Tucker also explained match classes before Ethan signed.
“Class I is where you’re starting.”
“Initiated cap.”
“Yes.”
“Class II?”
“One-Wing output.”
“Class III?”
“Two-Wing.”
Ethan looked toward the arena.
“Class IV?”
Tucker was silent long enough to answer.
“Why would a prison allow higher levels?”
“Because some prisoners arrive higher.”
“Wouldn’t that make escape easier?”
“Chip and barrier scale.”
“Do they ever fail?”
Tucker looked at him.
“Everything fails.”
That was not the answer Ethan wanted from a club guide.
Tucker continued.
“Class is not only power.
It changes medical risk and contribution reward.”
“So stronger prisoners earn more.”
“Usually.”
“Which means they can buy more legal resources.”
“Yes.”
“Which means power becomes options.”
Tucker smiled faintly.
“Welcome to society.”
Ethan hated when prison explanations generalized successfully.
The registration desk required combat history.
Ethan entered none.
The terminal rejected it.
HISTORY FIELD CANNOT BE EMPTY.
He tried zero.
INVALID FORMAT.
He typed “I got stabbed by a government hunter.” The terminal accepted it as free text.
Tucker looked over.
“That counts.”
“Seriously?”
“Combat trauma.”
“It lasted three seconds.”
“Efficient trauma.”
The next field asked preferred victory condition.
KNOCKOUT.
DEATH.
EITHER.
Ethan stared.
“Why would anyone select death?”
Tucker answered without humor.
“Some people don’t want medical verification ambiguity.”
“That sentence makes me tired.”
He selected either because the system described it as standard.
Then came prohibited techniques.
Eye destruction.
Soul damage.
Memory attacks.
Permanent spirit severance.
Ethan felt brief relief.
“There are limits.”
“Yes.”
Then he saw the next line.
PROHIBITIONS APPLY ONLY TO CLASS I MATCHES.
Class II and above permitted several items.
Class IV apparently allowed almost everything short of permanent soul annihilation.
He looked at Tucker.
“People volunteer for that?”
“People volunteer for worse outside prison.”
Contribution economy again.
There were tabs for audience bonuses.
Style.
Comeback.
Technical performance.
Underdog.
Narrative interest.
Ethan stared at narrative interest.
“How is that measured?”
“Engagement system.”
“Automated?”
“Partly.”
“Humans?”
“Partly.”
“So someone watches prisoners bleed and awards story points.”
Tucker shrugged.
“Broadcast division.”
Ethan felt his old profession reaching across dimensions to mock him.
He had once optimized event rewards so players would feel compelled to return daily.
Lakeview optimized desperation.
Same mathematics.
Different blood.
Lakeview’s Deathmatch Club had a sign-in desk.
Ethan found that offensive on principle.
If an organization allowed people to legally beat one another to death, the least it could do was avoid office furniture.
Instead, the entrance occupied the basement of Recreation Block C and looked disturbingly administrative.
A counter.
Two terminals.
A waiting area.
A wall display showing match schedules.
Someone had even placed a potted plant beside the waiver station.
The plant looked healthier than most prisoners.
Ethan stopped in the doorway.
“This is a gym.”
Adrian stood beside him.
“It is a combat facility.”
“There’s a smoothie machine.”
“Recovery nutrition.”
“There’s a membership tier.”
“Contribution optimization.”
Ethan pointed at the glowing sign.
LAKEVIEW SANCTIONED DEATHMATCH SOCIETY
FIGHT CLEAN.
DIE RESPONSIBLY.
“No.”
Adrian smiled.
“You get used to it.”
Chloe appeared on Ethan’s other side.
She had insisted on watching.
Not because she cared.
She had explained that several times.
“This is horrible.”
Ethan glanced at her.
“You wanted me to fight.”
“I can support a bad idea and still judge the execution.”
“Story of my career.”
A few dozen prisoners filled the lobby.
Some looked ordinary.
Old.
Thin.
