Freedom, it turned out, was a burning heat.
Thirty-seven people exited the Forge of the Damned. Not forty. Three had died in the battle—bodies that would never see the sun again. But thirty-seven was more than zero. And for now, that was enough.
They stood outside the iron door—for a few minutes, maybe longer—just feeling. Feeling a wind that wasn't confined by walls. Feeling a sky that wasn't covered by smoke. Feeling a space that didn't end at a furnace, or an anvil, or a chain.
But the desert didn't care about freedom or suffering or the revolution that had just happened.
The desert only cared about one thing: survival.
And thirty-seven people with torn clothes, bloody hands, and no water—
—were not ready for that.
"We can't stay here," Hakeem said—his voice was still loud, even though his breathing was heavy. The wound on his side was still bleeding, but he didn't complain. He had no time to complain.
"Guards from other posts will come. They might already be on their way. We have to move."
"Where?" Feng asked—his voice was trembling. Not from fear. From an exhaustion that went beyond his body.
Hakeem looked in every direction. The desert stretched out—sand and stones as far as the eye could see. No trees. No shadows. No signs of life except for them.
"North," he finally said. "Back in the direction we came from. There's a village on the border—a two-week journey if we had water. Maybe longer without it."
"We don't have water," Yara said—the old woman with the limp leg. Her voice was tired but not desperate. She was just stating a fact.
"I know." Hakeem looked at the iron door that was still open. "We need to go back in. Get water. Get food if there is any. Get anything that can help us survive."
"That's crazy," someone whispered. "Go back in there after—"
"It's crazy to leave unprepared," Hakeem interrupted. Not unkindly, but firmly. "The desert will kill us faster than the guards if we don't have water. At least with water, we have a chance."
Li Yuan—who was sitting on the sand because his legs couldn't support him any longer—felt it through Wenjing: fear, doubt, but also a recognition that Hakeem was right.
"How many will go back?" Amira asked.
"Ten people. Be quick. Go in, get what you can, get out." Hakeem looked around. "Who can still run?"
A few hands were raised—not many. Most were too tired, too injured, too... broken.
But ten hands went up. Including Feng's. Including Amira's.
"Good. You ten, with me. The rest of you, move north. Slowly. Don't waste energy. We'll catch up."
Hakeem turned to Li Yuan—who was still sitting, his breathing shallow, his body trembling from what he had done inside.
"Li Yuan—"
"I know," Li Yuan interrupted. "I can't go back. I can't even walk."
"Yara, please—"
"I'll take care of him," Yara said. She sat down next to Li Yuan. "We'll move slowly. You catch up with us."
Hakeem hesitated—he didn't want to leave Li Yuan, but he knew there was no other choice.
"Don't die," he finally said—not an order, a plea.
Li Yuan gave a small smile. "I've lasted seven weeks in the Forge. I'm not going to die in the desert before seeing what's at the end of this journey."
Hakeem nodded. He turned to the ten people who were going back.
"Be quick. Five minutes. No more."
They ran back into the Forge—through the iron door that was still open, into the place they had just left.
And the remaining twenty-seven people began to walk north—slowly, like people who had just learned how to walk after being confined for too long.
Li Yuan sat on the sand—the heat seeped through his torn clothes, burning skin that had already been burned for too long in the Forge.
But this was a different kind of heat.
A heat that came with an open sky. With unlimited space. With the choice to move wherever he wanted—even if that choice was limited by a body that was on the verge of breaking down.
Yara sat next to him—silent for a few minutes.
Then she spoke—her voice was soft, like she was talking to herself:
"I thought freedom would feel... lighter."
Li Yuan turned his head slightly toward her voice.
"What do you feel?"
"Heavy. Like now I have a responsibility to survive. Inside the Forge, I just had to not die today. But now... now I have to decide where to go, what to do, how to live. And I don't know how."
The intent behind her words—through Wenjing—was not regret for leaving. Just confusion about what to do with this freedom.
"Freedom is always heavy," Li Yuan said softly. "Because freedom means choices. And choices mean responsibility. In the Forge, we had no choices—so we had no responsibility except to endure. But now..."
He paused. He felt the wind that carried sand—it was rough on his face, but it was also... real. Not filtered by walls or a roof.
