Meat Shield
Clack, clatter.
The only sounds echoing through the silent, barren ration cart were those of a worn wooden ladle bumping against a bucket.
That noise gripped their starving guts like the tolling of hell's bells.
"Line up in order and take your shares."
The voice of the fifth squad leader, dripping with boredom and irritation, rang out.
"Anyone trying to sneak extra rations will be struck from the list next time, so take just one serving! Got it? No grunting like piglets!"
"You there! If you think you can run, then run! You'll freeze to death or get caught and executed anyway!!!"
Kekeke—
The soldiers' mocking laughter cut through the sharp northern winds, slapping against his ears.
Unlike the daily murky water that barely settled the sediment, rations came only once every three days.
It was the sole fuel to extend his life by those three days.
With trembling hands, he held out his wooden bowl, its teeth-marks worn clean off.
Plop. Splatter.
What fell into it was a gray lump—impossible to tell if it was a rice ball, a rice cake, or just molded mud.
Sniffing it brought a sour, rancid stench that stabbed into his lungs.
The accompanying soup was little more than pig slop: a bowl of earthen broth with no trace of vegetables or meat, just unidentified roots or weeds bobbing around.
Ha... damn it.
Rage boiled up inside him, but at the sight of the other slave soldiers glaring hungrily at his food, he buried his face in the bowl like a beast and gulped down the broth in frantic slurps.
Hunger rising from the depths of his gut left no room for human dignity long ago.
Meanwhile, far off, white steam rose invitingly from the conscripts' and escort soldiers' mess trays.
Sizzle—thud.
On days when they butchered a pack of wolves or a massive boar—equivalent to a real-world van—their meals rivaled those of the empire's emperor or nobles.
Shiny rice balls mixed with grains, hearty meat soup thick with greasy chunks and floating vegetables, even roasted wolf haunches...
And as special treats, a few shots of strong liquor to warm their bodies went to the soldiers.
Supplies clearly weren't short, yet the slave soldiers were treated worse than livestock.
No—even the draft horses pulling the loads got their fill of beans and fodder, while they were mere consumables: meat shields, inferior to the beasts.
"Tch, they called it premium liquor... tastes like cheap swill. Ptoo! Can't wait to hit a brothel by the Great Wall, warm up with those fancy new girls they brought in last time..."
"Once this escort mission's done, you'll have enough military merit piled up. Promotion to squad leader again, and a fat pay bump, right?"
"Damn right! Our Jong clan has served as Great Wall officers for generations—that's more than enough."
"...The Great Wall's silhouette is in sight now, so we're almost there. Saw signals from the vanguard earlier too..."
Jong, the fifth squad leader—a third-year low-rank officer stuck without promotion for two years on this cart.
The regular soldier fawning over him with rat-like squinting eyes, sucking up nonstop.
And the top veteran private, counting down months to his five-year discharge, focused solely on coasting through without incident.
Their words auto-translated into Korean in his ears.
From fresh conscripts to trained locals ranked 'Gap, Eul, Byeong, Jeong, Mu' yearly, central pros as 'Gi, Gyeong, Shin, Im, Gye'—all the corrupt bullshit you'd see in any real army got dumped on the slave soldiers as a joke.
It was this damned world's ancient custom, its natural order.
"What about the ones hung up? How should we handle them?"
"Dunno... What do you think, buddy?"
"After four days dangling, even these illiterate idiots must've come to their senses. Executing them as examples would just short your quota for promotion, sir."
"Exactly. Three already froze to death en route, and you executed the first two as warnings. We gotta drag the rest alive. If word gets out we brought fewer than other units..."
He glanced up furtively at the cart's roof.
Ten long poles jutted from the prison-like cage hauling him away.
Whiiiish—
At their tops hung men tied upright: ones caught skimming scraps during slaughter duties, stealing meat mid-butchery from hunger, or nabbed fleeing.
Their wounds hadn't rotted in the fierce winds and cold, but they'd frozen solid.
Lips cracked beyond purple, limbs and torsos blackened with frostbite.
They were living corpses.
Is this ancient or medieval society? Or just this place?
