The twelfth day of the seventh week began with a wrong sound.
Not the alarm trumpet. Not the whip. Not a groan from another room.
The sound of metal—loud, sharp, like something large had fallen or cracked.
Li Yuan sat up straight. Wenjing captured the intent from the corridor—panic, confusion, fear.
"What was that?" Feng whispered—his voice trembling.
Hakeem was already standing. "The furnace. Or a mold. Something broke."
The door was slammed open. A supervisor entered—not the usual one. This one was younger, with a pale face.
"Everyone to the main furnace! Now! There's been an accident!"
They moved—not quickly because their bodies couldn't move quickly, but as fast as they could.
The corridor was filled with smoke. The smell of burning metal was stronger than usual. And something else—the smell of flesh.
Li Yuan felt his stomach churn even though this consciousness body wasn't supposed to feel nausea.
They arrived at the main furnace room.
Chaos.
Three people lay on the floor—their bodies motionless. Molten metal flowed from a broken mold, still glowing red, still burning whatever it touched.
And in the middle—a young slave, maybe sixteen years old, was standing with his right hand that—
Li Yuan couldn't see. But Wenjing captured the sound of his groan, captured the intent of pain so sharp it was almost physical.
"Please—" the boy's voice broke. "Please—"
Supervisors shouted instructions. Other slaves tried to put out the still-flowing metal with sand. A poorly organized chaos.
Hakeem moved without thinking—as usual. Toward the boy.
"Don't!" a supervisor shouted. "Leave him! Focus on putting out the fire!"
Hakeem didn't listen. Or didn't care.
He reached the boy—Li Yuan heard it through Wenjing, heard Hakeem speak in a voice calmer than the situation should allow:
"I'm here. You're not alone. Show me your hand."
The groans got louder. Then Hakeem's sharp intake of breath.
Li Yuan knew without seeing: the hand was bad. Very bad.
"I'll take him to—" Hakeem began.
"NO!" The older supervisor—Yoran—entered. His voice was cold. "Leave him there. We don't have time for one slave. Put out the fire first."
"He'll die if—"
"Then he dies. We have others."
The intent behind Yoran's words—through Wenjing when he entered the two-meter radius—no empathy. Just calculation. One slave is not worth the risk of a larger fire.
Hakeem didn't move. He stood between Yoran and the boy.
"I can take him out without disrupting the extinguishing."
"I said NO."
A tense silence. Then Yoran stepped forward—his hand on the whip at his belt.
"Get back to your position or—"
Something inside Li Yuan broke.
Not literally. But something he had been holding onto carefully—the boundary between observing and intervening, between letting the world go on and changing it.
Enough.
He stepped forward—not quickly, not dramatically, he just walked calmly toward the sound of the boy's crying.
"Li Yuan—" Hakeem warned. "Don't—"
Li Yuan didn't stop. He reached the boy—Wenjing captured the shattered intent, the pain that went beyond words.
"May I touch your hand?" Li Yuan asked—his voice soft, just for this boy.
"What are you—" Yoran began.
But Li Yuan didn't listen. He extended his hand—searching carefully, finding the boy's arm (not the burned one), then slowly moving toward the injured hand.
"Don't touch him!" someone shouted. "You'll—"
Li Yuan's fingers touched the still-intact skin on the boy's wrist.
And for the first time in seven weeks—
—he released the Wrapping completely.
Not by half. Not by a quarter. Not a thin, dismissible mist.
Completely.
The Understanding of the Body flowed out like a river whose dam had broken—unstoppable, uncontrolled, just... flowing.
Body, listen. Listen with everything you have. I know you're burning. I know the pain is more than you can bear. But you can remember. Remember what it felt like to be whole. Remember what it felt like not to be burned. Remember.
The effect was not instant—but it was fast enough to be noticed.
The boy's groans slowed. The frantic breathing became a little deeper. His trembling body began to relax—just a little, but it was real.
"What's—" Yoran stopped. Staring.
Everyone was staring.
Because the impossible was happening.
The burn on the boy's hand—which should have taken weeks to heal, if it healed at all—began to close. Not quickly. Not in a dramatic, magical way. But fast enough to be seen if someone was paying attention.
And everyone was paying attention.
Li Yuan felt the price he was paying—the substance of his consciousness body flowing out like water from a leaking bucket. It couldn't be stopped now. Not when he had released it completely.
Just a little longer, he pleaded with himself. Just until the pain is not more than he can bear. I don't need to heal it completely. Just... enough.
Thirty seconds. Forty seconds.
The boy stopped crying. He was still biting his lip, still trembling, but he was no longer screaming.
Li Yuan pulled his hand back. He wrapped the Understanding of the Body back up—but the damage was done.
Too many people had seen.
It was too obvious.
Too... inexplicable.
A heavy silence filled the room—only the sound of the fire still being put out in the distance.
