On the fourth day, Li Yuan couldn't lift his left arm.
Not that he didn't want to. He couldn't.
The muscle was torn—he had felt it last night, something in his shoulder giving up, like a rope pulled too tight for too long finally snapping. His arm just hung there. Heavy. Dead.
But the shift didn't care about a dead arm.
"GET UP! SHIFT STARTING!"
Li Yuan got up. His body moved automatically now—no need to think, just move because stopping meant the whip or worse.
The corridor. The pump room.
The lever in front of him.
He reached for it with his right hand. Only his right hand.
He pulled down.
It was heavier without the left hand to help. Much heavier.
Like lifting the whole world with one hand that was already on the verge of shattering.
Pull. Release. Pull. Release.
The Understanding of the Body no longer sang.
It screamed.
It screamed in a language older than words, a language understood by every cell that had ever lived and suffered: stop please let this stop I can't anymore I just can't—
But the lever kept moving.
Because a body begging to stop was less important than the water that needed to be pumped to cool the metal that would be sold to buy new slaves when the old ones died.
A perfect cycle.
A cycle that made Li Yuan want to cry or scream or destroy this furnace and everything that made it exist—
—but he did nothing.
He just pumped.
One hand.
One pull.
One choice not to fall.
Again.
And again.
And again.
In the third hour, someone fell in the next room.
Li Yuan heard it through the wall—the sound of a body hitting the stone floor. Loud. Final.
Then there was nothing.
No groans. No breathing. Nothing.
Five minutes later, the sound of dragging. A body being dragged out.
Ten minutes after that, the sound of a new chain. A new slave replacing the dead one.
The system didn't stop for death.
The system depended on death to keep turning.
Li Yuan pumped harder—he didn't know why, didn't know what for, he just knew that if he stopped, the next sound of dragging would be his own body.
Rest came like a blessing and a curse at the same time.
A blessing because the lever was finally gone.
A curse because as soon as it was gone, the body fully realized how broken it was.
Li Yuan fell against the wall of the rest room. He didn't sit. He fell.
His left arm was still dead. His right hand was shaking so violently that he couldn't hold it still.
His breathing was shallow. Fast. Like a fish thrown onto land.
I'm not going to make it, his mind whispered. I'm not going to make it through tomorrow. Maybe not even through the next shift.
"Your arm."
Hakeem's voice. Close.
Li Yuan didn't have the energy to turn his head.
"Can't move it."
"Torn muscle. I heard it last night—that sound like tearing cloth, right?"
"Yes."
"That's your shoulder. Rotator cuff, maybe. Or something around it. It won't heal if you keep using it."
"I don't have a choice."
"No. You don't." Hakeem paused. "But I do."
Li Yuan finally turned his head—a small movement that made his whole body scream in protest.
"What do you mean?"
"I'm going to talk to Yoran—the night shift supervisor. He's... not as bad as the others. Sometimes he listens if I ask for something."
"Why would he listen to you?"
Hakeem gave a short, humorless laugh.
"Because six months ago I saved his life. The furnace exploded. Molten metal sprayed out. I pulled him out before his face melted. Since then, he... he's in my debt, he says."
The intent behind his words—no illusion that this was kindness. Just a transaction. A debt that would one day be paid off, and nothing would be left.
"What are you going to ask for?"
"To move you from the water pump. Temporarily. A day or two. Let the arm heal a little before it completely tears."
"And what will I do?"
Hakeem was silent for a long time.
Too long.
"Wait here."
He stood up and left before Li Yuan could ask anything more.
Twenty minutes later—time stolen from an already too-short rest—Hakeem returned.
"Yoran agreed. But there's a condition."
"What?"
"You'll work the furnace. Pouring molten metal into the molds."
Li Yuan felt something cold crawl up his spine.
"I'm blind."
"I know."
"I can't see the molten metal. I can't see the molds."
"I know." Hakeem sat down beside him. Close. His voice was lower now. "But I'll be next to you. I'll guide you. Every step. Every pour. You just have to trust me."
