As Nilbog and the rest were walking across the hall, one of the guards in the front spoke up. “The doctor forgot to mention, but all of you are documented together by the same crystal, meaning that if we have any reason to think any of you have rebelled, all of you will die. Painfully. The core is locked away, so don’t get any funny ideas. From here on, you may only refer to each other via the numbers branded, or your class. Do you understand?” he said, but when he only received mumbles and nods, the guard stopped, and so did everyone else. He turned around, and looked into the eyes of each one of them. “When your commanding officer asks you a question, you answer it. Do you understand?”

When the guard met with the same response, he beat every single one of them. The two other guards helped as well, throwing punches expertly aimed to inflict pain, but not any permanent injuries. Even for kid, they held no punches back for Nilbog. “Do you understand now?”

“Yes," everyone haphazardly said through their moaning.

“Good. As long as you follow orders, rarely will you be punished unfairly. Do you understand?”

“Yes!” they said again, this time slightly more sync.

“Good. We continue.”

Out of the corner of Nilbog’s eyes, as they began to march through the hall, he noticed other signs of conflict. A slight dent, a tiny bit of wiped blood, and a general tension in the halls. It was a ritual, it seemed like. They beat all the prisoners in order to teach them discipline. He gently touched his sore cheeks, hissing. The outline of his number was clear on his flesh. 667.

 Maybe that was part of the ritual too.  The Blood Crystal capacity in exploding within his veins was true, it was fairly common knowledge, but he did doubt the range. It seems a bit excessive, but Nilbog doubted any of them would be curious enough to test the limits.

“Pick a weapon according to your proficiencies,” the lead guard said.

Nilbog looked up from the ground. They had passed through whatever the previous building was made for, and were now in what seemed like an armorer. Swords, spears, daggers, maces, as well as a large majority of iron weapons were lined up on the wall in stacks. “You will be shortly using it, and whether you live or die will depend on your skill with it,” the guard said. Then, after a short, awkward pause, he walked over to the nearest prisoner on his side and knocked him off his feet with a punch. It was the warrior numbered 666, with a hulking body and wide muscles, but he still flew like a ragdoll.

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“When your commanding officer says something, even if it was not a question or a command, the appropriate answer is yes or no sir,” he said, and then looked expectantly at the rest of the prisoners.

 “Yes sir!” they all said, except the one groaning on the ground. It seemed he was not excluded, as in the next moment the guard began to kick and stomp on his slithering body. He brought his hands up to his head and balled up into a fetal position, but it proved naught against the guard.  

“I will repeat myself. When your commanding officer says something, the appropriate answer is yes or no sir, no matter what condition you are in. Do you understand?” he said. 

This time, everyone answered.

 “Good. You have one minute to decide. If you don't know how to use any of them, pick a spear. The rest of your group will be punished if you let your teammates die, as we have spent precious resources on you,” the guard said, and then stomped his spear. The prisoners instantly went to fetch their weapons, as Nilbog hesitantly walked up to the guard.

 “Um, sir? May I speak?” he said, bowing his said. He did not look into the guard’s eyes. Not directly, at least.

The guard raised an eyebrow. “It is always surprising when you meet a rat that possesses manners. What is it?” he said, tilting his head slightly. His eyes were open wide and unblinking.

"Can I take two daggers?"

 The guard looked at him, unblinking, and then burst into laughter. He bent forward, holding his stomach. He slapped his thighs a couple of times, barely able to hold his breath. “Sure, I don't see why not."

 Nilbog wondered what was funny about that, but still hurried over to the daggers section. As he rummaged through the daggers, barely any of them seemed of any quality. The iron was bent and crooked, and seemed fragile and too heavy for its small size. It was incomparable to the last weapon he had.

Poor Iron Dagger

Reach: 6 inches long

Slash: 1

Thrust: 2

Blunt: 0

Iron Strength: 2

Durability: Poor

The only thing that this thing will kill is you.

Nilbog grimaced. Even the flavor text mocked him, but he doubted any of the others were any better off. He grabbed two of them. 

“666? What seems to be the issue?” The guard said, looking at one of the prisoners.

He was tall with wide shoulders. Not too buff, but heavier than the average person. He lowered his hand once the guard called on him. “Ain’t it unfair for us to be stuck with a child? And can that thing even run?" he said, and then pointed towards the Rogue, referring to his disease. It was a particularly troublesome disease called Oble, where the body ceases to be able to break down food.

The result is an obese, poor peasant who is malnourished. It was one of the poorest jokes this world had for them.

"Isn't it unfair I have to escort worthless little shits like you, instead of leveling up?" he said, and then waiting, expecting an answer.

"Ugh, yes sir..." 666 said.

"Good. Stop wasting my time. We leave."