That night, no one slept.
Not because they weren't tired. But because the fear was louder than the exhaustion.
Fifteen people sat in a circle—as close as possible in the narrow room. The guards were outside the door, but far enough away not to hear whispers.
Hakeem sat in the center. Li Yuan was next to him. The others surrounded them.
"So," Feng whispered—his voice trembling. "What are we going to do?"
All eyes—the ones that could see—were on Hakeem. As usual. As always.
But Hakeem didn't answer immediately. He turned to Li Yuan.
"What do you think?"
Li Yuan was silent. He felt the weight of the question.
Then he spoke—softly, but every word was measured:
"Humanity knows no rank. Even a slave can be a hero, when their blood is shed for their fellow man."
Silence.
Yara—the old woman with the limp leg—took a sharp breath.
"You're talking about... rebellion?"
Li Yuan didn't answer directly. He just continued:
"For a slave, dying fighting for humanity is the most honorable death."
Hakeem looked at Li Yuan—he couldn't truly look since Li Yuan couldn't see back, but there was an intensity in the silence.
"Are you sure?" he whispered. "A rebellion here... most of us will die."
"I know."
"And you still think that's the right choice?"
Li Yuan turned toward Hakeem's voice.
"I think there are things worse than death. And one of them is living as a tool for a system that treats human beings as disposable goods."
He paused. Letting the words sink in.
"Yoran offered me a choice: become a healing tool for them, or all of you die in the mines. But both are the same choice—they both say that we have no value except as tools."
"So I'm offering a third choice."
"We stop being tools. We start being human again. And if the price for that is to die—then we die with a dignity they can't take away."
The silence was deeper this time.
Then Amira—the young woman Hakeem had once protected with thirteen lashes—spoke in a surprisingly strong voice:
"I've died many times here. Every time a supervisor touched me without permission. Every time they treated me like I wasn't human. If I have to die again—I want to die as a human being. Not as a thing."
Feng nodded. "I was sold by my own family. They said I was worthless. Maybe they were right. But I want to prove that even the worthless can choose how they die."
One by one, the others spoke.
Not all of them agreed. Not all of them were brave.
But enough of them said yes.
Enough of them chose dignity over enduring dehumanization.
Finally, only Yara was silent. The old woman sat with her head bowed.
"Yara?" Hakeem called softly. "You don't have to come if—"
"I will come." Her voice was hoarse. "But not because I'm brave. Because I'm too tired to keep being afraid."
She lifted her head—Li Yuan couldn't see her face, but Wenjing captured the trembling intent:
I have lived as a victim for too long. I want to die as a fighter. Even if I'm just a weak and old fighter.
Hakeem took a deep breath. He looked around at everyone.
"Alright. If this is what we choose—we do it right. Not in vain. Not stupidly."
He began to speak in a lower voice—but with an authority that made everyone listen.
"We have until tomorrow morning. That means we have one night to plan. One night to spread the word to the other slaves. One night to decide: are we just fifteen people, or can we be more?"
"Li Yuan," he turned. "You said Yoran wants you to be a healing tool. That means he considers you valuable. That gives us leverage."
"How?" Li Yuan asked.
"Tomorrow morning, when Yoran comes for an answer, you say yes. But with a condition."
"What condition?"
"You ask to talk to all the slaves. Tell them you want to 'explain' your ability. Tell them you want them to know that you're here to help. Yoran will agree—he wants the other slaves to know that there's an incentive not to die. Productivity goes up if they know there's healing."
Hakeem smiled—a smile that held no humor, only determination.
"But what you'll actually be doing is spreading the fire. You won't talk about healing. You'll talk about humanity. About dignity. About the choice to no longer be a tool."
"And when enough people have heard—when the fire is big enough—"
He didn't need to finish the sentence.
Everyone understood.
"But," Feng whispered. "Even if we all rebel—how many slaves are there here? Two hundred? Three hundred? And the supervisors have weapons. They have whips. They have—"
"They have fear," Hakeem interrupted. "They are afraid of us. That's why they need whips and chains. Because they know—if we all stop being afraid at the same time, they're not numerous enough to stop us."
"But we need the right time. We need a moment when they are most vulnerable."
He thought. Then his eyes—Li Yuan felt it through Wenjing—lit up with an idea.
"The main furnace. Tomorrow midday. The shifts change. That's the moment when the most slaves are in one place. And the fewest supervisors are there because they're busy with the changeover."
"If we start the rebellion there—in the heart of the Forge—we have a chance."
Yara raised a trembling hand. "But how do we spread the message? We're locked up. Tomorrow morning we might be taken straight to Yoran. There's no time to talk to the other slaves."
Hakeem turned to Amira.
"You're working in the kitchen this morning, right?"
Amira nodded.
"The kitchen serves all the shifts. You'll see dozens of slaves coming and going. If you can whisper to a few—just a few who can be trusted—and they spread it to the others..."
"I can try," Amira said. "But what should I say?"
"Say: Tomorrow midday, at the main furnace, someone is going to talk. About choices. About freedom. Come if you're ready to choose."
"That's... very vague."
"It has to be vague. If it's too clear, the supervisors will know. But if it's intriguing enough—enough to make people curious—they will come."
Feng raised his hand. "And what happens after we start? After the rebellion begins? Where do we run?"
"Out," Hakeem said simply. "Out of the Forge. Out of the desert if we can. I don't know where after that. But anything is better than here."
"Many will die," Yara whispered.
"Yes." Hakeem didn't lie. "Many will die. Maybe all of us. But we will die as humans. Not as tools."
He turned to Li Yuan.
"What do you think?"
Li Yuan sat silently. Feeling the weight of this decision.
He could stop this. He could say no. He could accept Yoran's offer and save these fifteen people—at least for a while.
But then what? Live as a tool? Heal only the "valuable" ones? Become part of a system that says some lives are more important than others?
No.
If he had to choose—he would choose this.
A fire that burned fast but bright, rather than a candle that slowly melted in the darkness.
"I think," Li Yuan said softly, "that this is the most human thing I have ever heard in this place."
"I think that if we die tomorrow—we will die in a way that makes our lives mean something."
"And I think that the Dao does not speak with words. But sometimes the Dao speaks with blood that is shed for truth. And if tomorrow our blood has to speak—"
He stopped. He took a breath.
"—then let our blood say: we are human. And no whip or chain can take that from us."
A complete silence.
Then Hakeem placed a hand on Li Yuan's shoulder.
"Tomorrow," he said. "We start as slaves. But we end as free men. Or we don't end at all."
Everyone nodded.
Fifteen people. Fifteen souls who chose dignity over safety.
And that night—for the last time as slaves—they sat together in the darkness.
No one slept.
They all waited for morning.
Waiting for the moment when they would stop being victims and start being fighters.
Even if the fight only lasted one day.
Even if the fight ended in death.
Because there were things more important than enduring.
There was dignity.
There was humanity.
And there was a choice—the last choice that no one could take away—
—to say no.
To say enough.
To say that we are not tools, we are not things, we are not numbers in a productivity book.
We are human.
And tomorrow, the entire Forge will know it.
Or die trying.