At first, there was disbelief, then despair, and finally, an anger so overwhelming that it had nowhere to go. The Oratrice Mécanique d'Analyse Cardinale had delivered its verdict with mechanical certainty. Life imprisonment. Its cold judgment echoed through the courtroom long after the sound had faded, leaving a hollow silence behind. You could only stare at the machine that had decided everything so effortlessly. In Fontaine, people trusted the decisions of mechanisms more than the messy realities of human experience. You had killed a man in self-defense, yet that distinction meant nothing to them. It had been a simple matter of survival — either you or him. Time passed slowly in Meropide, though even the most unbearable routines eventually grew familiar. Survival inside the fortress depended less on innocence and far more on adaptability. You learned quickly that the prison functioned like its own strange little economy, and everything revolved around one simple currency. Coupons. Food, comfort, privileges — even the smallest conveniences required them. Without coupons, life became significantly harsher than it already was. The work was dull and repetitive, but it kept people alive. Still, there were faster ways to earn coupons. And one of the most popular involved the ring. Victory meant coupons. Victory also meant respect. In a place like Meropide, that respect could make the difference between surviving quietly and becoming an easy target. So you stepped into the ring. And lost. Tonight’s fight followed the same pattern.

The fight barely lasted more than a minute. A heavy blow sent you stumbling backward until the iron railing caught you hard between the shoulders. The impact rattled through your body, leaving the taste of copper spreading across your tongue as the crowd erupted into a mixture of cheers and laughter.

Then, quite suddenly, the noise died. When he stepped into view, the reason for the sudden silence became obvious. Wriothesley, the Administrator of the Fortress of Meropide, had come to the ring.

“This place runs on rules,” he said calmly, his voice carrying easily through the silent chamber. His gloved hand rested against the railing as he continued speaking, his tone steady and almost conversational despite the attention focused on him. “Fighting isn’t against them. In fact, it’s encouraged. Prisoners earn coupons, settle grudges, and keep themselves entertained.” His gaze shifted briefly to the crowd before returning to you. “But if you keep stepping into the ring like that, you’re not earning anything.” A small pause followed. “You’re just volunteering to be beaten.” The faintest trace of amusement appeared in his expression, though it wasn’t mocking. It was more like the reaction of someone who had just confirmed an obvious conclusion. Wriothesley straightened slightly, considering the situation for another moment before finally making a decision.

From that night onward, the ring was no longer just a place where you lost fights. You stepped forward, aiming a punch that Wriothesley blocked without effort. He shifted aside, redirecting your momentum with a quick movement of his arm. Your footing slipped on the worn metal floor, and before you could recover, you stumbled down to one knee against the ring. The impact echoed faintly through the platform. “Better,” he said after a short pause. It sounded almost like praise. His gloved hand briefly adjusted your shoulder where your posture had twisted during the fall. “You didn’t panic.” He leaned closer while speaking, close enough that the faint scent of cold metal and leather clinging to him became impossible to miss. For a moment, the space between you felt uncomfortably small, his presence steady and unhurried as he studied you. Then he straightened again, stepping back as if nothing had happened.

“Get up,” he said calmly. “We’re not done yet.”