War Beyond the Obelisk

Chapter 9: Smiling Gas — 05

The overseer looked first at the cell that had somehow lost another prisoner, then at Captain Anfield, who had just declared that he wanted to be locked inside it himself.

At last, a sinister smile crept across his face.

“I still think these people should be arrested and interrogated properly.”

He toyed with the brass lock on the door, making it clank against the bars.

“They must have dug a tunnel somewhere we haven’t found. How else does a man simply vanish from a locked room?”

He turned his eyes toward the prisoners.

“Whoever tells me first how that bastard escaped will receive better treatment than even our distinguished captain until the day this camp is dissolved. You have my word.”

A stir immediately swept through the surrounding cells.

The phrase the day this camp is dissolved had caught everyone’s attention.

The overseer smiled as though that reaction proved something.

Then his expression darkened again.

“What do you think, big man? And you, gentleman with the spectacles. Where did you dig the tunnel? Through the ceiling?”

No one answered.

In truth, there was no useful answer they could give.

Should they tell him that after midnight, the barracks seemed to enter some impossible, silent version of the world?

That could end in only two ways.

Either the overseer would assume the Koroshans were insulting him with a ridiculous excuse and fly into a rage—

or he would believe them and transfer everyone to another cell.

Then they would lose their only opportunity to investigate Oak Valley at night.

And if he learned that they had already crossed half the camp, entered the abandoned chemical facility, and discovered the laboratories and toxic compounds inside, their fate would be obvious.

Of course, someone might still betray them in exchange for the promised privileges.

“He’ll get soft bread covered in butter every day,” the overseer continued. “No more laboring to atone for his sins.”

His gaze moved from face to face.

“You know how he escaped, don’t you? Big Nose? Your nose is the size of a toad. And you, little man—you’re practically a dwarf.”

From the corner of his eye, Yu Feichen watched the small man.

He was the only person in their cell who had refused to join the nighttime expedition. He had heard their brief account after they returned, but he had never witnessed what happened to the monk.

Perhaps he truly believed the monk had escaped successfully.

The overseer seemed to notice his hesitation.

His gaze settled on him.

The small man hunched his shoulders and looked away.

Yu Feichen quickly assessed the guards around the cell.

If the man decided to betray them, Yu Feichen would need to prepare for the worst. After what he had seen the previous night, the prisoner was clearly terrified of almost everything.

Then Yu Feichen noticed another tiny movement.

Captain Anfield’s fingers had settled against the grip of his sidearm.

The small man’s lips moved.

Yu Feichen’s brow tightened.

The prisoner coughed twice.

“I didn’t see anything,” he said hoarsely. “Sir.”

The overseer snorted and turned toward Yu Feichen.

“There is no tunnel,” Yu Feichen said. “You may search wherever you like.”

“Who knows what tricks you Koroshans use? Perhaps some devil’s magic.”

The overseer paced outside the bars with his hands behind his back.

“Trouble keeps happening in this particular cell. I ought to move you somewhere else—”

He stopped halfway through the sentence.

Then came that familiar unpleasant smile.

“But there’s no hurry. We can move you after tonight. After all, our brilliant Captain Anfield intends to investigate your mysterious disappearances personally.”

So the young officer’s name was Anfield.

Easy enough to remember.

The overseer unlocked the door.

The brass lock they had forced open during the night now looked perfectly intact.

“Go atone for your sins, traitors.”

As Yu Feichen passed Anfield, he caught the same wintry chill he had noticed the day before.

Today, however, there was another faint scent beneath it.

Blood.

The prisoners’ workday began.

But at least ten people in the barracks could no longer stand.

Some had been worked beyond exhaustion the day before. Others were feverish from untreated injuries.

They lay groaning on the floor as Yu Feichen walked toward the exit.

Cold morning air struck his face.

He glanced back.

Through rows of cells and drifting dust, Captain Anfield stood motionless in the dimness. Only his platinum hair seemed to catch the light.

The overseer approached one of the sick prisoners with his whip raised.

Then he noticed Anfield.

His expression twitched.

