Love Burning Amidst the Ashes. - Chapter 17 - Regulations of the War Slave Camp

The grating screech of chains dragged across basalt, like a dull blade sawing back and forth against a skull. Xu Qing Feng’s consciousness wavered, sinking and surfacing within the drug-induced haze of the Blood Boiling Pill. From the black patterns of the curse mark on his right arm, waves of gnawing cold and searing pain alternately bit into his nerves. With every jolt of the journey, the iron shackles around his ankles carved deeper into his flesh, blood mixing with soot and grime to leave a broken, filthy trail across the frigid stone floor.

Bang!

His body was roughly hurled into an iron cage. The stench of rotting meat, mixed with a sharp, overwhelming odor of urine, violently assaulted his nostrils, overpowering the lingering sweet, coppery taste of the Blood Boiling Pill in his mouth. Xu Qing Feng coughed and forced his eyes open. His vision was fragmented by patches of blood-red and black. He found himself curled up in a cramped iron cage. Beyond the bars was a deep, shadowy corridor. Low-quality luminescent stones embedded in the walls barely illuminated the honeycomb of cages lining both sides. Within these cages huddled various forms of “men”—one with a severed arm, his wound oozing yellow-green pus; a blind one with maggots writhing in his empty eye sockets; a war slave, hunched over like a shrimp, was using a sharp piece of stone to scrape rotten flesh from his calf, the white bone beneath the decay gleaming greasily in the faint light.

“A new one?” a voice like a wheezing bellows rasped against the iron bars.

Xu Qing Feng whipped his head around. In the shadowed corner opposite his cage sat a broadly built man. A hideous, purplish-red scar, resembling a centipede, slashed diagonally across his face, starting from his temple and tearing through the corner of his mouth, contorting half his features into a grotesque mask. Beneath his tattered brown leather armor, his ribcage was clearly visible, his chest sunken. But it was his eyes—murky as mud, yet harboring a cold glint like a needlepoint in their depths—that held attention. He was unhurriedly chewing on a withered blade of grass, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he made wet, gulping sounds.

Scarface. The blurry figure Xu Qing Feng had glimpsed at the end of the corridor before losing consciousness flashed through his mind.

“Half a Blood Boiling Pill?” Scarface’s murky gaze swept over the remnants of dark red medicine at the corner of Qing Feng’s mouth, then he sneered, spraying saliva and bits of grass onto the bars. “An old trick from the Thunder Prison Sect. Keeps you barely alive, gives you enough strength to die in the arena, and squeezes out the last bit of value from you.” He extended a bony finger, with black and red grime caked under the nail, and pointed at the blackened, charred wound on Qing Feng’s right arm. “Lightning spiritual root? That’s valuable. But without a cultivation method, you’re just fuel for the firepit. Burn bright, die fast.”

Xu Qing Feng struggled to sit up, but his dantian suddenly convulsed violently. The medicinal force of the Blood Boiling Pill was like boiling oil poured into a dry well, forcibly extracting the last remnants of his qi and blood, granting him a morbid surge of heat and strength. However, deep within his meridians, the cracks seared by lightning power groaned under the unbearable strain. A sweet taste rose in his throat, and he coughed out another mouthful of blood-flecked foam laced with faint sparks of electricity, which sizzled as it splattered onto the cold floor.

“Save your strength.” Scarface didn’t even lift an eyelid, continuing to chew on his grass blade. “Ding Wei 76, remember your number. Here, a name is a burden; your number plate is your hide.” His withered finger pointed towards the end of the corridor beyond the cage, where the faint, rhythmic clang of iron forging could be heard. “Hear that? The ‘Bone Forging Forge.’ Lose ten matches, or get crippled and useless, and that’s where they send you.” A strange, raspy chuckle escaped his throat. “They strip your bones for artifacts, and feed your flesh to the ‘treasures’ in the lightning pool.”

A chill crawled up Xu Qing Feng’s spine, more piercingly cold than the curse mark’s阴冷. Subconsciously, he clenched his fists, his knuckles whitening from the force, which tugged at the wound on his right arm. The black markings writhed, and amidst the searing pain, the numb, chilling sensation became even clearer.

“Want to live?” Scarface’s murky pupils shifted towards him, like a lizard lurking in the darkness. “Two ways. Either become like me,” he grinned, revealing his few remaining yellowed, broken teeth, the scar twisting and writhing on his face. “Survive long enough to become a seasoned veteran, collect the bodies of new arrivals, and occasionally pick up scraps to barely cling to life.” He paused, a flicker of an almost imperceptible strange light flashing in the depths of his muddy eyes. “Or, you win! Win enough matches to trade for ‘Bone Mending Paste.'”

