Dawn came with heat.
Not a gradual heat. Immediate. The sun burned skin that was already scorched.
The sound of a trumpet. Harsh. Sharp.
"Get up! Everyone get up!"
A kick followed the slow ones. Li Yuan was already standing before the foot reached him. The body learned quickly.
Chains clanked. Hundreds of chains. Hundreds of people moved.
"Line up! Line up now!"
Hands pushed. Pulled. Arranged. Like arranging animals.
Li Yuan stood in a line. A person in front, a person behind. All connected by the same chain.
The smell of sweat. Fear. Urine—someone urinated where they stood. No one said a thing.
A sound from a distance. Many sounds. Different from the captives.
Buyers.
The market was open.
They were forced to walk. Slowly. In a line. Toward the center.
The sounds grew louder. Conversations. Laughter. Bargaining.
"Look at this one—"
"Too old—"
"How much for—"
Languages mixed. Huang, Volmar, Kesara, others. His Wenjing translated everything within a two-meter radius.
But no one came within the two-meter radius. The buyers stayed far away. Just looking. Judging. Deciding.
Li Yuan felt the eyes he could not see. Gazes that judged. Measured. Calculated value.
Not a person. Goods.
The line stopped.
"Release them one by one. Bring them to the block."
A voice of authority. An auction master, perhaps.
Chains were unlatched from the first person. The sound of metal. Then a shove.
"Get on! Stand there!"
Silence. Then the auction master's voice:
"Male! Twenty-five years old! Healthy! Strong! Can work in the mines or plantations! Starting at fifty silver pieces!"
Voices shouted. Numbers. Prices.
"Fifty-five!"
"Sixty!"
"Sixty-five!"
A hammer hit wood. Hard.
"Sold! Sixty-five silver pieces!"
The person was dragged down. New chains. A new owner.
The process repeated. The second person. The third. The fourth.
The old woman—who had whispered to Li Yuan on the first night—was sold for twenty pieces. A low price. For household work, maybe. Or worse.
Then it was Li Yuan's turn.
A hand pulled. Rough. No warning.
"Get up!"
Li Yuan tried to get up. There were no stairs he could see. His feet stumbled. He fell forward.
Hands caught him—not to help, but not to damage the merchandise.
"Be careful! He's blind!"
He was shoved up. A wooden platform. The sound of boards creaking under his feet.
Silence. A heavy silence.
Then whispers. Many whispers.
"Blind?"
"His eyes are white—"
"Useless for—"
"But his face—"
"Young—"
"How much—"
The auction master cleared his throat. A loud voice:
"Young male! Seventeen years old! BLIND!"
An emphasis on the last word. A warning to the buyers.
"Can't work in the mines! Can't do heavy labor! BUT—"
A dramatic pause.
"—a good face! Healthy body! Smooth skin! Suitable for... special work!"
The intention behind the words—work that does not require sight. Work that requires appearance. Work that made Li Yuan want to vomit when he understood the meaning.
"Starting at twenty silver pieces!"
Silence.
No one shouted.
Five seconds. Ten seconds.
"Fifteen silver pieces!"
The auction master's voice lowered the price. Desperate to sell.
Still no one shouted.
"Ten silver pieces! A cheap price for—"
"Five."
A voice from a distance. Cold. Flat.
The Wenjing could not catch it—too far from the two-meter radius.
"Five silver pieces! Any higher?"
Silence.
"Five pieces one—"
"Five."
The same voice.
"—two—"
"—THREE! Sold! Five silver pieces!"
A hammer hit. Final.
Five pieces. The lowest price Li Yuan had heard all morning.
Lower than the old woman. Lower than the sick boy. Lower than anyone.
A hand pulled Li Yuan down from the block. Rough. Uncaring.
"Pay over there. Take your goods."
Goods. Not a person. Goods.
Li Yuan stood. Waiting. Chains still on his legs. Rope still on his wrists.
Footsteps approached. Slow. Steady.
Entered the two-meter radius.
The Wenjing felt the presence—a man, tall, carrying something heavy on his belt. A sword, perhaps.
Intention—
Li Yuan stopped breathing.
No greed. No lust. No intention for "special" work.
Just... coldness. Calculation. A hidden purpose. Something Li Yuan could not fully read.
"Release the chains." A cold voice. The Huang language with a strange accent.
"But—"
"Release them. I don't need chains for the blind one."
The sound of metal. The shackles were unlatched. His legs were free.
But his hands were still tied.
"Follow me."
A hand touched Li Yuan's shoulder. Not pushing. Not pulling. Just touching. Guiding.
"Walk. Straight ahead. I will tell you when to stop or turn."
Li Yuan walked. Without the chains, the steps were easier. But without a staff, without sight, without anything except this man's voice—
—he had no choice but to follow.