Soft around the middle.
Others looked like they had been designed by an artist who considered necks optional.
One man stood near a water station with shoulders broad enough to create local weather.
Bald.
Dark-skinned.
At least six-foot-five.
His gray prison shirt strained over his chest.
A black diamond was tattooed at the center of his throat.
Adrian noticed Ethan looking.
“That is Tucker.”
“Diamond Tucker?”
“You’ve heard of him?”
“Prison gossip.”
Chloe looked Tucker up and down.
“Do not fight that.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“Good.”
Ethan approached because Tucker wore a small red badge marked CLUB GUIDE.
He stopped two feet away.
Tucker looked down.
Then farther down.
Ethan had never considered himself short until that moment.
“New?”
Tucker’s voice was unexpectedly gentle.
“Need help?”
“I’m trying to understand how this works.”
Tucker nodded.
Then glanced at Adrian.
Then at Ethan.
Then back at Adrian.
Something clicked behind his eyes.
His expression became sympathetic.
“Oh.”
Ethan frowned.
“Oh what?”
Tucker leaned closer.
“Look, man.
I appreciate the interest.”
“What interest?”
“But I should be honest.
I have a partner.”
Silence.
Adrian turned away very quickly.
His shoulders began shaking.
Chloe covered her mouth.
Ethan stared at Tucker.
“I was asking about the club.”
Tucker blinked.
“The Deathmatch Club.”
“Right.”
“Not you.”
“Got it.”
Adrian made a strangled noise.
Tucker nodded with exaggerated understanding.
“Sure.”
Ethan’s eye twitched.
“No, actually, not sure.” This chapter is updated first at g.com.
Tucker patted his shoulder.
The hand nearly folded Ethan in half.
“Nothing to be embarrassed about.
When you’re trying to make a connection and the guy immediately says he’s taken, that can be awkward.”
Chloe lost the battle.
She laughed.
Full-body.
Silent to everyone except Ethan.
He pointed at her.
“This is your fault somehow.”
Tucker followed the finger into empty air.
Adrian finally recovered.
“Ethan has a visual companion.”
Tucker nodded.
“Prison does that.”
“No, she’s real.”
“Prison really does that.”
Ethan gave up.
“Can you explain the deathmatches?”
Tucker’s expression shifted.
Still friendly.
More serious.
“First time?”
“Yes.”
“You understand that sanctioned means sanctioned, not safe.”
“I’ve been told.”
“You can die.”
“I’ve been told.”
“You may experience complete cardiac failure, traumatic decapitation, organ destruction, soul shock, spirit rupture, bone displacement, and temporary identity dissociation after resurrection treatment.”
Ethan paused.
“That last one feels important.”
“It usually clears.”
“Usually.”
Tucker smiled.
“Welcome to Lakeview.”
He led them through a security corridor.
At the end stood a scanner arch.
A guard sat behind reinforced glass.
Beyond it, noise.
Not crowd noise.
Impact.
Metal.
A roar.
Something hit something hard enough to shake the floor.
Chloe’s smile disappeared.
Tucker tapped the back of his neck.
“You already know the Miracle Chip blocks prisoner-on-prisoner violence.”
“Yes.”
“Normally it also caps arcane output to safe thresholds.”
Ethan looked through the glass.
A flash of fire illuminated the corridor.
“Safe thresholds.”
“Outside here.”
“Ah.”
Tucker continued.
“Deathmatch Society obtained authorization from Warden Hale sixteen years ago.
During registered matches, the chip enters combat exemption.”
“Meaning?”
“Violence restrictions off.”
“Arcane restrictions?”
“Partially off depending on match class.”
“Escape?”
“Still very on.”
Ethan nodded.
“At least somebody thought of that.”
“The barrier handles containment.”
“Barrier?”
They reached another door.
It opened.
The Deathmatch Hall dropped away beneath them.
Ethan stopped.
It was an arena.
Not enormous.
Maybe three hundred seats.
Circular.
Concrete.
