The Sorcerer's Handbook-Chapter 91: Countdown to Escape

If it hurts enough, grip with both hands,

Cut it open, let yesterday's curse expand.

Through endless night and day it flows,

Leaving behind only scars that show.

The wake-up song echoed through the prison, signaling the start of free activity time. The access lights on all cell doors switched from red to green.

Ashe arrived at the central hall just as the light screen began broadcasting the weather report. "Weather sorcerers predict that April 21 will start cloudy before clearing up. Goblin conception rates are expected to rise sharply today..."

Death row inmates moved in and out of the cafeteria as usual. When Ashe entered, many greeted him first, their attitudes noticeably respectful. After victories in two consecutive Death Matches and surviving the Blood Moon Tribunal, Demon Ashe had become another figure the inmates regarded as a powerhouse capable of rotting away at the bottom of the prison.

Ashe had barely sat down when Iger took the seat opposite him. They exchanged a glance but said nothing. After finishing their breakfast in silence, they headed to the topmost seaview terrace, where Ronna and Ronald were already waiting.

No one came to the terrace early in the morning just to bask in the sun. Those who did most definitely had ulterior motives, like using the spot to scan the sea for potential escape routes. That left only the four of them here.

Iger wasted no time and asked, "Is the Miracle ready?"

Ashe clenched his fist, closed his eyes, and recalled the sensation of resonating with the spirit. He exhaled softly. "All I can say is that I'll do my best."

After days of adjustment and practice in the Virtual World, Ashe had already mastered the Slash Me Miracle. He could even perform it there without spending a shred of mana. Nevertheless, the real world was another matter entirely. The gap between the Virtual World and reality was as vast as the distance between a restaurant and a toilet. He couldn't guarantee a perfect cast.

Iger said nothing. He simply nodded, then turned to Ronna and Ronald. "You've been locked up here for so long. Do you still remember how a sorcerer fights? If anything goes wrong, you'll need to handle anyone who starts asking questions."

"I've only been in prison for less than a month. No problem," Ronald replied.

It had been only two days since their last meeting, yet Ronald already looked worn. His body hadn't wasted away, but his overall vitality had declined. In Ashe's words, he resembled a programmer who had worked fifteen-hour days for an entire month, eating, sleeping, and relieving himself at the office without a moment of rest.

Ronald's voice was low and hoarse, yet it carried a strange steadiness. There was a faint clarity in his eyes, as though something deep inside refused to fade. Beneath that failing body, something still held on.

That only made Ashe more worried. In ordinary terms, this was called a brief return of strength before death. All that mattered now was surviving today. Ashe's mind brimmed with the cold-blooded pragmatism of a corporate strategist, ready to squeeze a temporary worker dry and discard him without hesitation.

Ronna spoke next, "I've been stuck here for years. I can't say for sure whether I'll regain my full combat strength. But I'm a Brawler. I've never stopped honing my fighting skills. Even if I can't use Miracles, channeling my mana should let me unleash about seventy percent of my old strength."

Among physical sorcerers, especially unarmed fighters like Brawlers, most relied on spirits to boost their abilities. Real combat didn't follow rules. No one would hold back weapons just because an opponent fought barehanded. On the contrary, they would use specialized tools to crush the enemies. Unarmed fighters needed spirits to compensate for the weapon gap, either by strengthening defense or increasing mobility.

Ronna was a Moonshadow werewolf. Once transformed, his physical attributes surged. Combined with his spirit, his combat power in narrow, dark environments was likely the strongest on the team.

Iger continued, "Normally, the transport ship arrives in the morning. After escorting prisoners to move supplies, it returns to Shattered Lake Harbor in Caimon City. Here's one thing you need to know. The crew and the Bloodrage Hunters eat in the cafeteria in two separate groups.

"Bloodrage Hunters follow strict rules. Their meal time is limited to five minutes. Considering travel time, we can assume that when the second group enters, there'll be less than ten minutes left until departure.

"In other words, the moment the second group steps in, that'll be our signal. We neutralize the chips within ten minutes, put on the healer's costume, and use their clearance to board the transport ship. Is that clear?"

The plan was crude and rushed. A single mistake at any stage would spell failure, and much of it relied on luck. Yet in a place as tightly sealed as Shattered Lake Prison, the fact that Iger had devised a theoretically workable plan impressed everyone. They nodded, admiration written on their faces.

"Then make your final mental preparations. We'll meet in the cafeteria at noon and eat early."

Iger turned to Ashe. "This is your last chance to back out. You are not incapable of surviving here. You could choose a far safer path."

Ronald and Ronna exchanged glances with Ashe. They knew Iger had little personal desire to escape, and none of them understood how Ashe had drawn someone as manipulative as him into a dangerous plan.

Ashe replied, "As Dylan Thomas once said, 'I will not go gently into that good night'[1]."

Iger nodded thoughtfully. "So your pride cannot allow you to tolerate clinging to life?"

