Night had fallen.
Zhang Chi washed up and sat on her bed, leaning against the wall. Her gaze lingered on the cover of the Points Manual resting on the table for a long, long time.
Finally, two words surfaced in her mind—
Genius system.
She should have realized it sooner. Locking up every high-risk criminal from two countries? Not even ten prisons of this size would be enough.
Once inmates left the reformation camp, they were expected to become self-reliant. The government wouldn't have to issue any subsidies. The guards had said that handicrafts were the main industry here—but from another angle, it clearly wasn't the only one.
No prisons meant no infrastructure costs, no administrative budgets.
These people had been exiled to Garbage Island. The reformation camp was their compulsory education.
The points system controlled everything. Whoever controlled the system could control the prisoners like pieces on a board.
By tweaking the numbers, production could be redistributed instantly. When resources ran low, raising the point cost of crimes could "cleanse" the camp of surplus population.
The manual said only one-third of prisoners made it out. But if you calculated it—
With maximum labor points, green-tagged prisoners could be out in six months, blue tags in a year, red tags in three.
So why couldn't two-thirds leave?
Did they stay here forever? Or… did they simply vanish?
Killing was the fastest way to earn points.
Were they murdered?
It seemed plausible—but there was one crucial issue—
Even criminals weren't all sociopaths.
In every decision, the reward must outweigh the risk.
If someone could walk free in just half a year, would they risk their life committing murder? Everyone here was dangerous. If your first strike missed, who's to say you wouldn't be the one ending up dead?
Zhang Chi rubbed her brow.
Something didn't add up.
Something fundamental was missing.
What was it?
The next day at self-study, the atmosphere in the room was strange. It was obvious many had already read through the Points Manual. Zhou Ke once again sat next to Zhang Chi.
"Hey," he whispered, "you're pretty valuable now."
That much was obvious. At breakfast, she could practically feel the stares boring holes through her back.
Zhou Ke asked, "So, were you really in for trafficking serum?"
Zhang Chi: "Why?"
The desks in the self-study room were bigger than those in the classroom. Each table sat two, or four if squeezed. Zhang Chi and Zhou Ke were tucked into a corner. Across the aisle, several inmates were huddled tightly around another table—familiarity was building quickly.
Many of them now had cellmates, and people had started moving around in pairs.
Zhou Ke leaned across the table, lowering his voice to a near whisper.
"My cellmate said trafficking serum doesn't get you a full-sentence charge unless the quantity is huge."
"For something that big, it would've been all over the news."
"Also, if you worked alone, could you really move that much volume?"
Zhang Chi said, "Who said I was working alone?"
Zhou Ke blinked. "Didn't you say you were like me...?"
"I was working for someone," she said. "He ran. I took the fall."
Zhou Ke looked at her with sympathy, then finally let out a long breath.
"I knew it. You didn't seem like that kind of person. So you took the blame for someone else."
They read in silence for a while, until a guard came in and started randomly calling on inmates to recite the prison schedule. Those who failed lost 0.5 points.
That afternoon's class was on cultural life—specifically, free activity days.
The guard droned on from the podium:
"Every Sunday is a free activity day. No need to clock in, but each person must log more than 3 hours of labor, earning at least 1.5 points. If you don't, 2 points are deducted."
"At 9 p.m. Sunday night, we initiate the weekly point audit. The lowest-scoring inmate—"
He swiped the screen.
The slide changed.
A photo of a flower garden, very similar to the one near the mine.
But this one had a large pit.
In the pit lay a fresh corpse—bruised, limbs broken, staring skyward.
Blue skies. White clouds.
"Turned into fertilizer," the guard said.
After class, no one looked well—especially those who had failed the recitation earlier.
Only one person was eliminated during each audit. If scores were tied, the lowest would be drawn by lot.
Compared to the long-time inmates, the newcomers clearly hadn't worked enough. Statistically, one of them would be the lowest.
Which meant that Sunday night, one of them would have to die.
The margin between survival and death could be as thin as 0.1 point.
So what would they do?
A green tag was worth 100 points. Blue—200. Red—1,000.
You could earn up to 35 points a week through regular work.
Killing just one person would earn you enough to stay afloat for months.
That was the missing condition.
Zhang Chi sat at the desk, fists resting under her chin, the Points Manual open before her.
Everything suddenly became clear.
If you don't kill, you die—that was the final straw that broke human restraint.
Point audits began at 9 p.m. Which meant by then, you had to know whether you were at the bottom.
But the rankings weren't published. You could only guess based on observation.
So everyone would try to probe others—watch them, note who gained or lost points.
But if someone at the bottom got hold of someone else's ID tag right before the audit, their score would skyrocket—leapfrogging over someone else, who would then become the lowest.
And the new lowest? They'd die in your place.
Which meant—until the very last second, no one could be certain they were safe.
At that point, whether you were truly at the bottom or not didn't matter. If you thought you might be, the safest option was—
To take someone else's ID.
This was a war of trapped animals.
Zhang Chi closed her eyes.
She was in extreme danger.
Even if she accumulated enough points to be safe, there was no guarantee she wouldn't be killed before the next audit.
Everyone here was both a predator and prey.
In this twisted game of survival, where life hung by a thread, the smartest thing wasn't to keep working and hope.
It was to earn enough points and get out—fast.
For a green tag, that meant killing eight greens, four blues, or just one red.
Without considering combat ability, killing a red-tagged inmate was the most efficient.
If she were at the bottom, what would she do?
She was like a lottery ticket waiting to be scratched.
