The sergeant's favor was a brittle thing—warm enough to protect, cold enough to crush. Li Wei had learned to wear it like a cloak in winter: useful, but never to be mistaken for armor. Yet the sergeant's attention shifted the camp's dynamic; men deferred to those he praised, and overseers found it harder to simply bury the useful.
It began with a simple order. The sergeant called him into the tent and pushed a small slate at him, fingers stained with dust. "We need a reliable group to clear a new ramp. The stone's loose. I don't trust the younger hands."
It was an exposure and an opportunity. To be chosen for such work meant being near tools, near materials, near the parts of the camp that would shape the future. It also meant sweat, close observation, and the risk of being marked by overseers for too much initiative.
He accepted. He chose the men he trusted: Zhang, Chen, Hu—whose names had become shorthand for steadfastness—and another quiet laborer he had saved weeks earlier. The sergeant looked them over with a calculating eye, then nodded. "Make sure you don't dawdle. We need that ramp stable in three days."
Three days. Time turned into a pressure bell.
They worked hard and smart. He arranged rotations to keep men fresh during the hottest hours. Zhang improvised levers and braces so that fewer men had to lift heavier weights. Chen shored the edges against collapse. Hu organized midday drills that doubled as training—using moving stones as practice for coordinated lifting and placement. The work was honest and brutal, but it made their bodies hard in useful ways.
On the second day, however, a malfunction tested them. A slab near the base of the ramp slid loose and took three men with it before others could pull them clear. The sergeant's eyes flashed with anger. One man had a twisted ankle; another bore bruises that would reduce his work pace. Overseers barked for accountability. The sergeant muttered that casualties were unacceptable.
Li Wei moved as he had done during the first collapse: command without waiting for permission. He bellowed orders to brace the remaining slabs, told men to roll splints, and coordinated a makeshift pulley system to shift the heavier rocks away from the wounded. The sergeant watched, then barked approval through clenched teeth. He noted how Li Wei organized men, how he prioritized and acted.
That night, as he dotted bandages and pressed boiled herbs into wounds, the sergeant sidled up to him with a strange look of calculation. "You've got a mark on you," the man said quietly. "People notice when you don't flinch. Keep your head down."
"I will," he said.
"And one more thing," the sergeant added. "There's talk of moving proven hands to a regional project north of here in two months. The project needs workers who can be trusted. If you want to move men out of this hell, recommend them. If your men are chosen… good. If they aren't… keep quiet."
It was both a threat and a meaningfully offered chance—one of those cruel bargains the empire loved to make. It meant that the sergeant could wield mobility as currency and that Li Wei would have to use it to buy his men's future.
He nodded. "Understood."
The days ticked toward the selection with the slow certainty of a stone sinking. He refined lists and rehearsed stories he would tell the sergeant—tales of reliable men, of steady hands, of someone who didn't shirk burdens. He barely slept, mapping patrols and rotations so that his recommended names would stand out not as favored but as necessary.
When the day arrived, he presented the men as if offering a farmer's best oxen—quiet praise, measured facts, a little humility. The sergeant nodded, barked their names into a list, and sent them to the foreman for inspection. Each man went through the routine: climb a short ridge, carry a heavy slab, demonstrate a simple pulley technique. The recruiters watched the men closely, eyes sharp for effort and character.
One by one, the names were circled. Gao—already moved earlier—earned a nod and was taken. Chen was chosen, as were a few others. The cell's core had now grown: men who would leave the camp not as fugitives but as sanctioned laborers bound for other projects, where rank could be earned and reputations forged.
As the men were marched away under guard, Li Wei felt a complicated rush: relief, pride, fear. Each departure was both loss and investment. The Logistics Manager chimed quietly as if in approval:
[Successful Recruitment: +8 Recruits Placed]
[Long-Term Projection: +6% survival chance for transferred men.]
But the sergeant's later comment chilled him. "You did well," the man said, clapping a rough hand on his shoulder. "Don't get big-headed. Keep useful, and you'll be useful to me."
The meaning was clear—useful men could be protected, until they were more valuable used elsewhere. He had traded favor and safety for a sliver of movement. He accepted it because any path that moved men out of the line of death was worth the price.
That night, back in the outcrop, they counted the small victories: borrowed bronze edges, men in militia training, a few more shifts in the guard rota. The boy—older now, with callused knuckles—cradled a short sword and mimed practice swings as if he were already a soldier. Zhang sharpened another blade with a small stone, humming a rhythm that felt like victory's shadow.
Outside, the Great Wall stalked the sky, indifferent and eternal. Within its shadow, Li Wei understood the mechanics of power in a new way: influence could be bartered, knowledge could be weaponized, and the favor of a single sergeant could change destinies. He also knew the brutal truth: every hand he moved closer to rank was also a hand the empire might one day demand.
But until that day came, they would build, train, and push forward. The sergeant's gamble had given them a fragile opening. It was small, and it would be easily closed—but for now it was enough.
Teaser: The sergeant's favor bought them movement—and with it, the bittersweet knowledge that freedom could be earned only in pieces.