Bright overhead lights.
A central ring fifty feet across enclosed by a shimmering transparent wall.
Blood stained the floor.
Some old.
Some extremely not.
Prisoners filled half the seats.
They shouted.
Bet.
Laughed.
A concession counter sold coffee.
Ethan looked at Adrian.
“People buy snacks.”
“People buy snacks at everything.”
Inside the ring, two prisoners fought.
One had stone plating over both arms.
The other moved with a spear of green light.
The spear punched through the stone man’s stomach.
Ethan flinched.
The stone man grabbed the shaft.
Pulled the attacker closer.
Head-butted him.
Blood sprayed.
The crowd cheered.
Chloe went quiet.
This was not Rosebridge.
No instructor waiting to stop an exchange.
No rules preserving dignity.
The spear fighter tried to retreat.
Stone arms caught him.
Lifted him.
Then smashed him into the floor.
Once.
Twice.
Third time, the body stopped moving.
The barrier remained.
Ethan frowned.
“Why isn’t it stopping?”
Tucker’s answer was calm.
“Not finished.”
“The guy is unconscious.”
Stone Arm kicked the fallen prisoner in the ribs.
No reaction.
Then stomped the spear hand.
Bones broke.
Ethan looked at Tucker.
“He’s out.”
“You do not assume that.”
Stone Arm lifted his foot again.
The fallen prisoner’s eyes opened.
The green spear reappeared.
It went through Stone Arm’s thigh.
The crowd erupted.
Tucker nodded.
“That is why.”
The fight continued.
Ugly.
No rhythm.
No politeness.
Eventually Stone Arm got both hands around the other man’s skull.
There was a crack.
The spear disappeared.
The body went limp.
This time a red light flashed.
The barrier lowered.
A side door opened immediately.
Three medical workers in white coats entered with a floating stretcher.
They collected both fighters.
Both.
Stone Arm had collapsed after victory.
Tucker looked at Ethan.
“Death or verified unconsciousness ends the match.”
Ethan swallowed.
“And medical can restore them.”
“Usually.”
“That word again.”
“Useful word.”
Chloe folded her arms.
“Do not get your neck broken.”
“Planning not to.”
“Your plans are historically weak.”
Adrian stepped closer to the registration kiosk.
“This is where contribution matters.”
Ethan looked at him.
“How?”
“You stake it.”
“On yourself?”
“Or others.”
“Of course there’s gambling.”
“Contribution isn’t money.”
“It’s functioning exactly like money.”
Adrian smiled.
“Then you understand quickly.”
Tucker tapped a display.
BEGINNER MATCH.
Minimum stake: 5 contribution.
Maximum: 20.
Chip violence restriction disabled.
Arcane limit: Initiated level.
Ethan had 18 contribution credits.
Granted on intake.
“How do I get more?”
“Work,” Tucker said.
“Programs.
prison labor.
sanctioned research.
matches.”
“Can I lose all of it?”
“What happens at zero?”
Adrian answered.
“You lose options.”
Ethan looked toward him.
“Legal services?”
“Among other things.”
So the club was not entertainment.
Not really.
It was desperation with a scoreboard.
Ethan looked around.
Red-collared prisoners clustered near the ring.
Judgment track.
More than he expected.
Some watched with wild intensity.
Some looked numb.
One elderly man clutched a betting slip with both hands.
Tucker followed Ethan’s gaze.
“Most condemned people come here eventually.”
“Why?”
“Because contribution can buy hope.”
“Can it stop Blood Moon?”
“No.”
“Then what hope?”
Tucker’s expression changed.
“The kind people buy when the real kind is gone.”
Ethan looked back at the ring.
A new match was being prepared.
His interface chimed.
Chloe appeared closer.
“You’re thinking.”
“Unfortunately.”
“You want to try.”
“Yes.”
“Because of experience.”
“Partly.”
“And contribution.”
“Partly.”
“And because sitting in a cell while the date gets closer is making you insane.”
