Dawn came too quickly and too slowly at the same time.
Li Yuan sat with his back against the wall, listening to the breathing of the fourteen other people who were not sleeping but were pretending to sleep. Hakeem was next to him—his breathing was more regular than the others, but Wenjing captured his intent that was awake, alert, and ready.
No one spoke. Everyone was waiting.
The sound of footsteps from the corridor. Heavy. Steady.
The door was opened.
Yoran stood in the doorway—two guards behind him.
"Get up. The time for a decision has come."
One by one, the fifteen people stood. Slowly. Their bodies were stiff from not sleeping, from a tension that never let go.
Yoran looked at Li Yuan—or in Li Yuan's direction.
"You. Come with me. Alone."
"No." Hakeem stepped forward. "I'm coming too."
"I didn't ask you."
"I don't care."
Yoran stared at Hakeem—a silent battle. Then he gave a small nod, as if acknowledging something.
"Fine. Both of you. The rest of you wait here."
Li Yuan and Hakeem walked out. The door was closed behind them. Locked.
Fourteen people were left inside.
And Amira—who was supposed to be called for the kitchen shift—was preparing for her part in the plan.
The same room as yesterday. Small. Smelling of metal and old blood.
Yoran sat in a chair—he wasn't standing this time. He was more relaxed. Or pretending to be relaxed.
"So," he began. "You've had one night to think. What's your decision?"
Li Yuan didn't answer immediately. He let the silence fill the room for a moment.
Then he spoke—his voice was calm and measured:
"I'll do what you ask. I'll heal the injured slaves."
Yoran smiled—a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"A wise decision."
"But I have a condition."
The smile faded a little. "You are not in a position to negotiate."
"Perhaps. But you can't force me to use an ability you don't understand. If I'm uncooperative—if I just pretend to try—you won't know the difference."
Yoran was silent. Thinking.
"What's your condition?"
"I want to talk to the other slaves. All of them. Or at least as many as can be gathered."
"What for?"
"To explain what I do. How this ability works. I want them to know that if they get hurt—if they are in need—there's a possibility of being healed. That will make them more... cooperative. More productive."
It was a logical explanation. An explanation that Yoran wanted to hear.
Li Yuan felt it through Wenjing—Yoran's intent was considering, calculating, deciding whether this was a trick or an honest offer.
Finally, Yoran nodded.
"Fine. Midday shift, at the main furnace. I'll gather all the slaves who aren't working. You have ten minutes to talk. No more."
"That's enough."
Yoran stood. "But listen carefully: if I sense something is wrong—if I think you're trying something—I won't hesitate to kill your friends. One by one. In front of you. Understand?"
"I understand."
"Good." Yoran walked to the door. He stopped. He turned.
"Oh, and Li Yuan? I'm not stupid. I know you're hiding something. Everyone hides something. But as long as you're useful—I don't care what your secret is."
He left. The door closed.
But it wasn't locked this time.
Hakeem took a long breath—a breath he had been holding.
"That was... easier than I thought it would be."
"He's not stupid," Li Yuan said softly. "He's suspicious. But he's greedy. And greed makes people take risks they shouldn't."
"Do you think he'll catch us?"
"Maybe. But not before I talk. He wants to see what happens. He wants to know if I'm truly cooperative or not."
"And after you talk?"
Li Yuan gave a small, humorless smile.
"After I talk, there will be no more questions about our intentions."
They returned to the room. The fourteen people were staring—waiting.
"He agreed," Hakeem said. "Midday shift. Main furnace. Li Yuan will talk."
A collective sigh of relief—but it wasn't a complete relief. Because this was only the first step.
"Amira," Hakeem called. "Now it's your turn."
Amira nodded. She stood.
"I'm called for the kitchen shift in ten minutes. I'll spread the word as much as I can."
"Be careful," Li Yuan said. "Don't be too obvious. Don't make the supervisors suspicious."
"I know."
Amira walked to the door. She knocked. The guard opened it.
"Kitchen shift," she said.
The guard checked—then nodded. He let her out.
The door closed again.
And the fourteen people waited—they didn't know if Amira would succeed or not.
They didn't know if the message would spread or die before it reached the right ears.
Amira walked through the corridor with trembling legs.
Not because her legs were weak. Because of fear.
Fear of what would happen if she got caught. Fear of what would happen if she didn't get caught but the rebellion failed. Fear of everything.
But she kept walking.
Because there was something stronger than fear: the desire to no longer be a victim.
The kitchen was already busy when she arrived. Twenty other slaves—some were cutting vegetables that were almost rotten, some were stirring porridge that was more like water than food.
Amira took a position in the corner—a place where she could see who was coming and going.
Five minutes passed. Then ten.
A young woman walked by—a face Amira knew. Not a friend, but not an enemy either.
"Psst," Amira whispered—softly enough not to attract attention, loudly enough to be heard.
The woman turned her head. Confused.
"Midday tomorrow," Amira whispered quickly. "Main furnace. Someone is going to talk. About choices. Come if you're ready."
The woman stared—her eyes widened. "What—"
"Don't ask. Just come. And tell others you can trust."
The woman hesitated. Then she gave a small nod—very small—and left.
One person.
Amira waited again.
An old man walked past. Amira whispered the same message.
The man didn't nod. He didn't say anything. He just walked faster.
