I Die to Rise: Resurrection System-Chapter 95: Collars and Cores!

Kurt sat on the edge of the pathetic excuse for a bed, staring at the blue system screen floating in front of him like a particularly smug ghost. Twenty points left in the bank and an itch that needed scratching.

The next ability he decided to level up was Pain Resistance.

It was his very first ability, earned from dying to Rook’s fist back when he’d just crawled out of his own grave with amnesia and a smart mouth.

Seemed only right to give it a proper upgrade. Sentimental? Maybe. But then again, he’d died more times than most couples had anniversaries. A little nostalgia was the least he deserved.

"Bugger it," he muttered, and dumped the points in.

[UPGRADE CONFIRMED]

[Pain Resistance → Empathic Sway: C-Rank]

[Cost: 25 Points]

[Available Points: 20]

[NOTICE: Pain Resistance has evolved to Empathic Sway]

[New Description: Host can manipulate the sensations of himself and others. Pain. Pleasure. Everything in between. Can amplify, suppress, or redirect sensory input within close range]

Kurt read the description twice, then grinned. "Well now... that’s bloody interesting."

He could already picture the uses. Make a guard feel like his bollocks were being slow-roasted over hellfire from just a simple itch. Or, more deliciously, flood someone with pleasure so sharp they’d forget their own name.

Dangerous little toy, this one. And if he played it right, could get him out of this glorified rat trap with a smile on his face.

His gaze dropped to his points, twenty left. It wasn’t enough for another C-rank upgrade, but he could push a couple F-ranks to E if he needed to.

For now, though, he decided to save them. Better to have options than blow everything before he even knew what he was up against.

He laid back on the thin bunk bed, left hand tucked behind his head, staring at the ceiling. The fluorescent light flickered overhead, casting shadows that danced across the concrete walls.

He didn’t sleep. Couldn’t. It was only a matter of time before those prison doors opened and the real fun started. So he waited.

And an hour later, the dim overhead light buzzed red, and the cell doors across the entire block hissed open in a timed sequence.

Roll call echoed through the corridor, voices barking out numbers like they were livestock instead of people.

"Convict 222!"

Kurt grinned. "Showtime."

He rolled off the bunk, straightened his shoulders, and stepped out into the corridor with the rest of the fresh meat.

Dozens of prisoners emerged from identical cells in the same depressing light-brown prison uniforms, all moving in synchronized lines like they’d done this a hundred times before.

Kurt’s eyes swept the crowd, taking everything in as they moved above ground.

His very first observation was that the prison had already sorted itself into tribes. Some of the prisoners were already organized into cliques. Gangs, clubs, whatever they wanted to call them.

There was a group of bald men, all of them sporting identical spiral tattoos on their hairless heads. They moved together, shoulders touching, eyes forward, and nobody got in their way.

A pack of bald bastards, the lot of them.

Another group caught his attention next. Their eyes were cold, detached, empty in a way that made Kurt tense, his instincts sharpening.

Just from the look in their eyes, it was obvious that about ninety percent of them had caught bodies. Maybe more. These weren’t petty thieves or drunk idiots who’d pissed on the wrong checkpoint. These were killers.

The kind who’d probably murdered their own mothers and taped it for posterity.

His second observation was that most prisoners were already wearing collars. Heavy black bands wrapped around their necks, and the only ones without collars were the newly arrived prisoners like him.

And that was about to change.

Kurt kept walking, eyes tracking cameras mounted along the walls and ceiling. He started counting. Ten. Twenty. Thirty. Fifty-two cameras in this section alone.

It felt like a fruitless endeavor. This place was tighter than a nun’s knickers on a Sunday. So he stopped counting. But by then, it was too late.

Kurt bumped into one of the collared prisoners, shoulder colliding hard enough to make the man stumble slightly. All because he wasn’t paying attention.

The prisoner turned around slowly and Kurt swallowed.

Tall, mean-looking, sporting a very familiar red mohawk, and his eyes widened with instant recognition.

"Look what the cat dragged in," Razor said with a flat voice.

"Bollocks," Kurt muttered under his breath.

Then his face brightened into a smile like he’d just run into an old mate at the pub instead of a violent thug he owed money to. He stepped forward, clapping both hands onto Razor’s shoulders.

"If it isn’t Razor!" Kurt said enthusiastically. "Mate! Bloody hell, it’s so good to see a familiar face. How’ve you been, big man?"

Razor’s gaze dropped slowly to the hands on his shoulders like they were contagious, then rose back up to meet Kurt’s face. His expression didn’t change. "I’m in prison."

"Aren’t we all?" Kurt replied brightly. "Small world, eh? So what are you in for these days?"

"Killing a bunch of people who owed me money," Razor answered flatly, face completely blank.

Kurt’s grin faltered for half a second.

Razor’s expression didn’t shift. "And look at you here. Small world after all."

Rather than pull away like a smart person would, Kurt leaned in closer and dropped his voice to a whisper. "Listen, mate. I’m more valuable to you alive than dead, yeah? I meant it when I said I had the credits. I just need to get out of here first."

Razor studied him for a long moment, then scoffed. "Good luck with that."

But his eyes narrowed, and Kurt could see the gears turning behind them. Razor suspected something. He just didn’t know what yet.

