96: Chapter 96 This thing is called the catfish effect

Levi turned around, leaving behind the Shura Field—a tapestry woven of despair, greed, suspicion, and a forced spark of desire—along with those complex gazes, to Evelyn.

He didn't spare another glance, as if he had just finished a mundane morning briefing.

The project kick-off meeting was over; next came the execution and monitoring phase. As the project manager, he only needed to appear at key milestones, review reports, and adjust the direction.

Below the high platform, Graham's hands, somewhat swollen from years of pampered living, slowly loosened.

His knuckles were pale from excessive force, and his palms were cold and damp.

He could feel the surge of desperate courage that had been coalescing within him, ready for a final gamble, deflating silently like a balloon pricked by a needle.

Utilizing the blind spots during the guard rotation, he, the former legion commander, would lead the charge, with several other knights acting as the spearhead to cause a riot in the chaotic environment of the quarry, seize weapons, and break through the blockade... This plan, which he had just simulated countless times in his mind, had every detail vividly clear, but now, they had all become blurred and ridiculous.

He glanced once more at the deep indentation on his left ring finger.

Under the sunlight, that circle of pale skin was like a silent brand, constantly reminding him of everything he had lost.

The Byron Family's Patriarch Ring was not just a symbol of power, but the final dignity of his status as a noble and a man of standing.

That little bastard Levi was like a demon who knew best how to torture; he hadn't destroyed it directly but had placed it in a display case, labeling it with a price that required sweat, humiliation, and even the betrayal of comrades to reclaim.

He aborted the signal that was about to leave his mouth.

The phrase "Hard Stone" was swallowed back down his throat, turning into a dull grunt as he gulped.

Evelyn’s cold gaze swept across the crowd; she was very satisfied with the effect Levi’s speech had produced—the undercurrents surging within the dead silence.

With a wave of her hand, several guards brought up two large wooden crates.

"Everyone, step forward to receive your identification and tools!"

The crates were opened, revealing two items.

One was a palm-sized, rough wooden tag branded with numbers from "001" to "078."

The other was a black stone slate of the same size, paired with a piece of white soft-stone chalk; this was the "ledger" used to record their daily points.

The crowd began to stir, like a pool of stagnant water into which a stone had been cast.

Receiving a number was a treatment reserved only for slaves and livestock on the Terrarium Continent.

Noble glory was thoroughly trampled into the mud, branded with a mark of shame.

"I absolutely will not accept this!" a booming voice erupted, filled with youthful rage.

A young knight named Cayden stepped out from the crowd. He had brilliant blonde hair, now covered in dust, making him look like a lion trapped in a cage.

He pushed away the wooden tag offered to him, his azure eyes burning with fury.

"We are of the Byron Family bloodline! We are knights commissioned by the Empire! We are not slaves! You cannot treat us like this!" He turned to his silent companions, trying to ignite the remaining flames in their hearts. "Listen to me, everyone! Don't be deceived by him! What 'Excellent Employee' crap? That's just a trick to divide us! As long as we stand together and boycott collectively, can they kill us all? The law doesn't punish the masses!"

His words were powerful, and the faces of some young nobles showed signs of wavering as they clenched their fists.

However, Cayden was soon disappointed.

He found that the uncles and elders he thought would respond to his call were all lowering their heads, their eyes darting away.

Their gazes shifted between one another, like merchants appraising goods in a market, filled with scrutiny, suspicion, and calculation.

This person has better stamina than me; he might be able to move more stones.

That guy used to be an accountant; he's meticulous and might find some clever way.

And him... he looks like he's about to collapse; he's no competition for me at all.

Cayden’s gaze finally fell on Graham.

This former pillar of the family was his greatest hope.

However, he only saw his grand-uncle step forward without a word and silently receive his "001" wooden tag and point slate from the guards.

Throughout the process, his grand-uncle didn't look at anyone, as if everything around him had nothing to do with him.

The first person's action was like the first domino falling.

With someone taking the lead, the rest had an excuse to follow.

Shame and the sense of glory rapidly depreciated in the face of such naked survival pressure.

One by one, they stepped forward to receive the identity that symbolized humiliation.

Cayden froze in place, feeling a chill rise from the soles of his feet, instantly freezing his entire body.

He understood that their alliance had collapsed the moment Levi threw out that ring.

The first day of forced labor began at the quarry on the west side of the castle.

The biting mountain wind swirled with stone chips, stinging their faces like knives.

The guards distributed the simplest iron pickaxes and crowbars, announcing today's task—to quarry enough stone to build a wall ten meters long and two meters high.

Completing the base quota would earn fifteen points.

Any excess would be awarded extra points based on volume.

Most of the nobles had never done such manual labor; they were panting after just a few strokes. The pickaxes hitting the hard rock only left shallow white marks, making their hands go numb from the vibration.

However, Graham showed surprising adaptability.

He didn't waste his strength aimlessly like the others; instead, he carefully observed a section of the rock wall for a long time, tapping different spots with his fingers and listening to the echoes.

He had led legions to construct countless fortifications on the frozen soil of the North, and he knew the texture and mechanical structure of rocks inside out.

Soon, he found several natural cracks and structural weak points.

