Fighting Lessons | prisoner!user | Genshin Impact

Intro

At first, there was disbelief, then despair, and finally, an anger so overwhelming that it had nowhere to go. The Oratrice Mécanique d'Analyse Cardinale had delivered its verdict with mechanical certainty. Life imprisonment. Its cold judgment echoed through the courtroom long after the sound had faded, leaving a hollow silence behind. You could only stare at the machine that had decided everything so effortlessly. In Fontaine, people trusted the decisions of mechanisms more than the messy realities of human experience. You had killed a man in self-defense, yet that distinction meant nothing to them. It had been a simple matter of survival — either you or him. But to the people watching from their polished balconies, the truth hardly mattered.

The citizens of Fontaine never cared what happened in the darker corners of their city until blood was spilled. Then they would drag the accused out of the sewers like rats, parade them through the Opera Epiclese, and watch the trial unfold as if it were another theatrical performance. To them, it was entertainment. To you, it was the end of everything.

Before you could even shout an insult at the cursed machine, guards pressed their guns firmly against your back and forced you toward the exit. They moved as if you might suddenly bolt for freedom, even though the handcuffs digging painfully into your wrists made that idea almost laughable. For a moment, you considered laughing right in their faces, but the pressure of the weapon against your spine quickly killed the thought.

The journey down to the Fortress of Meropide felt far longer than it probably was. Metal corridors stretched endlessly ahead, lit by dull industrial lights that flickered occasionally with the hum of machinery. The deeper you were taken, the heavier the air felt. Pipes rattled somewhere behind the walls, and the constant low rumble of the underwater structure reminded you that thousands of tons of ocean pressed down from above. Each step carried you farther away from sunlight, from fresh air, and from the world you had once known.

By the time the massive gates of the prison closed behind you with a deafening clang, the reality of your situation finally settled in.

There would be no sky here.

No open horizon.

Just metal walls, recycled air, and the endless pressure of the sea surrounding the fortress.

Time passed slowly in Meropide, though even the most unbearable routines eventually grew familiar. Survival inside the fortress depended less on innocence and far more on adaptability. You learned quickly that the prison functioned like its own strange little economy, and everything revolved around one simple currency.

Coupons.

Food, comfort, privileges — even the smallest conveniences required them. Without coupons, life became significantly harsher than it already was. While prisoners were technically provided with the bare essentials, anything beyond that required effort. Most inmates earned coupons through work. The production zones were always full of prisoners operating machinery, repairing pipes, or assembling equipment that would eventually make its way back to the surface. The work was dull and repetitive, but it kept people alive.

Still, there were faster ways to earn coupons. And one of the most popular involved the ring.

The fighting platform sat in a wide industrial chamber not far from the dormitories. The metal floor was scratched and dented from countless matches, while iron railings surrounded the platform to keep spectators from interfering. Prisoners gathered there in the evenings, placing bets and shouting encouragement while two unfortunate participants settled their differences with their fists.

Victory meant coupons.

Victory also meant respect.

In a place like Meropide, that respect could make the difference between surviving quietly and becoming an easy target.

So you stepped into the ring.

And lost.

The first fight ended quickly, leaving your ribs aching for days afterward. The second ended with blood in your mouth and laughter echoing through the chamber as you were dragged off the platform. The third was worse, the ringing in your ears lasting long after the match ended.

Yet despite the humiliation, you kept coming back.

Tonight’s fight followed the same pattern.

The chamber was crowded, prisoners leaning against railings or sitting along the metal walkways above the ring. Voices rose and fell as bets were exchanged, while your opponent cracked his knuckles with obvious confidence. The fight barely lasted more than a minute. A heavy blow sent you stumbling backward until the iron railing caught you hard between the shoulders. The impact rattled through your body, leaving the taste of copper spreading across your tongue as the crowd erupted into a mixture of cheers and laughter.

Then, quite suddenly, the noise died.

The silence spread through the room like a ripple through water as prisoners began stepping back from the platform. No one gave an order, yet the reaction was immediate and instinctive. Bootsteps echoed across the metal walkway above the ring. They were slow, steady, and completely unhurried — the kind of footsteps belonging to someone who knew exactly how much authority they carried.

The crowd parted almost automatically as the figure approached.

When he stepped into view, the reason for the sudden silence became obvious.

Wriothesley, the Administrator of the Fortress of Meropide, had come to the ring.

Most prisoners rarely saw him in person. The Duke governed the entire fortress with a quiet efficiency that didn’t require constant displays of authority. Yet his presence alone was enough to command immediate respect. He stepped onto the platform without hesitation, his long coat shifting slightly with the movement. His gaze moved calmly across the gathered prisoners, briefly acknowledging the crowd before settling on the scene in front of him. Finally, his attention landed on you. The look in his eyes wasn’t angry. If anything, it seemed analytical, as though he were studying the outcome of an experiment that hadn’t quite gone according to plan. For a moment, he observed the bruises forming across your face and the way you struggled to regain your balance. Then he sighed quietly.

“This place runs on rules,” he said calmly, his voice carrying easily through the silent chamber. His gloved hand rested against the railing as he continued speaking, his tone steady and almost conversational despite the attention focused on him. “Fighting isn’t against them. In fact, it’s encouraged. Prisoners earn coupons, settle grudges, and keep themselves entertained.” His gaze shifted briefly to the crowd before returning to you. “But if you keep stepping into the ring like that, you’re not earning anything.” A small pause followed. “You’re just volunteering to be beaten.” The faintest trace of amusement appeared in his expression, though it wasn’t mocking. It was more like the reaction of someone who had just confirmed an obvious conclusion. Wriothesley straightened slightly, considering the situation for another moment before finally making a decision.

From that night onward, the ring was no longer just a place where you lost fights.

The training sessions soon became part of your routine. Late at night, when most of the fortress had gone quiet and the crowds around the ring were long gone, the lights above the platform would flicker back to life. Training with him was nothing like the chaotic fights you had suffered through before. Every movement mattered. Every mistake was corrected immediately, usually by demonstrating exactly how easily he could knock you off balance.

Tonight was no different.

You stepped forward, aiming a punch that Wriothesley blocked without effort. He shifted aside, redirecting your momentum with a quick movement of his arm. Your footing slipped on the worn metal floor, and before you could recover, you stumbled down to one knee against the ring. The impact echoed faintly through the platform. A moment later, Wriothesley’s boots stopped directly in front of you. He watched you for a second before crouching slightly, his gaze calm but sharp as ever.

“Better,” he said after a short pause. It sounded almost like praise. His gloved hand briefly adjusted your shoulder where your posture had twisted during the fall.

“You didn’t panic.” He leaned closer while speaking, close enough that the faint scent of cold metal and leather clinging to him became impossible to miss. For a moment, the space between you felt uncomfortably small, his presence steady and unhurried as he studied you. Then he straightened again, stepping back as if nothing had happened.

“Get up,” he said calmly. “We’re not done yet.”

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