Chaos did not come slowly.
It came like a dam breaking—suddenly, completely, destructively.
The main furnace room of the Forge of the Damned was the heart of the entire complex—the largest room, with high ceilings that disappeared into smoke and shadows. Three gigantic furnaces stood like angry gods on three sides of the room, each three times the height of a man, spewing a heat that made the air tremble. In the center of the room, an iron anvil where metal was poured and hammered. Around it, narrow pathways where slaves moved like ants—carrying raw metal, pushing carts, pulling the levers of the water pump that never stopped.
The wooden platform where Yoran stood rose two meters from the floor—a place where supervisors could see the entire operation, could shout instructions that echoed into every corner. A large door to the north led to the corridor toward the slaves' sleeping quarters. A door to the south led to the melting and molding area. A door to the east—the most heavily guarded door—led to the supervisors' office and the weapons storage room.
And to the west, the heaviest door of all—a double iron door that led outside. Out of the Forge. Out into the desert.
A door that was never opened except to bring new slaves in or to take corpses out.
That was the structure of the Forge of the Damned—a prison built like a factory, or a factory built like a prison. It made no difference.
And now, that structure was trembling with the sound of rebellion.
The first scream came from the crowd—Li Yuan didn't know who, it didn't matter who.
What mattered was that the scream was a signal.
Forty slaves moved—uncoordinated, untrained, but with an anger that had been buried for too long.
Twenty guards moved to block them—whips raised, clubs twirling.
The first whip struck a young man's shoulder. The skin tore. Blood flowed.
But the man didn't stop. He didn't back down.
He grabbed the whip with his bare hand—letting it wrap around his wrist, letting his skin burn—and pulled.
The guard stumbled forward. He lost his balance.
And other slaves—three, four of them—charged.
The guard fell. The whip came loose. Hands grabbed it.
Now the slaves had whips.
And the guards had fear.
"FORM A LINE!" Yoran screamed from the platform—his voice was loud but Li Yuan captured it through Wenjing: an intent that was starting to crack. A control that was starting to slip. "FORM A LINE AND HOLD THEM!"
But a line didn't form.
Because for every guard, there were two slaves. And a slave who wasn't afraid to die was more dangerous than a guard who was paid not to.
Li Yuan stood in the middle of the chaos—not moving, just listening.
He listened to the sound of flesh hitting flesh. The sound of bones cracking. The sound of screams—anger, pain, victory, despair, all mixed into a horrifying symphony.
Wenjing captured everything within a two-meter radius—the intent that changed every second:
I will die but I will take him with me—
I'm scared I'm scared I'm scared but I won't run—
Finally finally finally I can get my revenge—
The Understanding of the Body whispered from within—feeling every blow that landed, every bone that broke, every last breath. Bodies that spoke the language of pain.
"Li Yuan!" Hakeem shouted—his voice was close. "We have to move! To the west door!"
"Yoran—"
"I'll take care of him!"
Hakeem had already moved—not toward the door, but toward the platform.
Toward Yoran.
Yoran saw Hakeem coming.
And he was no fool.
He got down from the platform—quickly, nimbly for his age—and moved toward the east door. Toward the weapons room.
But Hakeem was faster.
He cut him off—leaping over the still-hot iron anvil, ignoring the hand that almost touched the glowing metal.
And he reached Yoran before Yoran reached the door.
"You—" Yoran turned, his hands raised defensively.
Hakeem didn't speak. There was no time for words.
He charged—not with technique, but with raw anger.
Yoran dodged—more skilled, more experienced in a fight.
His hand went for his belt—pulling out a small, hidden knife.
The knife gleamed. It slashed toward Hakeem's stomach.
Hakeem recoiled—but not fast enough.
The knife grazed his side—not deep, but enough to draw blood.
Hakeem hissed. But he didn't stop.
He charged again—this time lower, aiming for the legs.
Yoran fell. The knife flew—the sound of metal on the stone floor.
They both scrambled—rolling, hitting, trying to get the upper hand.
Yoran was more skilled. But Hakeem was more desperate.
And in the Forge, desperation often won out over skill.
Hakeem finally got on top—his knee on Yoran's chest, his hands on his throat.
"Eight months," Hakeem said—his voice was low and dangerous. "Eight months I watched you treat us like animals. Eight months I heard you say 'let them die, we have others.'"
Yoran scratched at Hakeem's hands—trying to breathe, trying to speak.
"My name," Hakeem continued—his grip tightened, "is Tian Hakeem. Remember it. Because that's the name you'll take to your death."
Yoran was still trying to fight back. His hands groped—searching for anything he could use.
His fingers found something—a wooden handle. A club that had fallen from a guard.
With a final surge of strength, he swung.
The club struck the side of Hakeem's head—hard.
Hakeem staggered. His grip loosened.
Yoran shoved—throwing Hakeem to the side.
They both stood—staggering, bloody, exhausted.
Yoran reached again—this time for a fallen guard's belt nearby.
A sword.
A short sword—not a soldier's long sword, but a guard's sword. It was enough to kill.
He drew the sword from its sheath. The metal shone in the furnace light.
"You think you're a hero?" Yoran said—his breathing was heavy. "You think this will end with freedom?"
He stepped forward—the sword raised.
"This will end with all of you dying. And I'll make sure your deaths are slow."
Hakeem didn't back down. He had no weapon. Just empty hands and a determination that refused to be extinguished.
"Maybe," he said. "But at least we'll die as humans."
Yoran attacked—the sword slashed horizontally, aiming for the neck.
Hakeem ducked—the sword passed over his head by centimeters.
He moved forward—getting into close range where the sword was useless.
His hand grabbed Yoran's wrist—gripping, twisting.
A cracking sound. The wrist broke.
Yoran screamed. The sword fell.
