The slave camp simmered under a relentless afternoon sun, the heat rising in waves from the baked earth like the breath of some infernal beast. Cheong Gwang moved with deliberate slowness, his cracked ribs protesting each twist and lift as he hauled a bucket of murky water from the stream to the cookfires. Days had passed since the disastrous battle on the plains, and while his wounds mended—slowly, painfully—the camp's rhythm dragged on unchanged. Scabs formed over the new gash on his chest, itching fiercely, a reminder of the qi blast that had nearly ended him. Hae's poultices helped, their bitter herbal scent clinging to his skin, but true healing came from grit, not miracles.
He poured the water into a cauldron, steam hissing as it met the hot metal. Around him, the daily drudgery unfolded: slaves mending tents with frayed thread, sharpening weapons on whetstones scavenged from the fields, or simply collapsing in patches of shade to conserve strength. Baek supervised a group repairing barricades, his limp a constant companion, while Jin, arm bandaged from the arrow wound, sorted rations with his good hand. Their alliance had grown quieter, more instinctive—shared nods, passed tools, unspoken watches during vulnerable moments.
Cheong Gwang wiped sweat from his brow, his scarred fingers tracing the old gash on his cheek absentmindedly. The camp's monotony bred introspection, and in these lulls, echoes of home invaded his thoughts unbidden. A young slave boy nearby hummed a tuneless melody, perhaps from his own lost village, and it stirred something deep. The notes reminded him of festivals long gone, of laughter under harvest moons. He sat on a log, bucket forgotten, and let the memories pull him under like a current.
It was a crisp spring morning in Yeonhwa Village, the air alive with the chatter of birds and the distant rush of the river. Gwang, at fourteen, flexed his growing muscles as he chopped wood behind their home, the axe biting deep into the logs with satisfying thuds. Sweat glistened on his brow, but he grinned with the pride of youth—stronger than the other boys, always the one called upon for heavy tasks. His father watched approvingly from the porch, puffing on a pipe carved from cherry wood. "Good form, son. Strength like yours will carry the family far."
Myeong-Wol, seven and full of boundless energy, perched on a nearby stump, her small legs swinging. She wasn't content to watch; no, she schemed. "Oppa, that's boring! Let's play a game. I bet I can get more firewood than you—without lifting a finger!" Her eyes twinkled with mischief, her pigtails bouncing as she hopped down.
Gwang laughed, setting the axe aside. "Oh? And how will you do that, little trickster? Magic?" He ruffled her hair, but she ducked away, sticking out her tongue.
"Not magic—smarts!" She darted off toward the neighbor's yard, her small frame slipping through a gap in the fence like a shadow. Gwang followed curiously, peering over. Old Man Kim's woodpile stood tall, neatly stacked but unguarded. Myeong-Wol approached the grizzled farmer, who was dozing in the shade of his peach tree.
"Uncle Kim!" she called sweetly, her voice like honey. "I heard your grandson's birthday is coming. Mother baked extra rice cakes—would you like some? But oh, our wood's low... maybe we could trade a few logs?"
Kim stirred, his wrinkled face breaking into a smile at the sight of her. "Ah, little Wol. Always the charmer. Tell you what—help me sort these peaches, and I'll give you a bundle. Deal?"
Myeong-Wol beamed, her cleverness shining. She sorted the fruit with quick hands, chatting animatedly about village gossip, drawing laughs from the old man. By the time Gwang caught up, she was hauling back an armful of logs—far more than the trade warranted. "See, Oppa? Brains over brawn!"
Gwang shook his head in amusement, helping her carry the load. "You could've just asked me to chop more."
"Where's the fun in that?" She skipped ahead, her laughter echoing. That was Myeong-Wol—always finding shortcuts, turning words into weapons sharper than any blade. While Gwang relied on his strength, pounding through obstacles like a hammer, she danced around them, a clever fox evading traps. Their differences complemented each other: he'd protect her with his fists, she'd outwit dangers he couldn't see.
Later that day, as the sun dipped low, they sat by the riverbank, skipping stones across the water. Myeong-Wol's throws were precise, her stones skimming four, five times before sinking. Gwang's were powerful but erratic, often plunging straight in. "Teach me your secret," he said, frustrated after another splash.
