Day 10: Hwaran's Ordeal
Clank. Rattle.
Every step Hwaran took dragged the iron chains across the rough stone floor, leaving long white scratches in their wake. The shackles clamped around her ankles tore at her calluses, digging into raw flesh. A murky breath laced with the stench of blood welled up to her chin. Sweat-matted hair, caked with grime and dust, tangled across her vision. Icy chill crept up her skin, numbing her senses. She couldn't tell how many days had passed, or even if it was day or night.
What the hell... is this...?
Each step felt like her thighs might snap. The iron weight around her neck choked her windpipe, while the anchors gnawed steadily into her waist. Her wrists and ankles were bruised purple from the shackles' rub, pus oozing from raw skin and clotting against the metal.
"Ugh..."
In her past life as captain of the Murim Alliance's Flying Dragon Squad, Hwaran had seen brutal training regimens aplenty. The North Sea Ice Soul Pavilion's frost cultivation, Shaolin's Diamond Force Training, the Hebei Peng Clan's superhuman strength drills... Even those savage warriors never demanded constant agony like this. After bone-crushing sessions, they'd shed their iron armor, soak in herbal baths, and give torn muscles time to recover. That was the way of the martial world, the natural order of the body.
...Why... why...?
What she'd been given now was pure hell—no scrap of rest allowed. She had to wear these wretched lumps of metal sleeping, eating, even using the privy. Just this morning proved it. Unable to bear the shackles' weight, she'd spilled rice grains three or four times. Her chopsticks slipped constantly between cramped fingers. Every time the iron on her wrist bumped the table edge, bowls rattled and soup splashed. Hunger's instinct warred with bone-deep fatigue that screamed at the mere lift of an arm. Swallowing was a chore. Without channeling qi into her wrists, the shackles dragged her hands down; she couldn't grasp a thing.
Then, Seorin across from her silently pushed her own rice bowl toward Hwaran. She piled on big chunks of side dishes atop the rice—not for chopsticks, but so Hwaran could scoop it with a spoon in one go. Chohee wordlessly drew the soup bowl closer too. None of them spoke. Only the clank of metal and clink of spoons against bowls echoed in their quarters.
Why... only me...?
The doubt didn't linger. She wasn't alone in hell. Seorin's hands were a wreck. Kneading and prepping toxic herbs barehanded, blackening her fingertips hundreds of times a day, then swallowing antidotes to reverse it. Even the antidotes couldn't bleach her nails; they stayed pitch black.
Chohee fared no better. Not even allowed to sleep on the floor, she dozed clinging to walls or ceiling corners every night. If her concealment qi slipped or tension eased, she'd plummet. Sleep itself was an extension of training, another layer of hell. Last night, she'd apparently fallen for real—a huge lump swelled on her forehead.
All three suffered the same. No moment of carelessness, no instant of rest. Endless extreme training.
...Part of the Nojeong Technique?
Breaking down their bodies, even survival instincts, reshaping them into what he wanted? But another doubt stirred. If it was truly to devour them, why this much effort? Why push them to a warrior's absolute limits?
She had no answers. Even lying down, the crushing metal denied proper sleep. Days of exhaustion numbed her nerves, mind fogging, thoughts dulling.
Thud.
As her vision plunged, Hwaran snapped her eyes open. Her body had hit its limit, collapsing like a snuffed candle. At this angle, her neck should've shattered. Bracing for agony, she reflexively tensed.
......
"...Huh?"
No scream came. A dumb noise leaked from her mouth instead. It didn't hurt. No—that wasn't the point. Her eyes widened. Qi was circulating.
She bolted upright, assuming the cross-legged position to observe the flow. It wasn't under conscious control, like her heart beating or lungs breathing on their own. Qi looped naturally through her body—from dantian along the meridians, returning from fingertips and toes.
Even... while I slept... it kept circulating without rest?
Unbelievable. She had to test it. Lying back, Hwaran exhaled slowly, tentatively loosening her mental grip on her dantian—like releasing one hand on a tightrope. She braced for qi dispersal, shoulders sagging under renewed weight, joints twisting.
But qi held steady. Even without control, the meridian flow maintained its rhythm, inertia carrying the cycle.
Hwaran raised her hands before her eyes. Fingers that had trembled nonstop for days were now still. Qi flowed everywhere she checked. Springing up, chains rattled—but the weight barely registered. Hundreds of catties hung from shoulders, waist, limbs, yet resistance felt distant. No more staggering like a drunk.
Not lighter weight—the body's acceptance had changed.
One step. Chains clanged, shock dispersing softly. Another. And another.
...It's real.
Body and qi fused seamlessly. A few flailing limb drills—that was all for her Iron Extreme Art. A casual handful of oral formulas had forcibly carved open qi pathways.
Insane.
In days, she'd reached a realm her past life's decades of training never touched.
She clenched a fist. Not more power—the quality had shifted. Qi gathered instinctively at the knuckles without thought, inner energy loading the fist's tip. A fleeting sensation from her past life, brushing Hwagyeong's threshold—gone forever after, no matter how she chased it.
This was his design from the start. The shackles' weight, ceaseless pain, sleep-or-die peril. All for this.
The state where qi spun even in sleep. A body circulating inner energy as naturally as breath, unbidden.
That monster had force-carved it in days.
...What's his real goal, remaking us like this?
Fear lingered. She knew nothing of his schemes, his final use for them.
Yet beneath, a warrior's instinct writhed. This path diverged from any martial art she'd known as a pillar of the righteous sects. Where it led? Unknowable.
She gathered the long chain trailing the floor. Qi swirled between palm and metal—not forced, but shallow inner energy skimming her skin, repelling friction and chill. Even this brutish iron felt like an extension of her limbs.
Fist clenched, she stepped toward the training ground.
Dawn air bit cold. Someone was already there—a silhouette leaning on the pavilion railing, cradling a steaming teacup, gazing at the dim sky.
That serene back halted Hwaran. Thin frost underfoot crunched beneath her straw sandals. Her master wore only a thin robe. Immune to cold? Repelling it with qi? Unclear. Only white steam from the cup scattered the early chill.
Chains clinked softly. The monster turned.
"Oh?"
Calm eyes, faint smile.
"Out early, aren't you? Sun's not even up."
"...Yes. My eyes... opened early."
Hwaran bowed her head, steadying her voice against the tremor.
He eyed her a moment, sipped his tea, then said,
"Your steps look much lighter today."
Breath caught. Heavier than chains, pressure crushed her shoulders. He knew. When she'd awaken, what changes— all calculated.
Hwaran couldn't reply. Head bowed, fist clenched tight.
Her master asked no more. He simply slurped his tea, watching the sky brighten slowly.