Conquering OtherWorld Starts With a Game

"Come out, Garcia Greene."

Through the unlocked wooden door, Finley called out loudly.

Greene, not daring to delay, clumsily ran out of his cell, dragging the chains locked around his ankles.

He was one of the twenty-six inmates similarly summoned to the corridor. The dim light from the wall-mounted oil lamps cast shadows on their faces—all were bald and beardless, dressed in identical round-necked tunics and knee-length trousers, their cheeks swollen, faces pale, dragging slightly long iron chains.

Greene knew he looked just like the rest of them.

After counting the inmates and confirming everyone was present, Finley handed them buckets and large pieces of ragged cloth, gesturing for them to get moving.

The twenty-seven men, including Garcia Greene, hurried to the only water source at the end of the corridor, carrying the buckets and rags. The militia had installed a water pump, drawing groundwater to the faucets on each floor, making it convenient for the inmates to fetch water nearby.

After lining up at the faucet to collect water, the inmates energetically began cleaning every area—corridors, toilets, empty or occupied cells, and more. All of them, once living luxuriously and unaccustomed to such menial work, had adapted. Repeated tasks led to proficiency, even for the unwilling.

Amid the clanking of chains, the twenty-seven prisoners managed to scrub the entire basement level spotless in just over half an hour.

Finley, who had been standing at the end of the corridor, conducted a random inspection of several cells and checked his pocket watch. Nodding in approval, he stated indifferently, "Completed 20 minutes ahead of schedule. You'll get extra food today."

Like the others, Greene, standing obediently against the wall, involuntarily swallowed at the mention of extra food.

When Finley brought down two buckets of food, none of the prisoners squabbled or fought over it. They all patiently waited to receive their share, sat cross-legged in two rows against the wall, and devoured their meals. They even made sure to clean the wooden buckets and utensils afterward before returning them to Finley.

Finley had no interest in praising their docility. He left with the empty buckets, showing no concern for the inmates.

All twenty-seven prisoners on this floor were deemed "extremely heinous" and "serious offenders." Unlike other prisoners, they couldn't step outside for fresh air during meal times, nor could they work for better treatment. Since the day they were thrown in here, these inmates hadn't gotten to see the sky again.

With minimal staff for supervision, there was neither the patience nor the energy for detailed management. Even the doors to their cells were left unlocked, with only the passage to the surface sealed off. They were like forgotten rats, left to survive or perish in this underground facility initially intended as a temporary holding area.

This neglectful treatment was, in its own way, terrifying.

On the first two days, they fought fiercely, still possessing the energy to gain dominance over the others.

On the third day, when Finley brought down boiled potatoes and saw the chaotic state of the corridor and cells stained with blood, vomit, and excrement, he took the food back up, informing them that if they couldn't maintain basic hygiene, everyone would go hungry.

Faced with hunger, some reluctantly cleaned their cells, thinking they would be fed, only to be told that maintaining the communal areas was everyone's responsibility. With no food provided unless every single cell and area was cleaned, they had no choice but to submit.

Finley was exceptionally cold toward them, sparing no harsh words or even a glance. It was evident that he didn't care about their well-being. Even if they all killed each other, Finley would likely see it as less trouble for him.

Such indifference eliminated any leverage for bargaining with Finley—they had none to begin with.

One day, Finley casually mentioned that he could offer them a bit more food if they cleaned faster and didn't make him wait too long—beyond the daily ration of boiled potatoes, they could also receive leftovers from the communal kitchen, like a few meat-filled dumplings (frozen) and flavorful soup with vegetable leaves (instant noodle broth).

This sparked unprecedented enthusiasm among the inmates of this floor…

This method of passive-aggressive control, targeting their mental state rather than physical abuse, proved more efficient and less laborious than Hal's direct violence.

The subtle change in behavior wasn't because Finley was a master of psychological manipulation; he simply didn't have the time or energy to micromanage them—with over a thousand prisoners in the militia, just keeping track of names and faces was enough to drive him to the brink!

Back on the ground floor, Finley handed the buckets and utensils back to Mia, who was in charge of the communal kitchen. He grumbled, "I always say there's no need to feed those bastards so well. Those scum underground are getting fat."

Mia, aware of the immense stress on Finley and his fellow brothers, replied with a smile, "Mr. Rex mentioned that some of the people brought in yesterday will work for the Lord like us, lightening our load soon."

"That's a long way off. Who knows when those Sokrians will be of any use!" Finley scoffed, running his hand through his hair. "They told us to 'just watch the prisoners for a few days,' and now, more than three weeks have passed. It's as if Yang has completely forgotten about us!"

