The heavy iron double doors of the second-level canteen creaked open, revealing a cavernous, subterranean hall that was staggeringly massive. It was far too large for a standard detention facility, boasting a vaulted stone ceiling supported by thick, rune-carved pillars that vanished into the dim upper shadows. Row after row of long, bolted-down metal tables stretched across the gray concrete floor, already half-filled with hundreds of inmates whose orange jumpsuits created a sea of vivid, depressing color. At the very center of the hall, a monolithic, slow-moving line coiled like a sluggish serpent toward the metal food counters, where massive cauldrons of gray, unidentifiable gruel steam-vented into the cold air.
I slid into the rear of the line, keeping my chin tucked low and my hands loosely bound by the heavy links of my magic-dampening chains. Inmate 222 hovered a few paces behind me, still radiating a foul, resentful energy over his lost poster, but I completely tuned him out. My mind was already spinning at a hyper-calculating pace, systematically analyzing the environment and drafting a blueprint for my impending coup.
To execute the master plan and force my way down to Luke on the third level, I needed to identify and dethrone the absolute strongest entity in this prison population. But navigating a physical conflict inside the Dodorant Citadel was a delicate, high-wire act. Because every single inmate wore the exact same heavy iron magic-dampening chains and strength-depleting collars, the prison's security matrix had effectively flattened the playing field. Our active mana pools were completely severed, and our physical attributes had been forcefully compressed down to a static, baseline human maximum of exactly 100 stats.
This mechanical limitation introduced a dangerous variable. When numerical stats are perfectly identical, raw biology takes over. I knew that if the undisputed king of this cell block was a naturally massive, towering giant of a man, his skeletal leverage and sheer muscle mass would grant him a distinct physical advantage over Keane's leaner, unexceptional three-inch-disaster of a frame. Alternatively, the apex predator might be a seasoned martial artist, someone who spent a lifetime refining the mechanics of violence. Fortunately, a martial arts expert didn't frighten me in the slightest. My personal experience in flawless, lethal hand-to-hand combat was ingrained into my muscle memory; a lifetime of S-rank infiltration training meant I could read telemetry, manipulate center-of-mass, and exploit anatomical blind spots with absolute perfection. I could dismantle a master brawler using Keane's human-level stats without breaking a sweat.
The real, glaring problem wasn't the inmates at all. It was the security detail.
I looked up, my sharp eyes subtly mapping the room. Heavy-armored Citadel guards and elite knights were densely stationed at precise intervals along the entire perimeter of the canteen. They stood elevated on reinforced iron catwalks and flanked every major exit, their hands resting heavily on the pommels of their broadswords and their fingers twitching near the triggers of mana-charged crossbows. Unlike the prisoners, the guards were entirely uninhibited. Their stats were unsuppressed, their magical attributes were fully operational, and their physical conditioning vastly outclassed our artificially limited baselines.
If I blindly picked a fight right here in the open, the consequences would be catastrophic. The moment a fist flew, a dozen high-stat guards would descend upon the fray like an avalanche of steel. Without my Pain Manipulation skill to shield Keane's fragile nerve endings, a brutal beating from their enchanted batons would leave me physically broken. From there, the scenario split into two equally fatal options: either the guards would use lethal force to suppress a perceived riot, killing my host body on the spot, or I would be hauled away and thrown into a deep, anti-magic solitary confinement cell. If I got locked in solitary, I would be completely isolated from the general population, losing all access to information, the criminal syndicates, and my ultimate path down to Luke.
A reckless, edgy outburst would ruin everything. I had to be incredibly cautious. I needed to bide my time in this sluggish line, observe how the factions interacted during breakfast, and wait for the perfect, unmonitored blind spot to strike the first domino.
The line crawled forward at a torturously sluggish pace, the heavy air of the cavernous canteen thick with the smell of cheap grease, boiled starch, and the sour sweat of hundreds of unwashed convicts. My boots shuffled mechanically over the cold concrete floor as I maintained my detached, brooding focus, systematically cataloging the guard patterns along the upper catwalks.
