A Convict Stripped of Rights (Part 2)

Time to face the music: I was completely, utterly fucked.

"Get in. This is your new home from now on."

The guard shoved my shoulder with the blunt end of his baton, swinging open an iron door fitted with a tiny barred slit and roughly pushing me forward.

"Yes, sir."

Pissed off as I was, I stepped inside without a fuss. The last thing I needed was to catch an attitude and get cleaved clean in two by some overpowered NPC.

Screeech—slam.

The heavy iron door slammed shut, sealing me in. All that occupied the miserable, airless solitary cell was a ramshackle cot knocked together from splintered slats and a foul little chamber pot tucked in the corner.

Haaah... Alright, let's take stock of the situation.

First, I had been swallowed whole by that terrifying, shadowy maw, only to wake up here. From the glimpses I'd caught while being escorted down the hall, this place was undeniably a penitentiary. And not just any run-of-the-mill prison, either—a penal colony perched on an isolated island, surrounded on all sides by violent, thrashing seas.

Fuck me. What the hell was actually going on?

I glanced down to inspect my own body. The second I had opened my eyes in this world, I was dressed to kill—a sharp leather longcoat, a tailored utility belt, looking every bit the brooding fusion-punk detective. Now? Stripped down to the absolute bare minimum. All I had on was a flimsy, breezy rag of a prisoner smock and a cold, heavy metal collar clamped securely around my neck. Every other inmate I'd passed on the way in wore the exact same setup. Standard-issue prison garb, without question. The number 44 crudely stamped across the chest made that painfully obvious.

Oddly enough, two of my personal items remained on me: the jet-black book gripped in my left hand, and the delicate ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠petal sealed inside a glass vial hanging from a cord around my neck. Neither had been confiscated.

For reasons beyond me, the guards had completely ignored the black book. They walked right past it as if it were entirely invisible, so it slipped through unchecked. As for why they hadn't taken the vial... that was thanks to the random bout of Madness that had violently flared up earlier.

"Aaaargh... ehehehe, fuuuck!! Hrrrk...!"

"W-Whoa, what the hell? What's wrong with this bastard all of a sudden?!"

"You dumb shit! I told you not to mess with their personal talismans!"

"N-No, Boss, I swear, I barely touched him!"

It had detonated in the blink of an eye. A high-pitched, drilling whine had pierced my skull, followed by an agonizing sensory overload—visual distortions, whispering auditory phantoms, and every psychological symptom known to modern medicine firing at once. Acting purely on primal survival instinct, I had chased the intoxicating, sweet aroma wafting from my chest, uncorked the vial, and shoved my nose inside. The sweet menthol vapor instantly restored my sanity.

I must have looked like a desperate junkie scrounging for a hit. Still, even if that stunt had branded me as an unhinged psycho in the eyes of the staff, surviving took priority over dignity.

The distinctive attire of the Abyssal Wizard. The system notification flashed right before I was swallowed: The tutorial area will be modified. Add in the eerie black grimoire, the random psychotic seizures, and the Petal of Ambrosia acting as an emergency stabilizer... What did all these puzzle pieces add up to?

"I should have known the second I saw 'Despair Difficulty.'"

I had transmigrated. And worse, into the body of an emotionally volatile headcase burdened with an incurable, permanent mental illness. An Abyssal Wizard—I had literally become the insane character I had just rolled. Because the character creation screen was still fresh in my memory, the name popped up instantly.

That was my identity now. Ian.

"Pheeew..."

God, I could kill for a cigarette right now.

A quick survey of my surroundings confirmed that I wasn't the sole occupant of this squalid hole. Unknown vermin scuttled across the damp stone flagstones with dry, scratching clicks. I booted the illegal squatters out of the way and sat down on the rickety cot.

Roughly three hours had passed since the transmigration. I didn't have a watch, but my internal clock pegged it around there. Absurd as the reality was, the time for denial had ended. I refused to curl up and rot away in some forgotten solitary cell. As an obsessively dedicated veteran who had conquered Phase 20, I had my gamer's pride. Dying like a stray dog in the goddamn tutorial was not on my itinerary.

Being thrust into a living nightmare had left my head spinning, my stomach sour, and my nerves frayed, but I forced my breathing into a steady rhythm. Fortunately, I possessed a transmigration perk. Well, technically it was class-exclusive starting gear, so perhaps not a true cheat, but who cared about semantics? I had this bizarre black tome in my hands. A conventional holographic status window would have been nice, but beggars couldn't be choosers. Who knows? Maybe this thing was an analog status screen.

I raised the black book in my left hand.

Ssshhk.

A clammy, malevolent chill rippled through the stagnant air of the cell as the grimoire's true nature revealed itself.

"Wait, is this...?"

A deeply familiar user interface greeted my eyes. I hadn't actually expected it to function as a literal analog status screen.

My brief respite was cut brutally short.

"Hey, Number 44! Step out!"

They called, so out I went. Marching through a dizzying maze of damp, twisting corridors provided an opportunity to study the prison's layout. Gradually, a rough architectural blueprint assembled in my mind. Towering perimeter walls cut the fortress off from the outer sea, encircling a labyrinthine network of corridors and cell blocks. At the geographic center of the complex lay a sprawling open yard.