He called over a few old acquaintances who were on good terms with him and in decent physical condition, quietly instructing them on how to swing their picks and use the crowbars for leverage.

"Yes, right here. Strike down along this water line!"

"You, your strength is misplaced! Use your waist, not just your arms! Aim for this fulcrum and pry it down!"

Under his direction, their small group quickly got the hang of it.

While others were still struggling with a single stubborn rock, they had already pried off a large piece of stone with neat edges.

On the slate, Graham's points began to quietly pull ahead with a slight but steady lead.

On the other side, Cayden was a completely different story.

He intentionally slowed his movements, every strike of his pickaxe weak and listless, and he would stop from time to time to glare at the nearby overseer with a provocative gaze.

He wanted to provoke the other party, to create a conflict and use blood to wake his companions' numb nerves.

He didn't believe that when the whip actually struck a noble, they could still remain indifferent.

The overseer was a veteran who had lost an arm and had no sympathy for these once-lofty lords.

He noticed Cayden's slacking but was in no hurry to lash out, merely watching coldly like he was watching a monkey jumping around.

Just as Cayden was about to hurl another insult, a scrawny old noble suddenly trotted over to the overseer, pointing flatteringly toward Cayden and whispering something.

The old noble was named Marcus, known for his stinginess in the past; now, for the promised reward of an "extra piece of black bread" from the overseer, he betrayed his companion without hesitation.

"Number 007, Cayden Byron!" the overseer shouted expressionlessly. "Passive slacking and verbal provocation. According to the rules, all points for today are deducted, and you are sentenced to five lashes as a warning to others!"

Two burly guards immediately stepped forward and pinned Cayden firmly against a large, flat rock.

"You cowards! Traitors!" Cayden struggled frantically, screaming not at the guards, but at those "companions" who watched silently, not even daring to meet his eyes.

Snap! The water-soaked cowhide whip whistled through the air and struck his back hard; his prison uniform tore instantly, and a bloody welt quickly emerged.

Cayden gritted his teeth and didn't let out a single groan of pain, but the intense agony still made his whole body shudder.

The sound of the whipping echoed in the silent quarry, once, then again.

Everyone stopped their work and watched in silence.

Their gazes were complex—some held pity, some held fear, but most held a cold sense of relief—thankfully, it wasn't them being beaten.

Graham also stopped; he looked at the whipped Cayden, a faint, imperceptible ripple flashing in the depths of his cloudy eyes, but it soon returned to calm.

He simply turned around and struck the rock in front of him with even greater force.

When work finished in the evening, everyone dragged their exhausted bodies back to the camp.

At the camp entrance, a large wooden board had been set up, with everyone's numbers and today's points crudely written in white lime.

"001, Graham Byron, 28 points."

This number sat at the top, a full 7 points ahead of the second place.

And at the bottom of the list, after "007, Cayden Byron," was a glaring "0."

At dinner time, under the envious or jealous gazes of everyone, Graham received a distinct dinner from the guard distributing food—besides the bowl of rye porridge so thin you could see your reflection, he also got an extra bowl of thick meat soup with several solid pieces of roast meat floating in it.

The aroma of meat wafted through the cold air, fiercely stimulating the taste buds of every starving person.

Graham carried his clay bowl to a corner and sat down as if no one else were there.

He ate slowly and carefully, chewing every mouthful of meat thoroughly, as if savoring some peerless delicacy.

He could feel a gaze full of hatred pinned to his back like a venomous snake.

He knew it was Cayden, but he didn't look back; he just silently and focusedly consumed every bit of the winner's reward.

Late at night, the cold stone beds made people's bones ache.

Graham had no desire to sleep; he lay with his eyes open, staring at the dim moonlight filtered into squares by the iron bars on the ceiling.

He repeatedly rubbed the deep ring mark on his left ring finger; in the cold night, the skin there seemed to glow with a searing heat.

A burst of suppressed whispering came from the neighboring cell—it was the voices of Cayden and several other young nobles.

Graham’s hearing was excellent; he could clearly capture fragments of their conversation.

"...That old thing, just because he knows a few tricks, he really showed off today..."

"Tomorrow we can't let him have it so easy... it's easy to cause an accident while quarrying..."

"Exactly. Doesn't he like finding those rocks with cracks? We'll just make those spots 'looser' beforehand and cause a small cave-in for him. Let's see how smug he is then!"

"And his tools, it's only natural if they 'accidentally' break..."

In the darkness, the corners of Graham's mouth curled into a cold arc that no one noticed.

He closed his eyes; the voices discussing how to escape or resist seemed to still be in his ears, but the content had completely changed.

What they were discussing was no longer how to fight a common enemy, but how to use more insidious means within the rules to hinder and frame the "companion" running in the lead.

Levi's open scheme had succeeded.

He didn't even need to use a single whip to make this group of proud lions start tearing at each other.

Meanwhile, in the deepest part of the castle's main building, at the end of a secret staircase leading underground, Levi stopped.

Evelyn and Caroline followed behind him, the expressions of all three exceptionally solemn.

The air was filled with a mixture of damp mold and a faint sulfurous scent; the further down they went, the stronger the cold, oppressive feeling from the "abyssal contract core" became, as if it wanted to freeze their very souls.