The slave camp stirred under the oppressive heat of midday, the sun beating down like an unrelenting forge. Cheong Gwang wiped sweat from his brow, his scarred hands leaving streaks of grime across his forehead. The morning's labors had been grueling—hauling water from a distant stream, repairing the camp's flimsy barricades, and scavenging for usable scraps amid the remnants of yesterday's skirmish. His body protested with every movement, the fresh cuts from the bloodied fields pulling taut against his skin. But complaints were for the dead; the living endured.
He knelt by a pile of discarded armor, sorting through bent shields and rusted helmets under the watchful eye of the guards. Baek, the older slave from the previous night, worked beside him, his limp making each step a labored shuffle. "Keep your head down, lad," Baek muttered, his voice a low rasp. "Kang's in a foul mood today. Word is, the clan's pushing for a big offensive soon. Means more whippings to 'motivate' us."
Cheong Gwang nodded subtly, his eyes flicking toward the overseer. Kang stood at the camp's center, bellowing orders at a group of newer slaves who fumbled with their tasks. His bulky frame was clad in patched leather armor, a symbol of his middling status in the Crimson Blade Clan—too weak for the front lines, but strong enough to lord over captives. A qi cultivator of the lowest tier, he could channel just enough internal energy to make his strikes hurt more than a normal man's. The whip at his belt was infamous, braided with metal threads that tore flesh like claws.
As Cheong Gwang reached for a dented buckler, his hand brushed against a loose nail embedded in the wood. Instinct kicked in; he palmed it quickly, tucking it into his sleeve alongside the one from last night. Small tools like these could mean the difference between life and death—a makeshift lockpick, a hidden weapon. Baek noticed but said nothing, his expression a mix of approval and caution. Survival tactics were passed in whispers here, lessons hard-won from years in chains.
"Here, watch this," Baek said under his breath, demonstrating how to test a shield's integrity without drawing attention. "Tap the edge lightly—feel for cracks. A solid one can save your hide in the next rush." Cheong Gwang mimicked the motion, appreciating the practicality. Baek had been a blacksmith's apprentice before the wars claimed him, his knowledge a rare gift in this pit of despair. "And always hoard what you can. Water skins with hidden pouches, herbs for wounds. The clans don't care if we bleed, as long as we fight."
Their quiet exchange was interrupted by a sharp crack—the whip's warning snap against the ground. Kang strode over, his face flushed with irritation. "What's this? Chit-chat like old hens? Get back to work!" His eyes narrowed on Cheong Gwang, who had paused mid-sort. In his haste to conceal the nail, Cheong Gwang had left a helmet askew on the pile, a minor oversight in the grand scheme but enough to draw the overseer's wrath.
"You, scar-face," Kang snarled, pointing a meaty finger. "That's not sorted proper. Think you're above the rules?" Before Cheong Gwang could respond, Kang's hand shot out, grabbing him by the collar and yanking him to his feet. The other slaves averted their eyes, knowing better than to intervene. Hierarchy ruled here: clans over overseers, overseers over slaves. Defiance meant pain, or worse.
"It was a mistake," Cheong Gwang said evenly, keeping his tone neutral. Anger simmered beneath the surface, but he'd learned to bury it deep. Lashing out would only invite more suffering.
Kang's laugh was a guttural bark. "Mistake? In war, mistakes kill. Time you learned that." He shoved Cheong Gwang toward the camp's punishment post—a weathered wooden stake driven into the ground, ringed with dried bloodstains. "Strip your shirt. Ten lashes for laziness."
The camp fell silent, slaves pausing in their tasks to watch from the corners of their eyes. Public punishments were spectacles, reminders of the fragile line between endurance and breaking. Cheong Gwang complied, peeling off his ragged tunic to reveal the lattice of scars across his back—whip marks from past infractions mingling with battle wounds. Each one told a story of resilience, but today would add another chapter.
