The Iron Pass swallowed the slave column like a maw of stone, its towering cliffs echoing with the tramp of feet and the clatter of chains. Cheong Gwang's breath came in measured puffs, the thin mountain air biting at his lungs as the path narrowed into a defile scarred by ancient battles. Boulders bore the marks of qi strikes—deep gouges that spoke of long-forgotten sieges where sects had clashed for dominance over the leylines below. The Crimson Blade Clan had claimed this stretch as their forward outpost, but whispers among the slaves painted a dire picture: the Azure Dragons held the high ground beyond, their water arts turning the natural springs into deadly torrents that eroded fortifications and drowned assailants.
The march's end brought no relief; instead, it plunged them into the heart of a prolonged siege. The "Forgotten Fortress," as the slaves dubbed it, was a crumbling relic perched on a ledge overlooking the Pass's narrowest choke—a cluster of weathered walls and towers, half-reclaimed by vines and erosion. Kang herded them into position with his usual bluster, qi humming around him as he unlocked chains for labor. "Dig in, dogs! The Dragons won't breach easily, but if they do, it's your hides first!"
Cheong Gwang wiped sweat from his brow, his scarred hands gripping a shovel scavenged from the supply wagons. His ribs throbbed dully, a reminder of the battle's toll, but the herbal tea from Hae's kit had numbed the worst of it. Baek and Jin worked nearby, their alliance a steady anchor amid the chaos. Ryu had joined their group more formally now, his gaunt frame bending to the task of hauling stones for barricades. Soo-Ah labored in a nearby trench, her eyes sharp as she scanned the enemy lines visible in the distance—blue banners fluttering atop improvised ramparts.
The siege had stagnated into a brutal stalemate. Azure Dragon archers rained arrows from concealed positions, forcing the slaves to work under shields of woven branches and hides. Cheong Gwang ducked as a shaft whistled overhead, thudding into the earth beside him. "Keep low," Baek advised, his voice steady from experience. "Sieges are wars of patience—wear them down, or they wear you."
The tactics unfolded in grueling detail: trenches dug zigzagged to avoid enfilade fire, earthworks piled high with rocks and mud to form breastworks. Cheong Gwang learned on the fly, veterans among the slaves—battle-hardened survivors like an old man named Hak with a missing eye—sharing improvised knowledge. "No fancy qi here," Hak grunted, demonstrating how to reinforce a wall with interlocking logs. "But stack 'em right, and it'll hold against a charge. Angle the slope—makes 'em climb slow, easy targets."
Cheong Gwang mimicked the technique, his muscles straining as he wedged a beam into place. The learning curve was steep, unforgiving; a misaligned support could collapse under bombardment, burying workers alive. He adapted quickly, his battlefield grit translating to these static defenses. "Why call it forgotten?" he asked Hak during a brief lull, as they crouched behind a half-built parapet.
Hak spat, his single eye glinting. "Been here since the old wars—sects fought over the qi veins below. Winners forget the dead; losers haunt the stones." The theme resonated: war's stagnation, where glory faded into endless toil, bodies ground down by attrition rather than grand clashes.
As dusk fell, the siege intensified. Azure Dragons launched probing attacks—small squads slipping down the cliffs under cover of mist conjured by their water qi. Alarms rang out, crude bells fashioned from scavenged metal. Cheong Gwang grabbed a spear from the armory pile, joining the front line slaves tasked with repelling the incursions. The enemy moved like shadows, their steps enhanced by subtle qi flows that made them glide over rough terrain.
"Form up!" Kang roared from the rear, his whip idle for once as he channeled qi into a barrier shimmer. But the slaves bore the brunt. Cheong Gwang thrust at a Dragon scout, the spear glancing off qi-hardened armor. The man countered with a fluid strike, his blade whipping like a wave. Cheong Gwang dodged, rolling into the mud, and came up swinging low— a tactic from the march drills. The point caught the scout's knee, drawing blood and a hiss of pain.
Hak fought beside him, using a improvised club— a branch wrapped in barbed wire scavenged from old traps. "Aim for joints!" he shouted, demonstrating with a crunching blow to an enemy's elbow. Cheong Gwang absorbed the lesson, adapting his style: no wild swings, but targeted strikes exploiting gaps in movement. The skirmish dragged on, a messy grind of parries and grapples in the twilight. One slave fell to a qi-infused arrow that pierced his shield, crumpling with a gurgle. Cheong Gwang pulled Hak back as another wave retreated, the air thick with the coppery scent of blood.
In the aftermath, camaraderie bloomed in fleeting moments. Around a sputtering fire in the trenches, the group shared rations—dried strips of meat and hard biscuits doled out sparingly. Baek passed a waterskin laced with pain-numbing roots. "Sieges break minds before bodies," he said, his limp forgotten in the warmth. "Stay connected—talk, share. Keeps the stagnation from rotting you."
Jin nodded, his mangled fingers tracing patterns in the dirt—crude maps of the Pass. "Learned from Hak: watch the water flows. Dragons use springs to flood low ground. We dig diversions?" The idea sparked discussion, improvised tactics bubbling up. Ryu contributed quietly: "From my village—use smoke from wet wood to obscure their archers." Soo-Ah added her insight: "Their scouts repeat patterns; time the patrols, set ambushes."
Cheong Gwang listened, his role evolving from silent survivor to active participant. The veterans' teachings wove into his instincts: adapt or die. He practiced a basic hold Hak showed—a wrist lock to disarm foes without qi. "Twist here, leverage the joint," Hak instructed, demonstrating on a willing Jin. Pain shot through, but it taught control. No profound arts, just grounded improvisation—using the environment, like rolling boulders down slopes or rigging tripwires from vines.
Night deepened, the siege's stagnation settling like fog. Distant qi bursts lit the sky—Dragon cultivators testing the wards, Crimson warriors responding with fire volleys that scorched the cliffs. Cheong Gwang reflected in the quiet watch, the fire's glow illuminating his scars. War wasn't just motion; it was this endless wait, eroding will like water on stone. But in it, bonds formed—camaraderie a shield against despair.
A subtle shift stirred: Hak mentioned forbidden lore. "Some slaves... they steal qi breaths. Basic cycles, hidden in labor." Cheong Gwang's interest piqued, but caution held him back. For now, survival.
Dawn brought renewed assault. Dragons unleashed a flood—qi-channeled waters roaring down the Pass. Slaves scrambled, diverting with hasty channels. Cheong Gwang hauled sandbags, adapting on the fly. One broke through, sweeping a section of trench. He grabbed Ryu, pulling him from the torrent, camaraderie in action.
The day ground on, tactics evolving: counter-siege engines improvised from logs and ropes—catapults flinging rocks laced with flammable pitch. Cheong Gwang manned one, learning the release timing from Hak. "Pull now—arc it high!" The boulder soared, crashing into enemy positions with a satisfying thud.
By evening, exhaustion claimed them, but the fortress held. Cheong Gwang slumped in the trench, body aching but spirit tempered. The siege forged adaptation, stagnation breeding ingenuity. Camaraderie with Baek, Jin, Ryu, Soo-Ah, and now Hak— a fragile web, but strengthening.
As stars emerged, a horn blared—Dragons signaling parley? Or feint? The phase built, momentum toward greater trials. Cheong Gwang clutched his spear, ready. The forgotten siege would remember him yet.