Everyone wanted to know if she'd win them a jackpot.
After the cultural class ended, the new inmates officially started work.
Every morning at 5:30 a.m., guards took roll call. Those present received a metal tag to wear on their chest—same number as their wristband.
At 10 p.m., guards did room checks and collected the tags.
The tags were synced to the system overnight.
Which meant: if you weren't in your room at 5:00 a.m., you didn't get a tag. If you weren't there at 10:00 p.m., your tag wouldn't be verified—even if you held onto yesterday's tag, it wouldn't pass today's check.
No one could skip work.
Not regardless of how high their score was.
Not regardless of how badly they wanted out.
Day One on the Job.
Zhang Chi chose mining.
She wasn't sure if she was an "altered-blood" inmate or not—after all, what kind of normal body could knead alloy barehanded? Whatever this body was made of, it wasn't standard issue.
As for textile work—unless your skill level was extremely high, the pay rate per hour was awful.
The mine tunnels were dimly lit. No supervisors in sight. But clocking in was mandatory: time spent inside the tunnels counted as work hours, and you had to clock out at the end. Slacking off was technically possible—so long as no one caught you.
If someone did report you, though, you risked getting penalized.
The tunnels ran deep, with endless offshoots. If you really wanted, you could always find a spot where no one else would come.
Aside from those with mechanical prosthetics, most newcomers had chosen mining too.
It offered the highest hourly point payout.
Bluehowl Sandstone was a rare type of ore—could only be mined by hand. Within three meters of the raw mineral, all electronics and instruments would malfunction.
Mining was brutal. Many inmates collapsed after less than three hours and had to be dragged out by medics.
The guards claimed the mine dust caused oxygen deprivation in the lungs, and warned against staying longer than three hours per day.
Once the guards were gone, someone muttered, "It's not oxygen deprivation. It's poisoning."
"Poison?" someone else asked.
The man who'd spoken looked up. Under the headlamp, his eyes were eerily clouded.
"Highly toxic," he said. "Shortens your lifespan."
The other newcomers started to gather around.
Zhang Chi asked, "What do you mean?"
He shot her a glance. "Raw Bluehowl Sandstone shortens your telomeres. No one lasts more than five years working this mine."
There was a collective gasp.
Zhang Chi asked, "How do you know? You've been here five years?"
The man gave a raspy laugh. "I used to be a mine boss. From Bluesand Town, in Sanchin Province. Nobody knows this ore better than I do."
Someone whispered, "Bluesand Town... that's the mining town, right?"
Another chimed in, "Wait, you were a mine boss? How'd you end up in here?"
He shrugged. "Cut corners. Bought cheap protective gear. A bunch of workers died. They sued me, and here I am."
Everyone: "..."
The "mine boss" lifted his shoulders again. "Didn't think there were people even worse than me. They don't even give out protective gear here."
He looked around at the stunned new inmates, a trace of mockery glinting in his murky eyes. "Still fresh. You'll learn. No one comes to the mine unless they're trying to make up lost points."
"Learning Rep" 392 asked, "What's making up points?"
The mine boss smirked. "What's making up points? Clock in at 8 a.m., lunch at 12, back to work at 1, dinner's at 5. Best case scenario, that's 8 hours of labor. It's fixed."
The maximum daily work hours were capped at 8. That translated to a daily work point limit of 5. Every job besides mining—even if you worked full time—earned only 4 points.
He looked at the newcomers, many now deep in thought, and scoffed.
"Figured it out yet? If you want the full 5 points, you have to come to the mine."
Sure, mining could kill you. But falling behind on points? Same outcome.
"Every damn day," the mine boss muttered, spitting on the ground, "risking a heart attack for a few lousy points. Five more minutes and I'm clocking out. You all enjoy yourselves."
He wheeled his cart and disappeared into a side tunnel.
The newcomers, thoroughly spooked, scrambled to leave. Most had already worked over three hours anyway—well past the daily requirement.
But some stubborn few stayed behind.
Zhang Chi was one of them.
It wasn't that she didn't believe him—she just couldn't resist her curiosity. She wanted to know what this body of hers could do. Maybe if she worked herself into unconsciousness, the medics would haul her away and run some kind of scan. Maybe then she'd get some answers.
Once the tunnel quieted down, Zhang Chi kept digging, her mind wandering—
People with mechanical limbs couldn't mine. That meant they automatically earned one point less than others per day.
Which meant, under normal circumstances, they were always at a disadvantage.
But also—
They were the ones most likely to kill.
They had to make up for the deficit somehow.
Suddenly, a sharp blow hit the back of her head.
Zhang Chi's ears rang. She turned, dizzy, to see the mine boss swinging a massive chunk of raw Bluehowl Sandstone at her head.
He struck her again. And again.
It took several hits before Zhang Chi even processed what was happening. With a grunt, she lashed out with a brutal kick that sent the man flying backward.
They were in a deep, deserted side tunnel. No one else was around.
The mine boss scrambled up, rabid now, eyes gleaming. He snatched up the chunk of rock he'd dropped and hurled it like a frisbee at her face.
Zhang Chi dodged sideways, but her foot caught on something.
She stumbled, dropped to a knee, and reached out to steady herself against the wall.
She looked down.
And saw—
A leg.
An extremely, unnaturally long leg.
The mine boss was barely 5'7", but this leg stretched past two meters.
It was covered in coarse, black fuzz. Thin and segmented like an insect's. Even beneath the inmate's uniform pants, it was so large it stretched the fabric tight. The knee wasn't even covered.
Zhang Chi stared.
Oh, fk.**