The heat didn't come gradually.
The heat attacked—like a living, breathing wall of fire waiting to consume flesh. Li Yuan felt his skin instantly burn. This wasn't a metaphor. It was burning. The skin cells screamed in a language that had no words, but the Understanding of the Body understood with horrifying clarity: this is a body being put into a furnace.
The smell of molten metal burned his nostrils. The smell of blood that had been dry on the stone walls for months. The smell of sweat that never stopped flowing because nothing was ever cool enough to make it stop.
And the sounds.
Oh, the eternal Dao, those sounds.
Metal being hammered against metal—hard, relentless, like a giant heart beating with the rhythm of death. Groans that were not words, yet Li Yuan understood every syllable through Wenjing: pain pain pain please stop please let me die please—
But nothing stopped.
No one could stop.
"MOVE! EIGHT NEW SLAVES! TO THE LINE!"
A whip cracked the air. It didn't hit anyone—not yet—but the threat was enough. The eight remaining bodies moved. The chains rattled like death bells.
Li Yuan walked. His injured feet touched the stone floor, which was as hot as a frying pan. Every step was a decision—to step or to fall. To endure or to give up.
The old woman beside him—the Kesara woman who had whispered I want to go home—trembled so violently that the chain shook.
"I can't... I can't..." Her voice broke. Shattered.
"You can." Li Yuan whispered. He didn't know where the words came from. He didn't know if it was a lie or the truth.
The woman didn't reply. But she kept walking.
Sometimes, a gentle lie was the only kindness left.
They stopped at what could be called a "station." A large furnace—three times a human's height—spewed an unceasing fire. Beside it, a metal anvil. Next to that, a large bucket of water—the only water in this place, and it wasn't for drinking.
It was to cool the newly forged metal.
Not to cool the bodies that were also burning.
"Listen up!" The supervisor's voice—the one whose intent Li Yuan had captured before: no empathy, just function. "This is the Forge of the Damned. You'll work twelve hours. Two hours' rest. Another twelve hours' work. Another two hours' rest. And so on until your body can't anymore, and when that happens, we'll replace you with a new one."
Twelve hours of work. Two hours of rest.
Four hours of sleep a day—if you could sleep in this heat, with a body that was screaming.
"Your job is simple. Lift the raw metal from the cart. Put it in the furnace. Wait for it to melt. Pour it into a mold. Wait for it to harden. Lift it again. Repeat. DO NOT stop unless you want the whip or worse."
Simple.
Like saying breathing is simple while holding your head underwater.
"Any questions?"
No one asked. No one dared.
"Good. Start NOW!"
The chains were removed—finally, after ten days—but the freedom meant nothing. Because there was nowhere to run. The doors were guarded. There were no windows. And even if they could get out, the desert outside would kill them faster than the furnace inside.
Li Yuan stood. Empty hands. Empty eyes.
Waiting for instructions.
"YOU! THE BLIND ONE!"
Li Yuan turned toward the voice.
"You can't see. So you can't lift the metal. You'll work the water pump. Pump until your hands break or your heart stops. Whichever comes first."
A water pump.
To cool the metal.
Not for life. For industry.
"Follow me."
A hand pulled Li Yuan's shoulder—roughly, like pulling a sack of rice. He stumbled. Almost fell. But he stayed on his feet because falling here meant being stepped on, forgotten, and dying.
Twenty steps. The sounds changed—a different echo. A smaller room.
"This is the pump. The lever is in front of you. Up and down. Continuously. Stop only when shifts change. Understand?"
Li Yuan felt around. Found the metal lever. Hot. Very hot.
He pulled down.
It was heavy.
Very heavy.
Like lifting the body of someone who didn't want to get up.
"FASTER!"
He pulled again. And again. And again.
His arm muscles—the muscles this consciousness body possessed because the Understanding of the Body made this projection real—began to scream. Not in a human language. In the language of pure pain that didn't need translation.
The lever went up and down. Up and down.
Water flowed—Li Yuan heard it through Wenjing. He heard the trapped consciousness of the water, forced to flow not by natural gravity but by the force of the pump, by the hands that had no choice but to pump or die.
I'm sorry, Li Yuan whispered in his heart to the water. I know you don't want this. I don't either.
The water didn't answer.
But somehow, the lever felt a little lighter.
Or maybe it was just a hallucination from a body that was already starting to give up.
