear, only to be dragged into a raid at the worst possible moment. Victory seemed within reach, yet here he was, forced to fight the trivial battle right in front of him.

He suddenly remembered a post his boss had shared on social media. Life isn’t like cooking. You don’t wait until all the ingredients are ready before starting. If you see yourself sprinkled with cumin, it means you’ve become the ingredient. Who could have guessed that the next day, the company would switch from staggered shifts to a 9-to-9-6 schedule?[1]

”Dinner’s over. Wipe your mouths, take care of personal hygiene in the restroom, and assemble in the central hall within half an hour.”

Warden Nagu wasn’t giving orders. He was inputting commands. Everyone wiped their mouths with napkins at once, then shuffled toward the restrooms.

As Ashe entered, he heard Nagu’s final instruction. ”Arrive at the Blood Moon venue at 7:45 p.m. sharp and wait for the program to begin.”

1. A 9-to-9-6 schedule is a term commonly used in China to describe extremely long working hours in some companies, especially in the tech and start-up sectors. Employees are expected to work from 9 a.m. to 9 p.m., six days a week, leaving very little personal or leisure time. ☜