CH 3. A Certain Prison Camp
As someone deeply versed in ‘Rase,’ I recognized the name of this body.
Lord Arahan had seven children in total, and given the age, this one was likely the youngest. Therefore, the owner of this body must be ‘Zed.’
Zed Arahan.
For now, that was also my name.
“Number 218. Not eating that?”
Well, though I’m currently addressed by a number.
“If you’re not eating it, can I have it?”
“Take it.”
“Heh! Thanks!”
The boy called Number 172.
On the day of the rebellion, the boy who’d spoken to me snatched the gritty bread and devoured it ravenously.
I’d been curious about him for a while.
Though I lacked past memories, I guessed he might have been close to Zed. Their ages matched, and they shared a cell.
“Lost your appetite lately? Doesn’t look enjoyable, sweating like that while eating.”
I couldn’t eat dough half-filled with sand.
It’s not that I’m picky from a life of luxury. I simply distinguish between nourishing food and trash.
No one’s born a champion.
I too clawed my way up from the bottom, becoming a champion through what set me apart.
“If you’re not having the soup either—”
“I’ll eat this.”
“Ah, right. Gotta keep your strength up. Haha.”
The rusted spoon hovered awkwardly in the air.
If they mixed sand into bread, the soup was surely worse.
Though I appreciate good food, this was clearly gruel boiled from random weeds.
“Hey, Number 218.”
The boy glanced around and lowered his voice.
I forced down a tasteless bite and nodded faintly. Whatever he had to say, it seemed important.
“Wasn’t sure if I should tell you, but... guess I owe you for the scraps.”
“What is it?”
“Number 589. Watch your back. He’s been stewing over something.”
Number 589—the hulking man who’d thrown a fit earlier.
So the prisoners’ leader had a grudge against me…
“Why bother with that trash?”
“Plenty of guards are cozy with him. Remember the last escape attempt? Info must’ve leaked through them.”
“Why tell me? Shouldn’t you cozy up to the powerful? Being friendly with me gains you nothing.”
The boy had a disarmingly bright demeanor.
Rare for someone his age in this hellhole.
The type everyone doted on, never hated.
“Heh. That’s only for now.”
“For now?”
“I don’t plan to rot here forever. Once I’m out, wouldn’t an Arahan’s heir be better company than that meathead?”
“You don’t know much about me.”
“I do. You were exiled for failing magic.”
“...”
What’s this kid’s deal?
Why cling to me knowing that?
“Even a rotting Arahan is still an Arahan. Folks like us might never see one in our lifetime.”
“Clever or stupid?”
“Amateurs chase immediate gains. Pros plan for the future.”
“That’s delusional. We might never escape.”
The boy shrugged, grinning.
What did he know to act so confident?
“Truth is, I saw you that day.”
“That day?”
“During the rebellion. You didn’t flinch before Captain Clark. Everyone else trembled—you stood firm.”
“Hmph.”
“Means you’ve got a card up your sleeve. I’m betting on that. Better than rotting here.”
Sharper than he looked.
He’d survive anywhere.
“Your name?”
“Riu. Street rat—no family name.”
“Solid name.”
“Yours?”
As I hesitated, the atmosphere shifted.
Guards patrolling the mess hall slipped away. Shadows closed in from all sides. I set down my spoon, sensing thickening hostility.
“They’re eager. Your prediction’s coming true.”
“Huh? What’re you—”
My body might be weak, but my senses stayed sharp. I rose, feeling the murderous intent.
As expected, the giant loomed before me, grinning down.
“Told you to expect this.”
Yellow teeth gleamed.
With guards absent, he ruled here. Henchmen smirked, brandishing crude blades.
“Should’ve stayed in your lane. Thought the guards would shield you?”
“Never.”
“Hoho. The Arahan name’s intimidating, but since you’re still here, no one’s coming. What’s your play, young master?”
As he jeered, I analyzed the odds. In my original body, these pests meant nothing.
Now? A magicless fifteen-year-old weakling.
Fifty against one. Impossible.
Strike first.
“Huh—?!”
I lunged at the still-grinning giant.
In battle, timing is everything.
Though slower and weaker, my combat instincts remained.
This fool should’ve been easy.
Thud!
