When Iron Throat spoke, his eyes never left Minnow.
He was waiting for a sentence.
He didn't get one.
Instead, someone nearby laughed.
The laughter was soft.Careful.As if the person was afraid of missing the right moment.
A low voice followed.
"Putting on airs."
Another answered immediately.
"An idiot."
Iron Throat heard them.
He nodded.
"Only the obedient get meat."
After saying that, he turned and walked away.
His coughing dragged on behind him, long and rough, as if he were deliberately leaving something behind.
The boys who had been encouraged by his words exchanged excited looks. They gathered together, whispering, their eyes flicking again and again toward Minnow and Wei.
When the sounds finally faded, all that remained in the shed was the boys' shallow breathing—and the looks that carried no goodwill at all.
Wei stared at the doorway Iron Throat had just passed through.
He didn't blink.
His fingers were clenched into fists, the knuckles pale, though he wasn't aware of it.
Minnow noticed the anger burning in Wei's eyes and spoke softly.
"That's Iron Throat."
"The kind who eats people and doesn't even spit out the bones."
As he spoke, he quietly handed Wei something.
A small dog, braided from dry grass.
Wei had never seen hands like that before.
With just a few strands of straw, Minnow had woven a dog that looked almost alive—as if the next second it might wag its tail and bark.
The moment Wei touched it, something inside him loosened.
The anger.The shame.
They melted, slowly, like ice meeting sunlight.
He lowered his head, turning the little grass dog between his fingers.
"If we ever get out," Wei said quietly,"I want to keep a dog."
Minnow thought for a moment, then added,
"No. Two dogs."
Wei looked up.
There was light in Minnow's eyes.
Without realizing it, Wei smiled.
The noise in the shed gradually died down.
Fatigue settled over everyone like a thin layer of ash.
The boys clustered together in small groups, backs pressed together, like animals curling up for warmth on a cold night. Their whispers rose and fell, stopping suddenly at times, then resuming as if nothing had happened.
—In those brief pauses,
Their eyes always slid toward Wei.
Not a direct stare.
More like the way one checks whether prey is still where it was left.
Minnow noticed.
He watched Wei's fingers gently stroke the crooked little grass dog, the touch so careful it seemed he feared crushing its fragile shape.
The sight drew a rare smile to Minnow's face.
"To them," Minnow said quietly,"we're not people."
He paused.
"We're inventory."
Wei's fingers tightened suddenly.
A straw stem pricked his palm.
He didn't make a sound.
But in that instant, something flickered in his eyes—then sank back down.
Just then, a lazy scoff came from nearby.
"Well, look at that. The idiot can make toys."
The voice wasn't loud,but it carried far enough for half the shed to hear.
A boy who had eaten his fill and was dozing against a pillar lifted his eyelids.
A piece of dry grass hung from his mouth, his teeth chewing it slowly.
"Pretty delicate, too."
"Who's it for? Something to bury you with?"
Low laughter spread at once.
It didn't sound joyful.
It sounded rehearsed.
Wei raised his head.
Only then did the lazy boy look at him properly.
His gaze lingered on Wei's face for a moment, like someone pricing goods.
"New, huh?"
"Still smells like the woods."
He clicked his tongue.
"No wonder you don't know the rules."
Minnow's shoulders tensed. He glanced toward the door.
But the words kept coming.
"And what are the rules?"
"The rules are simple—being eaten alive is a blessing."
The boy smiled slowly, as if instructing a child.
"Just taking a little blood."
"To feed the undead heroes. That's an honor."
He spat out the grass stem and flicked it away.
"Not just anyone's blood qualifies."
This time, his eyes deliberately settled on Wei.
"Trash like you. Rats crawling out of gutters."
"Your blood's toxic."
"If it spills, the floor has to be scrubbed for three days."
Low laughter rippled outward.
"Yeah. Too expensive to purify."
"Might as well dispose of them directly."
"Same ending either way."
The laughter was dry.
Cold, like sparks scraped from stone in winter.
Heat surged in Wei's chest.
Not reckless anger.
The kind that comes from being stepped on again and again.
Minnow reached out and pressed down on Wei's fist.
His hand was cold. Slightly shaking.
"Don't," he whispered.
—At that exact moment,
Wei smiled.
Very faintly.
As if he had finally understood somethinghe should have understood long ago.
He didn't speak.
He just took one step forward.
Not fast.Not slow.
But when that step landed—
The lazy boy's chest suddenly felt hollow.
—This wasn't right.
They had more people.They had logic.They had rules on their side.
And yet, for no clear reason, a sensation crept up his spine.
Like something in the darkhad locked onto him.
"You just said," Wei lifted his head.
His voice wasn't loud.
But it was cold.
"My blood—is toxic?"
The lazy boy opened his mouth.
No word came out.
Bang.
The fist landed.
No wind-up.No shout.
Like a beast in the dark,confirming direction—
then biting.
The sound of bone breaking was clean.
Too clean to sound like a fight.
More like—
a decision being overturned on the spot.
The laughter stopped.
The shed fell into a terrifying silence.
Wei's fist smashed squarely into the lazy boy's face.
The boy staggered back, nearly collapsing.
Then the shed exploded.
Five or six boys rushed in like dogs scenting blood, surrounding Wei, blocking the exit.
Outside the shed.
Iron Throat's foot stopped at the doorway.
He had intended to watch the show.
He was idly turning a vine whip in his hands, movements casual, as if handling other people's lives was no more serious than passing time.
But then—
From inside—
came a sound that should not have existed.
Not crying.Not shouting.Not pleading.
The sound of bone breaking.
Short.Dry.
Like someone confirming something.
Iron Throat's hand froze mid-motion.
He tilted his head slightly, listening.
Inside the shed was chaos—shouts, impacts, sharp gasps tangled together.
But within that noise—
he heard it clearly.
This wasn't random violence.
This was—
measured.
A rhythm oflooking—then striking.
Iron Throat's throat moved.
He didn't smile.
He didn't frown.
He simply closed his hand around the whip and stayed still.
Standing outside, he began to count.
One punch.Two punches.Three.
The rhythm was steady.
Too steady for a boyfighting for the first time.
In the dim firelight, Iron Throat's eyes slowly brightened.
Not with excitement.
With confirmation.
He realized something.
Inside that shed,
something had just woken up.
Not livestock.Not a tool.
But something—
that could not be kept.
Iron Throat extended his tongue and slowly licked his cracked lips.
Then he took half a step back.
The door remained closed.
But he was no longer in a hurry.
"…Interesting."
The word was so quiethe almost didn't hear it himself.