His head hurt badly, beating again and again, like someone knocking from inside his skull.
His eyes opened slowly, heavy, and the world around him was blurry.
The ground under him was hard and rough, pressing into his skin. It was cold too, making his body stiff.
The air felt heavy, hard to breathe. It smelled strange — metal, sweat, and something rotten, like old blood left too long and never cleaned.
He tried to think, tried to make sense of where he was. But his head hurt, and his mind was slow, like it was stuck in mud. No answers came, no matter how much he pushed.
No name. No face. Nothing. He couldn't even remember who he was. Not his own name, not what he looked like, not where he belonged.
He began to feel afraid, and it got worse with every breath. Slow at first, then faster. His stomach turned heavy, his skin cold. It was the kind of fear that made your chest feel empty, like you might stop breathing.
It was like standing in a forest at night, when there is no moon, no light.
You hear the sound of something moving behind you — footsteps, a branch breaking — but when you turn, nothing is there. Then you hear it again in front of you, closer, but again nothing is there.
That was the fear now, sitting inside him. The pain of forgetting everything. The uneasiness of not even knowing yourself.
Then a sharp sound cut the quiet, hitting his ears so suddenly it made them ring. It was so fast and close it felt like the sound stabbed into his ears.
The sound wasn't just in his ears — it ran straight down his spine.
Whip!
"Ahhh!"
The lash hit his back. His clothes tore with a sharp rip, and under it his skin split. A red line spread across his back, and blood rose slowly from the cut. When the whip pulled back, the end of it was wet, stained with his blood.
The pain spread fast through his body, heavy and strong, making it hard to breathe. His muscles pulled tight on their own, and he rolled on the ground, trying to escape it.
"Ahhh—damn it! Who dares to touch me?!"
The soldier didn't care. He didn't even notice Wu Feng's strange words. He just drove his boot straight into Wu Feng's stomach, hard enough to knock the wind out of him.
"Quiet, brat," he sneered, pressing down hard. "Pick up that axe. Work till you drop. Down here, nobody cares who you are."
The man gave a low laugh and leaned in close until his shadow covered Wu Feng's face.
"Down here, you're nothing. Just another tool."
Then he pulled his body up and walked away, the whip dragging across the ground behind him with a rough scrape.
Wu Feng stayed on the ground, clutching his stomach, his teeth clenched. His breath came in sharp bursts through his nose. Pain stabbed deep, but his face stayed calm.
His eyes lifted and followed the soldier's back until the man disappeared into the tunnel. Wu Feng's look was cold, sharp, but he didn't move. Not yet.
Only after the soldier was gone did he stand up slowly and turn his head to look around.
This time slower. This time letting every detail sink in.
"What is this place…?" he muttered. "Where… where am I?"
His hand touched the wall. It was rough, wet, and cold. His fingers slid over something glowing on the stone. It gave a faint light. He didn't know what it was, it just felt strange, some parts smooth, some parts sharp.
He turned his head slowly, left and right. The sound came into his ears — picks hitting stone, shovels digging.
Clink.
Clink.
Clink.
It didn't stop.
His eyes went to the people near him. They wore old rags, cloth hanging down from their bodies.
Their faces were pale, thin, like they had no food. Their arms moved weakly and slowly, but they still swung the tools.
Their eyes made him feel heavy inside, like someone had put a rock in his chest and left it there.
Their eyes were empty. No light. No spark. It was like nothing was living inside them anymore.
He kept looking, hoping maybe one of them would be different, maybe one face would still have something left. But no. Every eye was the same. Dead and blank.
It looked like their life was already gone, but their bodies still moved, swinging the picks, lifting the shovels. They moved slowly, weakly, but they still worked.
They worked not because they wanted to, but because they had no choice.
From deeper in the tunnel, he saw someone cough. Their shoulders shook, their chest bent forward, and their mouth opened wide. But the sound didn't reach him.
The noise of pickaxes hitting the glowing ore was too loud, too steady. Clink. Clink. Clink. The sound of work swallowed everything else.
A little farther away, one person fell straight to the ground. Nobody moved, nobody tried to help. They just kept working, like nothing had happened. The only sound that stayed was the clink of metal hitting stone again and again.
Wu Feng froze for a moment. Then he forced his breathing slow, steady, until the shaking in his chest eased.
"Don't panic."
"Just take it easy."
"Keep breathing."
"Stay focused."
The words came on their own, like something he had told himself a thousand times before.
Even though his head hurt, even though the pain in his stomach was still there, his eyes didn't lose focus. He kept scanning everything, every shadow, every movement, like his body remembered what to do even if his mind didn't.