They walked through the market. The sounds of the crowd slowly faded.
There was no conversation. Only occasional instructions:
"Right. Slow."
"Be careful. Stairs down. Three steps."
"Stop."
They stopped. The sound of a door being opened. Hinges creaked.
"Go in."
Li Yuan stepped inside. A room. Small from the echo of the sound.
The door closed. The sound of hinges again. Then a click—locked.
Silence.
Li Yuan stood. Waiting. Not knowing what would happen.
Footsteps moved. Circled. Judged.
"Sit down."
Li Yuan felt with his feet. Found something—a bench, perhaps. He sat.
Hands touched his wrists. Li Yuan flinched.
"Be still. I am releasing the rope."
A knife—Li Yuan heard the sound of metal coming out of a sheath. Then a pressure on his wrists. The rope snapped.
His hands were free.
Li Yuan brought his hands forward. His wrists were red. Swollen. The skin torn in several places.
Dried blood. Fresh blood.
"Your hands and legs need to be treated. Infection will make you useless."
Useless. Not "will harm your health." Useless.
Still a good. Just a good that needed to be kept functional.
The sound of water. A bucket, perhaps. Then a wet cloth touched his wrists.
Pain. Sharp. Salt water—cleaning the wounds.
Li Yuan bit his lip. Made no sound.
"You don't scream. Good. I don't like the ones who scream."
The intention behind the words—not a compliment. Just an observation. A preference for merchandise that was not noisy.
His wrists were cleaned. Then his ankles. Then his knees—the wounds from falling so many times.
Every touch was efficient. Not gentle. Not rough. Just practical.
"You have a name?"
Li Yuan was silent. Should he answer? Did a name even matter anymore?
"Li Yuan."
"Li Yuan." The voice repeated. No emotion. "I am Shen Du. You belong to me now. Do you understand?"
Belong to me. Ownership. Legal. Final.
"Yes."
"Good. The rules are simple. You do what I say. No questions. No defiance. No attempt to escape—not that you could get far with your eyes. Understand?"
"Yes."
"I am not cruel. I will not hit without reason. I will not starve without reason. But I am also not kind. You are a tool. A useful tool is kept in good repair. A useless tool is discarded. Understand?"
"Yes."
Silence again.
Then Shen Du spoke in a different tone—lower, more serious:
"You are wondering why I bought you. A blind one. Useless for normal work."
Not a question. A statement.
Li Yuan did not answer.
"Because I need someone who cannot see. Someone who cannot recognize a face. Someone who cannot give testimony about what they 'saw.'"
The intention behind it—danger. Something dark. Something illegal. Something that required a person who could not be a witness.
"You will help me with a job. A job that does not require eyes. And when my job is done—if you are still useful—maybe I will give you your freedom. Or maybe not. We shall see."
A lie. Li Yuan felt it with his Wenjing. There was no intention of giving him freedom. Just words to make the tool more compliant.
"You will stay here tonight. Tomorrow we begin the journey. Three days north. To a city on the border. There you will learn your trade."
Shen Du stood. Footsteps toward the door.
"Don't try to get out. The door is locked. There are no windows. And even if you got out, you are in the middle of the Zharmeq Market. An escaped blind slave would not last an hour before being caught and sold again. Or worse."
The door opened. Light—it meant nothing to Li Yuan—came in. Then the door closed.
Click. Locked from the outside.
Li Yuan sat in a darkness that was no different from the darkness outside or inside.
Alone. Bound not by physical chains but by circumstance—unable to run, unable to see, no one to help.
The property of someone he did not know.
A tool for a purpose he did not understand.
His hands were free now but that freedom meant nothing when his entire life—his body, his choices, his future—belonged to someone else.
Li Yuan felt his wrists that were clean but still hurt.
Felt the wounds on his knees that had been treated but still throbbed.
Felt the consciousness body that could be hurt, could get tired, could suffer like a true physical body.
And he understood—understood in a way that could not be ignored—what thousands of people experienced every day.
Sold. Owned. Made into a tool.
The loss of a name. The loss of choice. The loss of humanity.
The Understanding of the Body was not singing with joy.
It was singing with wounds.
With the acknowledgment that this—this was the truth that needed to be felt. That a body owned by someone else was no longer one's own.
That pain was not just physical.
That the loss of autonomy was a deeper suffering than any wound.
And in that dark, locked room, Li Yuan—who had chosen to experience this, who could escape at any moment with the power he had but chose not to—
—accepted the lesson in the most brutal way:
A body that is not free is no longer a body.
Just an object.
Just a tool.
Just a good with a price.
Five silver pieces.
The value of a blind young man in the Zharmeq Market.
The value of a body that could not see but could still feel every suffering the world gave.
One wound at a time.