She giggled. "It's not about force, Oppa. It's timing and angle. Watch the water, feel the flow." She demonstrated, her small hand flicking with grace. He tried again, improving slightly under her guidance. In return, he showed her how to climb a nearby tree, his strong arms boosting her up. From the branches, they surveyed the valley—their village a patchwork of thatched roofs and blooming fields, smoke curling from chimneys.
"Do you think we'll always be here?" Myeong-Wol asked, her voice soft, eyes distant.
Gwang shrugged. "Why not? It's home."
She shook her head. "I want more. Adventures, like in Father's stories. Sects and warriors, qi that bends the world. But together, right? You with your strength, me with my tricks."
He nodded solemnly. "Together. I'll bash the doors open; you'll talk our way through."
Their bond was unbreakable then, a blend of brawn and wit forged in innocent days. But even in that idyll, shadows loomed. Villagers whispered of rising tributes to the Crimson Blade Clan, of scouts from rival sects probing the borders. Father dismissed it as "big folk troubles," but Gwang saw Myeong-Wol listening intently, her clever mind piecing together puzzles he ignored.
One evening, during a family meal of steamed rice and pickled vegetables, Myeong-Wol demonstrated her ingenuity again. A storm had damaged the roof, and Father fretted over repairs. "We'll need beams from the forest, but the paths are flooded."
Myeong-Wol piped up. "Why not trade with Auntie Lee? She has spare wood from her husband's mill. I saw her complaining about too many chickens—offer to take some off her hands."
Mother smiled fondly. "Our little negotiator." It worked, of course; Myeong-Wol's charm secured the wood, and Gwang's strength fixed the roof. That night, as they lay in their shared room, she whispered, "See, Oppa? We make a good team. Your muscles, my ideas."
He'd squeezed her hand. "Always."
Back in the camp, the memory faded like smoke, leaving a hollow ache in Cheong Gwang's chest. He blinked, the sun's glare pulling him to the present. The boy had stopped humming, replaced by the low buzz of rumors rippling through the slaves. Cheong Gwang leaned in as Jin approached, a waterskin in hand.
"Heard from the new arrivals," Jin whispered, glancing at the guards. "Big slave trade coming. Crimson Blade's selling off 'excess' to fund the wars. Word is, they're shipping groups south—to the central plains, where the sects are clashing hardest."
Baek joined them, his face grim. "Aye. And not just men. Women and children too, from raided villages. Some end up in pleasure houses, others in labor camps. Or worse—experiments for qi cultivation, they say."
Cheong Gwang's blood ran cold. Myeong-Wol. If she'd survived the separation, where had she gone? Clever as she was, a young girl in the slave markets... the thought twisted like a knife. Rumors like these were seeds, planting dread but also urgency. If trades were happening, paths might cross—or clues emerge.
"Any specifics?" Cheong Gwang asked, voice low.
Jin shrugged. "One mentioned a convoy from the east—Shadow Viper captives. Girls with 'special talents' fetched high prices. Clever ones, entertainers maybe."
It was a thin thread, but it tugged at him. Myeong-Wol's wit could have spared her the worst fates, turning her into an asset rather than fodder. He clenched his fist, nails digging into palms. The societal divides were stark: sects at the top, wielding qi like gods; warlords and clans below, scrambling for power; slaves at the bottom, ground underfoot. But divides meant gaps—opportunities for the cunning.
The drudgery resumed: Cheong Gwang returned to chores, scrubbing pots with sand, his mind churning. Family was his anchor, Myeong-Wol's memory a flame against the darkness. Her cleverness inspired him; perhaps he could blend it with his strength. Watch the trades, listen for names, hoard tools for an escape.
As evening fell, the campfires crackled, slaves sharing tales in hushed tones. Cheong Gwang sat with Baek and Jin, the rumors fueling quiet plans. "If they're moving us," Baek said, "that's when chains loosen. A chance."
Cheong Gwang nodded, echoes of home strengthening his resolve. Myeong-Wol's laughter, her schemes—they weren't lost; they lived in him. In this divided world, family was motivation to bridge the gaps, one scarred step at a time.