The Tutorial Is Over

In any closed community already packed with entrenched veterans, a genuine shake-up is a rare event. But now that Seoul Southern Prison had begun pouring serious investment into the Darkzone, the old power structure had been torn wide open.

The first to fall were the ones who had been living large, convinced they would eventually serve out their sentences and walk free. The gentlemen who had leaned on mega-corps, major crime syndicates, or the backing of the state itself suddenly found that outside protection no longer reached them.

And so the ones with no money, no power, and nothing impressive in the way of personal combat ability were the first to become prey. The hierarchy had flipped completely. The proof was crawling on all fours right in front of me, like dogs.

"You've been strutting around on that pathetic little scrap of power, huh? Well, you're all fucked now. Heh heh."

"Couldn't stand watching that bastard swagger around. Serves him right."

"If you're gonna crawl like dogs, you oughta bark too, you sons of bitches! Woof! Woof!"

"At that point, why don't you just go bark for them yourself?"

"Fuck off, you psycho."

What could you do? Once everyone had been cheerfully upgraded to death row, the first to get culled were the ones with no ability and no strength. And given the Korean national pastime of slaves comparing the size and length of each other's shackles just to taste some scrap of superiority, those men were destined to become the prison's officially certified luxury doormats.

They'd had their fill of consequence-free pleasure. Time they paid the tab.

I have said it more times than I can count: I do not care what the criminals who landed themselves in here get up to. As long as they do not mess with me, they can stew or fry each other for all I care.

"Whew! Well, look who it is. If it isn't the lucky boy of Block Zero himself?"

And of course, guys like this had to show up.

The pack blocking my path had been wearing standard inmate blues as recently as yesterday. Now every regular convict's name tag had flipped to orange — death row — which meant these ones had not been Oranges before. Maybe that was why. The ones who had been "promoted" from regular inmate to death row seemed to harbor a peculiar inferiority complex toward the original Oranges.

It made sense. Both Darkzone deployment experience and profit rates were overwhelmingly higher on the death row side. And someone like me, who had been drawing massive attention lately, would grate on them even more.

"You all look like you've got time to kill. Instead of playing ranking games out here, maybe you should be worrying about the Darkzone deployments starting today."

"Ohh, I guess the guy who broke the profit record three times running really is a cut above."

The guy who had tacked that last remark on took a step closer and shoved his ugly mug in my face.

"How long do you figure that luck of yours is gonna last? Got any buddies watching your back? We're all gonna be living here together, twenty-four seven, three hundred sixty-five. How well do you think those flimsy iron bars are gonna protect you?"

His pathetic little threat must have landed, because snickers rippled through the crowd. Most of the inmates shared his thinking. I, for my part, could not begin to see why any of that was supposed to matter.

"Let's get one thing straight first."

"What?"

"..."

"You can die playing house in here, die in the Darkzone, die of disease, or die trying to escape. One way or another, the ending is already written. If that head of yours isn't just a decoration, you already know that."

"You little—"

"And if you're going to die anyway, shouldn't you enjoy whatever life's left as much as you can?"

"That's why I'm starting with assholes like you!"

I sighed at the answer from a man who really did seem to be wearing his head as an accessory.

"So you take care of the ones crawling like dogs, the ones like me who get on your nerves, the ones who talk back — one by one — and then 'that day' arrives. What then?"

"...What the hell are you talking about?"

"Forgot already? Every death row inmate has to deploy into the Darkzone at least once a week. First refusal is a warning. Second is a forced drop. Last is summary execution. How long do you figure you'll last, playing ranking games out here?"

"..."

His swagger deflated in an instant, like a popped balloon. Typical of a guy with zero Darkzone experience, wasting his time on this garbage. I turned the same question on the ones standing behind him.

"How about the rest of you? How long can you last? A week? Two? Or is it a same-day death certificate the first time they drag you into the Darkzone?"

"..."

Pathetic. This was exactly why they had committed crimes and gotten caught. If they had not been pathetic, they would not have committed crimes. If they had had any real ability, they would not have gotten caught even if they had. Which meant the majority of the men in this prison were either pathetic, incompetent, or — like me — just spectacularly unlucky.

And these clowns have the nerve to call me a lucky boy. Pathetic bastards.

Without another word, I clapped the dazed idiot on the shoulder and walked through the pack that had been blocking my way.

"I'm heading to the Darkzone. So think it over. If you want to last as long as you can in this prison — one way or another — you'd better start treating that place like a second hometown."

The ones who had actually listened to my advice had already wiped the smirks off their faces and taken off somewhere. The ones who still did not get it just swore at my back.

Whether they lasted a long time or died early was none of my business. This prison was about to start racking up massive casualties every single day, and a fresh crop of inmates would pour in to fill the gaps. Except for me, there would be no more "veterans" left in this place.

Looking forward to that influx of new blood, the best thing I could do right now was head for the Darkzone.

"Ah! Leader!"

I headed for the common-area elevator that would take us down for Darkzone deployment, and found my new party member — the Russian — already waiting there. Standing out in the open like that was a great way to get noticed, and a great way to pick a fight with inmates whose eyes had gone feral. Whether she was fearless or just a lot more capable than she looked, nobody around her showed the slightest inclination to start something. Even the ones who had been so eager to pick a fight with me, the Super Rookie, were edging away.

She's got some serious backing, then. That's why she came all the way here alone without a second thought.

The original plan had been to take the elevators from our respective cell blocks and meet at a designated spot. The fact that she had come looking for me meant she knew exactly where she stood.