Suddenly, Mia pointed behind Finley, exclaiming, "Lord Yang is here!"

Finley turned around in surprise.

And indeed, there was Lord Yang standing at the door, gazing at him with an unsettling calm.

Finley: "…"

Yang Qiu gestured for Finley to come over.

Finley reluctantly approached, his face showing a mixture of reluctance and obedience.

"How are the Sokrian prisoners behaving?" Yang Qiu inquired.

Finley, relieved that the conversation was about the prisoners, reported, "A bunch of them was causing trouble, so Hal planted them in the ground."

This so-called 'planting' was a punishment devised by Hal, burying particularly stubborn troublemakers in a hole with only their heads exposed. Usually, most would submit in a few hours, and even the exceptionally stubborn ones couldn't endure more than 12 hours.

Yang Qiu walked around the militia building to the backyard and indeed saw two rows of pale, half-dead heads sticking out of the ground.

Standing before this "field of Sokrians," Yang Qiu raised his voice slightly, "Who is Captain Kenn of the Sea Lions group?"

A bruised and swollen head managed to tilt up slightly and look toward Yang Qiu.

Yang Qiu nodded slightly at the unfortunate soul buried up to his chin.

"Nice to meet you, Captain Kenn. I am Yang, a black mage."

Upon hearing Yang Qiu introduce himself as a black mage, Kenn seemed to shiver, straining to open his bloodshot eyes wider.

The middle-aged man standing before Kenn, with combed-back, shoulder-length hair, holding a staff in hand, looked more like a dignified nobleman than a black magician. His brown suit, striped shirt with a bow tie, and a white handkerchief in his vest pocket painted the picture of a respectable figure, not a practitioner of dark arts.

Yet, to Captain Kenn, this seemingly respectable man appeared far from benign.Follow current s on NovelEnglish.net

After just two seconds of eye contact, Kenn, who had appeared ragged but emotionally stable, began to sweat profusely, his lips quickly lost color, and his facial muscles uncontrollably trembled as if he had seen some horrifying monster.

Yang Qiu merely smiled.

This Sokrian prisoner seemed to hold some value.

"Welcome to Weisshem," Yang Qiu said with a smile. "I hope you find this land full of vitality to your liking."

Kenn, terrified, kept his eyes locked with Yang Qiu's as if afraid that blinking would lead to his being devoured by the monstrous entity before him.

Meanwhile, back in the militia headquarters, Wagner gathered all his soldiers on the ground floor hall and made them form up.

With the entire Sea Lions mercenary group captured by the undead, even though Wagner had merely been a bystander, Yang kept his promise—forty-three of Wagner's men would be granted their freedom.

Wagner singled out six senior soldiers and instructed them to stand behind him. Then he addressed the remaining 43 men, "You've worked here in Weisshem for nearly half a month. According to the rules of Weisshem, you are entitled to the wages accumulated during your service. You guys come with me to settle the remuneration. You'll also be able to take something back for your families."

The soldiers, aware of Wagner's deal with Yang, were visibly excited. Being natives of Indahl and away from home for so long, these young men were understandably concerned about their families.

While the bunch was rejoicing, a discordant voice suddenly interrupted, "Wait! What about me?"

This voice belonged to one of Wagner's squires, James Horn.

A distant relative of the City Defense Commander Horn, he had officially served as Wagner's squire. In truth, everyone in the squad knew that he was placed there to gain experience, waiting to succeed Wagner's knight title and duties.

He often used this status to subtly coerce ordinary soldiers into doing his personal tasks, earning him the nickname "Eye Roller" among them for his haughty attitude and disdain for direct communication.

Wagner calmly looked James in the eye and said, "You are my squire. Since I cannot leave, neither can you."

"But you gave up the chance for these grunts!" James protested loudly, raising his voice.

During their confinement, while others willingly worked hard for better treatment, James refused to demean himself. He frequently had conflicts with other prisoners and was sick of the bland boiled potatoes.

Wagner shook his head in disappointment. "I wish Commander Horn valued you as much as he shows. Then I wouldn't have to listen to this foolishness from you right now."

James's face twitched, and he tried to argue further, but Wagner, impatient for more discussion, had him escorted out by the others who were also staying behind.

Turning back to the ordinary soldiers excited to return home and see their families, Wagner sighed softly.

If he could, he didn't wish to dampen the spirits of these fellows at such a time…

"Everyone, listen to me," Wagner finally said with some difficulty. "Adra III's steward, Mr. Gould, left Weisshem early this morning. During his stay, he never called to meet me… I-I regret to inform us that we might have been abandoned."

The previously jubilant young soldiers fell silent immediately.