"Walk faster! If we don't reach the foot of Mount Changshan before the hour of Shen (3–5 PM), none of you will get to eat!"
The soldier's shout echoed across the fields, followed closely by the sharp crack of a whip striking flesh—some poor Goguryeo man had been too close to him.
Over a thousand prisoners of war from Joseon had been marched across seas and lands to Chang'an, the ancient capital of the Great Qing Empire—an empire with over four centuries of history, founded at the dawn of the Wu Dynasty. It had birthed many renowned emperors, and the current ruler, Emperor Wu Dinggao, the seventeenth sovereign, was said to be a master of both civil affairs and warfare. Under his reign, the Qing Empire had expanded its rule as far as Joseon, aided by brilliant generals, wise strategists, and over half a million troops. Joseon was defeated, and King Taejo was forced to abdicate, surrendering his kingdom along with tributes of rice, salt, silk, and a thousand cartloads of grain to signify their submission to the mighty Qing.
Though the number of war prisoners meant to be sent as tribute should have been ten thousand, Emperor Wu Dinggao's demanding conditions reduced them to only a few thousand. His terms required all captives to be physically able, unmaimed, and not too old. As such, this caravan of captives was filled with youth and adults with black hair, their faces smeared with dirt, wearing tattered clothes barely shielding them from the sun. Luckily, it was the seventh month—no snow or biting wind to freeze their skin.
Still, walking barefoot in the summer heat brought its own pain. Heavy, rusted chains clanked with every step, binding their hands and ankles. Such restraints may have been bearable for grown men, but for small children weighing less than fifty jin (about 25 kg), they were unbearably cruel. Yet no one cared. A prisoner was a prisoner—no distinction between child or adult, man or woman. Those who collapsed were left to be trampled underfoot, dying pitifully, for the march would not stop unless the general himself gave the command.
"My child, are you alright? Hold on to me. I'll help carry the chains."
"I'm fine, Mother. Don't worry."
The boy's dust-covered face curled into a soft smile as he took a deep breath, lifting both arms above his head to show his strength, not wanting to trouble his mother with worry.
"If you get thirsty, tell me."
"I'm not thirsty. I'm not tired. I won't be a burden to you."
The little boy—no older than twelve—looked up at his mother with another smile. Ever since they had been taken from Joseon and marched to Chang'an over many long months, he had never once cried out or complained. So long as his mother remained by his side, he feared nothing.
The ten-year-old boy had insisted on following his mother. When the soldiers first raided their home, his mother had told them he was mute and could not speak, begging them to take only her. But when he saw the soldiers dragging her away with brutal force, the boy couldn't help but cry out for his mother, tears streaming down his cheeks. He begged to be taken as a prisoner of war as well.
As for his father—he had fallen ill and passed away years ago. His mother had raised him alone, spending what little money they had on doctors and herbal remedies in a desperate attempt to save his father's life. But in the end, it was all in vain. His father departed for the Yellow Springs—the underworld—while still young. Since then, his mother had worked tirelessly day and night. Her once soft hands were now rough and calloused.
To the young boy, his mother was his entire world. Wherever she went, whatever she did, he followed her like a shadow. He wasn't afraid of the Qing soldiers, nor of hardship. The only thing that truly frightened him was being separated from her.
"Look at your feet! Aren't they hurting? There's so much blood. If you lie to me again and say it doesn't hurt, I'll spank you," his mother scolded, though her voice was more worried than stern. She glanced down at his tiny feet, blistered and raw from walking barefoot over dirt and gravel. Sometimes he would step on sharp stones, cutting himself until blood flowed freely.
"Let me carry you," she said. "If you keep walking like this, your wounds won't heal—you could lose your feet."
"No, no! I'm fine! It's not that bad. The blood's already dried," the boy insisted, shaking his head. His mother sighed. She knew him well—how stubborn and filial he was. Even if pus and blood were oozing from the wounds, he would never complain.
"Then let me at least ask the soldiers for some medicine. You may not be in pain, but it hurts me just to look at you."
She was about to step out of line to ask for medicine when the boy grabbed her arm and shook his head fiercely. "Don't go, Mother. If you do, they'll whip you like they did that man the other day."
A few days earlier, a young woman had come down with a fever and started vomiting. Her face had turned pale, her eyes dull. She looked as if she wouldn't make it to the Great Qing alive. A man from their group had bravely stepped forward to ask a soldier for medicine. But instead of receiving help, he was beaten to death and left by the roadside. The woman passed away soon after from the fever.
Such was the fate of prisoners of war—treated worse than animals. They weren't even given enough rice to eat. Some days, they were lucky to have a few sips of water. Medicine? Impossible. If someone got sick, they died. If they disobeyed, they were flogged to death. If they broke formation or asked for anything, they were tortured until they died. The boy knew this well. So he stayed quiet, obedient, enduring everything so his mother wouldn't have to suffer on his behalf.
"Then, shall I carry you like when you were just a few months old? You were a tiny little thing, crying your lungs out," she said, trying to lighten the mood.
"I'm not a baby anymore, Mother," the boy pouted. "I heard that once we reach the foot of Mount Changshan, the soldiers will let us rest. It's only a few more li (about half a kilometer per li). I can do it. I want to grow up strong, like Father. If I can't even handle this, how could I ever face him in the afterlife?"
Hearing her son speak of her late husband, the woman's eyes welled with tears. Fate had been cruel. Her husband had died of illness just a few years ago. Then her own parents had perished in the war. Now, only the two of them remained—mother and son.
"Yes, my brave boy. You'll grow up to be a fine man, just like your father," she said, smiling as she gently ruffled his sticky hair with her calloused hand.
As for what the future held—she no longer dared to hope for much. All she wished was for her son to grow up, whether as a soldier, a servant, or even just a lowly miner forced to labor because of their prisoner status. As long as he lived—as long as he could keep breathing in this world—that would be enough.