"No. If I stay, I'll face the Blood Moon Tribunal every time. If I don't run, I'm just waiting to die."

"Even after landing in prison, you still worry about revenge. Perhaps you should reflect on your past actions."

Ashe's resolve did not waver. Seeing that, Iger finally let go of his hesitation, waved his hand, and left. He needed a hot bath to cool his head.

There were still one to two hours until noon, and Ashe had no idea how to spend them. He had already mastered the three spirits, Substitute, Swordheart, and Flow, and could invoke them whenever he wished. As for the Miracle, he dared not practice it recklessly. The Slash Me Miracle required a concrete target. If he accidentally neutralized someone else's chip and triggered the prison's alert system ahead of schedule, Iger would mock him for the rest of his life.

With nothing better to do, Ashe wandered around aimlessly until he found himself at the most familiar place of all, the Death Match Club.

On a whim, he stopped short of entering. Instead, he circled to a dim passage behind the building. The surrounding noise faded, leaving only an oppressive silence. A heavy, pitch-black iron door stood at the end of the passage. It radiated danger from every angle, as if it were warning that those who cherished their lives should turn back.

This was the treatment wing.

Ashe pushed the door open. The healer on duty glanced at him and spoke flatly, "Treatment Room One. Your assigned healer will come find you."

Weird... I haven't even taken out the 222 number tag yet. How does she already know who my assigned healer is?

Nevertheless, he did not dwell on it and walked straight into Treatment Room One.

The healer watched his retreating figure. A soft chuckle slipped out from beneath the crow mask. "Be honored by your future."

After a brief wait, the side door opened, and Healer No.222 walked in. She tossed an apple toward Ashe. "Where are you hurt?"

He caught it and took a bite without wiping it. "I'm not injured."

She crossed her arms. "Then why are you here? I'd like to think you came for cosmetic treatment, but you resisted that pretty hard last time. Given your conservative aesthetic taste, I doubt it has changed. So you must be here for... biological modification?"

Ashe fell silent for a moment. "Aren't you overestimating my courage?"

She looked genuinely surprised. "Biological modification doesn't take courage at all. It's trendy now. Swapping an arm, a leg, or an eye is completely normal. Don't tell me you're some kind of natural-body fundamentalist who stubbornly resists new technology?"

"What's wrong with a natural body? Why replace it?"

"Because it's not good enough. Don't you want to be faster, stronger, with better eyesight and sharper hearing?"

"I think my current body is good enough."

"You can even modify your lower body to enhance endurance and pleasure during mating."

Ashe's gaze sharpened. "Next time I get the chance, I'll definitely consult you about the vast depths of biological modification."

"I'm glad you're interested, but I don't think your lower body will ever be very useful in this lifetime."

"I've already said I'll escape this place someday. I'll regain my freedom."

"Even with that unrealistic premise, I still won't revise my conclusion. That is, unless you're willing to accept my Handsome Man Transformation Surgery. Think about it."

"It's not that I doubt the power of being handsome. I just don't trust you."

"Tch."

She pouted and plopped down on the bed, then tilted her head. "Then if you're perfectly fine, why did you come to the treatment wing? This is the first time you've come here on your own."

She was right. Every previous visit had involved him being carried in. This was the first time he had walked through the door himself.

Ashe spread his hands. "I came to chat. A death row inmate like me has plenty of free time."

She put her hands on her hips. "But I don't. Do you think I'm like you? I'm busy. Researching spell formulas, studying new knowledge, and writing papers. I don't have time to chat. I'll let it slide this time, but don't do it again."

Even through the crow mask and the distorted voice, Ashe could hear the faint note of pleasure in her tone.

Just as he had thought, no matter which world he was in, all workers shared the same instinct. Everyone wanted to slack off, and nothing made slacking more enjoyable than gossip.

Healer No.222 went on to happily share about her good news, like the senior who always targeted her getting kicked out for stealing, how she had been insanely lucky in the Virtual World lately, and that she had eaten a double-yolk egg for breakfast. After she finished, Ashe abruptly changed the subject. "Hey, I just realized you're actually pretty good-looking."

She froze. "Huh? R-really? I'm not that good-looking. What part do you think looks good?"

"Your outfit," Ashe said calmly. "So can you take it off and give it to me?"

It took a full five seconds for her to process the absurdity of what he had just said.

When she turned around, opened her toolbox, and began carefully selecting a scalpel, a chill ran down Ashe's spine. The person standing before him was someone capable of dissecting him completely, stitching him back together, and treating it as routine medical practice. 𝙛𝓻𝒆𝒆𝒘𝙚𝓫𝙣𝙤𝒗𝙚𝓵.𝙘𝙤𝙢

Ashe spoke quickly, "222, I don't have much time left."

1. This line references the poem "Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night" by Dylan Thomas, in which he urges defiance in the face of death and encourages people to fight against the inevitable rather than surrender quietly. ☜