The prison corridor was empty, not even a patrolling guard in sight. A faint, rustling sound emanated from behind two iron doors. On closer listen, it seed to be two people whispering, but their words were indistinct.
"So, what are you going to do? A prison break? London Thirteen Prison is made specifically to hold condemned thugs like us, sentenced to death by the Old Ancestral Society.
The Inner Side is engraved with a Forbidden Magic Array, and its walls are cast from concrete mixed with Dragon Crocodile Scale.
They’re monsters that live in the Nile Delta, and their favorite food is Listone. Armor forged from their scales can even block a full-powered strike from a Bronze Level Faith Knight."
Lawrence said flatly, "Besides a Law Enforcer breaking through with brute force from the outside, the only other way to destroy these walls is with enchanted tal. For instance, the Red Copper, Bronze, or brass the guards have on them... like the Red Copper buttons on their plainclothes."
Lawrence’s tone was mocking. "But if you ask , the first thing you should do is get them to make your last al a bit more lavish.
Although, ’lavish’ in the United Kingdom just ans fish and chips with mashed potatoes. Still, it’s better than black bread so hard you could beat a Frenchman with it."
"Waiting around to die isn’t my style."
"I told you, a prison break is impossible. Not unless you have so Alchemy tal to dig with and are prepared to spend three years digging without getting caught." Lawrence scoffed. "But you’re not even going to survive until tomorrow."
"That’s why I need you to get out."
"?" Lawrence seed stunned. "Are you insane? I’m locked in this prison with you!"
From the other side of the wall, Baron said quietly, "When I was brought in, I noticed one of the guard’s buttons was missing."
"And that proves I took it?" Lawrence said. "Maybe he just..."
Baron continued, "’Roaring Lawrence’ is your disguise. You use the sound of your shouting to cover up the noise of your digging..."
Lawrence sneered. "The guards make their rounds every day. How could they possibly not find it? That’s just what you think."
"You told you have a world map in your cell. The tunnel is probably hidden behind it."
Baron lay on the floor, staring at the gray ceiling. "Should I call the guards over to your cell for a look?" he asked idly.
’He was familiar with *The Shawshank Redemption*, but this was nothing more than a gamble.’
After a mont of silence, Lawrence sighed. "You’re going to die in a few days. Even if I could get you out, you’d probably just drop dead on the road when your ti is up."
"Not to ntion I can’t possibly dig a complete tunnel in such a short ti. And even if I did, a Bloodless like you with no Spiritual Sense would never escape a prison guarded by Faith Knights."
Baron fell silent. ’Right, I’m going to die in four days. Even if... wait, drop dead on the road?’
"You don’t know?" Lawrence’s voice held a gloating amusent. "Looks like you haven’t been back to the Inner Side in a long ti. Your mories must have completely faded under the influence of the Law of Oblivion."
"Is there a clock on the wall in your cell?"
Baron glanced at the wall. Indeed, on the wall above his wooden plank bed, there was a clock with a Red Copper-painted face.
As if he already knew the answer, Lawrence continued from the other side of the wall, "It’s a ’humane’ design, ant to keep you clearly aware of the ti."
"The Ti Death Judgnt. When ti reaches the designated point, you die. It’s an absolute and inescapable death."
"The Ti Death Judgnt was created by Frankenstein of the Edinburgh Wizard Academy. He’s a Silver Tier Wizard who despises evil... if you ask , he probably got screwed in the ass by so brigand. It’s amazing he managed to co up with a thod like this," Lawrence added with a sick sense of humor.
Baron stared blankly at the clock, and in an instant, he understood the aning of the ti the Judge had announced in court—it wasn’t the ti the execution *started*, it was the ti his death was *completed*!
The mont the gavel left the bench, death had already latched onto him like a deep-seated cancer.
’Does this Fantasy World not follow any science at all?’
A grin touched Baron’s lips, but the thought of escape in his mind didn’t waver in the slightest.