The whip stopped.

“This is the God of Truth’s punishment for traitors,” the overseer spat at the suffering prisoner. “You’ll rot here.”

Yu Feichen turned away.

Gods were often excuses rather than realities.

That was one reason he had never managed to feel much toward the High God of Paradise.

The work at the brick kilns was every bit as brutal as the day before.

The only real change was in the local guards.

Yesterday, they had punished prisoners who worked too slowly.

Today, they struck anyone they simply disliked.

Whips cracked throughout the yard.

Humiliation appeared again and again on Koroshan faces—and each visible sign of resentment only invited more cruelty.

During the short noon break, Yu Feichen rested a hand on the shoulder of a flaxen-haired prisoner.

“If one of the armed guards turns his back,” he murmured, low enough that only the man could hear, “could you take him down?”

His gaze indicated one of the soldiers at the kiln entrance.

The man turned toward him suspiciously.

“What are you planning?”

“The overseers have only whips. My companions can handle them,” Yu Feichen said. “I still need one person to help with the two armed guards.”

“Are you insane? Their unit will come after us.”

“By then, we’ll be inside Oak Mountain.”

“You’re escaping?”

“What else?”

The man hesitated, then shook his head.

“They’ll kill us.”

It was the fourth time Yu Feichen had received that answer.

He had spent half the morning studying the prisoners, identifying the few who appeared physically capable, trained, or courageous.

Every one of them had refused.

Getting everyone out of Oak Valley was not something he could accomplish alone.

Unfortunately, controlling other people’s hearts had never been one of Yu Feichen’s talents.

Most of his previous missions had allowed him to solve problems through overwhelming force.

This time, he needed trust.

“All right,” he said, raising his voice slightly.

The sound attracted one of the armed guards.

The broad soldier turned.

“What are you doing, bastard?”

“Reporting, sir.”

Yu Feichen adopted the rough accent common among irregular troops.

“We were making a wager. In a fair fight, would you put me on the ground—or would I put you there?”

The soldier grinned as though he had just heard the best joke of his life.

His eyes traveled up and down Yu Feichen.

“I’ll hit you so hard you’ll never enjoy a whorehouse again, bastard.”

“My wife would probably appreciate that.”

“Your wife will be angrier than your girlfriends, boy.”

“I’m tired of bricks, sir.” Yu Feichen met his eyes. “And you’ve been standing here for four hours.”

Then he switched effortlessly to the courteous sincerity of a lawyer.

“This place is painfully dull.”

That was exactly what the guard wanted to hear.

With a click, he unfastened his pistol and handed it to another soldier.

“Move back, bastards.”

He looked at Yu Feichen.

“Think fondly of your wife one last time, boy.”

The Koroshan prisoners watched in alarm.

Yu Feichen loosened his shoulders.

His joints cracked faintly.

He did not particularly enjoy vulgar jokes, nor did he have anyone to think fondly about.

But this situation was already an improvement.

He was no longer merely a prisoner carrying bricks.

He was standing opposite a soldier who intended to fight him.

And problems that could be solved with fists were much more comfortable than problems involving locked barracks and disappearing timelines.

“I’m finished remembering,” Yu Feichen said.

“If you can stay standing through three exchanges,” the guard said, tossing a leather wineskin onto the ground, “you get drunk tonight, boy.”

Yu Feichen loosened two buttons on his gray work shirt and raised his hands.

He did not know what style of unarmed combat was common in this world.

He soon discovered it involved very little subtlety.

The guard came at him with enormous force.

Yu Feichen avoided the worst of the first blow and countered immediately.

The size difference was tremendous. Every strike from the soldier carried enough weight to send pain through Yu Feichen’s entire frame.

But the larger man was slower.

Yu Feichen used that.

One exchange.

He stepped back and raised a single finger.

The soldier grinned and attacked again.

Yu Feichen slipped away, struck back, and retreated before the larger man could trap him.

Two.

The guard’s smile disappeared.

He lowered his stance and motioned for Yu Feichen to come forward.

Now he was treating the fight seriously.