Kurt straightened, keeping his tone casual. "Seriously mate, what are you in for?"

Razor rubbed his nose, expression unreadable. "Trafficked a bunch of hunters into the A-rank district. Finally got caught." He paused, eyes narrowing further. "What about you? Last I saw you, you were conducting business with the biggest and only brothel in the E-rank district."

"This and that," Kurt replied, keeping it vague.

"Newbie?" Razor asked, though it wasn’t really a question.

"What gave it away?"

Razor pointed at Kurt’s neck. "No collar." Then he leaned in slightly, voice dropping. "And you talk like there’s a chance in hell of escaping this place."

Kurt pulled back, tilting his head. "Speaking of collars, why is everyone wearing them? I thought they were only used during auctions and dungeon runs?"

Razor’s face hardened, suspicion growing, but he still answered. "For a newbie, you sure know a lot about the Circle."

He crossed his arms. "The collars were modified. They house the same null energy the dead zones give off, while tracking our locations and market value. Can’t use abilities. Can’t run. Can’t do shit without them knowing exactly where you are."

"Stein modification, I’m guessing?" Kurt said, not really asking.

Before Razor could respond, Kurt’s number was called.

"Convict 222! Step forward!"

Kurt stepped out of line and approached the guard station where a bored-looking technician sat behind a table covered in black collars.

The technician grabbed one, didn’t even look up, and gestured for Kurt to tilt his head. "Hold still."

The collar snapped around Kurt’s neck with a metallic *click*, and immediately he felt it. A faint pressure against his essence, like something heavy pressing down on his chest.

It wasn’t painful, just... there. Uncomfortable. Restrictive. And quite fashionable.

Kurt reached up and touched the collar experimentally. It was warm, humming faintly from the internal circuitry, and had enough explosive power to turn his head abstract.

The technician waved him off. "Next."

Kurt stepped back into line, and Razor shot him a look that said welcome to hell.

The Warden stepped out onto a raised platform overlooking the assembled prisoners, hands clasped behind his back, chest puffed out like a rooster.

"You maggots will be transported to a D-rank dungeon in Kairo City," he announced, voice echoing across the yard. "Make it out alive, reduce your sentence, increase your market value. Simple."

A female prisoner, one of the newbies, near the front raised her hand and Razor quickly whispered from behind her, "don’t"

She ignored him and continued anyways. "How the fuck are we supposed to clear a dungeon with these?!" She gestured at the collar around her neck.

Silence fell across the yard as though what she just said was a taboo.

Kurt immediately picked up on the fact that what she just did was a big mistake.

The Warden’s expression didn’t change. He stepped down from the platform slowly and walked over to the woman. He stopped directly in front of her and smiled.

"You’re a pretty thing," he said softly, running the back of his fingers across her cheek even as she flinched. 𝒻𝑟𝘦𝘦𝘸ℯ𝒷𝑛𝘰𝓋ℯ𝘭.𝘤𝘰𝘮

Then his hand snapped back and came forward in a vicious *slap* that echoed across the entire yard.

The woman’s head whipped to the side, and she dropped to her knees, eyes unfocused, blood trickling from her nose.

"Nobody," the Warden said calmly, adjusting his uniform, "especially you *worms*, will question me." His eyes swept the crowd before stopping on Kurt for a brief second, and he smiled.

He gestured to one of the guards. "Take over." Then he turned and walked away like nothing had happened.

"Ouch." Kurt exhaled slowly. "Good to know he doesn’t discriminate."

Razor shot him a look. "You got a death wish?"

"Not particularly," Kurt muttered. "Just making an observation."

"Alright, single file!" a guard barked. "Move it!"

The prisoners shuffled forward toward waiting blimps, and Kurt fell in line behind Razor, eyes still scanning the crowd for any sign of Riley.

He didn’t see her.

Not among the spiral tattoo gang. Not among the dead-eyed killers. Not even among the clique that seemed to be exclusively Minaris.

If she wasn’t in roll call, where the hell was she?

The blimp lifted off smoothly, carrying them from the Walk, past the Garden, and toward the D-rank district. Kurt pressed his face against the window, watching the jungle canopy pass beneath them.

One of the guards stood at the front of the blimp, and began briefing them in a bored monotone.

"This is for you newbies," the guard said. "Every prisoner gets one D-tier artifact to help them clear the dungeon. When you kill a monster, you grab its core and place it over your collar."

He demonstrated by pulling a small monster core from a bag and pressing it against an unworn collar. The collar beeped once, glowing faintly.

"The collar records the core and you receive points based on its evaluation. Points add to your market value. Once a core is scanned, scanning it again is pointless."

The guard tucked the core back into the bag. "Each monster killed shaves one month off your sentence. There’s two hundred fifty of you, so it’s every prisoner for himself in there... and only the smart ones come out."

He folded his arms, grinning beneath his helmet. "We’ll wait outside the dungeon gate and let you do the hard work. Then we guards do the cleanup. Pack up the cores, harvest materials, all that fun stuff."

He paused. "Any questions?"

Nobody answered. Not that the guard waited for any.

"Good," he said, turning away.

Razor turned to Kurt and grinned, showing teeth. "I hope you enjoy sand, mate. Because you’re gonna be seeing a lot of it soon."

Kurt raised an eyebrow. "Sand?"