The clamor of the camp had barely settled from the dawn raid when the overseers barked new orders. Cheong Gwang's shoulder wound from the arrow graze burned like fire, but he wrapped it hastily with a strip of torn cloth scavenged from a fallen comrade's tunic. No time for proper tending; the Warring States waited for no one's pain. The slaves were marched out again, this time toward the bloodied fields where the raid had faltered. The ground was still warm with the remnants of battle—corpses strewn like discarded puppets, their eyes staring blankly at the indifferent sky.
Kang, the overseer, rode ahead on a mangy horse, his whip coiled at his side like a serpent ready to strike. "Clean up this mess, you lot! The lords want the field clear for the next push. And keep your eyes open—stragglers might still be lurking." His voice was gravelly, laced with the arrogance of a man who held power over the powerless. Behind him, a few true warriors from the Crimson Blade Clan lounged on their mounts, their qi auras faintly visible as a shimmer in the air. They chatted idly, their laughter a stark contrast to the slaves' grim silence.
Cheong Gwang trudged forward, spear in hand, his chains removed for the labor but ready to be reapplied at a moment's notice. The field stretched out before them, a vast expanse of churned mud and trampled grass, pockmarked with craters from qi-infused strikes. The air hung heavy with the coppery scent of blood and the acrid smoke of smoldering fires. Flies buzzed in swarms, drawn to the feast of the dead. He stepped carefully, avoiding the worst of the gore, but it was impossible to escape entirely. His boots sank into the muck, each step pulling with a wet suck that echoed the futility of it all.
As they began the grim task of dragging bodies to a pyre pit, Cheong Gwang overheard snippets of conversation from the clan warriors. They spoke freely, as if the slaves were deaf or dumb. "Heard the Azure Dragons are pushing hard from the east," one said, a lanky man with a scarred lip. "Their sect master claims some ancient technique—something about channeling the river's flow into strikes. Bah, probably just rumors to scare the weak."
The other, a stocky woman with a bow slung over her shoulder, snorted. "Doesn't matter. Our lord's allied with the Iron Fist now. Once we crush these borders, we'll march on the central plains. Unification under one banner—imagine the glory." Her eyes gleamed with ambition, the kind that came from years of cultivation and privilege. Cheong Gwang kept his head down, but his ears perked. Unification? The Warring States had been fractured for generations, sects and clans carving out territories like wolves dividing a carcass. If true, it meant more wars, more slaves thrown into the grinder.
He hauled a body—a young attacker from the raid, his blue Azure Dragon insignia stained red—toward the pit. The man's face was frozen in a grimace of pain, his hand still clutching a broken sword. Cheong Gwang felt a twinge of something—not pity, exactly, but recognition. This could have been him, just hours ago. No heroes here, only the living and the dead, separated by luck and grit.
A shout from the field's edge shattered the relative calm. "Ambush! They're back!" Arrows rained down again, but this time from concealed positions in the nearby woods. The slaves scattered, some dropping their burdens to grab whatever weapons lay nearby. Cheong Gwang dove behind a pile of corpses, his heart pounding. This wasn't a full raid like dawn's; it felt like a probing attack, stragglers testing defenses.
Kang cursed, rallying the clan warriors. "Form up! Slaves, to the front—hold them off!" The order was predictable, cruel in its efficiency. Cheong Gwang gripped his spear tighter, peering over the makeshift barrier. Figures emerged from the treeline—two dozen or so, clad in mismatched armor, their movements lacking the fluid grace of high-level cultivators. Mercenaries, perhaps, or low-rank disciples. But even they outmatched slaves in skill.
The first wave charged, blades drawn. Cheong Gwang rose with a group of fellow slaves, forming a ragged line. No formations, no strategies—just a wall of desperate flesh. He braced as an enemy lunged at him, a burly man with a halberd swinging wildly. Cheong Gwang sidestepped, the blade whistling past his ear, and thrust his spear forward. It glanced off the man's armor, drawing a shallow cut but no more. The attacker grunted, retaliating with a backhand that caught Cheong Gwang across the chest, knocking him into the mud.