Maybe he wouldn't come. Or maybe he was too afraid to acknowledge it.
Amira didn't know.
She kept whispering. One by one. When she had the chance.
Not all of them heard. Not all of them believed. Not all of them would come.
But some—just some—nodded.
And some, Amira knew, would spread the word even further.
Like a small fire that had started to burn from one point—slowly, but surely.
Midday came with a heavier heat than usual.
Or maybe it just felt that way because of the tension.
The fifteen people were led to the main furnace—not in chains, but under heavy guard.
The furnace was still lit. The metal was still flowing. But the work was temporarily stopped—the shifts were changing, just as Hakeem had predicted.
And slaves began to gather.
Not all of them. Not hundreds as Hakeem had hoped.
But enough.
Fifty. Sixty. Seventy.
More than Li Yuan had expected. Fewer than Hakeem had wanted.
But enough.
Enough for a fire.
Yoran stood on a raised platform—the place where supervisors usually gave instructions. Twenty guards were scattered around the room—more than usual.
He was suspicious.
But not suspicious enough to stop it.
"QUIET!" Yoran shouted. His voice echoed.
The room fell silent.
"You are all here because there's an announcement. There's a change in the system. Starting today, we have a new... resource."
He pointed to Li Yuan—who was standing below the platform, with Hakeem next to him.
"This slave has the ability to heal. You saw it yourselves yesterday. A burn that should have killed—healed it in a matter of seconds."
Whispers among the slaves. Eyes glanced at Li Yuan—some with hope, some with fear, some with disbelief.
"From now on," Yoran continued, "if you get hurt—if you can still work but need healing—you come to him. This means you don't have to die from a small wound. This means productivity goes up. This means—"
"This means we're more valuable alive than dead."
Another voice. Not Yoran.
Li Yuan.
Loud. Clear. Without hesitation.
Yoran stopped. He turned sharply.
"What—"
"You said I could talk," Li Yuan said—not waiting for permission. "So I'm going to talk."
He stepped forward—not onto the platform, but closer to the other slaves. So they could hear without Yoran blocking him.
"I don't know how many of you will believe what I'm about to say. I don't know how many will be brave enough to listen. But I'm going to say this once, as honestly as I can:"
He paused. He took a breath.
"You all heard Yoran say I can heal. And that's true. But that's not why I'm here."
"I'm here because yesterday I saw a sixteen-year-old boy get burned—and a supervisor said 'let him die, we have others.'"
The whispers got louder. Some people nodded—they remembered.
"And I realized something. I realized that in this place—in the Forge of the Damned—you are all treated like tools. Like things that can be replaced. Like numbers in a productivity book."
"But you are not tools."
His voice was louder now. More firm.
"You are not things. You are not numbers. You are human beings. And humanity knows no rank."
Yoran moved—he got down from the platform, toward Li Yuan.
"ENOUGH! You—"
"Even a slave can be a hero," Li Yuan continued—he didn't stop, he didn't back down. "When their blood is shed for their fellow man."
"SHUT UP!"
"For a slave, dying fighting for humanity is the most honorable death."
Yoran reached Li Yuan—his hand went for his whip.
But Hakeem had already moved. He stood between them.
"Don't," he said—his voice was low but dangerous.
And behind Hakeem—the fourteen other people stepped forward.
They weren't attacking. They were just... standing. Together.
Yoran stopped. He looked at the fifteen people standing like a wall.
"You don't know what you're doing—"
"We know." Hakeem said. "We know exactly."
He turned to the other slaves—the seventy people who were staring with eyes that were starting to change from fear to something else.
"We all know what will happen if we stop being tools. We know we might die. But we also know—"
Hakeem stopped. He let the silence build.
"—that there are things worse than death."
"And that is living without dignity."
A complete silence.
Then—from the crowd—one voice:
"I've died many times here."
Amira. She stepped forward.
"Every time they treated me like I wasn't human. If I have to die again—I want to die as a human."
Another voice. Feng.
"I was sold by my own family. They said I was worthless. I want to prove that even the worthless can choose."
Another voice. Yara.
"I'm too tired to keep being afraid."
One by one. Other voices joined in.
Not all of them. Not seventy.
But enough.
Twenty. Thirty. Forty.
And Yoran realized—too late—that he had lost control.
"GUARDS!" he screamed. "STOP THEM!"
Twenty guards moved—whips raised, clubs ready.
But forty slaves moved faster.
Unorganized. Untrained. Unready.
But angry. And desperate. And no longer afraid.
And when someone who is no longer afraid faces someone who only has a whip—
—the whip doesn't always win.
Someone screamed. Li Yuan didn't know who.
But that scream became the trigger.
And the Forge of the Damned—for the first time in its history—
—heard the sound of a rebellion.
A sound that said: No more.
A sound that said: We are human.
A sound that said: We choose freedom or death.
And they would accept no other option.
The fire was already lit.
Now it remained to be seen whether that fire would burn down the Forge—
—or burn all of them who had lit it.
Hakeem turned to Li Yuan—one time, quickly.
He smiled.
Not a joyful smile. A smile that said: We did it. No matter what happens after this—we did it.
And Li Yuan—for the first time in seven weeks—
—smiled back.
Because no matter what happened after this—
—they would die as humans.
Not as tools.
And that was enough.