The penal colony lacked a ceiling over the yard. The sky above remained pitch black, and the bright, radiant moon hanging overhead resembled a grotesque, bloodshot eyeball staring hungrily down at the earth. Obviously, that wasn't natural. Judging by the placid expressions of the guards and fellow prisoners, I was the only person capable of seeing it.

It had to be the passive trait granted right before my transmigration. Staring directly into it was unsettling, so I promptly dropped my gaze back toward the ground. Keeping my eyes locked on the stone pavers, I turned my attention to planning an escape.

This was the tutorial zone. A modified starting location forced by the Despair Difficulty setting, and the developer's intent was blaringly obvious: Break out of here.

To pull that off, I needed actionable intelligence. Whether by commandeering a transport boat, braving the icy currents, or somehow taking flight, a route had to exist. A game like Dungeon Core would never dump a player into an unwinnable scenario without an exit strategy. The game was celebrated for its insane freedom of approach. That sandbox design was the very reason I had poured thousands of hours into it, so naturally—

Smack!

"Quit spacing out, you little shit! Pick up the pace!"

You motherfucker...

A sharp flick to the back of my skull derailed my thoughts. Swallowing my irritation, I looked up to see that we had arrived at the central courtyard. Throngs of prisoners were gathered across the yard, swinging pickaxes into the bedrock in dull, rhythmic thuds.

Wait, don't tell me...

While I stood frozen in mounting horror, another blow cracked across the back of my neck.

"Total deadweight, this one. You see the job, you get your ass moving! This here's your new wife from now on, so you better cherish her. If she goes missing, you go missing with her, got it?"

Grinning malevolently, the guard shoved a pristine, heavy iron pickaxe into my hands. Out of nowhere, I had been conscripted into forced labor. Excuse me... my Strength stat was literally zero. Did a sickly pretty-boy wizard qualify for zero disability accommodations in this hellhole? I cast a hopeful, pleading glance toward the guard, only to receive another swift clip over the ear.

Despair Difficulty truly took no prisoners.

As it turned out, the labor was surprisingly manageable.

Clang, clang, clang!

"Ten-minute recess!!"

A loud crackle echoed from the loudspeaker perched atop the central watchtower. Instantly, collective groans of relief swept through the yard, followed by the heavy thuds of inmates discarding their "wives" into the dirt.

"Finally over for now. Hey, Maknae! Haul your ass over here and knead these shoulders."

"Right away, Big Sis!"

The powerhouse who had demolished my quota alongside her own was an immense woman named Kiara. With a towering, chiseled bodybuilder physique, she could easily be mistaken for a mountain of a man if not for the distinct swell of her chest. Slipping effortlessly into my veteran rookie ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠persona, I began vigorously working out the dense knots across her shoulders.

"Heheh, how does that feel, Big Sis?"

"Ooooh, that hits the spot. Damn, Maknae, did you take classes for this? You've got magic hands..."

Had I chosen the Warrior class, our dynamic would likely have unfolded very differently. Viewed through that lens, I was perfectly content with my role. I had endless experience giving massages to crusty senior officers during my mandatory military service back on Earth. Besides, I loathed physical exertion. The critical distinction between the military and this prison was that here, I had volunteered. With my pathetic Strength and Stamina, swinging that pickaxe would have laid me out with severe muscle fever. Thanks to Kiara carrying my weight, I had coasted through the shift without breaking a sweat.

"Hey, Maknae. You said you lost your memory, right?"

"Yes! Total blank slate!"

That was the cover story I was running with. In a literal sense, it wasn't even a lie since I had zero recollections of this body's previous life.

"So you don't even know what they tossed you in here for?"

"That is correct! Not ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a single clue!"

Thinking about it objectively, now that the game had become my reality, an official ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠pretext for my incarceration had to exist. It certainly wasn't for petty theft. Nothing about this facility resembled a conventional prison. The system had likely generated some absurd backstory crime to justify locking me up.

"Tsk, poor little bastard."

"Honestly, Big Sis, I consider myself exceptionally fortunate."

"Huh? Did you hit your head, kid?"

"Not at all! If I hadn't been locked up, I never would have had the honor of meeting you! Ah, your trapezius is quite tight right here—allow me."

"Ngh, *oooh*... Pwahaha! You sure know how to butter someone up. I'm taking a liking to you, kid."

Right at that moment, flutter-flutter-thwip. The black pages of the grimoire began rifling through the empty air beside my hand.

Finally! Here it comes!

"Big Sis, give me just one second!"

"Hey, why are you stopping—*ngaaah, right there...!*"

Delivering one final, precision pressure-point strike that left her melting in bliss, I pulled my left hand away and flipped open the invisible tome—the Abyssal Grimoire.

Glowing letters pulsed brightly on the page: Bonds « View Details » (NEW!)

I focused on the gleaming script and pressed it.

One of the cornerstone mechanics of Dungeon Core: Bonds.

Accumulate enough affinity with an NPC, and you could recruit them as a trusted companion. This was the true reason I had gladly degraded myself into the prison's most devoted little rookie.