He was still standing there in pain. The blood from his back was dripping slowly, soaking into his clothes.
His head kept spinning, the fear was still inside him, and he didn't even know what to do. So he started walking, step by step, deeper into the tunnel.
He wanted to find a place without the noise, a place where his head could rest, where the sound of picks and shovels wouldn't hurt him anymore.
But there was no use. The tunnels didn't end. They kept going, twisting and turning, like they would never stop.
The only light came from the glowing veins of magic ore in the walls, faint and weak, just enough to show the path.
Everywhere he went, slaves and prisoners were there. Swinging picks. Lifting shovels. Digging with the same dull, tired arms. Their bodies moved, but it didn't even look like they cared anymore.
No one was saying anything. Not a word. They didn't even glance at the person beside them. Not even once.
There was no helping hand, no one sharing a look or a breath. Only the steady sound stayed — metal hitting stone again and again.
As he walked, he saw some old slaves drop to the ground. Their bodies just fell, tools slipping from their hands. Nobody went to help. Nobody even looked.
It hit him then — life here was cheap. Cheaper than the glowing ore in the walls. If one person fell, the next person would replace him, like a toy that breaks and someone just throws it away and puts a new one there.
Finally, after walking slowly, sometimes holding his head with his hand because the pain was still there, he found a place that was quieter. It was deep inside, at the very end of the tunnel.
This part was wide, bigger than the narrow paths he had just passed. The walls gave off a faint shine, filled with glowing ore.
On the ground, a man was lying down. His body didn't move. The pickaxe was lying beside him, but his hand was still gripping the handle tight, stiff like he didn't want to let it go.
Crack!
The whip snapped in the air again, making Wu Feng's body jump. His back hurt sharply.
"You! Pick his axe and start gathering the ore!" a soldier shouted, his voice rough, full of anger.
Wu Feng clenched his teeth but said nothing. His back burned where it hit. He turned his eyes to the man on the ground again.
Two soldiers walked over. Their faces didn't change. They grabbed the dead slave by the arms, pulled him onto a stretcher, and carried him away like he was nothing.
The spot was empty now. And in the next moment, it wasn't.
That man's place became his.
The soldier was still there, shouting at Wu Feng, his voice echoing in the tunnel.
Wu Feng understood. The soldier would not leave unless he picked up the pickaxe and started mining the glowing ore.
If he didn't, the whip would come again. He had no choice but to do what was asked.
But deep inside, his heart was burning with anger. He swallowed it down, bitter like drinking juice made from bitter melon.
His hand closed around the handle of the pickaxe. There was no other way.
He lifted it a little, testing the weight. It felt heavy in his hand. It was heavier than it even looked. Like it wanted to pull his arm down.
The balance was off, the head pulling down too much, the handle rough against his palm. It didn't sit right. It wasn't the kind of tool his hands knew. It felt strange, awkward, like his grip didn't belong on it.
"Weird… my hand feels like it knows another tool. Smaller. Sharper. This junk doesn't belong in my hand."
The feeling was in his hand, strong and strange. This tool didn't belong to him. It felt off. Wrong. Like his grip wasn't made for it.
His body remembered something else. A tool, sharp and small. His fingers twitched like they had held it a thousand times before. His muscles remembered, but his mind was empty. Blank. Dark as coal.
But even with the tool feeling wrong in his hand, he still started to swing. Slow at first. Careful. His arms moved steadily, not wildly like the other slaves. Each strike hit the ore exact, chipping at it without wasting strength.
The soldier stood there, watching him for a while. His whip hung at his side, but he didn't raise it again. A sneer curled on his face.
"Good. Learn quickly or die. That's better."
Then he spat to the side, turned his back, and walked off without even a glance behind.
Wu Feng didn't say a word. He kept his head down and swung the pick again and again. Every swing made his arms feel heavier, but he didn't stop.
Pain ran through him, deep, like it was sitting in his bones. His arms shook, his stomach hurt each time he pulled in air. His back still burned where the whip had cut him.
But his hands didn't let go. His fingers held the handle tight, tighter with every strike, like if he let go once, he would never be able to pick it up again.
He didn't even know his own name right now. His head was empty when he tried to remember it. Nothing came.
But one thing was clear, sharp inside him, something that didn't need memory. He hated the thought of bowing to anyone. It made him feel heavy inside, like a stone was sitting there.
Still, he wasn't dumb. He could feel it in this place — pride was dangerous. Pride could get you killed fast, and down here death looked cheap.
But the pain in his head, and the pain in his back where the whip kept landing, didn't stop. It beat at him again and again, making it hard to think straight. His hands twitched, and he lifted the pickaxe like he was about to throw it aside.
It wasn't loud. It wasn't rushed. It was calm, steady, like someone talking to themselves in a lonely night.
"Easy… slow down… first check everything."
His breath came out slow, almost like a sigh.
"Yeah… first rule. Always check first."
He didn't even know why he said it, why the words came out about the first rule being to check first and analyse the situation. It just popped up in his head on its own. Like how a flame gives off light without thinking about it — it just happens.