One hour passed like ten years.
Li Yuan's hands no longer felt the lever. Just the pain. A pain that spoke louder than logic, louder than determination, louder than all the Understanding he possessed.
The skin on his palms tore. Blood made the lever slippery. But he didn't stop.
Because stopping meant the whip.
Or worse.
The Understanding of the Body didn't sing with joy.
It sang with a wound that could not be healed with the Dao.
Because this wound wasn't just physical.
It was the wound of understanding—understanding with horrifying clarity—that there were millions of bodies in this world doing this every day. Pumping. Lifting. Carrying. Until their hands broke or their hearts stopped.
Not because they chose to.
Because the choice was taken.
Because their bodies became tools to produce something they would never own, never enjoy, never see except as the chain that bound them deeper into suffering.
Li Yuan pulled the lever again.
His body wept.
His Understanding heard.
And there was nothing to do but keep moving.
Because stopping meant dying.
And dying meant this lesson was not complete.
So he pumped.
One pull at a time.
Until his hands could feel nothing anymore except the existence of the lever itself, as if the hand and the lever had merged into a single machine that didn't know how to stop.
Two hours passed.
Li Yuan didn't know how he knew—there was no sun to see, no clock to hear—but his body knew. A body always knows when its time is up.
"SHIFT CHANGE! TWO HOURS' REST!"
Li Yuan's hands let go of the lever.
Or tried to let go.
His fingers were stiff. Bent around the metal like claws that wouldn't open.
He forced them. One finger at a time.
A cracking sound—bone? Tendon? He didn't know and didn't want to know.
Finally, his hands were free.
Blood flowed. Skin was gone. Flesh was exposed.
But he was free.
"Get out. The rest room is on the right. Don't steal water. Don't steal food. Don't try to escape. Understand?"
Li Yuan walked out. His legs wavered. His body wanted to fall but couldn't—falling here meant being stepped on.
Corridor. A right turn.
A room—no bigger than a cage—with twenty other slaves lying, sitting, or just... being there. Not sleeping. Not awake. Somewhere between living and dying.
Li Yuan found a wall. Leaned against it. Slowly slid down until he was sitting.
His body screamed with every movement.
But he was finally sitting.
Finally, he had stopped moving.
Finally—
"You're new?"
A voice.
Close. Within a two-meter radius.
Wenjing captured it—
Deep exhaustion. But no despair. There was still something—a small spark that refused to go out.
Li Yuan turned toward the voice.
"Yes."
"Your hands?"
"...Torn."
"Everyone's are on the first day. Tomorrow is worse. The day after, you either get used to it or die. Usually die."
There was no joking tone. Just facts.
"My name is Hakeem. Tian Hakeem. Yours?"
Wenjing captured it more clearly now—the intent behind the name.
Pride. Not in the situation, but in who he was. A name given with hope. A name he chose not to abandon even though the world had abandoned him.
"Li Yuan."
"Li Yuan. Huang?"
"Yes."
"Far from home, then. Me too. My father was from the south—beyond Kesara. My mother was from the north—the Volmar border. They gave me a name that means 'the wise one from heaven.' Ironic, isn't it? Ending up in this hell."
The voice—though tired—was not bitter.
That's what made Li Yuan turn more sharply.
How could someone speak of hell without bitterness?
"You're wondering how I can not be bitter."
Not a question. A statement.
Wenjing captured it—a sharp perception. The ability to read people even without spiritual power.
"Yes."
"Because bitterness doesn't make the lever lighter. It doesn't make the whip softer. It doesn't make the furnace cooler. So what's the use?"
Simple but profound wisdom.
Chen Ming had once said something similar: Anger is drinking poison and hoping the other person dies.
But Hakeem said it in a different way.
Not passive acceptance.
Nor blind resistance.
Something in between—a harsh realism that was not despairing.
"How long have you been here?" Li Yuan asked.
"Seven months. Or eight. I lost count after the third month when my friend died in the furnace. His head fell into the molten metal. I still hear his voice sometimes."
The intent behind the words—a wound that hasn't healed. But also a controlled anger. An anger that wasn't released aimlessly but stored, focused, waiting for the right moment.
"Seven months..." Li Yuan whispered.
"And I'm still alive. You know why?"
"Why?"