Then Yoran spoke—his voice was soft, dangerous:
"What did you just do?"
Li Yuan didn't answer. He didn't know what to say.
"I ASKED—"
"I don't know." Another voice—Hakeem. Stepping between Yoran and Li Yuan. "But the boy isn't screaming anymore. That's what's important."
"What's important," Yoran said in a very controlled tone, "is that this blind slave just did something impossible. And I want to know what."
He stepped closer. Li Yuan felt his intent through Wenjing—suspicion turning into certainty. Something is not normal about this person. Something is dangerous. Or useful.
"You," Yoran pointed at Li Yuan. "Come with me. Now."
"He didn't do anything wrong—" Hakeem began.
"Be quiet. Or you come too."
Hakeem wasn't quiet. "If you take him, I go too."
Yoran stared at Hakeem—a silent battle between two wills.
Then he smiled—an unfriendly smile.
"Fine. Both of you. Let's discuss this somewhere more... private."
Two guards came forward—grabbing Li Yuan and Hakeem's arms. Not roughly, but firmly.
They were led out of the furnace room, through unfamiliar corridors, toward a part of the Forge that Li Yuan had never visited.
An interrogation room, maybe. Or worse.
Li Yuan felt his consciousness body trembling—not from fear, but from a profound exhaustion. He had just given too much. Far too much.
And now he had to face the consequences.
A small room. It smelled of metal and something rotten—maybe old blood.
They were seated on a bench. The door was closed. Locked.
Just Yoran, Li Yuan, and Hakeem.
Yoran stood in front of them—his arms folded, his face unreadable.
"For eight months," he began, "I've been supervising this place. I've seen hundreds of slaves come and go. Most die within the first month. The ones who last longer... they slowly fall apart. There are no exceptions."
He paused. He looked at Hakeem.
"Except for you. Eight months. You should have died or at least gone half-crazy. But you're still here. Still strong. Still leading the others."
Then he looked at Li Yuan—or in Li Yuan's direction.
"And you. Blind. You should have died in the first week. But you've not only endured—you're working the furnace. Pouring molten metal without seeing. That was already strange enough."
"But then I started to notice other things. The people close to you two... they're also enduring better. Fifteen people. All in the same group. All sleeping in the same room. All... somehow stronger than they should be."
Yoran leaned against the wall.
"I thought maybe you were stealing extra food. Or that someone was giving you special treatment. But no. Nothing like that."
"So I wondered: what's your secret?"
Silence.
"And today," Yoran continued, "I got my answer. Or at least part of it."
He pointed at Li Yuan.
"You touched that boy. And in a matter of seconds, his burn—which should have killed him or at least made him useless—began to heal. Not perfectly. But enough to be seen."
"So I'm asking you again: what did you do?"
Li Yuan didn't answer. He couldn't. Because the real answer couldn't be explained without revealing everything.
Yoran waited. Ten seconds. Twenty.
Then he said in a different tone—softer, but no less dangerous:
"I'm not a bad man, you know. I'm just doing my job. And my job is to make sure productivity stays high."
"And if I had someone who could... heal... injured slaves—"
He paused. Letting the implication hang in the air.
"—that would be very useful."
The intent behind the words—through Wenjing—no intent to kill or torture. But there was an intent to use. To exploit. To turn Li Yuan into a more valuable tool.
"So here's your choice," Yoran said. "You work for me. You heal the injured slaves—only the most valuable ones, of course. I don't care about the useless ones. Do that, and I'll make sure you and your... friends... get better treatment. More food. Longer rest. Maybe even freedom one day."
"Or," his tone became harsher, "you refuse. And I'll make sure you—and your fifteen friends—are sent to the mines below. A place where no one lasts more than two weeks. Your choice."
Hakeem took a sharp breath. "You can't—"
"I can. And I will."
Yoran looked at Li Yuan—waiting for an answer.
And Li Yuan sat in the darkness, feeling his almost-broken consciousness body, feeling the weight of a choice that had no good answer.
If he agreed—he became a tool for the system he hated.
If he refused—fifteen people would die.
There was no third option.
There was no clean way out.
Only... consequences.
Hakeem touched his hand—a small touch, a silent support.
And Li Yuan realized something:
He didn't have to answer now.
He just had to endure.
A little longer.
Until he found a way out.
Or until there was no way out left.
"How long do I have to decide?" Li Yuan asked—his voice was calm, calmer than he felt.
Yoran smiled—a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"Until tomorrow morning. After that, I'll make the decision for you."
The door was opened. The guards came in.
"Take them back. Same room. Guard them."
They were pulled to their feet, led out.
And as they walked through the corridor, Hakeem whispered—very softly:
"We'll find a way out. I promise."
Li Yuan didn't answer.
Because for the first time since he came to the Forge of the Damned—
—he wasn't sure there was a way out that didn't destroy everything.