Yu Feichen smiled faintly.

That suited him better.

Most of the time, he preferred being the one who decided when violence began.

The two blows he had already landed had also planted something useful in the guard’s mind.

Caution.

And caution inevitably created hesitation.

Yu Feichen moved first.

For several seconds the two exchanged attacks at close range.

Then the guard caught him with a heavy blow.

A collective breath seemed to stop among the prisoners.

Yu Feichen staggered—but did not fall.

A moment later, he answered with a counter that sent the larger soldier stumbling sideways.

Yu Feichen steadied himself.

Three.

That had been the agreement.

The guard breathed hard.

“Again.”

“All right.”

Three more exchanges.

By the end of them, Yu Feichen’s left arm hurt badly enough that he could barely trust it.

The guard staggered several steps before recovering.

“Again.”

“All right.”

Someone in the crowd began to cry quietly.

Everyone could see the problem.

Yu Feichen was winning through timing and skill, but the two men were built to absorb punishment very differently.

The body he wore in this world was fit and well trained.

The soldier’s body had been shaped by years of violence.

The next round left Yu Feichen struggling to breathe.

His vision dimmed at the edges.

For the last several moments, it felt as though sheer will alone had been forcing the body to continue moving beyond its natural limits.

But he was still standing.

His opponent was on the ground.

No matter how miserable the man on his feet looked, standing was still better than falling.

After a long time, the soldier pushed himself upright.

They faced one another, both breathing hard.

Yu Feichen prepared for another demand.

Instead, the soldier stared at him.

“Boy,” he said hoarsely.

Then again, with greater weight:

“Boy.”

He kicked the wineskin across the ground toward Yu Feichen.

Yu Feichen slowly unclenched his fists.

He bent and picked it up.

Every prisoner watched.

The soldier glanced over the Koroshans, then back at Yu Feichen.

That excited, almost savage light had returned to his face.

Yu Feichen calmly removed the stopper.

He had enjoyed the fight.

So he decided to enjoy what came next.

He poured every drop of the soldier’s wine onto the ground.

Liquid splashed across the dirt.

Then he resealed the empty wineskin and tossed it back at the guard’s feet.

The soldier’s expression changed several times.

At last, his eyes widened.

“You…”

His jaw tightened.

“You damned boy.”

For a moment, he looked furious enough to reach for a g*n.

He did not.

Instead, his mouth twisted into something halfway between a smile and a snarl, and he turned away.

The reason was simple.

Shooting a man immediately after that man had beaten you in front of an audience would destroy whatever pride remained.

At least for today, Yu Feichen was safe.

He turned.

Every Koroshan in the yard was looking at him.

The silence had changed.

It was no longer fearful.

It was almost solemn.

Yu Feichen glanced at the spilled wine.

Bai Song had taught him something the night before: devout Koroshans never drank alcohol.

The soldier had offered the wineskin as a prize partly because accepting it would itself be an insult.

Yu Feichen had not known that when the fight began.

It would not have mattered.

Even without knowing, he would still have poured it away.

He might simply have added:

Black Crest wine belongs on the ground.

He walked forward.

The prisoners silently opened a path for him.

Their eyes no longer treated him as merely another man in gray work clothes.

More importantly, no guard troubled Yu Feichen for the rest of the afternoon.

Even when his work became visibly less enthusiastic, no one raised a whip toward him.

A day of obedient labor had earned none of them dignity.

Standing on two feet had.

Their second day at the brick kilns ended.

The prisoners lined up to board the trucks.

No one stepped forward first.

They seemed to be leaving the first place in line for the man who had won the fight.

But the end of work brought something unexpected.

More than twenty women were still working in the vegetable field beside the kilns, scarves wrapped around their heads as they loaded cabbages into large baskets.

“Liana!”

Grode shouted.

One of the women looked toward them.

The husband and wife recognized each other instantly.

But Liana was not merely trying to wave.

A cabbage dropped from her hands.

She began running toward them.

A guard intercepted her immediately.

She pleaded with him, gesturing desperately. They were too far away to hear the words.

The guard shoved her back and raised his whip.

