Days became rhythms: labor, ration, guard, feign collapse, hide, train. His body adjusted to the brutal schedule but his mind refused to become dulled. He read the men around him: who flinched at orders, who watched quietly, who had eyes that could be trusted. He catalogued strengths. Zhang Yong trained in short bursts—how to hold a spear, how to use weight against a heavier foe, the advantages of bracing a shield and working in concert.
One of his makeshift comrades, a broad-shouldered man named Hu, suggested they test the mettle of their secret cell. "There's a supply run tonight. The overseers leave extra grain stacked by the western post. If we can take a sack without drawing attention, it'll feed us for days."
It was risky. Stealing food in the camp could mean death. Yet the men were wasted on gruel; their work would falter without enough calories. He weighed the risk against the potential benefit and then, after a breath, nodded.
They studied the patrol route. Zhang Yong marked times with a scrap of charcoal. At the appointed hour, while most of the camp slept or pretended to, the three of them slipped from the shallow outcrop. Hu moved like a shadow, silent and sure; Zhang scouted ahead. He followed, heart banging in his throat.
The sacks lay where Hu said they would, thick with millet. The western post was dark, the guard either drunk or inattentive. Hu hefted a sack and nearly swore in surprise at its weight. Then the rustle of footsteps—an overseer rounding the corner—forced them to freeze. For a moment the world narrowed to the sound of breathing and the beat of his pulse.
They hid. The overseer's lantern bobbed close, light spilling across the ground. The man hummed a ditty, oblivious. When he passed, the three of them exhaled like men who had crossed a cliff. They dragged the sack back toward the outcrop with the same care they used for a corpse.
The stolen food tasted like triumph. That night, the three of them ate with real fullness for the first time in weeks. Strength returned slowly to their limbs. He watched as the men's faces smoothed, as injured shoulders relaxed, as eyes regained something like focus.
The system registered the effort with another private note: [Small Cell: +3 Loyalty] and a faint new ability appeared on the panel—[Silent Drill]. Instructions for teaching basic spearwork in a cramped space, for coordinating small teams without noise.
Their success bred a dangerous warmth. The following morning, a laborer who had been sick for weeks staggered up and dropped stones as usual. The overseer kicked the man. He collapsed. The overseer called for guards; the camp murmured with the standard indifference. A small mutiny—no, not mutiny, an uprising of compassion—stirred inside him. He could not simply watch.
That night he ordered Zhang and Hu to train in earnest. "If someone falls, we pull them out," he said. "Quietly. If the overseers notice, we scatter. But we won't watch them die." The two men accepted without question.
Three nights later, during the hauling line, a young boy—no older than fourteen—collapsed. The overseer swung his whip. The boy didn't get up. Hu, working just behind, acted before he could think: he shoved forward, seized the boy's arm, and dragged him to the cover while Zhang and he feigned difficulty in lifting the stone to give a little chaos. The overseer cursed wildly but the maneuver placed the boy just outside the patrol's view. They worked hurriedly to revive him, cutting loose a bit of cloth to fashion a bandage, giving him water from a hidden stash.
When the boy's eyes opened, he blinked and looked at them as if seeing angels. The word "thank you" was fragile, but it changed the shape of the camp for those three men. It welded their secrecy into purpose.
Zhang, whose expression had always been guarded, finally spoke that night. "We bind ourselves with oaths," he said. "Not to the emperor—who would throw us away—but to the men next to us. If you lead, I will follow."
He felt the current of responsibility—terrifying and exhilarating. He accepted the first true oath of his life, not as a title but as a promise to protect a few names in a sea of nameless suffering. This oath would be the cornerstone of everything that came after.
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