The slave camp dissolved into organized chaos at the crack of dawn, the overseers' whips cracking like thunder to rouse the weary. Cheong Gwang's ribs ached with a dull persistence, the bindings Hae had wrapped around his chest pulling tight as he shouldered a pack of meager supplies—stale rations, a waterskin, and a bundle of frayed ropes for makeshift repairs. The defeat on the plains had consequences: the Crimson Blade Clan was relocating their forward base, marching the slaves to a new front deeper into contested territory. Rumors swirled like dust in the wind—Azure Dragon advances had forced a retreat, and now they pushed toward a strategic pass where murim sects clashed like titans.
Kang bellowed from his horse, his qi-infused voice carrying over the assembly. "Move out, you worthless curs! The lords demand we hold the Iron Pass. Fall behind, and you'll feed the crows!" The slaves formed ragged columns, chains clinking in a grim rhythm—ankles linked in groups of five to prevent escapes, wrists free for labor but ready for restraint. Cheong Gwang marched in the middle ranks, flanked by Baek and Jin, their alliance a silent bulwark against the unknown. His thigh wound from the battle throbbed with each step, but he'd learned to compartmentalize pain, turning it into fuel for endurance.
The march began under a leaden sky, the path a rutted trail winding through barren hills scarred by prior conflicts. Charred stumps dotted the landscape, remnants of qi-fueled fires that had razed forests in some long-forgotten skirmish. The air hung heavy with the scent of damp earth and decay, punctuated by the occasional whiff of smoke from distant battlefields. Cheong Gwang's boots sank into the mud, each pull a test of will. The pack dug into his shoulders, aggravating the whip scars on his back, but he pressed on, eyes scanning the horizon for threats—ambushers, wild beasts, or worse, deserter hunters from their own side.
Hours blurred into a grueling haze. The column stretched like a serpent, slaves stumbling under the weight of their burdens. Encounters with other groups revealed the war's vast scale: a passing convoy of Crimson Blade supply wagons, guarded by qi cultivators whose auras shimmered like heat waves. One warrior, a stern woman with a jade pendant marking her as mid-rank, sneered at the slaves. "Fresh meat for the grinder. The Dragons press hard—rumors say their sect master has allied with the Shadow Vipers. Unification under a blue banner, they claim."
Cheong Gwang overheard, his ears attuned to such expositions. Murim politics were a distant thunder to slaves, but they shaped the storms that drowned them. Sects like the Azure Dragons wielded water-based qi, fluid and relentless, while Crimson Blades favored fire arts— explosive but consuming. Alliances shifted like sands, warlords rising and falling in bids for dominance. A fellow slave in his chain group, a gaunt man named Ryu with sunken eyes from some southern village, muttered, "Heard the Iron Fist Alliance is neutral, but for how long? If they join, it'll be a bloodbath."
The march wore on, the terrain turning treacherous—steep inclines slick with rain, forcing slaves to haul each other up with ropes. Cheong Gwang's muscles burned, his breath coming in ragged gasps, but he drew on reserves forged in defeat. Baek, limping beside him, shared survival tips in low tones. "Pace yourself, lad. Drink small sips—ration the water. And watch the sky; storms here mean flash floods." Jin, his arm still stiff from the arrow, nodded agreement, passing a root he'd foraged during a brief halt. "Chew this—numbs the ache."
By midday, the column halted at a crossroads, where another slave group merged with theirs—fresh captives from a raided border town, their faces etched with fresh terror. Encounters like this broadened Cheong Gwang's view of the war's sprawl. A young woman among them, chained at the wrists with haunted eyes, whispered to Ryu, "They took us from the eastern valleys. Vipers burned everything—said it was retribution for Crimson spies." Her voice cracked, revealing the human cost: families shattered, lives reduced to fodder.
Cheong Gwang felt a pang, echoes of his own village's fall resonating. He approached cautiously during the break, offering a sip from his waterskin. "Strength comes slow," he said, his scarred face a map of empathy. She accepted warily, her name revealed as Soo-Ah. "The sects play games," she replied bitterly. "We pay the price. Heard whispers of a grand council—warlords meeting to carve up the lands. But slaves? We're not even on the map."
The exchange glimpsed the broader canvas: the Warring States weren't isolated skirmishes but a web of intrigue, sects maneuvering for supremacy. Crimson Blade, weakened by losses, sought alliances; Azure Dragons expanded aggressively. Politics filtered down as orders—march here, fight there—without explanation. Cheong Gwang absorbed it, his mind sharpening. Knowledge was a weapon, even for the chained.
As the march resumed, Kang announced basic training en route—a grueling montage to "harden the weak." Chains were partially unlocked for drills, slaves formed into squads under guard supervision. "You'll learn or die!" Kang snarled, demonstrating crude formations with his whip. The training was realistic, far from the elegant murim arts: no qi flows or profound techniques, just brutal fundamentals.
First came endurance runs—sprinting up hills with packs, lungs burning, legs turning to lead. Cheong Gwang pushed through, ribs protesting, sweat stinging his wounds. Baek coached from the side: "Breathe steady— in through nose, out mouth. Conserve energy." Falls were common; a slave twisted an ankle, earning a lash for "weakness." Next, weapon drills: thrusting spears at straw dummies dragged along the path. Cheong Gwang's form was raw but effective, honed by survival—jab low to unbalance, follow with a twist. Jin struggled with his injured arm, but adapted, using his club one-handed.
Hand-to-hand followed, paired spars in the mud. Cheong Gwang faced Ryu, their grapples messy and punishing. Punches landed with thuds, elbows cracked against jaws. No mercy; Kang encouraged ferocity. "Fight like animals—that's all you are!" Cheong Gwang took a blow to the gut, doubling over, but countered with a knee to the thigh, dropping Ryu. Pain flared, but it taught: exploit weaknesses, endure hits. Scars reopened slightly, blood mixing with sweat, but Hae's herbs from camp stocks provided quick patches during halts.
As dusk fell, the training intensified: night marches with blindfolds to simulate fog of war, forcing reliance on senses. Cheong Gwang stumbled over roots, but learned to listen—the crunch of leaves, the shift of wind. Encounters with patrolling Crimson warriors added tension; one inspected the slaves, scoffing at their progress. "These fodder won't hold the Pass. The Dragons bring spirit beasts—qi-infused wolves that tear through lines."
The revelation expanded the war's horror: not just men, but mythical elements drawn into the fray. Murim politics involved ancient pacts, sects taming beasts or forging artifacts for advantage. Slaves were shields against such terrors, disposable in the grand scheme.
By night's end, the column camped in a rocky hollow, slaves collapsing around fires. Cheong Gwang's body was a symphony of aches—ribs throbbing, thigh pulsing, new bruises blooming. But the march had forged endurance, the training embedding grueling lessons. He shared a fire with Baek, Jin, Ryu, and Soo-Ah, the group expanding tentatively. Whispers flowed: more on politics, survival hacks like tying knots for quick releases.
Cheong Gwang stared at the stars, thoughts drifting to Myeong-Wol. Her cleverness would thrive here—scheming alliances, gleaning intel from guards. "Together," he'd promised. The iron march tested him, but it also built him—endurance not just physical, but mental. The war's scale loomed vast, politics a distant storm, but in its winds, opportunities stirred. One step closer to breaking chains, to reunion.
As embers died, he clutched the hidden nails, a talisman of resolve. The Pass awaited, but so did his path forward.