"Now we have to decide who we are going to be. And that... that is much more difficult than just enduring."
Yara was silent for a long time. Then she smiled—Li Yuan couldn't see it, but he heard the smile in her voice:
"You talk like a person who has lived for a very long time."
"Maybe I have." The answer was ambiguous. It wasn't a lie, it wasn't completely honest.
"How old are you really?"
"Old enough to know that age is not measured by the years you've lived, but by what you've learned."
Yara laughed—a short, tired, but real laugh.
"You always talk in riddles. But somehow, I like it."
They sat in silence again—listening to the sounds of the twenty-five other people who were walking slowly north, listening to the wind that never stopped moving.
And for the first time in seven weeks, Li Yuan felt something strange:
Peace.
Not peace because there was no threat—the threats were still there. The desert, the guards who might be pursuing them, dehydration, starvation, exhaustion that could kill.
But peace because he had done what he had come to do.
He had understood.
The Understanding of the Body—which whispered from within Zhenjing—had learned what it needed to learn.
About a body that was chained. About a body that was treated as a tool. About a body that rebelled. About a body that chose freedom even though the price of that freedom was a different kind of suffering.
About a body that gave for other bodies. About a body that protected even though protecting it consumed itself.
About a body as a temporary home for a more eternal consciousness—but a home that had to be respected, cared for, and sometimes sacrificed for something greater than oneself.
The lesson was complete.
But the journey was not.
Because now he had to make sure these thirty-seven people—who chose freedom because of his words, because of the fire he had helped light—endured long enough to see what was at the end of this journey.
That was his responsibility now.
Not because he had to. But because he chose to.
And choices—as he had just told Yara—were the core of freedom.
Fifteen minutes later—longer than the five minutes Hakeem had said—eleven people came out of the Forge.
Not ten. Eleven.
Hakeem was in front, carrying two large buckets full of water. Feng and Amira were carrying sacks filled with something—hard bread, maybe, or whatever they had found in the kitchen.
The others were carrying cloth, clubs, shoes that were better than the torn shoes they were wearing.
And the eleventh person—
Li Yuan recognized the footsteps. Heavy. Slow. Unwilling.
A guard.
Being pulled by two slaves—his hands were bound, his eyes were full of fear.
"What—" Yara started.
"He knows the way to the nearest village," Hakeem said—his voice was flat. "He'll guide us. Or he'll die here. His choice."
The guard—a young man, maybe twenty-five years old—looked around with wide eyes. He saw the thirty-seven slaves who had just rebelled. Thirty-seven people who could kill him at any moment.
"I—I'll guide you," he whispered. "I promise. Just don't—"
"Don't worry," Hakeem said—his tone was not comforting, but it wasn't threatening either. Just factual. "As long as you're useful, you live. When you're no longer useful—we'll see."
The guard nodded quickly—too quickly. The fear was clear on his face.
Li Yuan felt it through Wenjing—a shattered intent: I was just doing my job I don't want to die please don't kill me I have a family I—
"His name?" Li Yuan asked.
Hakeem turned his head. "What?"
"His name. This guard. What's his name?"
Hakeem looked at the guard—then back at Li Yuan. "Why does that matter?"
"Because if we treat him like a tool—like they treated us—then we are no better than they are."
Silence.
Some of the thirty-seven people looked at Li Yuan with disbelief. Some with anger—he's a guard, he's the enemy, why should we care about his name?
But Hakeem—Hakeem understood.
He turned to the guard.
"Your name."
"T-Torin."
"Torin." Hakeem repeated. "Alright, Torin. You will guide us to the nearest village. You will give us information about the best route, water sources if there are any, and dangers to avoid. And in return, we will not kill you. Agreed?"
Torin nodded—he was still afraid, but a little less panicked.
"Good." Hakeem turned to the others. "We move. Now. Before the sun gets higher."
They began to walk—thirty-seven newly freed slaves, one newly captive guard, one pure soul in an almost-broken consciousness body.
Walking north.
To a village that might exist or might not.
To an uncertain future.
But to something.
No longer standing still, waiting to die.
Moving. Choosing. Living.
And for now—
—that was enough.
More than enough.
It was everything.