Grode cried out and tried to rush toward her.

The blond prisoner seized him and held him back.

Then Liana reached into her own mouth.

She struggled for a moment, removed something, wiped it against her dress, and placed it in the guard’s hand.

The guard looked at it.

Then he stepped aside.

A gold dental piece.

Liana gathered her skirt and ran.

“Grode!”

She fell into her husband’s arms.

He held her desperately and kissed her hair.

“You didn’t have to come. Liana, you didn’t have to—”

“I had to.”

Her face was deathly pale, her eyes unnaturally wide.

She gripped his hands.

“We’ll never see each other again, Grode.”

“When the camp closes—”

“No. No.”

Her voice shook violently.

“They’re choosing people. Every day. Every single day, people disappear from our barracks. The guards say they’re never coming back.”

Grode held her tighter.

“Maybe they’re only being transferred.”

She slowly shook her head.

With her chin resting against his shoulder, she looked past him at the gathered prisoners.

“They’re in heaven.”

Her voice was almost gone.

“I’ll be there soon too. All of us will.”

“We’re never going back to Korosha.”

“I came to say goodbye, Grode.”

She closed her eyes.

“I love you. I will always love you.”

“And our child. I love our child.”

Grode’s sob broke into a sound almost beyond words.

They were given less than a minute.

Then the guards came to separate them.

Grode dropped to his knees.

“Sir, let me go with her. Please. I’ll do anything.”

The guard looked from him to Liana, who was holding her stomach.

He rubbed thoughtfully at his beard.

“We could use men who can work.”

A second guard joined him.

After a brief conversation, they turned toward the prisoners.

“Anyone else want to come?”

Four men stepped forward almost immediately.

Perhaps they too had wives, children, or mothers whose lives mattered more to them than their own.

Yu Feichen looked toward the blond man.

His gaze moved between the vegetable field and the line.

At last, he clenched his jaw and stayed where he was.

One guard supported Liana while the other led Grode and the four volunteers away.

Before today, the remaining prisoners might only have looked at one another in terror and despair.

Today, they did so—

and then, almost simultaneously, they looked at Yu Feichen.

Especially the men he had approached that morning.

Some changes happened quickly.

Inside the truck bed, there were no guards.

Only prisoners.

Yu Feichen did not feel like speaking.

He was not entirely sure he could.

So Bai Song spoke for him.

“She was right,” he said. “This camp doesn’t intend to let us survive.”

“We have to leave.”

“And we have to work together.”

He hesitated.

“If some of you are too afraid to escape… then at least don’t betray the others.”

Silence filled the truck.

Then came quiet sobbing.

“Tomorrow,” Yu Feichen said, his voice hoarse, “I’ll speak to you again.”

After that, he stopped talking.

By the time they returned to the barracks, exhaustion and pain had left him barely conscious.

The haze finally lifted that night when he asked Bai Song to help move his injured arm.

The reason was simple.

It hurt.

His shoulder, arm, and side had all taken punishment from the fight. If he allowed the joints to stiffen completely, he would be far less useful over the next several days.

Bai Song knew moving the arm would hurt him and kept hesitating.

“Did they forget to feed you?” Yu Feichen asked through clenched teeth.

“I—”

Bai Song’s voice abruptly stopped.

Completely.

That was strange.

Yu Feichen looked up from the corner.

It was still well before midnight.

Yet their platinum-haired captain was already standing outside the iron door with two personal guards.

Anfield’s face was expressionless.

His gaze rested first on Yu Feichen’s arm—

then on Bai Song’s hands.

“What are you doing?”

His voice carried the chill of ice.

The question sounded less like curiosity than an interrogation.

Yu Feichen’s instincts responded immediately.

The harsher the questioning, the calmer he became. It was an old reflex, as natural as raising a guard against an incoming blow.

By the time Bai Song had fallen silent, Yu Feichen had already arranged every trace of expression on his face.

“Moving bricks,” he said.

Calmly, he drew his arm away from Bai Song.

Then, in exactly the same tone, he added:

“Pulled something.”