Hakeem picked it up—a quick, instinctive movement.
And now the positions were reversed.
Yoran looked at the sword in Hakeem's hand—then he looked at Hakeem's face.
And for the first time, Li Yuan—who was listening through Wenjing from a distance—captured Yoran's intent changing from anger to fear.
He's going to kill me. He's really going to—
"Remember this name," Hakeem said—his voice was calm now, like a storm that had passed and left only silence. "Tian Hakeem. The wise one from heaven. My parents gave me that name hoping I would be wise."
The sword was raised.
"But sometimes, wisdom is knowing when to stop forgiving."
The sword came down.
Quickly. Cleanly.
Yoran fell—his eyes wide in a shock that didn't have time to become acceptance.
Blood flowed—dark red on the gray floor.
And Hakeem stood over the body—the sword still in his hand, his breathing heavy, blood—Yoran's and his own—dripping.
Around him, the fight was still going on. But some of the nearby slaves saw.
They saw Yoran fall.
They saw Hakeem stand.
And a scream went up—not a scream of pain.
A scream of victory.
"YORAN IS DEAD!" someone shouted. "THE SUPERVISOR IS DEAD!"
The scream spread—like fire in dry grass.
And the guards—the ones who were still left—felt the change.
They felt that this was no longer a rebellion that could be stopped.
This was a revolution.
Some tried to run. Some were still fighting. But many—too many—had already lost in their minds before losing in their bodies.
Li Yuan felt all of this—not with his eyes, but with Wenjing, which captured the change in intent throughout the entire room.
From the slaves' fear to courage.
From the guards' confidence to doubt.
And he knew—knew with his entire soul—that they had passed the turning point.
But the turning point was not the end.
Only the beginning of the end.
"LI YUAN!" Feng shouted—his voice was panicked. "THE FURNACE!"
Li Yuan turned toward the voice—Wenjing captured the terrified intent.
Someone—in the chaos—had hit one of the water pump levers.
The pump stopped.
The water stopped flowing.
And the furnace—the furnace that never stopped burning—was starting to overheat.
The metal inside was not being cooled. The pressure was rising. The walls of the furnace were starting to crack.
"EVERYONE GET AWAY FROM THE FURNACE!" Li Yuan shouted—as loudly as he could.
But in the chaos, not everyone heard.
Not everyone understood.
The cracks in the furnace wall widened—a red light glowed from within, like an open wound.
And Li Yuan knew—with a horrifying certainty—
—that the furnace was going to explode.
And when it exploded, molten metal would spray in every direction.
And anyone who was too close—
—would die.
There was no time to think.
Only time to act.
Li Yuan released the Wrapping—completely, without hesitation.
Not to heal.
To protect.
The Understanding of the Body flowed out—not as a subtle mist, but as a wave.
A resonance that spoke to every body within the radius he could reach:
RUN. NOW. THE FURNACE IS GOING TO EXPLODE.
Not words. Not a voice.
Just... a knowing. A knowing in the bones, in the muscles, in an instinct older than thought.
The bodies moved—even those who hadn't heard Li Yuan's scream—they moved without knowing why.
They just knew they had to get away. Now.
Five seconds later, the furnace exploded.
Molten metal sprayed out—red, white, a heat that went beyond what a human body could bear.
It hit the walls. It hit the floor. It hit the iron anvil.
But it didn't hit the people.
Because everyone had run.
Everyone had gotten away.
And when the dust—or rather, the smoke—began to settle, Li Yuan felt the price he had paid.
His consciousness body could barely stand. His legs were trembling. His breathing was shallow.
He had given too much.
Far too much.
But no one had died from the explosion.
And that—that was enough.
Hakeem ran closer—the sword still in his hand, blood still on his face.
"Li Yuan! Are you—"
"I'm fine." It was a lie. But a necessary lie.
"We have to go. Now. Before the guards from the other posts arrive."
Li Yuan nodded. He didn't have the energy to say more.
Hakeem turned to the crowd—the forty slaves who were still alive, who were still standing.
Not all forty had survived. Li Yuan felt—through Wenjing—that some intents were gone. Some who would never move again.
But enough were still alive.
Enough to continue.
"TO THE WEST DOOR!" Hakeem shouted. "OUT OF THE FORGE! NOW!"
They moved—unorganized, messy, but they moved.
Toward the double iron door.
The door that led to freedom.
Or to a desert that would kill them slowly.
It didn't matter which.
Because anything outside was better than what was inside.
Hakeem and three other slaves pushed on the door—it was heavy, rusty, and never meant to be opened from the inside.
But with four desperate pairs of hands, the door moved.
Slowly. Very slowly.
But it moved.
And when the gap was big enough—
—light came in.
The blinding light of the sun after too long inside the smoke and shadows.
The light of freedom.
Or the light of a slower death.
It didn't matter.
Because at least this was a death they chose.
"GET OUT!" Hakeem screamed. "EVERYONE GET OUT!"
One by one, they ran out.
Into the desert.
Into the waiting heat.
Into uncertainty.
But also into freedom.
And Li Yuan—who could barely walk—was supported by Hakeem and Feng, and was carried out.
Out of the Forge of the Damned.
Out of the place where he had learned what it meant to be human in a body that was treated as a tool.
And when the sun touched his face—
—for the first time in seven weeks—
—he felt something he had almost forgotten:
Hope.
Small. Fragile. Almost nonexistent.
But real.
Behind them, the Forge of the Damned still stood—the furnaces still burned, the machines still spun.
But no one was operating them anymore.
Just an empty building.
A monument to a system that had finally collapsed—
—not from the outside.
But from the inside.
By those who were supposed to be slaves forever.
But who chose to be human.
Even if it was just for one day.
Even if it was just for one breath of freedom.
That was enough.