Lin Han crouched in the mud of the Qin training pit, the air thick with sweat and fear. A hundred conscripts, slaves and outcasts like him, gripped spears, their breaths ragged under the noon sun. Above, the sergeant's voice cut like a whip. "One man walks out. The rest rot."
At seventeen, Lin Han had no clan, no name worth spitting. Born to a slave mother, he'd learned to survive by wit, not strength. His spear, a splintered relic, felt heavy in his calloused hands, but his mind was a blade, honed by years of dodging overseers' lashes. He scanned the pit: a hulking farmer, a noble's son with a sneer, a girl with braided hair and a bowman's stance. Her eyes locked on his, sharp as a crossbow bolt. Trouble.
The gong sounded, and chaos erupted. The farmer charged, spear aimed at Lin Han's chest. He ducked, letting the man crash into a wiry thief behind him. Both fell, blades flashing. Lin Han moved, weaving through the melee, his steps light on the slick mud. A scream cut short as the noble's son gutted a boy barely old enough to shave. Lin Han ignored the pang in his chest. Pity was death here.
The girl moved like a shadow, felling two men with precise jabs. She wasn't fighting to survive; she was carving a point. Lin Han noted her braided hair, a noble's mark, and the defiance in her stance. An ally or a threat, he couldn't tell.
"Enough!" The sergeant's bellow halted the slaughter. Five remained: Lin Han, the girl, two scarred veterans, and a trembling youth. The sergeant, his face pocked like old bronze, grinned. "Final test. Fetch the traitor's head."
A sack hit the mud, spilling the severed head of General Wei, executed for defying the emperor's tax edict. Lin Han's jaw tightened. Wei had slipped him extra rice once, called him "boy" instead of "slave." Now, his glazed eyes stared up, a prize for the victor.
The veterans lunged, but the girl was faster, her dagger slashing the sack to scatter its grim contents. She wasn't competing; she was sabotaging the test. Lin Han's mind raced. Defying the sergeant meant death. Why risk it?
He dove, snatching the head before a veteran's spear could pin it. The girl's gaze burned into him. "You'd grovel for their scraps?" she hissed, her voice low, noble accent clipped.
"Scraps keep me alive," Lin Han said, tossing the head to the sergeant's feet. The crowd roared, but the girl's scorn stung sharper than the cut on his arm.
The sergeant yanked Lin Han from the pit. "Name, boy?"
"Lin Han." His voice held steady, blood dripping into the mud.
"Prove your worth, or you're next." The sergeant shoved him toward the barracks. The girl stood there already, her bow slung across her back, eyes like a storm. She'd passed too, somehow.
Lin Han's pulse quickened. The army was his now, a ladder to climb, a chance to gut the empire's rot. But as he glanced at the girl, her defiance a mirror to his own, he sensed a spark that could ignite more than he'd bargained for. And in the distance, a cloaked figure watched from the camp's edge, his face hidden, his purpose unknown.