Pitying them with modern ethics was pointless when he was neck-deep in shit himself—here, it was a luxury less useful than toilet paper.
"That barbarian got lucky. If there'd been space, I'd have hung him up ages ago..."
"Dangling up there in this dead of winter? Even a crazy barbarian like that would be as good as dead."
"Veteran! Cut those guys down, let 'em warm by the fire, then shove 'em back in the cart!!"
"Yes, sir. I'll feed 'em rations too. No point dragging corpses if they croak after we bother freeing them."
"Tch, handle it."
The top veteran called "Jo-gang" might look saintly, but he was no saint.
Just a civil servant crossed with a lame-duck sergeant: a ticking bomb avoiding any hassle that could snag the squad leader's promotion, splash on the unit, or botch his discharge.
Some clueless slave soldiers had mistaken him for a soft touch or sucker, begging favors...
The results were brutal.
Jo-gang, seeing it as insolence from lowly slaves, beat them near to pulp with the iron-barred cage.
Only when nearby soldiers yelled, "He'll die!" and barely intervened did he stop.
That confirmed it for him.
No good guys or allies here.
Ha, can't even talk—translation fails, so no communication. Open my mouth as a barbarian? More beatings.
His current spot was awkwardly in-between: from "Eastern tribe slave soldier" to deranged "mad barbarian," now downgraded and upgraded to "clueless-but-obedient barbarian."
Even fellow slaves—self-proclaimed Central Plains folk—resented sharing treatment with an Eastern barbarian like him, shooting dirty looks from the same cart.
Wolves at the front gate, tigers at the back. Surrounded on all sides.
Running's pointless. Freeze or get caught, tortured to death. No rations or water to stockpile, body skin-and-bones starved... I'm truly fucked.
Then it happened.
Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding!
The urgent bell shattered the procession's fragile peace as they rested.
[Wolf pack spotted 10 li ahead! Estimated mid-scale group of 300-400!]
"Hurry—form a circular wagon fort!"
"Drive the draft horses to the center after positioning!"
The bell tolled mid-rationing; sentries' reports boomed out.
This wasn't like casually hunting stragglers of 1-2 wolves or small packs up to 50.
The column scrambled: quivers and gear from military carts, portable fences and horse spears wedged between circled wagons.
Clatter-crash!
"Arm the slave soldiers and send 'em out!"
"Return weapons post-battle! Hide or steal any, and we'll rip your limbs off, scatter 'em roadside, or feed you to the wolves!!"
"Probably drawn by the ration smells..."
"Laggards get the whip!"
Crack! Snap! Snap!
The 5,000-strong escort—merchants, guards, hired ronin—moved like clockwork.
They claimed the safe inner circle; soldiers lined the wagons.
Outermost: slaves mid-ration or still aboard—like him.
Thrust into his hands: junk barely called weapons.
Shiver-shake...
"Please... not toward us..."
"Primordial Heavenly Lord, Primordial Heavenly Lord..."
"Don't wanna die..."
Teeth chattered around him.
His gear: crude oak round shield wrapped in leather straps, short spear with a rusty, reddish iron tip.
Inner soldiers wielded proper iron spears, halberds, bows, swords.
Large rectangular iron shields, leather-and-chain layered with plate armor—their gear mocked the slaves' rags.
Far off, a starving wolf pack approached, kicking up snow like dust.
Grrr... Woof!
Forget zoo or internet wolves.
These mid-sized car equivalents drooled as they charged: arm-thick fangs, massive bulk, collision-course monsters.
Terror of his first real battle made his body tremble uncontrollably.
Knees buckled; bowels threatened to loose.
"Distance: 5,000 paces! Contact in about an hourglass!"
"4,000 paces! Split into three flanks left and right!"
"Slaves, raise spears! Long-spearmen, brace behind fences and horse spears! Crossbowmen load, archers nock!!!"
Click! Boom!
Rebel-slave origins followed orders smoothly; others aped them desperately.
For survival, he instinctively aimed his shaking spear tip forward.
Death rushed closer, turning the white snowscape into a gray tide.