The morning air was thick with fog, heavy and wet, clinging to Lin Yao's skin like a second layer of armor. His body ached from the previous day's ordeal, muscles raw, ribs bruised, hands cut and blistered. Yet there was no rest. He was shackled again, a rope tied around his chest, dragging the weight of a supply cart through the mud. The convoy moved slowly, stretching like a snake across the hillside, hundreds of slaves and soldiers alike in a rigid line. The valley ahead yawned wide, a pit of green and shadow framed by jagged hills, deceptively calm.
"Move! Move, you worms!" a Zhen overseer barked, cracking his whip over the back of a slave who stumbled in the mud. Lin Yao flinched but forced his legs to respond. Pain radiated from his calves with every step, but stopping was unthinkable. Behind him, the cart wheels groaned in protest, ruts filled with mud and blood refusing to release their grip. The air smelled of damp earth, sweat, and iron. Somewhere in the distance, the faint, ominous creak of wooden siege engines whispered against the fog.
The valley stretched before them like a maw, inviting, open, a trap. Lin Yao's gut clenched. Something was wrong. The trees on the ridge had been thinned, stripped bare in a pattern that no honest woodcutter would leave. He scanned the horizon, eyes catching the slightest glint of metal in the morning light, and his stomach tightened into a knot that ached more than any of his bruised muscles.
They were walking into death.
He tried to warn the overseer in front of him, a stout man with a cruel face, whip coiled at his side. "Stop! The route—there's something wrong! We can't—"
The man turned, eyes narrowing. "Shut your mouth, slave," he spat. His boot slammed into Lin Yao's ribs, forcing the air from his lungs. Pain exploded in his chest. He collapsed forward, the rope dragging him along the muddy track. The whip cracked across another's back. "Keep moving! Or die!"
Lin Yao inhaled through the burning, stabbing pain, forcing himself to rise. Instinct clawed through the fear and agony: live. Just live. He gripped the rope, muscles protesting, blood mixing with mud. Behind him, the other slaves moaned and screamed, some falling, some dragged, some crushed under the wheels of carts. No one stopped. There was no mercy.
The first arrow struck before the warning could fully register. It whistled through the fog, fast, precise, and a man next to him went down screaming, chest pierced. Blood erupted like a fountain, hot and metallic. Lin Yao's stomach turned, bile rising, but he didn't pause. The rope burned his palms as he yanked the cart forward, dragging himself and his dying companions across the muddy ground.
More arrows rained from the ridges. The valley walls were alive with dark shapes, moving, aiming, relentless. Every second brought the shriek of flight, the wet impact of flesh, the thud of bodies hitting mud. Lin Yao's heart hammered in a chaotic rhythm. Each breath was ragged, lungs burning. Every step was an act of defiance against inevitability.
The overseers shouted orders, cruel and indifferent. "No hesitation! Pull! Pull! Move faster, or you die where you stand!" The whip cracked again, lashing someone's back into a red smear. Lin Yao's head pounded. His body trembled, muscles threatening to give way under the weight of the cart and his own exhaustion. But he moved. He had no choice.
He glanced at the line of slaves ahead: half were bleeding, moaning, some twisted grotesquely after arrows. Limbs sprawled at impossible angles, some faces frozen in terror, some eyes vacant, staring at nothing. The smell of iron was overpowering, thick and cloying. Lin Yao tasted it in his mouth, bitter, sweet, impossible to wash away.
"Go back! Tell them! Tell the commanders!" Lin Yao screamed to himself, more than to anyone else, but a soldier's boot slammed into his shoulder, sending him sprawling again. The cart tilted dangerously, and the rope cut deep into his palms. Pain screamed through him, but he dragged himself upright, yanking, pulling, crawling. Behind him, the valley echoed with screams.
The second volley of arrows struck, closer, faster, more precise. One caught a man beside him through the shoulder, another lodged in a slave's thigh, toppling him into the mud. Lin Yao's mind shrieked, and instinct, pure and primal, took over. He kept low, dragged himself, tried to keep the cart from tipping over, muscles burning, joints screaming, lungs on fire. The overseers' shouts became a blur over the roar of death, a constant, cruel drumbeat.
He spotted a small hollow along the valley's edge, a shallow ditch that promised slight cover. For a heartbeat, he considered diving for it, abandoning the cart, abandoning everything. But the whip cracked again, closer this time, and he knew hesitation would mean death. He gritted his teeth, forcing every ounce of his failing strength into motion, dragging himself and the cart forward, mud sucking at his feet like quicksand.
The terrain grew more treacherous as they descended. Rocks hidden beneath the mud tore at bare feet, wheels dug deeper into ruts, and the slope became a slick, living thing, dragging them toward disaster. Another volley of arrows came, fast, indiscriminate. Lin Yao felt a sharp sting in his side. Pain exploded, hot and burning, but he ignored it. He could not stop. Could not die. Could not let this valley take him before he had a chance.
He screamed, yanked, and pulled with all his remaining strength. One of the slaves ahead fell, twisting under the cart. Lin Yao stumbled over him, nearly losing his grip. The rope bit into his hands, cutting, shredding, but he continued, ignoring everything but the rhythm of survival. Pull, pull, pull. Move. Live.