Pain exploded, but he rolled with it, coming up coated in filth. The mud clung to his scars, reopening old wounds with its grit. He tasted blood—his own, from biting his tongue. No time to falter. The man pressed the attack, halberd chopping down like an executioner's axe. Cheong Gwang blocked with his spear shaft, the wood cracking under the impact. Splinters dug into his palms, but he held, pushing back with raw strength honed from years of labor.
Around him, the field devolved into chaos. A slave to his left screamed as an arrow pierced his thigh, dropping him to his knees. Another charged blindly, only to be cut down by a swift sword strike that opened his belly. Guts spilled into the dirt, steaming in the cool air. The sensory assault was overwhelming: the squelch of boots in blood-soaked earth, the clang of metal on metal, the guttural cries of the dying. Flies scattered and reformed, indifferent to the fresh violence.
Cheong Gwang twisted his spear, disengaging from the halberd, and aimed low, sweeping at the man's legs. The attacker jumped back, but not before the tip nicked his ankle. Blood welled, slowing him. Seizing the opening, Cheong Gwang lunged, driving the spear into the man's side where armor gapped. The point sank in with a sickening thud, and the attacker staggered, eyes widening in shock. Cheong Gwang yanked it free, a spray of crimson arcing through the air, splattering his face and clothes.
But victory was fleeting. Another enemy barreled into him from the side, a woman with dual daggers flashing like fangs. She moved faster, her steps hinting at basic qi enhancement—nothing profound, but enough to make her a blur compared to his plodding grit. A dagger sliced across his arm, adding a fresh gash to his collection. He roared, swinging his spear in a wide arc to create space. It connected with her shoulder, cracking bone, but she pressed on, her other dagger aiming for his throat.
He ducked, the blade grazing his scalp, drawing a line of fire. Dropping low, he tackled her into the mud, using his weight to pin her. They grappled, a messy tangle of limbs and desperation. Her free hand clawed at his face, nails raking over his old scar, reopening it. Blood trickled into his eye, blurring his vision. He headbutted her, feeling her nose crunch, then drove his elbow into her throat. She gasped, daggers dropping, and went limp.
Panting, Cheong Gwang pushed off her, retrieving his spear. The field was a slaughterhouse now. Slaves lay scattered, their blood mingling with the enemies'. The clan warriors finally joined the fray, their qi strikes turning the tide. One unleashed a palm blast that sent three attackers flying, bones shattering on impact. "Pathetic," the woman archer sneered, loosing arrows that pierced armor like paper. "These slaves are buying us time—make it count!"
Cheong Gwang witnessed the atrocities unfold. A wounded enemy begged for mercy, only for Kang to crush his skull with a boot. "No prisoners today," he growled. Another slave, trying to flee the madness, was cut down by his own side—a warning to the rest. The clans showed no distinction; weakness was the true enemy. As the last attackers retreated into the woods, pursued by arrows, the field fell silent save for the moans of the injured.
Cheong Gwang slumped against a fallen log, his body a tapestry of new bruises and cuts. His shoulder wound had reopened, soaking the bandage. He tore another strip from a nearby corpse, binding it tighter. The cost of weakness was etched in every scar, every lost life. There were no heroes in these wars—only survivors, and even they paid dearly.
Overhead, the warriors continued their talk, oblivious or uncaring. "This alliance will change everything," the lanky man said. "But we need more fodder. These slaves break too easily."
Cheong Gwang's jaw clenched. Break? He'd bent, twisted, but never broken. Not yet. Thoughts of Myeong-Wol flickered again—her clever smile, her unyielding spirit. If she was out there, surviving in her own way, then so could he. The fields were bloodied, but so was he. And in this barbaric world, blood was the currency of endurance.
As the slaves were rounded up once more, chains clinking back into place, Cheong Gwang vowed silently: one day, he'd turn this grit into something more. But for now, survival was enough.