"Why didn't you just go down and wait? What's with standing around up here?"

"It's our first deployment as a proper squad. I thought it only made sense that I come up to greet the leader."

"That's sweet, but you don't need to do that from now on. I prefer a soft, horizontal relationship over a stiff, vertical one."

Which was to say that my backpack, and the backpack standing next to me, were both mine — from a soft, horizontal point of view.

"Anyway, if you're ready, let's move. The other teams are going to flood in around lunch, so we'd better get in early."

"Yes. But if we're going to work together, I think we should settle on what to call each other. I don't mind calling you Leader, but what will you call me?"

"Lucy."

"...Why Lucy, of all things?"

"You're Russian. Rusy. Lucy."

The same energy as deciding a Korean person's nickname was "Korea" from this day forward, just because they were Korean.

"Or I'll just call you R2, if that's easier. I'm the leader, so I'm L1."

"Lucy is fine, thank you..."

"Then starting today, you're Lucy."

She looked like she had more to say, but I was not Time Elon Musk — I did not have hours to burn on trivia. If she had a problem with it, she should have been born on the fire peninsula of South Korea and grown up eating kimchi, not in the frozen wastes of Russia. Then she could have earned the proud title of "Korea."

Ding!

The elevator must have come all the way down from the Ground Floor, because the moment the doors opened, it was already fairly packed. I had heard the Ground Floor had a high concentration of long-termers and death row inmates who had been locked up here since before the prison's major renovation. That would explain why I was seeing more original lifers and Oranges than the newly recolored regulars whose name tags had simply flipped to orange.

We walked in looking for space, and the men standing inside, though clearly uncomfortable, readily made room. Probably because they recognized me as the Super Rookie.

I never had any luck with women in the real world, but in here I'm wildly popular with criminals.

Was life really this bitter a cup of black coffee? Bald Manager, sir — I finally understand why you always forced down that morning black coffee that never suited you, muttering about how unfair it all was.

That was when it happened. Someone tapped my shoulder. I turned, and a death row inmate with a gloomy face was looking at me.

I immediately drove my elbow sideways.

Crack!

"Ghk!"

"The old 'distract the target, then hit the blind spot' routine — isn't that a little obvious?"

The one who had tried to jam a blade into my side the instant I looked away was rolling on the floor, clutching his broken nose. I had not expected a death row inmate to go after another death row inmate right before a Darkzone drop.

"Even you have to admit this is a little too obvious to pass off as a spur-of-the-moment thing."

When had they even seen me, that they would try to stick a knife in me on sight? And as a coordinated two-man job, no less. Once their play was blown and the prize stab had failed, the one who had tapped my shoulder to draw my eyes threw both hands up.

"You're as good as they say. We just heard the underground blocks have been buzzing lately, so we wanted to see how special this famous lucky boy really was. Nothing personal."

"So if it's nothing personal, that means you can ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠just jam a knife into someone? Fine. I'll kill you both right here, and then I'll offer my condolences out of courtesy. Nothing personal."

"Don't be so uptight. This is everyday life on the Ground Floor. It's ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠only natural we'd want to know if some Orange making waves downstairs is actually on our level."

"Then you should've picked a better comparison. You don't just casually stack a monkey up against Einstein."

I had no intention of settling this here, not with a Darkzone drop waiting. But I tossed that out just to probe these guys who took such peculiar pride in themselves. His face twitched. Just a little.

"Ah, Ground Floor inmates don't care much for smart remarks, is that it? My mistake."

I kicked the blade that had fallen to the floor, sending it skittering far away, then hauled the broken-nosed one to his feet myself and patted the dust off his clothes.

"Still, be more careful next time, monkey. What if I'd been Chinese?"

"..."

"As for the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠broken nose... maybe hit the infirmary before your Darkzone drop. Or just tell everyone a crooked nose is the latest fashion. That works too."

Ding!

Right on cue, the elevator arrived at the lowest level. I grabbed Lucy by the shoulder — she had been silently watching the whole thing — and pulled her out first.

Thinking about it now, Lucy had been in more danger than I was.

A leader who can't protect his teammates doesn't deserve the title.

Where else was I going to find a living backpack like this? I had to take good care of her. The person in question, however, did not seem to grasp the gravity of it. She just grumbled.

"Those people just now were extremely rude. I was told that not interfering with each other before a Special Du— before a Darkzone deployment was an unspoken rule. They broke it."

"Expecting anything normal from a criminal's way of thinking is the mistake. You start from abnormal, irrational, and unreasonable, and work from there."

"Even so, the fact remains that you could have been seriously hurt."

"If I had gotten hurt, I'd have wrung them for emotional damages, medical bills, and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠snack money, with interest. So don't worry about it."

What I was actually worried about was the Darkzone schedule getting thrown off. Even if the sky split in two and the Earth ended, I was going into the Darkzone one more time.

Even the guards had started calling Special Duty by its new name. Which meant the government, the corporate coalition, and the military had officially agreed to call that unknown subspace the Darkzone.

Now it really begins.

Until now, this had been nothing more than a closed beta. A tutorial.

The various entry hatches scattered throughout the vast isolation chamber opened, revealing a darkness as black as pitch. There was no way for the inmates to know what waited on the other side of that darkness until they pushed through and saw it with their own eyes.

But one thing was certain. Every kind of wealth and glory was waiting for us in the Darkzone's dark.

And, in equal measure, despair, terror, and death.