I gripped his shoulders, vaulted up, and drove my knee into his chin—a flying knee strike.
“You rat!”
What? The strike barely fazed him?
This body’s weakness hit me anew.
The giant staggered back but didn’t fall.
No panic.
Combat’s chaos—I knew this.
If I faltered, his gang would swarm.
I had to break their leader’s spirit first.
Crack!
The attack created distance between me and the brute.
I turned my back, bracing against the table as I crouched. Channeling strength into both legs, I lunged forward to build momentum while twisting my waist to amplify rotational force.
At the last moment before my knee strike connected, I yanked the back of his neck to maximize the impact.
-Wham!
“C-Captain!”
A dull crack echoed as he collapsed backward. Though my raw power was lacking, the jaw—an untrainable weak point—had made the hit decisive.
“Kill that bastard!”
Someone shouted. I couldn’t stop now.
I twisted the fallen man’s arm, pivoting his body, and pressed my foot against his neck. Glaring at the approaching thugs, I growled,
“Step closer if you want to hear his arm snap.”
“What?!”
“You kidding me?!”
“Aaaagh! Stay back! Don’t move, everyone!”
The giant screamed as I strained his twisted arm. His lackeys froze.
I pressed my advantage: “Anyone moves, and you’ll be spoon-feeding him for life.”
“Uh…!”
Fear spreads fast.
Once morale breaks, courage rarely returns. My first strike had seized control—now they hung on my every twitch.
“Bring the guards.”
“Let’s just stop this!”
“Bring. Them.”
“Aaaaah!”
“F-fine! I’ll get them!”
A subordinate bolted from the mess hall. Even when guards arrived, they’d downplay this, but the immediate threat was over.
“You think you’ll walk away from this, bastard?!”
“Still talking? Didn’t hit you hard enough, huh?”
“Just wait—! Aaagh!”
“Final warning. Touch me again, and you’ll leave in a wheelchair.”
……!
Guards swarmed in moments later. They pretended not to recognize the staged fight as they “managed” the scene. I released the arm with a smirk.
“Told you! My eyes don’t lie! Where’d you learn that?!”
Liu burst out the moment we returned to our cell—a filthy 3-pyeong space meant for two.
[Sync in progress.] [Excessive data causing delays.] [96%]
I leaned against the wall, staring at the blue screen.
Still 96%. Obsessively checking made it feel slower. I closed my eyes.
“That guy was a pit-fighting legend! Murdered his way here! And you wrecked him!”
What happens when sync completes?
Will my body fully recover? Could I escape?
“Hey, 218! Deaf?!”
But complications loomed.
First: Captain Clark. His mage-hating zeal marked him as a classic knight—meaning he wielded mana.
“218! Hey!”
“Gods… Shut up.”
“You were corpse-still! Thought you’d croaked. My bad.”
In Lase, knights and mages were antithetical.
Honor vs. pragmatism. Grandeur vs. efficiency. Close combat vs. ranged spells.
A millennium-old feud ran deeper than the game portrayed. Today’s brawl would draw dangerous attention.
If Clark heard a mage had humiliated his men in his own prison…
‘Finish syncing before that.’
My only lifeline. I’d planned to lay low until then, but the giant ruined it.
“Liu.”
“Huh? Can I talk?”
“…Answer this.”
“Shoot. I’m great at answers.”
“If you gained power, how would you escape?”
“How strong? Clark-level?”
“No.”
“Then we’re stuck. Only the main gate exits, and Clark holds the key.”
“So the key’s critical.”
“Exactly. Steal it if we can’t fight.”
Smug little…
“Could you steal it?”
“Pfft! Street rats learn pickpocketing before manners.”
“Good to know.”
“Got a plan? Don’t get cocky over one win. Clark’s still a knight.”
I knew.
Even a backwater prison like Keryon required at least a 5th-circle knight warden. This world ran on swords and magic—my odds were bleak.
“Guerrilla tactics, then.”
“Got some genius strategy? Share!”
“Wait. The chance will come.”
“At least tell me my role!”
“You’ll know.”
I started to lie down when tension prickled my senses.
‘Already?’
Guards formed ranks outside our cell. Their aggressive posture screamed military discipline.
“218.”
Captain Clark had come.
