The boys around Minnow scattered in panic, like flies splashed with boiling water.
Feet scrambled in every direction.
Bodies collided.
The wooden shed creaked and groaned under the sudden chaos, beams shuddering as if they might split apart.
Minnow himself could not keep his balance.
His knees buckled.
His body swayed, as if he were about to collapse face-first into the mud.
But in the very next instant, instead of falling backward or sideways, he lunged forward.
He threw himself down.
His weight slammed onto Wei's back, driving Wei hard into the wet earth, pinning him flat against the mud as if with a living shield.
It was not the posture of protection.
It was the posture of interception.
The posture of someone placing himself directly in the path of the whip.
The whip did not stop.
"Crack—crack—CRACK!"
The sound was short and sharp, brutally precise.
Each strike landed without hesitation, without mercy, cutting cleanly through the air and slamming into flesh with a dull, bone-deep thud that made the chest tighten just from hearing it.
Minnow's shoulder jerked violently.
The thin cloth that covered his back—already worn, already patched and re-patched—finally gave way. It tore open completely, and blood bloomed at once, spreading fast, soaking outward in dark red waves. It ran down his spine in thick streaks, dripping into the muddy water beneath them.
The red was shockingly bright.
Like flowers blooming in filth.
Like something delicate and alive being forced to exist in a place that should never allow it.
Wei was crushed beneath him, his breath coming in broken, uneven gasps. He could not move. Could not lift his arms. Could not even turn his head.
But he could feel everything.
He could feel the trembling of the body above him—not the shaking of fear, but the tight, controlled quiver of someone forcing himself to endure pain without breaking.
Only then did Iron Throat narrow his eyes.
It was as if he had finally realized who it was that lay on top of Wei.
The whip froze in midair.
Iron Throat's chest heaved. His breathing turned ragged, uneven. His face flushed an angry red, veins bulging at his temples. The corners of his mouth twitched uncontrollably, like something poisonous was caught in his throat and refused to go down.
Then, suddenly, he bent forward.
The coughing came fast and violent, as if his lungs had seized up. He retched harshly, making wet, ugly sounds deep in his throat. After several convulsive spasms, he spat.
A thick glob of yellow-green phlegm hit the mud with a wet smack.
The sight alone was enough to turn stomachs.
Iron Throat straightened slowly.
He lifted his head. His eyes were cloudy and vicious, like an old well where something had died long ago. The longer you looked into them, the more it felt like your own breath was being dragged downward, pulled in against your will.
"…Minnow."
The name was forced out inch by inch, squeezed from deep inside his throat. It came out hoarse, sticky, heavy with something rotten.
"I'll give you one last chance."
He let the whip hang at his side. He did not strike again.
Yet somehow, the air felt colder than before.
"Tomorrow," he said,"you'll come with me to meet an important man."
He tilted his head slightly, as if offering a favor.
"Open your eyes a little. See the world beyond this place."
Iron Throat's voice slowed, adopting the patient, almost instructional tone of someone explaining a simple truth to a child.
"If your abilities impress him—"
"A steward's position is just a word away. One sentence from him."
A faint smile touched Iron Throat's lips. It did not reach his eyes.
"You understand what that means, don't you?"
In the corner, Hua's eyes flared.
It was not surprise.
It was ignition.
Something inside him sparked violently—envy tangled with hunger, desire mixed with an almost uncontrollable greed.
Right now, they were not even considered true slaves.
They were nothing.
Errand trash.
Lowest labor.
Above that—
First-class servants.
Second-class servants.
Third-class servants.
And above all of them—
A steward.
A ladder.
A clear ladder.
One step at a time, upward.
And a steward—
A steward did not need to meet anyone's eyes.
Hua swallowed. His throat bobbed.
Jealousy burned him.
Longing clawed at his chest.
For a single, ugly moment, he even wished that it were him kneeling there instead of Minnow.
Then Minnow lifted his head.
The movement was slow.
Painfully slow.
Like a stone hauled up from the bottom of a well—wet, cold, heavy with years of darkness.
His eyes were empty.
Not calm.
Not resigned.
Empty in a way that made the skin prickle.
"…Iron Throat."
He spoke the name plainly.
The name no one dared to say aloud.
The moment the word left his mouth, it was as if the entire shed inhaled—and forgot how to exhale.
The air froze.
Even the drop of water leaking from the ceiling seemed to hesitate, suspended in mid-fall.
Iron Throat's face darkened, inch by inch, until the red turned into a deep, ugly purple. The muscle at the corner of his eye twitched wildly. His teeth ground together, as if venom were being crushed between them.
"You—"
"Say that again," he growled.
Minnow did not retreat.
He was still kneeling.
Still covering Wei.
But his voice was harder than the whip.
"I said you're a dog."
"A mangy dog wearing human skin."
Iron Throat stared at him for two seconds.
Then he laughed.
"Good," he said softly.
"Good. Very good."
He said it three times.
Each"good" sent a chill through Hua's spine.
"So good."
Iron Throat raised his hand—and instead of striking, he coiled the whip and put it away.
"Take them," he said calmly.
"Down to the water cells."
The words hit like a hammer.
The boys around them shuddered as one.
Iron Throat's gaze swept the shed, counting faces.
"Everyone," he said.
"Everyone watches."
"No one leaves."
"No dinner."
He paused, the corner of his mouth curling into something sharp and cold.
"Watch carefully."
"This—"
"This is the price of fighting."
The reactions were not the same.
Some boys burst into laughter at once.
"Hahaha!"
The group of malicious youths nearby had been waiting for this, eyes shining like spectators at the start of a show.
"Scared stiff now, huh?"
"Thought you were tough?"
"This is what happens when you go against us!"
"Forest trash. Did you think this place was your mountain playground?"
"Still glaring? Try surviving long enough to glare again!"
"Survive? Don't make me laugh."
Their voices piled on top of one another, loud and ugly, like a sewer finally cracked open after years of pressure. All the cruelty they usually swallowed—every sneer, every suppressed malice—came rushing out, mixed with excitement.
Others looked away.
Some sighed quietly.
Some clenched their fists but said nothing.
Some lowered their heads, unable to keep watching.
As the two of them were dragged away, every one of them understood the same thing—
They probably would not see them again.
Not alive.