Ethan glanced at her.
“You’re learning me.”
“Thirty-two percent.”
He almost smiled.
Tucker opened the registration menu.
“Opponent preference?”
Ethan read the options.
Random.
Weight matched.
Arcane matched.
Experience matched.
Open challenge.
He selected experience matched.
Tucker nodded approval.
“Smart.”
Adrian said nothing.
That made Ethan look at him.
“What?”
Adrian smiled.
“Nothing.”
“You’re a convicted scammer.
Your nothing has body language.”
“I am simply surprised.”
“By?”
“You came down here after learning you might die.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
Adrian’s expression softened.
“No.”
He looked toward the Blood Moon red stripe.
“Most men wait until they are afraid enough.”
Ethan selected confirm.
MATCH REQUEST SUBMITTED.
“Maybe I’m afraid early.”
Tucker shook his head.
“Fear isn’t early or late.”
The system searched.
Then chimed.
OPPONENT FOUND.
Ethan’s throat tightened.
A name appeared.
MILES CARTER
Initiated Rank
8 prior matches
5 wins
3 losses Stake: 10 contribution.
Ethan stared.
Chloe leaned over his shoulder.
“Eight fights.”
“Yes.”
“You have zero.”
“Also yes.”
He looked at her.
“Good?”
“You need to learn.”
“Do you have a comforting version of anything?”
“No.”
Tucker hit ACCEPT.
The arena display updated.
NEXT MATCH:
ETHAN HAYES vs.
MILES CARTER.
The hall reacted.
Not loudly at first.
Recognition traveled.
Whispers.
Heads turned.
The Final Observer.
Four Pillars cult leader.
Blood Moon guest.
Then the noise rose.
Someone shouted, “Ten on Carter!”
Another:
“Hayes is dead!”
Another laughed.
“Put him on Channel One early!”
Ethan looked at Adrian.
“You could have warned me people know my face.”
Adrian smiled.
“I thought you enjoyed transparency.”
Inside the arena, sound behaved strangely.
The barrier kept attacks in but let noise out.
Every impact arrived clean.
Bone.
Concrete.
Breath.
Nothing softened.
Ethan realized that was intentional too.
The audience wanted to hear consequence.
He watched a medic wipe blood from the ring between matches.
Not all of it.
A dark stain remained near the center.
“Why leave that?” he asked.
Tucker looked.
“Doesn’t come out.”
“Magic prison can’t clean concrete?”
“Can.”
“Then?”
Tucker shrugged.
“Tradition.”
Ethan stared at the stain.
Tradition was often the word institutions used when nobody wanted to admit a choice was still being made.
The next fighters stepped over it without looking.
They had learned not to see it.
Ethan wondered how long before he did the same.
The gate to the fighter corridor opened.
Tucker pointed.
“One last thing.”
Ethan waited.
“Once the chip exemption activates, do not assume the other man shares your idea of enough.”
Ethan looked at the blood on the ring.
“What if I surrender?”
“Verbal surrender has no automatic force.”
“What?”
“The opponent may accept.”
“May.”
“Yes.”
“Why would anyone design it that way?”
Tucker’s face became very still.
“Because the Deathmatch Club was not designed to teach restraint.”
A guard waved Ethan forward.
Chloe walked beside him.
Adrian stayed behind.
The crowd grew louder.
Ethan entered the corridor.
At the far end, Miles Carter waited.
Stocky.
Scar over one eyebrow.
Smiling.
He cracked his neck.
Ethan’s Miracle Chip pulsed.
A system message appeared.
SANCTIONED COMBAT DETECTED.
Violence restriction:
SUSPENDED.
For the first time since arriving in Lakeview, nothing inside his body would stop him from hurting another person.
Ethan suddenly missed the chip.
Miles smiled wider.
“Ready to become famous?”
Ethan looked at the arena.
At the crowd.
At Chloe.
At the invisible Handbook.
“Apparently I’m already famous.”
The gate opened.
He stepped through.