The first light of dawn crept over the jagged hills like a thief, casting long shadows across the mud-churned earth of the slave camp. Cheong Gwang stirred in the filth of his makeshift bed—a ragged pile of straw and bloodstained rags that barely shielded him from the biting cold. His body ached with the familiar weight of exhaustion, every muscle protesting as he forced himself to sit up. The air was thick with the stench of unwashed bodies, smoke from dying campfires, and the metallic tang of spilled blood from the night before.
He ran a calloused hand over his face, feeling the rough texture of old scars that crisscrossed his skin like a map of forgotten battles. One particularly deep gash ran from his left eyebrow down to his cheek, a memento from a skirmish three winters ago when a enemy's blade had nearly taken his eye. His arms and torso were a canvas of similar marks—burns from hot oil poured over siege walls, slashes from swords that had grazed him in the chaos of melee, and bruises that never fully faded. At twenty-three, Cheong Gwang looked like a man twice his age, his once-youthful frame hardened into something unyielding, like iron forged in relentless fire.
Around him, the camp was coming alive—or what passed for life in this hellish limbo. Dozens of other slaves, men and boys mostly, groaned as they rose, their chains clinking softly in the morning hush. The iron manacles around their ankles and wrists were a constant reminder of their status: fodder for the endless wars that ravaged the Murim lands. They weren't warriors, not in the eyes of the clans that owned them. They were tools, disposable shields thrown into the front lines to absorb arrows and blades so the true martial artists could strike from behind.
Cheong Gwang's gaze drifted to the horizon, where the faint outline of distant mountains loomed under a blood-red sky. This was the borderlands of the Warring States, a fractured realm where sects and warlords clashed in perpetual strife. The Heavenly Sword Sect, the Iron Fist Alliance, the Shadow Viper Clan—names that meant power and glory to some, but only death and servitude to him. He'd been here for years, ever since his village had been razed in one of those senseless raids. The memory flickered unbidden, pulling him back as it often did in these quiet moments before the storm.
It had been a clear autumn day, the kind where the leaves turned gold and the air smelled of harvest. Cheong Gwang, barely a teenager then, had been helping his father in the fields, his little sister Myeong-Wol trailing behind with her basket of wildflowers. She was always the clever one, even at ten, with eyes that sparkled like moonlight on water—hence her name. "Brother, look! This one's shaped like a star," she'd said, holding up a bloom with a grin that could melt the sternest heart.
Their village was small, tucked away in a valley far from the grand halls of the murim sects. They paid tribute to the local lord, a minor affiliate of the Crimson Blade Clan, and in return, they were left alone. Or so they thought. The raiders came without warning—shadowy figures on horseback, their qi-infused blades gleaming as they descended like wolves on sheep. Cheong Gwang's father had grabbed a pitchfork, shouting for the family to run. But there was no escape. The air hummed with the energy of martial techniques, strikes that shattered wood and bone alike.
He remembered the screams, the fire that engulfed their home, and the rough hands that dragged him away. Myeong-Wol's cries echoed in his ears as she was pulled in the opposite direction. "Brother! Don't let them take me!" He'd fought then, with all the fury of a boy who knew nothing of real combat, earning his first scar—a whip lash across his back that still itched on rainy days. But it was futile. The slavers sorted them like cattle: the strong to the battlefields, the weak to labor camps or worse.
That was seven years ago. Or was it eight? Time blurred in the grind of survival. Cheong Gwang shook off the memory, forcing himself to focus on the present. Dwelling on the past was a luxury he couldn't afford; it only weakened the resolve needed to endure another day.
A sharp whistle pierced the air—the overseer's signal. "Up, you dogs! The sun's rising, and so are the blades!" bellowed a burly man named Kang, his face twisted into a perpetual sneer. He was no true martial artist, just a low-level enforcer with enough qi cultivation to bully slaves without fear. His whip cracked against the ground, sending up a spray of mud. The slaves scrambled to their feet, forming ragged lines as guards distributed meager rations: stale bread and watery gruel that tasted of dirt.
Cheong Gwang took his portion without complaint, wolfing it down while scanning the camp. There were new faces today—fresh captives from a recent skirmish, their eyes wide with terror. He pitied them, but pity was another useless emotion here. Survival meant hardening your heart, learning to spot the weak links in the chain—literally and figuratively.
As the slaves were herded toward the armory tent, the ground trembled faintly. At first, Cheong Gwang thought it was the march of feet, but then shouts erupted from the perimeter guards. "Raid! Incoming raid!"
Chaos exploded in an instant. Arrows whistled through the air, thudding into tents and flesh alike. The attackers were a rival faction—perhaps the Azure Dragon Sect, judging by the blue banners flickering in the distance. Their warriors moved with unnatural speed, their bodies enhanced by internal qi arts that made them blur across the battlefield.
"Front lines! Slaves to the front!" Kang roared, unlocking manacles with hurried keys. It was the same every time: free them just enough to fight, chain them again if they survived. Cheong Gwang grabbed a rusted spear from the pile, its tip dull but serviceable. No fancy weapons for slaves; those were reserved for the elites.
He charged forward with the others, a human wave meant to blunt the enemy's advance. The dawn light glinted off clashing blades as the two forces met. Cheong Gwang ducked under a swinging sword, thrusting his spear into an attacker's thigh. The man screamed, collapsing, but another took his place. There was no grace in this fight—no elegant forms or profound techniques. It was raw, brutal, a scramble of mud and blood where instinct ruled.
Pain flared in his shoulder as an arrow grazed him, tearing fabric and skin. He ignored it, pivoting to block a downward strike with his spear shaft. The impact jarred his bones, but he held firm, countering with a knee to the groin. The attacker doubled over, and Cheong Gwang finished him with a thrust to the neck. Warm blood sprayed across his face, mixing with the sweat stinging his eyes.
Around him, slaves fell like wheat before a scythe. One boy, no older than fifteen, took a blade to the gut and crumpled, his eyes pleading for help that wouldn't come. Cheong Gwang pushed on, his mind a blank slate of survival. Strike, dodge, endure. That was the mantra that had kept him alive through countless such dawns.
As the raid intensified, he caught glimpses of the true warriors—the sect disciples hovering at the rear, unleashing bursts of qi that shattered enemy lines from afar. One, a woman in flowing robes, leaped over the fray, her palm strike sending a shockwave that felled three attackers at once. Such power was alien to him; slaves weren't taught the arts. They were meat shields, nothing more.
The battle dragged on for what felt like hours, though the sun had barely crested the hills. Finally, the attackers retreated, their raid thwarted but not without cost. Bodies littered the field, slave and foe alike. Cheong Gwang leaned on his spear, gasping for breath, his new wound throbbing. Kang and the guards rounded up the survivors, rechaining them with curt efficiency.
"Back to camp, maggots. You've earned your keep today," Kang snarled, though his eyes held a flicker of unease. Raids were growing more frequent, the wars escalating. Whispers among the slaves spoke of a great upheaval—a bid for unification by some ambitious warlord.
As Cheong Gwang was led back, his thoughts turned inward again. How many more dawns like this? How long until his luck ran out, and he joined the nameless dead? And Myeong-Wol... was she even alive? The thought of her, clever and unyielding, gave him a spark of something like hope. If he could just break these chains, find her...
But hope was dangerous too. In this world of feudal barbarism, where the strong devoured the weak, survival came first. He clenched his fists around the manacles, the cold iron a promise of more battles to come. The dawn had broken, but for Cheong Gwang, the darkness lingered.