A three-day journey north.
Shen Du was not cruel. Nor was he kind.
Li Yuan was given food—enough to survive, no more. Given water—enough to not be dehydrated. Given a bed—the ground with a thin blanket.
There were no chains. No shackles. No need.
Where would Li Yuan run to? He didn't know where he was. Couldn't see the road. Had no money or food.
"Walk. Straight. Twenty steps."
"Stop. Right. Ten steps."
"Stairs up. Five steps."
Shen Du's instructions were simple. Efficient. There was no other conversation.
Li Yuan followed. Obediently. A good tool.
On the fourth day, they arrived at a city.
The sounds were different. Many people. Overlapping conversations. The smell of food, smoke, city filth.
"We're here. Follow me."
They entered a building. A heavy door. Hinges creaked.
The sound changed—contained, echoing. A long corridor.
The smells—cheap perfume. Sweat. Something sweet and rotten mixed together.
Music from somewhere. Laughter. Groans.
Li Yuan stopped breathing.
He knew this place. From the sounds. From the smells. From the intention that floated in the air even outside his Wenjing's radius.
A brothel.
"Keep walking."
Li Yuan walked. No choice.
They went up stairs. The wood creaked. The music was dimmer now.
They stopped in front of a door. Shen Du knocked.
"Enter."
A woman's voice. Old. Hoarse—from too many cigarettes or too much shouting.
The door opened. They went in.
A small room. The smell of strong tobacco. Stronger perfume.
"Is this him?" The woman's voice. Close. Entered the Wenjing's radius.
Intention—sharp judgment. Business calculation. No personal emotion. Just numbers and profit.
"This is him." Shen Du.
"Blind?"
"Blind."
"Good. Very good."
Footsteps circled Li Yuan. A hand touched—his face, shoulder, chest. Like inspecting an animal.
"Good face. Good body. Clean?"
"I checked him. No disease."
"Age?"
"Seventeen."
A low whistle. "Young. A virgin?"
Li Yuan felt his stomach lurch. He understood now. Understood completely.
"Maybe. Didn't ask."
The woman laughed. Harshly. Humorlessly.
"Doesn't matter. Some clients like experience. Others like innocence. With this face and age, he'll sell for both."
"The price is what we agreed on?"
"Yes. Fifty gold pieces. Half now, half after six months if he is still... useful."
Fifty gold. For six months. For renting out a body that Shen Du had bought for five silver.
A thousandfold profit.
"Deal." Shen Du.
The clink of metal. Coins being counted.
"Madam Qiu will train him. Starting tomorrow. Today, let him rest. He needs to look fresh for the first client."
"Understood."
Shen Du turned to Li Yuan.
"Listen. You will stay here. Follow all of Madam Hong's orders. Do your job well. Six months from now, if you are still useful, maybe I will consider another contract. Understand?"
Li Yuan did not answer.
A slap. Hard. His cheek burned.
"I asked. Understand?"
"...Yes."
"Good. Don't disappoint me. I've invested in you."
Investment. Not a person. An investment.
Shen Du left. The door closed.
Madam Hong—the woman—cleared her throat.
"Your name?"
"Li Yuan."
"Li Yuan. Good. From now on, your new name is Xiao Yan. Sweeter. Clients like sweet."
Xiao Yan. A new name. A new identity. Or the erasing of an identity—Li Yuan was not sure which was worse.
"Have you ever been with anyone?"
The question was vulgar. Direct.
Li Yuan did not answer.
"Silence means no. Good. We will train from the beginning."
A hand pulled Li Yuan's arm.
"Follow. I'll show you your room."
They walked through another corridor. Narrower. The smell of sweat was stronger here.
A door opened. A small room. Li Yuan felt it from the echo—no bigger than a cage.
"This is your room. The bed is there. The bucket in the corner is for... needs. Don't try to get out without permission. The door is locked from the outside. Understand?"
"Yes."
"Good. Madam Qiu will come tomorrow morning. She will teach you... what you need to know."
Madam Hong left. The door closed. Click—locked.
Li Yuan stood in the middle of the room.
A brothel room.
He would be trained. Sold. Used.
The body that was no longer his would be used in a way that made him want to scream or cry or destroy everything with the power he possessed.
But he did nothing.
He walked to the bed—feeling with his feet until he found it. Sat down.
The bed was thin. It smelled of other people's sweat. Stains he could not see but could feel under his hands.
