The van jolted along the mountain road for nearly three hours.
Chen Rang leaned against the passenger seat. The blood on his forehead had already dried into a dark scab, pulling tight against his skin. He no longer cried or struggled—the smash against the window earlier, and the iron bar in Ah Li's hands, made it crystal clear: on this ride into the unknown, resistance would only bring heavier torment. This was just the first step of "taming" at the entrance to hell.
He just stared outside, unblinking.
The road narrowed, trees thick enough to block the sky. Slivers of sunlight leaked through the leaves, flashing on and off like spotlights, but none of it pierced the growing darkness in his chest. His phone had long been confiscated by Brother Li. He was nothing more than a prisoner stripped of freedom, dragged by this beat-up van into a nameless abyss, toward a fate of being "tamed."
Just as despair swallowed him, Ah Li spoke, voice rasping like sandpaper:
"Almost there."
He slammed the brakes. The van screeched to a halt in a hidden valley. No real road here, just a patch of overgrown weeds. At the far end, half-hidden among trees, a barbed-wire fence glinted faintly in the dim light. That fence would be his cage, the image haunting his nightmares for years to come.
Brother Li hopped out, shot Ah Li a commanding look.
"Get him out. Don't let him try anything."
Ah Li grabbed Chen Rang by the collar and yanked him out like a chicken.
Chen staggered, nearly falling, his ankle stung raw against sharp gravel. He lifted his head instinctively, his eyes locked on the fence in the distance. Taller than he imagined—over three meters high, coils of razor wire crowning the top. Guard posts every few meters, shadows of men inside, weapons glinting coldly in their hands. Tools of violence. Tools for "taming."
"What… what's that?" Chen Rang's voice shook. He instinctively stepped back, but Ah Li shoved him hard against the van, pain tearing through his back.
"Don't ask." Ah Li's eyes were ice, his tone a threat.
"Walk. Stay quiet. Or you'll regret it."
The warning cracked across him like a whip. First taste of "taming"—in this place, curiosity and questions weren't allowed.
The man in the black hoodie, who had been silent in the backseat, was dragged out too.
His head hung low, hands tied behind him, steps so weak he looked ready to collapse. Already "tamed" into exhaustion.
Brother Li patted his shoulder, voice dripping with mockery:
"Old Wu, good on you this time. No trouble. Behave inside, maybe you'll last a few more days."
Old Wu didn't answer. His shoulders shook—crying, or just terrified.
Seeing him like this, Chen Rang's heart sank deeper.
If someone "experienced" like Old Wu feared this place so much, how brutal was the "taming" behind that fence?
Brother Li wasn't about to let Chen think too long.
He pulled two black hoods from his bag, tossing one to Ah Li.
"Cover their heads. Don't let them memorize the way."
Stripping them of direction was part of "taming"—take away control, leave only obedience.
The hood came down. Blackness swallowed his vision. The fabric stank, suffocating, making him cough. He tried lifting a hand to tear it off—but suddenly his wrist was bound by cold iron. Ah Li had chained him to Old Wu, heavy metal dragging at his arm. The weight crushed even the faintest hope of escape. First physical lesson of "taming"—submission through chains.
"Move." Brother Li's order cut through the valley, sharp and unquestionable.
Yanked by the chain, Chen Rang stumbled forward.
The ground was littered with stones and thorny weeds, cutting at his ankles. He tripped several times; each time Ah Li's boot slammed into his back, barking at him to "Hurry up." Pain mixed with humiliation. The message was clear—"taming" had begun. Here, dignity was worth nothing.
All he could hear was his own ragged breathing, and Old Wu's muffled sobs. Together with the rustle of wind through leaves, the sound was unbearably bleak, proof they were leaving the normal world step by step, walking straight into the abyss of "taming."
No idea how long they walked the rough trail before metal clattered ahead.
A harsh, impatient voice rang out:
"Brother Li, how many 'goods' this time?"
"Two. Both good—one young, one obedient." Brother Li's tone flipped, oily and flattering. Nothing like the coldness he'd shown Chen earlier.
"Scarface, do me a favor, Boss Khun Sa's waiting."
Chen Rang's stomach dropped.
Scarface. He'd heard the name in the van. Brother Li had spoken it with awe. Clearly, this man was one of the key figures in "taming."
"Cut the crap. Bring them over. I'll check."
Scarface's authority pressed on the air like a vice.
The hood was yanked off. Chen squinted, blinded by sudden light.
When his vision cleared, he froze.
They stood at a makeshift checkpoint. Beside it, a faded wooden sign scrawled in crooked Thai and Chinese: "No Entry."
A handful of men in camouflage stood guard with rifles, stone-faced, eyes hard as they stared at Chen and Old Wu—like inspecting livestock to be "tamed."
At their center, a man with a scar running from forehead to chin stood out—gruesome, impossible to look away from. Scarface.