Whether in a world of fantasy or science, giving up without a fight wasn’t part of a Transmigrator’s code.
He smashed the clock with a single punch.
From now on, he would avoid any concept of ti that could herald his death.
"Clever," ca Lawrence’s voice from the other side of the wall, a sound sowhere between admiration and mockery. He clearly knew what Baron had done. "But that’s just you lying to yourself. Ti is a noose, and even God would get hanged in it."
"Spiritual Sense. Tell how to awaken it." Baron said, forcing down the pain in his knuckles and taking a deep breath. "In exchange, whether we get out or not, I’ll keep your secret."
From Lawrence’s words, he understood that the key to breaking out was this "Spiritual Sense," sothing akin to awakening his inner power, like the heroes in the shows from his past life.
"Is that how you ask for a trade?" Lawrence sighed.
"It’s not a trade, it’s a threat," Baron corrected him earnestly. "Lawrence, you wouldn’t want the escape plan you’ve worked on for years to go up in smoke, would you?"
"I hope a Bloodless like you can understand gentlemanly respect and decorum. You will call Mr. Lawrence..."
Lawrence sighed, then changed the subject. "Have you ever suddenly seen visions?"
"Visions?"
"Suddenly seeing things that ordinary people can’t. In the mystic arts, it’s called Spiritual Vision. And Spiritual Vision is the prerequisite for Spiritual Sense."
For once, Lawrence adopted a formal tone from the other side of the wall. "Have you heard of Swedenborg? A Swedish philosopher and scientist. He saw an Angel during a near-death experience, and afterward, he went on to predict the great fire of Stockholm and the deaths of several people.
His final prophecy was the date of his own death, and he passed away naturally at the age of 84 in the early morning of March 29, 1772."
"So you’re telling to go die?" Baron seized on the main point.
"Swedenborg didn’t die. In human society, he died at 84, but in the Old Descendant World, he lived to be at least 184 and even founded the Soul School of wizardry... What I an is, you could follow his example and have a taste of death..."
"Isn’t that just suicide? Do you have a more reliable thod?" Baron asked, skeptical.
"Then there’s no other way." Lawrence shrugged. "For dinner, I suggest you ask if you can get so French red wine. Preferably from the Margaux Vineyard—their wine has a violet aroma. Though if you ask , Rafael isn’t bad either..."
"Guard!" Baron suddenly shouted. "I have sothing important to report!"
"Actually, there is one other way," Lawrence said, hurriedly lowering his voice.
The guard slid open the small hatch on the iron door. "What is it?"
Baron said calmly, "For my side dish, I’d like caviar with black truffle. For wine, I’ll have an ’82 Rafael. The main course will be French foie gras, and I’ll also have a bowl of beef noodle soup—hold the noodles."
The hatch slamd shut with a BANG. A mont later, the guard’s cold sneer drifted through.
"You’ll be lucky to get a stale French baguette. Making all these demands... you Bloodless really think you’re sothing special."
After a mont of silence, once he was sure the guard was gone, Baron asked, "What’s the way?"
"Open the Eye."
Hearing no response from Baron, Lawrence, afraid he might pull another stunt, quickly explained:
"The so-called ’Open the Eye’ is about opening the eye of your soul. That eye is the basis for Spiritual Vision. It enhances your faculties, and the manifestation of your Spiritual Sense is the color your pupils flash in that instant. Generally, this represents the aptitude granted to you by Destiny."
"The ranks go from Black Iron, to Bronze, to Silver. This ranking thod is based on the color displayed when you use your Spiritual Sense, but Alchemists also borrowed from the Ages of Man in Greek mythology."
"Doesn’t that an there’s also Gold?" Baron asked, thinking of Carn’s eyes.
"Smart," Lawrence said. "But a Golden Eye is the stuff of legends. According to the Trinity Theorem of Professional Law, there can be at most three Golden Tier individuals in any given profession. And that’s not even ntioning you’d have to possess one of the three Law Fragnts.
