The sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden haze over the slave camp as the day's labors wound down. The bloodied fields had been cleared, the pyres lit, and the acrid smoke of burning flesh lingered like a shroud. Cheong Gwang sat hunched against a weathered post, his body a map of fresh aches and old scars. The arrow graze on his shoulder throbbed with each heartbeat, but he'd learned long ago to push pain to the edges of his mind. Around him, the camp settled into its evening rhythm—a fragile truce between exhaustion and vigilance.
Fellow slaves murmured in low tones, sharing scraps of food or mending tattered clothes under the watchful eyes of the guards. Kang paced the perimeter, his whip dangling loosely, but his gaze sharp as a hawk's. No one dared speak too loudly; whispers of rebellion had ended in public floggings before. Cheong Gwang picked at a piece of hardened bread, his fingers tracing the rough grain as if it held some secret. Scavenging was second nature now—pocketing a forgotten tool here, a strip of cloth there. Survival demanded it.
His eyes drifted to the distant hills, where the fading light painted the landscape in hues of amber and shadow. The sight stirred something deep within him, pulling at threads of memory like a loose stitch. The camp's downtime was rare, a brief reprieve where the mind could wander without the immediate threat of blade or arrow. And wander it did, back to days when the world wasn't defined by chains and blood.
It had been a simpler time, in the village of Yeonhwa, nestled in a fertile valley ringed by gentle mountains. Cheong Gwang, then a boy of thirteen named simply Gwang by his family, had spent his days tending the rice paddies with his father. The air smelled of earth and blooming lotuses, not death. His sister, Myeong-Wol, was seven years his junior, a whirlwind of curiosity and mischief with hair like raven silk and eyes that sparkled with unspoken dreams.
"Brother, catch me if you can!" she'd giggle, darting through the fields like a sprite, her small feet leaving barely a trace in the soft soil. Gwang would pretend to chase her, his longer legs making it easy to let her "win" every time. Their mother watched from the porch of their modest thatched home, a soft smile on her face as she wove baskets from river reeds. Father, a sturdy farmer with calloused hands, would join in the laughter after a long day, his voice booming tales of ancient heroes around the evening fire.
One memory stood out sharper than the rest, etched in the glow of a harvest moon. It was the festival night, when the village gathered to celebrate the bountiful yield. Lanterns floated on the stream, their flames dancing like fireflies. Myeong-Wol, dressed in a simple hanbok of faded blue, clutched a wooden doll Gwang had carved for her—a clumsy thing with lopsided eyes, but to her, it was a treasure.
"Look, Brother! She's a warrior princess, just like in Father's stories," she'd declared, waving the doll with dramatic flair. Gwang had ruffled her hair, chuckling. "Then she needs a name. How about... Wol-Hwa? Moon Flower, like you."
Myeong-Wol's face lit up, brighter than the lanterns. "Yes! And you'll be her guardian knight. Promise you'll always protect me, Gwang-oppa?"
He'd knelt to her level, his young heart swelling with the weight of that vow. "Always, little sister. No matter what."
That night, under the vast sky, they'd sat together on a hill overlooking the village. Myeong-Wol pointed to the stars, her voice full of wonder. "Do you think the heavens watch over us? Father says the strong ones become constellations, guiding the lost."
Gwang had nodded, though he didn't fully understand. "If that's true, then we'll be up there one day. You with your clever tricks, me with my strength. Unbreakable."
She'd leaned against him, her small hand in his, and for a moment, the world felt infinite, full of promise. But even then, whispers of unrest had crept into their idyllic life. Travelers passing through spoke of escalating tensions among the murim sects—the Crimson Blade Clan demanding higher tributes, rumors of raids on neighboring villages. Father dismissed them as tall tales, but Gwang saw the worry lines deepen on his parents' faces.
The invasion came without mercy, shattering that innocence like fragile porcelain. It was a crisp dawn, much like the ones Cheong Gwang now endured in the camp. The village awoke to the thunder of hooves and the war cries of raiders. They wore the insignia of a rival faction—the Shadow Vipers, opportunistic wolves preying on the weak borders. Qi flared in the air as their warriors unleashed techniques that uprooted trees and cracked the earth.
Gwang's father grabbed his old hunting spear, shouting for the family to flee to the woods. "Run! Take your sister!" Mother scooped Myeong-Wol into her arms, but the raiders were too fast. Flames erupted from hurled torches, consuming homes in greedy gulps. Gwang fought with a stick, his child's fury no match for trained blades. A Viper warrior backhanded him, sending him sprawling into the dirt, blood filling his mouth.
Through the haze, he saw Myeong-Wol wrenched from Mother's grasp. "Oppa! Help!" Her screams pierced him like arrows. He lunged forward, but rough hands pinned him down. Father charged, spear thrusting, but a qi-infused strike cleaved him in two. Mother's wail was cut short by a blade to the throat. The world blurred into red and black—loss, rage, helplessness.
The survivors were rounded up, the strong separated from the weak. Gwang, deemed sturdy enough for the front lines, was chained and marched away. Myeong-Wol, small and clever, vanished into another group—perhaps sold to distant clans or worse. Her final cry echoed in his mind: "Promise you'll always protect me..."
Back in the present, Cheong Gwang blinked away the sting in his eyes, the camp's dim firelight pulling him from the reverie. A fellow slave, an older man named Baek with a limp from a shattered knee, shuffled over and offered a swig from a hidden waterskin. "You look like you've seen ghosts, lad. Eat something real—found this root in the underbrush. Bitter, but it'll keep the hunger at bay."
Cheong Gwang accepted it, chewing mechanically. Camp life was a game of small victories: a hidden morsel, a moment of rest. He scavenged instinctively now, pocketing a loose nail from the post—could be a tool, or a weapon in a pinch. "Thanks, old man. Just... remembering."
Baek nodded, his weathered face creasing. "We all do. Keeps us human, or what's left of it. Heard from the new arrivals—wars are heating up. Some say a warlord's rising in the south, promising change. Unification, they call it. But for us? Just more chains."
Cheong Gwang's jaw tightened. Unification. The warriors' words from earlier echoed in his head. If the sects consolidated power, what would become of the slaves? Fodder for grander battles, perhaps. Or maybe an opportunity—chaos bred cracks in the system. His sister's face flashed again, her ambitious spark. Myeong-Wol wasn't one to break; she'd scheme, adapt, rise. If she lived.
A subtle ambition stirred in him, born of those whispers of the past. No more mere survival. He needed to break free, find her, fulfill that childish promise. But how? The camp's fences loomed, guards patrolled. Yet, in the quiet downtime, ideas flickered like embers. Watch the overseers' patterns, hoard small tools, build quiet alliances.
As night fell, the campfires crackled, casting dancing shadows. Cheong Gwang lay on his straw mat, staring at the stars through the gaps in the tent. The heavens watched, Myeong-Wol had said. Guiding the lost. He clenched his fist around the scavenged nail, its sharp edge a reminder. The past whispered of lost innocence, but it also fueled a quiet fire. One day, he'd turn those whispers into a roar.
For now, he endured. But the seeds of change were planted, deep in the soil of his scarred soul.