The clamor of impending battle echoed across the scarred plains, a symphony of clashing steel and war cries that had become as familiar to Cheong Gwang as his own heartbeat. Days had blurred since the night ambush in the trenches, the camp a hive of frantic preparation. Whispers among the slaves spoke of a major push—an offensive against Azure Dragon forces encroaching on Crimson Blade territory. The overseers had drilled them relentlessly, unlocking chains only for mock charges and formations that were little more than organized suicide runs. Cheong Gwang's back still smarted from Kang's lashes, the wounds scabbed but tender, a constant reminder of the hierarchy's bite.
He stood in the front ranks now, spear in hand, the rusted tip sharpened with a stone he'd scavenged during downtime. Baek and Jin flanked him, their alliance solidified in the shadows of survival. "Stay close," Baek muttered, his limp less pronounced after a poultice of chewed herbs. "We cover each other—no heroics." Jin nodded, his mangled fingers wrapped tightly around a makeshift club. The dagger Cheong Gwang had claimed from the ambush was hidden in his boot, a secret edge in a world of blunt force.
Kang rode up and down the lines on his horse, qi flickering around him like a halo of false authority. "Today, we crush the Dragons! Slaves to the vanguard—break their lines or die trying!" The true Crimson Blade warriors lingered at the rear, their robes pristine, weapons gleaming with infused energy. They were the hammers; the slaves, the anvil upon which enemies would shatter—or so the rhetoric went. Cheong Gwang knew better: they were bait, expendable lures to draw out the foe's strength.
The signal horn blared, a deep bellow that shook the earth. The slave horde surged forward, a wave of ragged humanity crashing toward the enemy positions. The Azure Dragons waited on a low ridge, their blue banners snapping in the wind, formations tight and disciplined. Arrows darkened the sky first, a deadly rain that thudded into shields and bodies alike. Cheong Gwang raised his buckler—salvaged from the armor pile—and deflected one shaft, but another grazed his thigh, tearing fabric and flesh. He gritted his teeth, pushing on through the pain.
The lines collided with bone-jarring force. Spears thrust, swords slashed, and the air filled with the wet sounds of violence. Cheong Gwang parried a Dragon soldier's halberd, the impact vibrating up his arms. The man was armored lightly, his movements fluid with basic qi enhancement—faster than a slave, but not untouchable. Cheong Gwang ducked low, sweeping his spear at the knees. The soldier stumbled, and Cheong Gwang followed with a thrust to the gut, the point piercing leather and sinking deep. Blood bubbled as the man fell, but triumph was short-lived; two more took his place.
Beside him, Baek fought with grim efficiency, using his club to bash helmets and shatter limbs. "Left flank!" he shouted, and Cheong Gwang pivoted, blocking a strike aimed at Jin. The three moved as a unit, their budding alliance a fragile shield in the chaos. But the battle turned sour quickly. The Azure Dragons unleashed their qi arts—waves of energy rippling like water, knocking slaves off their feet. One blast caught a group to Cheong Gwang's right, hurling bodies like ragdolls, bones cracking on impact.
"Push through!" Kang roared from afar, safe on his mount. But the slaves faltered, the enemy line holding firm. Cheong Gwang's spear splintered against an armored chest, forcing him to discard it and draw the hidden dagger. He slashed wildly, opening a throat here, stabbing a thigh there. Sweat stung his eyes, mixing with blood from a fresh cut on his forehead. The thigh wound burned, slowing him, but he pressed on—defeat wasn't an option; it was death.
Then came the turning point: a Dragon commander, qi surging like a torrent, charged the center. His palm strikes sent shockwaves, pulverizing slaves in droves. Cheong Gwang saw him coming—a tall figure in azure robes, face masked by a helm. He tried to evade, but the wave hit like a tidal force, slamming into his chest. Ribs cracked, breath exploded from his lungs, and he flew backward, tumbling into the mud. Pain lanced through him, white-hot and all-consuming. The world spun, sounds muffling to a distant roar.