He strode over, sizing Chen up like a piece of meat. Rough hands squeezed his arm, then flipped his eyelids.
"Body's decent. Too soft, though. Needs some serious training."
That word—*training*—stabbed like ice into Chen's chest. The core of "taming": erase your will, turn you into a tool.
Chen tried to pull away, but Ah Li's grip clamped down on his shoulders, locking him in place. Scarface's merciless eyes drowned him in fear. This was the border. And beyond the fence—the "compound." The hell he was about to be "tamed" in.
"Don't bother checking Old Wu. He ran once already, got his lesson." Scarface waved dismissively.
"Take them inside. Hand them to the Trainers. Let them learn the rules."
The Trainers—the ones who finished the job of "taming," grinding out all resistance.
Two camo-clad guards unclipped the chain, replacing it with heavier cuffs.
They shoved Chen forward, through a gate in the fence.
The stench hit him instantly—sweat, smoke, and faint blood. He gagged. Fear thickened. This was the smell of suffering. Of despair.
Forcing himself to lift his head, he finally saw what lay inside.
A vast yard, sealed tight by towering wire fences. Razor coils glittered cruelly under the sun, like a net trapping everything inside. Rows of crude barracks lined the edges, windows boarded over, barely a slit for light.
Dozens of people in gray uniforms moved with bowed heads—hauling crates, sweeping trash. Their faces blank, eyes lifeless. Puppets stripped of soul. Finished products of "taming."
Nearby, a man was pinned to the ground by two guards. One pressed an electric baton to him. His screams ripped the air, high and raw. But the gray-clad workers never looked up. Not one. They kept working, as if deaf. They were used to it. Already tamed to the point of losing even pity.
This was the price of defiance. The sharpest warning.
"See that?" one of the guards sneered, jabbing Chen's back with a rifle butt.
"That's the rule. Obey and live. Disobey, you'll pay. Don't think about running. Last month a kid tried. Didn't get far. We caught him, broke his legs, threw him to the dogs."
Each word nailed into Chen's chest. Rule number one of "taming": obey. Or die.
His body shook uncontrollably. He stared at the man convulsing under the baton. At the blank-eyed workers. At the merciless fence. This wasn't a workplace. It was a factory of "taming." A living hell.
They dragged him into a shack. Inside: one battered table, two chairs.
A man in a black suit sat there, gold-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, thick folder in hand. His face was a mask of indifference. A machine for "taming." The Trainer.
"Name. Age. Hometown." His voice was flat, rehearsed. No warmth. This was the opening act of "taming"—strip away humanity, leave only data.
Chen opened his mouth, but no sound came. His throat felt stuffed with cotton. All he could hear was his own heartbeat, pounding in his ears.
"Answer!" One guard kicked him hard, barking:
"Don't play dumb. Speak!"
Pain. Another lever of "taming."
"Ch… Chen Rang. Twenty-eight. From southern China." His voice trembled. Tears welled.
He thought of his mother back home, her constant reminders, that warm little house. Would he ever see it again? Would anyone even remember the name "Chen Rang"?
The Trainer scribbled in the folder, then adjusted his glasses, voice still cold:
"From today, you're an 'employee' of the compound. Your job is to learn fraud from your Mentor and hit your daily quota. Fail, no food. Run, or try anything funny—you've already seen the result. No need to repeat."
He paused. His tone dropped colder still, delivering a cruel verdict:
"Remember—there are no names here. Only numbers. You are 739. From now on, when anyone calls '739,' you answer. Instantly. No hesitation."
"739…" Chen whispered, the number chilling him to the bone.
He knew: from this moment, the name "Chen Rang" might vanish forever, replaced by a number. A digit without dignity. A "tamed tool."
Number 739 was born.
The Trainer waved. Guards split Chen and Old Wu apart.
"Old Wu, back to your old group." Then to Chen:
"739, follow me. Time to meet your Mentor. He'll teach you what to do."
Mentor—the one who would complete the skill "taming," shaping him into a fraud machine.
As Chen was led out, he looked back. Old Wu met his gaze.
In his eyes—sympathy, but deeper still, despair. As if silently saying: *Welcome to hell, Number 739. Here, 'taming' will grind down every edge. Survival is your only luxury. And the hardest thing to achieve.*
Chen followed the guard into the yard again. The sun was still blinding, but no light reached inside him. He looked at the gray-clad husks, the distant screams, the merciless fence overhead.
Only one thought anchored him now: *I must live.*
Even if I'm just 739.
Even if I'm a walking corpse.
Even if I have to endure endless torment.
I must live.
Because only if I live will I ever have a chance to leave. A chance to return to my mother. A chance to be Chen Rang again—not just a number.
But the fence and the number 739—this was only the start of his road of "taming."
Ahead lay rules and tortures beyond imagining, waiting to grind him into the shape the compound wanted.