Trust.
A simple word that asked for everything.
"If I make a mistake—"
"The molten metal will burn your body. Maybe your face. Maybe blind you—" Hakeem stopped. "Sorry. I forgot."
"It's okay." Li Yuan took a breath. "If I make a mistake, I die."
"Yes. But if you don't move from the pump, your arm will tear completely. And a completely torn arm means you're useless. And useless means—"
"I know what it means."
A moment of silence.
Then Hakeem spoke in a voice softer than before—not much, but enough to feel it:
"I won't let you die, Li Yuan. I promise you."
Wenjing captured the intent behind those words.
No lie.
No manipulation.
Just... a sincere desire to protect someone he didn't even know a week ago.
Why?
Why did Hakeem care?
As if hearing the unspoken question, Hakeem answered:
"Because in a place like this, the only thing that keeps us human is caring about the person next to us. If I stop caring, I'm already dead—even if my body is still walking."
The Understanding of the Body heard.
And it wept—not with sadness.
With recognition.
This was another truth about a body that lived under oppression:
That the connection between bodies—caring, protection, friendship—was the only thing that made a body more than just a machine.
That even though the system treated them as tools, they could choose to treat each other as human beings.
And that choice—the choice to care when there was no logical reason to care—was the harshest resistance against a system that wanted them to forget what it felt like to be human.
"Okay," Li Yuan whispered. "I trust you."
"Good. The next shift, we start."
Hakeem stood up. But before leaving—
"Li Yuan."
"Yes?"
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"For still being able to trust. Many who come here can still trust. But after a week, a month, they forget how. You've only been here four days and you still remember. That's... that's important."
And he left.
Leaving Li Yuan alone with a question he couldn't answer:
Was he still able to trust because he was strong?
Or because he hadn't been here long enough to be broken?
And was there a difference?
The next shift started with a different kind of fear.
Not the fear of the water pump—that was familiar, understood.
This was the fear of the unknown.
The furnace.
The fire.
The molten metal that could melt flesh in an instant.
And he couldn't see.
Hakeem stood next to him—Li Yuan felt his presence within the two-meter radius, a calm intent even though they were standing next to the fires of hell.
"Listen to me. Listen only to my voice. Not the others. Understood?"
"Understood."
"Good. Now, extend both hands. Slowly."
Li Yuan extended his hands—a careful movement, his left arm still hurt but at least it could move a little.
Something hard and cold touched his palms.
"This is the handle of the ladle. The ladle is filled with molten metal. It's very heavy. You'll lift it with me. I'll hold the other side. We lift together. Understood?"
"Understood."
"When I say lift, you lift. When I say pour, you tilt it slightly—just a little, no more. When I say stop, you stop. Follow my voice as you would your own breath. Clear?"
"Clear."
"Good. LIFT!"
They lifted together.
The weight—Oh, eternal Dao, the weight was like lifting a small mountain.
Li Yuan's hands screamed. His left arm shrieked. The torn shoulder begged to stop.
But he didn't stop.
Because Hakeem didn't stop.
And if Hakeem could—with a body that had been in this hell for seven months—then Li Yuan could too.
"WALK! SLOWLY! FIVE STEPS FORWARD!"
They walked. In sync. Like a single creature with four feet.
The heat increased—Li Yuan felt the furnace fire even from this distance. His skin began to feel like it was being roasted.
"STOP!"
They stopped.
"Now listen carefully. I'll count to three. When I say three, you tilt the ladle a little. Just a little. I'll know if it's too much and I'll pull it back. Trust me. Understood?"
"Understood."
"ONE!"
A deep breath.
"TWO!"
Muscles tensed.
"THREE!"
They tilted.
A sound—like water being poured but much louder, angrier, more alive.
Molten metal flowed from the ladle into the mold.
The heat surged—Li Yuan felt his face burning, his arms burning, his whole body as if it were standing inside the furnace itself.
"ENOUGH! BACK!"