He lay there, gasping, as the battle raged around him. Bodies piled up, the ground a slurry of blood and earth. Baek's voice cut through the haze: "Gwang! Get up!" Rough hands hauled him to his feet—Jin, his face bloodied. "We have to fall back!" But retreat was chaos; slaves scattered, easy pickings for pursuing Dragons. An arrow pierced Jin's shoulder, dropping him with a cry. Cheong Gwang dragged him behind a fallen log, fending off a straggler with desperate dagger swipes.
The Crimson Blade warriors finally engaged, their counter qi blasts stemming the tide. But it was too late for many. The horn sounded retreat, a bitter wail admitting defeat. Cheong Gwang staggered back with the survivors, supporting Jin, Baek limping alongside. The field was a graveyard—hundreds dead, the air thick with the moans of the dying. No quick victories here; only the grind of loss.
Back at camp, the aftermath was a grim tableau. The wounded were herded into a makeshift infirmary tent, little more than bloodstained canvas and crude tools. Cheong Gwang collapsed onto a mat, his chest a furnace of agony. A slave "healer"—an old woman named Hae with herbal knowledge—examined him. "Cracked ribs, at least three," she muttered, her fingers probing gently. "And that thigh gash—deep, but no artery hit. You're lucky, boy."
Luck? Cheong Gwang bit back a laugh, which turned into a cough that brought blood to his lips. Hae cleaned the wounds with boiled water scavenged from the stream, the heat searing but necessary to ward off infection. She packed the thigh with a poultice of crushed leaves and mud—antiseptic herbs Baek had taught her to forage. "Breathe shallow," she advised, binding his chest with strips of cloth. "Ribs heal slow; push too hard, and they'll puncture a lung."
As she worked, Cheong Gwang's mind wandered, the pain anchoring him to introspection. Defeat clung to him like the mud on his skin. How many battles like this? How many scars? His body was a testament to endurance, but each loss chipped at the soul. The endless cycle—fight, bleed, survive—felt like a wheel grinding him down. No heroes, no glory; just the barbaric churn of the Warring States.
Thoughts turned to Myeong-Wol, as they often did in these quiet torments. She'd hate seeing him like this, broken but unbowed. In his memories, she was the clever one, always scheming ways out of trouble. "Oppa, why fight when you can outsmart?" she'd say during their childhood games. Perhaps she was right; brute strength had its limits. Today's defeat taught that— the Dragons' qi arts overwhelmed raw grit. He needed more: tactics, knowledge, perhaps even a sliver of the murim arts forbidden to slaves.
Baek sat nearby, tending his own bruises. "We lost half our number," he said softly, eyes haunted. "But you pulled Jin through. That's something." Jin lay unconscious, arrow removed and wound bandaged. The alliance held, a small victory amid the ruin.
Kang stormed through the tent, his face a mask of fury. "Useless dogs! The lords blame us for the rout." He lashed out at a moaning slave, but spared Cheong Gwang—perhaps recognizing the wounds as proof of effort. The overseer's qi couldn't hide his fear; defeats like this weakened his position too.
As night fell, Hae administered a bitter tea—pain-numbing roots boiled into a sludge. "Drink slow; it'll ease the ache but cloud the mind." Cheong Gwang sipped, the warmth spreading like a reluctant balm. In the haze, he reflected deeper. Defeat wasn't just loss; it was a teacher, harsh and unforgiving. It exposed weaknesses: his lack of qi, the slaves' disorganization. But it also forged resolve. Scars weren't marks of failure; they were armor, hardening him against the next blow.
A new gash ran across his chest from the qi blast—a jagged line that would scar thick and ugly. He traced it gingerly, medical realism grounding him: clean it daily, bind it tight, avoid infection's fever. Survival demanded such pragmatism.
Whispers filtered in from outside—rumors of sect retaliations, bigger wars brewing. The cycle continued, but Cheong Gwang felt a shift. No quick victories, true, but incremental ones: allies like Baek and Jin, hidden tools, growing cunning. Myeong-Wol's spirit urged him on—survive, adapt, rise.
As sleep claimed him, the pain a dull roar, he vowed silently: this defeat would forge him anew. The wheel turned, but one day, he'd break it.