Kang uncoiled his whip, the metal threads glinting in the sun. "This'll forge some discipline into you." He channeled a trickle of qi, the air around the whip humming faintly as it enhanced the strike's force. The first lash cracked across Cheong Gwang's back like thunder, the braided end biting deep. Pain exploded, white-hot and searing, as skin split and blood welled. He gritted his teeth, refusing to cry out. Vocalizing weakness only encouraged more.
"One!" Kang counted, his voice laced with sadistic glee. The second followed swiftly, crossing the first in a bloody X. Cheong Gwang's vision blurred, his muscles tensing involuntarily. The metal threads tore not just flesh but dug into the soul, a reminder of powerlessness. Memories flashed—his village's fall, the raiders' cruelty mirroring this. But here, there was no escape, only endurance.
Baek watched from afar, his face etched with sympathy. "Breathe through it," he'd advised once, during a similar ordeal for another slave. "Focus on something else— a memory, a goal. Pain passes; scars remain as badges." Cheong Gwang clung to that now, his mind retreating to Myeong-Wol. Her laughter in the fields, her small hand in his. "Promise you'll always protect me." The vow fueled him, turning agony into fuel.
The third lash landed, lower this time, ripping across his ribs. Blood trickled down his sides, soaking into the dirt. "Three!" Kang bellowed. Cheong Gwang's knees buckled slightly, but he locked them, standing tall. The slaves murmured faintly—admiration mixed with fear. Enduring without breaking earned quiet respect in this world.
By the fifth, the pain had merged into a throbbing haze, each strike layering on the last. Kang paused, wiping sweat from his brow. "Beg for mercy, dog. Might make me stop early." His words were a trap; begging invited ridicule and extra lashes.
Cheong Gwang met his gaze steadily, voice hoarse but firm. "No."
Kang's face twisted in rage. "Insolent cur!" The sixth came harder, qi surging to make it sting deeper. Cheong Gwang's back was a mess of welts and gashes, the old scars reopening like forgotten wounds. He focused on breathing—in through the nose, out through the mouth—as Baek had taught. Survival tactics weren't just physical; they were mental shields against the abuse.
The remaining lashes blurred into one endless torment. Seven, eight, nine—each one testing the limits of his resilience. By the tenth, Cheong Gwang's vision swam, black spots dancing at the edges. Kang coiled the whip, satisfied. "Let that be a lesson. Back to work—all of you!"
Released from the post, Cheong Gwang staggered, retrieving his tunic with trembling hands. He donned it gingerly, the fabric sticking to the fresh blood. The slaves resumed their tasks, but Baek approached discreetly, pressing a wad of clean cloth into his hand. "Herbs in there—chew them for the pain. And remember: hierarchy's their weapon, but resilience is ours."
Cheong Gwang nodded gratefully, pocketing the cloth. As he returned to the armor pile, he felt the nail still hidden in his sleeve—a small victory amid the defeat. The lashes had hurt, but they hadn't broken him. If anything, they forged him harder, like steel tempered in fire. The clan's abuse was just another battlefield, and he was learning its rules.
Later, as the sun dipped lower, the camp buzzed with subdued conversations. Cheong Gwang sat with Baek and a few trusted slaves, sharing tactics in hushed tones. "Watch the guards' shifts," one said, a wiry man named Jin with missing fingers from a mine collapse. "They slack off at dusk—good time to hide extras."
Baek added, "And wounds: clean them quick. Infection kills more than blades. Mix mud with these leaves for a poultice." Cheong Gwang absorbed it all, his mind sharpening alongside his body. The punishment had highlighted the abuse, but it also underscored the need for cunning. No more minor infractions; every action calculated.
Thoughts of Myeong-Wol returned as he tended his back in the shadows. She'd have schemed her way out by now, her cleverness a blade finer than any whip. "Unbreakable," he'd told her under the stars. The lashes were a command to submit, but they only stoked his quiet defiance. In this feudal hell, resilience wasn't just surviving—it was preparing to rise.
As night fell, Cheong Gwang lay on his mat, the pain a constant companion. But in the darkness, plans flickered. The nail in his sleeve, the herbs in his pocket—small steps toward something greater. The hierarchy could lash him, but it couldn't chain his will forever.