Rumors were the currency of hope and the heralds of doom in the camp. A whisper could seed rebellion or summon a patrol. For weeks they had curated silence like a valuable herb—no boasting, no wide generosity, and above all, no talk of exits. But rumor has its own hunger, and small fires catch.
Late one afternoon, as he leaned against a ruined wall and closed his eyes for a moment's respite, he heard two older laborers trading words in low tones. "They say a courier from the capital passed through the county last week," one murmured. "High officials. Something about frontier reorganization. Maybe they'll conscript more men."
"Or maybe they'll send inspectors," the other countered. "Inspectors are worse than conscription. They look for trouble and then make examples."
He listened. The talk was vague, but the implication was sharp: change could come from above. They had adapted to the rhythm of their small suffering; change distorted that rhythm, and distorted rhythms could kill.
He moved toward the edge of the camp that evening, Zhang at his side. The sentinel towers had begun to hum with extra activity; torches burned brighter; sentries' footsteps lengthened. The fortress above them—an unfinished, indifferent wall—cast a long shadow that had a way of making the entire camp seem smaller.
He sat with a group of men and quietly tested the waters. "Has anyone else heard about high officials?"
Heads bobbed. Murmurs confirmed the gist: movement, messengers, the possibility of stricter controls. The danger was not immediate, but it was decisive. If the camp were reorganized, if inspections became more thorough, their outcrop could be discovered and their supply caches uncovered. The cell would be crushed like an insect.
The system provided a dry, clinical suggestion as if it had access to probabilities he could not see. [Risk Assessment: Increased Inspection Probability — 12% → 43% within 7 days if couriers sighted. Recommended Action: Conceal caches; reduce irregularities; spread misinformation.]
He set to work. They buried their extra sacks deeper and moved valuables into the thatched roof of a near-ruined granary where rats were more feared than soldiers. They made false lines of labor where other groups could be observed to have near-perfect efficiency; the sergeant's attention might be diverted. They fed the most suspicious laborers extra rations as decoys and had them complain loudly to draw the sergeant's ire elsewhere.
All efforts had an echo: they cost something. Food moved from their hidden stash to feed the decoy workers. Time spent on misdirection was time not used to train. But the system had offered one more insight: [Long-term gain probable if short-term detection avoided.]
On the third night after their concealment, a provincial courier arrived with a small retinue. Men of sleek horses and pressed uniforms—strangers to the sun-browned camp—stepped past their lines with an air of authority unfamiliar to the laborers. The sergeant straightened and provided a show of order. The courier dismounted and barked questions, his voice hard and efficient. He asked about labor quotas, about stone deliveries, about the mortality rates in construction lines.
He watched the courier as if measuring the man. The courier was not cruel; he was efficient and bold. He had the kind of face that words cut deeply—one you'd expect to employ methods, not sympathize. The courier's eyes lingered for a second on the entrance to the ruined granary. He frowned, then moved on. A small tremor of fear passed through the camp.
When the courier left the next day, nothing appeared to change. The sergeant swaggered with self-satisfied authority, confident the inspector would be satisfied. Yet the courier had watched the men and, in the way of officials, catalogued what he had observed. There was a notation in the system now: [Courier: Observational Risk — Monitor nearby for follow-up.]
He decided to act preemptively. If officials expected to root out pockets of thieves or hoarders, then finding nothing unusual might be better than having a single suspicious item discovered. He ordered the cell to dismantle false caches and scatter the food into multiple smaller, less suspicious places. They would feed people with tiny offerings and lose the appearance of hoarding.
Under his direction, the camp's small deceptions worked. The sergeant grinned and shook his head at his men for producing such thin caches of food. "What a useless lot," he sniffed. A poor man nearby cursed softly—"At least they found something,"—and the sergeant's mind moved on.
That night, as he sat in the outcrop, chewing a small piece of saved millet, he reflected on the qualities necessary to survive here. Strength mattered, but cunning mattered more. It was not enough to be strong; he needed to misdirect attention, to nurture loyalty, to conserve what little advantage he had and then parlay it into more.
Zhang's silhouette appeared in the faint moonlight. "You plan too much," the soldier said, half a smile in his voice.
"Someone must," he answered. "If no one does, then we'll all be moved—scattered into other camps, broken."
Zhang nodded. "You're learning to think like a commander."
He turned that phrase over in his mind. A commander—no longer a slave. The word tasted bitter and sweet. The Great Wall loomed still, indifferent and enormous. Within its shadow, he had survived nightfall, fed men in secret, prevented the discovery of their stores, and bound three men to an oath. It was a narrow existence. It was a beginning.
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