"Because I choose to live. Every day. Every shift. Every time my hands want to let go of the lever or the hammer wants to fall from my grip, I choose again: live or die? And I always choose to live. Not because this life is beautiful. But because dying means they win."
They.
The supervisors. The owners. The system that made this place exist.
"Dying means they can replace you with a new one and nothing changes. But living—living means you're still here. Still breathing. Still able to do something, even if it's just surviving for one more day."
Tian Hakeem shifted closer.
Li Yuan felt his presence—strong even though his body must be as broken as the others.
"You're blind."
"Yes."
"Good."
Li Yuan was silent. Good?
"Because you can't see the faces of those who have already given up. Can't see the eyes that are dead before the body dies. Can't see how many of us have become living corpses."
The intent behind it—a strange protection. Like saying not seeing the destruction is a small mercy.
"But you can hear, right?"
"Yes."
"Then listen to me. Listen carefully."
Hakeem stopped. A deep breath.
"You're going to want to die. Tomorrow. The day after. Every day after that. Your body will beg you to stop. Your mind will whisper that it's easier to fall into the furnace and be done with it. But don't listen."
The voice—firm but not loud.
Like a father giving last advice to a son before a war.
"Because as long as you live, you still have a choice. A small choice. A choice they can't take away. The choice to breathe one more time. To stand up one more time. To pull the lever one more time. And that choice—no matter how small—is a freedom that they can't steal with chains or whips or threats."
The Understanding of the Body heard.
And understood.
This was not the same lesson as Chen Ming.
Chen Ming taught acceptance—accepting death, accepting limitations, accepting that some things cannot be changed.
Hakeem taught resistance—small resistance, invisible resistance, resistance that only sounds in every breath that chooses to go in and out even though it would be easier to stop.
Both were true.
Both were necessary.
"Thank you," Li Yuan whispered.
"Don't thank me. Endure. That's enough."
Hakeem stood up—Li Yuan heard his knees cracking, his back stiff.
"I'm going to sleep now. Two hours. Then the next shift. You should sleep too. A body that doesn't sleep doesn't last long."
"I'll try."
"Not 'try'. 'Do'. You understand the difference?"
"...Yes."
"Good. You learn fast. Maybe you'll last longer than the others."
Hakeem walked away.
But before he was too far—
"Li Yuan."
"Yes?"
"Welcome to hell. But remember—even hell has corners that haven't been burned yet. Find your corner. Hold on tight. Don't let go."
And then he was gone.
Li Yuan sat alone.
Hands bleeding.
Body broken.
Mind grappling with the reality that this—this was his life now.
Twelve hours of pumping.
Two hours of rest.
Another twelve hours.
Another two hours.
Until his body gave up or his mind broke or both at once.
But in the middle of this deep darkness—
—there was a voice that said endure.
There was a name that meant the wise one from heaven but lived in hell and remained unbitter.
There was someone who chose to live every day even though every day gave a thousand reasons to choose death.
And Li Yuan—who came here to understand, who chose vulnerability to learn—
—understood that he had just met his second teacher.
Chen Ming taught how to die peacefully.
Tian Hakeem taught how to live in hell without losing your fire.
And both were part of a greater truth:
That a chained body could still choose.
That a small choice was the last freedom.
That enduring—just enduring—was sometimes the hardest resistance one could muster.
Li Yuan closed the eyes that couldn't see.
His body wept in a language that had no words.
His Understanding heard every cry.
And he slept—not because his body was relaxed, but because his body had no choice but to pass out from exhaustion.
Two hours.
Then the next shift.
And so on.
Until the body gave up or the lesson was complete.
One lever pull at a time.
One choice to live at a time.
One breath at a time.
In a hell named the Forge of the Damned.
Where even the fire could not burn the last choice:
To keep breathing.
To keep being.
To keep being human even though the world treated you like a machine.
That was the reality.
Harsh. Brutal. Unforgiving.
But real.
And Li Yuan—for the first time since he chose to be blind—
—was grateful for the darkness.
Because if he could see the faces Hakeem mentioned—
—maybe he wouldn't be strong enough to last even one day.
Sometimes, not seeing was a small mercy in a hell that had no other mercies.
Sometimes, darkness protected from a deeper destruction.
Sometimes, being blind meant you could still see hope—
—because hope doesn't need eyes.
It just needs a choice.
The choice to breathe.
One more time.
And again.
And again.