Suddenly, a subtle shift in the air pressure beside me caught my attention. Inmate 222… the shameless old degenerate who had spent the entire night turning our cell into a biological hazard zone, abruptly stepped out of our designated sequence. With a bizarrely confident stride, he began to casually weave his way forward, attempting to cut directly to the front of the massive line to snag an early morning ration tray without waiting his turn. The old bastard had the sheer audacity to spend the midnight hours gooning to my older sister's thick, seductive thighs, and now he was pulling a stunt like this right in front of the guards.
*Not on my watch, old man.*
Acting on pure instinct, my hand shot out like a striking viper. Even with Keane Leon's physical attributes compressed down to a baseline human maximum of 100 by the heavy iron restraints, my S-rank kinetic perception allowed me to execute the movement with flawless, blinding precision. My fingers clamped tightly around the back of his coarse orange collar, jerking him backward with a sharp, metallic rattle.
"Where do you think you're going, old hag?" I muttered in a low, dangerous, edgy whisper that cut right through the ambient roar of the cafeteria.
But the moment my fingers compressed the fabric, a sickening, slippery sensation coated my palm. I froze, my eyes widening in immediate, visceral horror as I looked down at his wrists. To my absolute revulsion, the heavy iron links of his strength-dampening chains were covered in a thin, glistening layer of fresh, sticky white liquid. The realization hit my brain like a physical blow: he was a literal master gooner. Even without the physical poster of Elicia in his hands, his twisted mind had completely hardwired her image into his brain like a permanent memory card. He was actively standing in a crowded, high-security prison line, vividly imagining my sister's thick, sweaty thighs and massive breasts, and his body was reacting to it in real time.
"Ugh! God!" I hissed, immediately breaking my grip and releasing him as if he were made of burning acid.
A wave of profound disgust washed over me. I violently began rubbing my hand against the clean side of my orange jumpsuit, trying to desperately brush off the imaginary residue while dry-heaving under my breath. My edgy main-character composure was completely compromised by raw, unadulterated trauma. I was ready to kick him through a stone pillar just to cleanse my sight, but luckily, someone else did the dirty work for me.
Before Inmate 222 could take another step forward, a towering shadow fell over him. A massive, heavily calloused hand reached out from the crowd, clamping onto the front of the old man's shirt with enough force to lift his heels slightly off the concrete.
"Hey, 'Holy Masturbator'… where do you think you're going? We haven't finished business with you yet."
I stepped back, my sharp eyes instantly scanning the newcomer to assess the threat matrix. The man was identified by a thick, white white-cloth patch stitched over his massive chest: Inmate 123. He was a colossal African man with an incredibly broad, muscular build, easily towering well over six feet in height. Even with his stats artificially flattened to the universal 100 baseline by his strength-depleting collar, his natural skeletal leverage and dense muscle mass made him look like an absolute tank compared to the rest of the starved populace. Just by analyzing his shifting eyes, his aggressive posture, and the specific way he carried himself, it was easy to read his criminal profile. He didn't have the calculated aura of a high-tier mastermind or a sophisticated counterfeiter; instead, he radiated the grotesque, predatory energy of a violent sexual deviant, a literal gay pedophile who hunted the weak within the prison system.
Inmate 222's tough guy act vanished in an instant. He began to tremble violently in the giant's grip, his face draining of all color as his knees buckled.
"Please… please, don't, my… my butthole still hurts from last time."
Hearing those words confirmed my darkest tactical suspicions. Inmate 123 was indeed a horrific predator, and based on the way the surrounding prisoners immediately quieted down, averting their eyes in absolute silence, it was glaringly obvious that this massive man was currently the undisputed, terrifying heavyweight apex predator of the second level. He was the strongest guy in the room, ruling the tier through sheer physical intimidation and psychological terror.