Those are controlled by the major Law Enforcent Organizations and Ancient Clans. Ordinary people have no way of getting their hands on one."
"Not even if your aptitude is Gold?"
"A Gold aptitude..." Lawrence mused from the other side of the wall. "That would an Destiny itself believes you have the potential to one day possess a third of the Law Fragnts for your profession."
"And what does ’Bloodless’ an?"
"It ans exactly what it sounds like. Your bloodline is either inert or your Spiritual Power is too weak. You can’t even produce the phenonon of Spiritual Vision from Spiritual Sense. Ultimately, you get expelled from the Inner Side and, under the Law of Oblivion, forget everything about it. Just like you."
"So, how exactly do I ’Open the Eye’?"
"It’s simple," Lawrence said. "Imagine a third eye growing at the crown of your head. Keep imagining it until you can use that eye to see your true self."
...
「Westin Street, Old Town Birmingham.」
A man in a tailored long coat stood under a tall beech tree, a pipe clenched between his teeth.
He lit his pipe with a flaming Cross necklace. "The residue of the Dragon Witch’s Magic Power is thick. Barring the use of an Authority, the ritual was likely completed. That Bloodless from the Constantine Family may have already beco the Dragon Witch’s vassal."
"Could the Law be hidden on him?"
As the voice spoke, swirling leaves dissolved into mist, from which a hooded Nun with a striking, curvaceous figure erged.
She had green hair and erald eyes, and on her back she carried a serrated blade as tall as herself.
"Just a scapegoat," he said. "The Witch won’t get too involved with him."
"Why not?"
"Because he’s a Bloodless," the man smiled. "A good-for-nothing who can’t even achieve Spiritual Sense. Even with a contract, he could never beco a Law Enforcer."
...
「Back in the prison.」
Baron closed his eyes, trying to imagine the third eye that wasn’t there.
But what appeared in his mind instead was a crimson, ghost-like figure.
Like seafoam on a beach, tinged red by the setting sun.
She whispered, her voice a ghostly murmur, like a lover’s whisper:
"To survive or to perish, that is a question worth pondering."
’Did that question even need pondering? Of course he would choose to live.’
Baron opened his eyes. In the slanted rain streaking past the window, a line of golden light flashed through his pure black pupils.
...
「Outside the prison.」
A Griffin, pulling an old-fashioned carriage, slowly descended from the sky. The guard on duty stepped forward to question him, and the coachman presented his work identification.
"The Griffins were spooked by sothing. In London’s Outer Side, this is the only prison with a Barrier to shield us from the eyes of ordinary people. We’d like to stop here for a mont."
The guard glanced at the totem on the ID—a symbol strikingly similar to a USD sign—and his expression turned to one of deep respect.
Westminster People’s Bank.
A bunch of madn obsessed with "the arcane" and Gold.
Their hobby was to repeatedly blow up famous landmarks like the Statue of Liberty and the Eiffel Tower under the guise of "containnt," only to then secure the contracts for their renovation.
It was rumored that even Buckingham Palace, ho to the Queen of England, had once been contracted out to a construction company bearing their na.
The Taboo Items in their possession alone accounted for at least a quarter of all such items in the entire Old Descendant World.
No Law Enforcer or adjudicating organization wanted to cross them, let alone try to steal the "mysteries" contained within their Griffin Carriages.
「But on November 16, 1987, in London.」
On a day of gloomy, incessant rain, when not a single starling could be found along the Thas Riverfront.
Two death-row convicts used a hard French baguette to knock out an unsuspecting watchman, slipped past the fully armored guards, and seized their opportunity while the Westminster-employed coachman was dining at a Chinese restaurant a kiloter from the prison.
They snatched the reins of the Griffin—a beast that even a Bronze Knight would struggle to control—and broke out of prison.
By the ti alarms began to blare across London’s various Law Enforcer factions, Baron and Lawrence were already ten thousand ters high in the sky on the back of the speeding Griffin, discussing where to go next.
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