They straightened the ladle. Stepped back five paces.
"Lower it slowly. Put it on the ground."
They lowered it. The ladle hit the stone floor with a metallic clang.
"Let go."
Li Yuan released his grip. His hands were shaking. No, his whole body was shaking.
But he had done it.
He had poured molten metal without seeing and he didn't die.
"Good." Hakeem's voice—no exaggerated praise, just a statement of fact. "That's the first one. There are twenty-three more this shift."
Twenty-three.
Li Yuan wanted to laugh or cry—he didn't know which was more appropriate.
But he did neither.
He just breathed.
One breath.
Then he prepared for the next one.
In the fifth hour, Li Yuan's hands could no longer feel the handle.
Just heat. Just pain.
But Hakeem was still there.
Still giving instructions in a voice that never wavered, never doubted.
"Lift. Walk. Stop. One, two, three. Enough. Back. Down."
Like a mantra.
Like a prayer.
Like the only thing that let Li Yuan know he was still alive and not a machine programmed to pour metal until he died.
And between the tenth and eleventh pour, as they waited for the next ladle to be filled, Hakeem whispered—softly enough that only Li Yuan could hear:
"You know why I'm still here? Why I haven't died or gone crazy after seven months?"
Li Yuan didn't answer. He just listened.
"Because there are fourteen people who are still alive today because of me. Fourteen people who should have died—because a furnace exploded or metal spilled or they were too tired and were about to fall—but I saved them. Not all of them. I've lost more than I've saved. But those fourteen... they are my reason."
The intent behind his words—no pride. Just a need. A need to know that his life meant something, that his suffering had a purpose, that he was not just a victim but also a protector.
"You'll be the fifteenth," Hakeem continued. "I won't let you die here, Li Yuan. Not if I can help it."
The Understanding of the Body wept again.
Not with sadness.
With a deeper recognition.
This was the truth about a body that found meaning in the midst of suffering:
That some bodies endured not for themselves, but for other bodies they chose to protect.
That meaning didn't come from avoiding suffering, but from choosing who you would carry with you through that suffering.
That Hakeem—whose name meant the wise one from heaven but lived in hell—had found his own wisdom:
The wisdom that living alone in hell was death.
But living for others—even in hell—was to remain human.
"Thank you," Li Yuan whispered.
"Don't thank me. Endure. Live. That's enough."
"I'll try."
"Not 'try'." Hakeem touched his shoulder—a brief but firm touch. " 'Do'. Because I need you alive. Fourteen other people need you alive. And one day, maybe you'll understand why."
The next ladle came.
"Lift!"
And they continued.
One pour at a time.
One choice to trust at a time.
One reason to live at a time.
The shift ended with a body more broken than before but with something new:
Trust.
Not in the system. Not in the owners or the supervisors or the world that had put them here.
But in one person who stood next to him and said "I won't let you die" and proved it with every instruction that saved Li Yuan from being burned.
In the rest room, they sat side by side—not speaking, too tired to speak.
But in that silence, there was something stronger than words:
The recognition that they were not alone.
That in this hell—where bodies were treated as tools and lives as numbers—there were still two souls who chose to protect each other.
And that choice—the choice to care, to trust, to save—was a fire that no furnace could put out.
A fire that lived inside a body that refused to be just a machine.
A fire that whispered even in the deepest darkness:
You are still human. You are still here. You still have a choice to care.
And as long as you have that, they don't win.
Li Yuan closed the eyes that could not see.
His body was broken.
But his soul—the soul that had just found its first friend in hell—
—was still whole.
Still burning.
Still choosing to live.
For one more day.
With someone who proved that even in a place where humanity was supposed to die—
—there were still those who chose to keep it alive.
One person at a time.
One act of caring at a time.
One promise not to let the other die at a time.
That was the unquenchable fire.
The fire that the Forge of the Damned could never extinguish.
Because that fire was not made of wood or oil.
It was made of choices.
And choices—even in hell—
—remain free.