This was reality. This was the work Shen Du had meant.
Not a witness to a crime. Not a hired killer or a thief.
A prostitute.
Sold to men or women who paid. Used. Discarded when no longer useful.
And because he was blind—because he could not see the faces of his clients—he could not give testimony. Could not recognize who came. Could not be a legal threat.
Perfect for clients who wanted privacy.
Perfect for those who bought a body but did not want a trace.
Li Yuan felt something break inside—not anger. Not sadness.
Just... a bitter acceptance.
This was the path he chose. To understand. To feel what thousands of people experienced.
Chen Ming never experienced this. But how many other blind people ended up in a place like this? How many were sold because their bodies were deemed useless for other work but good enough for this?
The Understanding of the Body sang with a deep wound.
This was the learning about a body that becomes a sexual commodity.
About a body whose value is determined not by humanity but by physical attractiveness and vulnerability.
About a body that is used without true consent—because what is consent when the choice is this or starvation? This or death?
Li Yuan sat on the smelly, dirty bed.
Waiting for morning.
Waiting for the "training."
Waiting for the moment when this consciousness body—that felt every touch, every pain, every violation—would be used for a purpose that made him want to disappear.
But he would not disappear.
He would experience.
Because this was the truth.
This was the reality that needed to be understood.
Not from a safe distance.
Not from books or stories.
But from inside a body that becomes a sexual object.
From within a darkness that was not just the loss of sight but the loss of autonomy over one's own body.
From within a suffering that could not be ignored or forgotten.
One client at a time.
Morning came too quickly.
The door was opened without a knock. Footsteps entered.
"Get up. I am Madam Qiu. Time to begin."
A woman's voice. Not as old as Madam Hong. Younger. But just as cold.
The intention within the Wenjing's radius—no sympathy. Just a job. Training a new tool for its function.
"Stand up. Follow me."
Li Yuan stood. Followed.
They entered another room. Larger. The smell of oil and incense.
"Sit."
Li Yuan sat. The floor was hard.
Madam Qiu began to speak. Instructions. Explicit. Vulgar.
How to move. How to touch. How to respond. How to please a client even when you cannot see them.
"You will hear their sounds. Their breath. That is enough. You respond to the sounds. Understand?"
"Yes."
"The clients will be diverse. Men. Women. Young. Old. You do not choose. You serve whoever pays. Understand?"
"Yes."
"Some will be gentle. Some will be rough. If they are too rough, scream. A guard will come. But do not scream without reason. Clients do not like noise. Understand?"
"Yes."
The instructions continued. One hour. Two hours.
Details that made Li Yuan want to vomit. Details that were too explicit to be ignored. Details that turned the body into a series of mechanical actions for another person's pleasure.
"Tomorrow we practice. With a dummy first. Then with a trial client—a client who is used to new ones. They will be gentle. Usually."
Usually. Not always.
"Today, you bathe. You must be clean. Clients pay for clean."
Madam Qiu stood.
"Follow."
They went to another room. The smell of water. A bath.
"Take off your clothes."
Li Yuan was silent.
"I said take them off. Now."
His hands trembling, Li Yuan took off his clothes. One by one. Until there was nothing left.
Naked. In a darkness that was no different, but with the awareness that eyes he could not see were judging.
"Get in the tub. The water is there."
Li Yuan felt with his feet. Found the water. Got in.
Cold. No warmth. Just functional.
Hands—not his own—began to wash him. Rough. Uncaring. Like washing an animal.
Cheap soap. A strong chemical smell.
Every touch was a reminder: this body was no longer his.
Every moment was a lesson: this was the reality for those who were sold for this purpose.
No dignity. No privacy. No choice.
Just a body that had to be clean for a client.
Just an object that had to be ready to be used.
The Understanding of the Body sang with a wound that would never heal.
This was the truth.
This was the suffering that needed to be felt.
There was no way out except through.
And Li Yuan—who had chosen this path, who could escape but would not—
—accepted the cold water that washed a body that was no longer his.
Accepted the foreign hands that touched without permission.
Accepted the reality that to understand a body that becomes a sexual commodity, he had to experience every moment of that objectification.
One touch at a time.
Until there was nothing left of dignity except the choice to endure.
And the learning that enduring itself was a form of strength that Chen Ming—and thousands of others—practiced every day they lived.
In darkness.
In powerlessness.
In a body that was no longer completely their own.
But still alive.
Still breathing.
Still being.