A soldier rode past, eyes cold, rifle cocked. One man tried to falter, to step aside, and the soldier fired. The crack of the musket was loud in the valley, and the man collapsed, chest blown open, blood spraying in a grotesque arc. Lin Yao's stomach clenched, nausea rising, but he could not stop. The rope, the cart, the mud, the screams—they were all he knew.
"Fools! Move faster, or die!" Another whip cracked against a slave's back. Lin Yao's legs threatened to give way. His vision blurred, sweat, mud, and blood streaking across his face. Pain clawed at every part of his body. Yet the instinct persisted, relentless, screaming: survive. Move. Live.
Then, the trap was revealed. The valley's open center erupted. The enemy had waited for them, hidden behind rocks and false trees, camouflaged by the fog. A wave of fire and smoke exploded from the ridge ahead. Lin Yao was thrown sideways by the blast, flying through the air, landing in a shallow ditch with a jolt that shattered ribs and sent his head spinning. The world became chaos incarnate.
He saw bodies lifted and torn apart by the force of the explosion. Horses screamed, carts splintered, soldiers and slaves alike hurled through the air, broken, burning, dying. Arrows continued to fall, blind and merciless, but the valley itself now seemed alive with fire and death. Lin Yao's ears rang. He tasted blood in his mouth, warm and coppery. His vision swam between smoke and shadow.
He tried to push himself upright, body trembling, every muscle screaming. The ditch offered slight shelter, but it was shallow, and debris rained around him. He saw a soldier shot through the chest, limbs flailing, cart wheels crushing another slave's body beneath. The smell of smoke and blood mixed into a thick, choking haze. Lin Yao coughed, gagged, spat mud and blood, and forced himself to move.
Instinct guided him, raw and unthinking. He crawled along the edge of the ditch, dragging himself over rocks, mud, and the occasional body. The valley continued to scream, fire licking at the edges, explosions tearing the air. Half the convoy was gone, annihilated. Limbs, carts, horses, and men strewn like broken toys. The overseers screamed orders, though the words were meaningless, drowned in chaos.
He felt something warm on his face and realized it was blood—his own, probably, or from a body beside him. His hands were shredded, palms raw and bleeding, fingers numb from cold and exertion. His lungs burned. Every movement sent shivers of pain through his body. Yet he did not stop. He could not. Survival was all that remained.
From the ditch, he watched a cart explode under fire, its contents igniting, flames licking up into the smoke-filled sky. Another blast sent a horse tumbling, toppling a slave beneath its hooves. Lin Yao's stomach lurched, bile rising, but he forced himself lower, crawled, moved, and survived. Half of the unit was gone. Death walked the valley openly.
The fog thickened, the smoke curling into the sky, turning everything into gray and black. Lin Yao's body trembled with pain and fear. He forced his limbs to obey. He could hear the screams behind him, the shouts of the surviving overseers attempting to rally the broken convoy, the hiss of arrows in the air, the crackle of fire, and the low, rolling moan of the dying earth beneath them.
He pressed himself deeper into the ditch as another explosion shook the valley. Rocks and debris rained down. The supply cart he had been dragging moments before was obliterated, splintered into pieces. Horses screamed as they burned. Slaves caught in the open were torn apart. The air was thick with smoke, blood, and death. Lin Yao forced himself to breathe, his chest heaving, ribs cracking under the effort, muscles trembling, but alive.
Somewhere above, the valley seemed to laugh at him, cruel and indifferent. The trap had worked. The enemy's ambush had succeeded. And yet, against all odds, Lin Yao survived.
Night approached, shadows swallowing the valley. The wreckage of the convoy was scattered, half the unit obliterated. Limbs, carts, horses, and bodies lay twisted in grotesque tableaux. Smoke coiled into the sky, carrying the smell of fire, blood, and death. Lin Yao pressed against the dirt, every breath painful, every movement a fight. He dared not look around too much; there were still arrows in flight, still fire, still the threat of overseers who would not hesitate to shoot anyone attempting to move from cover.
His hands clutched the mud, blood mixing with earth, eyes wide and unblinking. Somewhere, a distant shout pierced the smoke, followed by the wet thud of someone collapsing. He forced himself to keep low, crawled further into the ditch, and tried to steady his breathing. His body ached beyond reason. Pain was everywhere—ribs, legs, arms, hands, chest—but he was alive.
The valley had taken almost everything else. Almost. And Lin Yao, trembling, soaked in blood and mud, hidden in the shallow ditch, understood one absolute truth: this world had no mercy. No one would save him. Survival was brutal, raw, and uncompromising. He would live if he could.
And as the last light of day faded behind the smoke, he stared across the devastation. The enemy had vanished as suddenly as they had struck, leaving behind only ruin, fire, and screams. The valley was a graveyard, and he, by chance, or fate, or instinct, remained.
The thought was simple, raw, and terrifying. He had survived. But what kind of life could continue in a world that demanded nothing less than absolute vigilance, constant fear, and unflinching brutality?
Night swallowed the valley, the chains on his wrists biting, the stench of blood and fire clinging to his skin, the screams echoing in the distance. Lin Yao did not move from the ditch yet. Not until the world was quieter, not until the immediate death had passed. He had survived the trap, but he knew, instinctively, that the battle—and the cruelty of the world—was far from over.
The valley remained alive with fire and ruin, the cries of the wounded and dying etched into every breath. Lin Yao pressed himself further into the mud, every nerve straining, every muscle screaming, heart hammering. He had survived. And for now, that was enough.