Rather than striking the old man, Inmate 123 let out a low, disturbing chuckle. He leaned his massive head down, and with a sickening, wet motion, he disgustingly licked the side of Inmate 222's bald head, leaving a streak of saliva across his wrinkled skin. He stepped back slightly, puckered his lips, and blew a mocking, theatrical kiss right into the old man's face.
Terrified out of his mind and thoroughly broken, Inmate 222 frantically scrambled backward the moment the giant released his shirt. He didn't care about food anymore; he literally dove behind my leaner frame, using me as a human shield. He clutched at the fabric of my jumpsuit from behind, shaking like a leaf, entirely petrified of the monster looming over the line.
I stood perfectly still, my eyes narrowing into razor-sharp slits as I stared directly into the eyes of Inmate 123. The giant looked back at me, a mocking, predatory smirk spreading across his dark face. My master plan required me to dominate this prison, to beat the strongest man, and to join the elite criminal group to reach Luke on the third level. The target had just walked right up to me. The ultimate boss of the second floor was standing less than three feet away, and the game of dominance had officially begun.
Inmate 222 clung to the back of my orange jumpsuit like a terrified little girl trapped in a wrinkled, fifty-year-old body. The moment his fingers dug into my shoulders, my mind instantly flashed back to the glistening, crusty white liquid coating his strength-dampening chains. The sickening realization hit me: his filthy, trembling hands were literally covered in fresh semen.
A wave of pure, unadulterated fury shot through me. I twisted my torso violently, breaking his grip, and glared back at him with eyes that could kill.
"Get your filthy, biohazard hands off of me right now, or I swear to God I will call Inmate 123 back over here to finish what he started with you."
The old man gasped, flinching backward and pulling his hands to his chest like a scolded dog. But the damage was already done. I looked down at my shoulders and chest, and my jaw clenched so hard my teeth ached. As expected, the fabric of my uniform was now laced and visibly drenched with patches of that disgusting, sticky white liquid. My brand-new blazer had been ruined yesterday, and now my standard-issue prison jumpsuit was officially a biological hazard.
Maintaining my cold, detached main character persona, I didn't scream or break character. Instead, I calmly looked from the stains back to the trembling old hag, my voice dropping into an icy, threatening monotone.
"Look at what you just did to my attire. Do that again, and you won't live to see the next roll call."
The surrounding prisoners in line gave us a wide berth, completely weirded out by the absolute psychological trainwreck happening in our sector. Fortunately, the line kept moving, and the distraction allowed us to finally reach the metal serving counter.
The heavy-set lunchlady behind the reinforced glass partition didn't even look me in the eye. With a bored, mechanical grunt, she slapped a plastic tray down in front of me. To my surprise, it wasn't the sludge-like gray gruel the others were getting. My tray held a crisp cucumber salad, heavily drenched in a creamy white dressing. Compared to the literal garbage being served to the rest of the block, it actually looked incredibly appetizing.
Inmate 222 shuffled up right behind me, quickly grabbing his own identical salad tray before any more drama could find him.
As we turned away from the counter, my sharp, kinetic eyes scanned the wider canteen. Over in the center of the hall, the colossal predator, Inmate 123, was actively asserting his dominance over the tier, openly harassing and violating another group of weaker, terrified inmates while the guards on the upper catwalks purposefully looked the other way. He was the undisputed apex king of this floor, a monstrous roadblock standing between me and my ultimate objective.
"Keep moving," I muttered to the old man, completely ignoring the chaotic scene.
Using the crowded rows of tables as visual cover, we seamlessly slipped past the giant's peripheral vision. We navigated the sea of orange jumpsuits until we reached the absolute furthest corner of the cavernous room, sliding onto a cold metal bench facing a bolted-down table. With my back safely against the solid stone wall, I finally had a clear, unmonitored view of the entire cafeteria.
I picked up my plastic fork, staring at the drenched cucumber salad, and began to quietly plan my next move. The hierarchy of the Second Level was perfectly clear now, and it was time to systematically tear it down.