Bone Mending Paste! Xu Qing Feng’s bloodshot eyes flew wide open. His elder brother, Xu Qing Xuan, had mentioned it while helping out at a medicine shop—it was a miraculous healing salve that low-level cultivators dreamed of, capable of reconnecting severed meridians! His shattered dantian and scorched meridians suddenly seemed to glimpse a faint glimmer of hope.

“The scraping sound of chains dragged across basalt was like a dull blade sawing back and forth against a skull. Xu Qing Feng’s consciousness drifted in and out of the Blood Boiling Pill’s medicinal effects, while the alternating cold and burning pain from the black curse mark on his right arm gnawed at his nerves. With every jolt, the iron shackles around his ankles cut deeper into his flesh, leaving a trail of blood and soot on the freezing stone floor.

Bang!

His body was roughly thrown into an iron cage. The stench of rotting flesh mixed with the sharp odor of urine assaulted his nose, overpowering the lingering sweetness of the Blood Boiling Pill in his mouth. Xu Qing Feng coughed and opened his eyes. His vision was fragmented by blood and dark spots. He was curled up in a cramped iron cage. Beyond the bars stretched a deep corridor, where low-quality luminescent stones embedded in the walls dimly illuminated the honeycomb of cages on both sides. Inside the cages huddled various forms of ‘men’—one with a severed arm, his wound oozing yellow-green pus; another blind, with maggots writhing in his eye sockets; a war slave hunched over like a shrimp, scraping rotten flesh from his calf with a stone shard, the exposed bone gleaming greasily beneath the rotting meat.

‘A new one?’ a voice like a broken bellows rasped against the bars.

Xu Qing Feng spun his head. In the shadowed corner opposite his cage sat a broad-shouldered man. A purple-red scar like a centipede ran diagonally across his face, tearing from his brow to the corner of his mouth, twisting half his face into a grotesque shape. Beneath his tattered brown leather armor, his ribs showed clearly against his sunken chest. But it was his eyes—murky as mud, yet with a cold, needle-sharp light lurking in their depths—that held attention. He was slowly chewing a withered grass stem, his Adam’s apple bobbing with wet swallowing sounds.

Scarface. The figure Xu Qing Feng had seen at the corridor’s end before losing consciousness flashed through his mind.

‘Half a Blood Boiling Pill?’ Scarface’s murky gaze swept over the dark red stains at the corner of Qing Feng’s mouth. He chuckled scornfully, spitting saliva and grass fragments onto the bars. ‘An old trick from the Thunder Prison Sect. Keeps you barely alive, gives you just enough strength to die in the arena, and squeezes out your last drop of value.’ He extended a bony finger, black-red grime caked under the nail, pointing at Qing Feng’s blackened, curled wound on his right arm. ‘Lightning spiritual root? That’s valuable. But without a cultivation method, you’re just firewood for the pit. Burn bright, die fast.’

Xu Qing Feng struggled to sit up, but his dantian suddenly convulsed. The Blood Boiling Pill’s energy was like boiling oil poured into a dry well, forcibly extracting the last remnants of his qi and blood, bringing a sickening heat and false strength. But deep in his meridians, the cracks burned by lightning power groaned under the strain. A sweetness rose in his throat, and he coughed out another mouthful of blood-flecked foam with faint electrical sparks, sizzling as it hit the cold floor.

‘Save your strength.’ Scarface didn’t even lift his eyelids, continuing to chew. ‘Ding Wei 76, remember your number. Here, names are burdens; your number plate is your skin.’ His withered finger pointed toward the distant clanging of iron forging at the corridor’s end. ‘Hear that? The Bone Forging Forge. Lose ten matches, or get crippled and useless, and that’s where they send you.’ A strange, raspy chuckle escaped his throat. ‘They strip your bones for artifacts and feed your flesh to the ‘treasures’ in the lightning pool.’

A chill crawled up Xu Qing Feng’s spine, more piercing than the curse mark’s cold. Instinctively, he clenched his fists, knuckles whitening, which pulled at his right arm wound. The black markings writhed, and amidst the burning pain, the numbing cold grew clearer.

‘Want to live?’ Scarface’s murky pupils shifted toward him like a lizard lurking in darkness. ‘Two ways. Either become like me.’ He grinned, revealing his few remaining yellowed, broken teeth, the scar twisting as he spoke. ‘Survive long enough to become seasoned, collect bodies of new arrivals, and occasionally pick up scraps to barely cling to life.’ He paused, an almost imperceptible strange light flickering in his muddy eyes. ‘Or, you win. Win enough matches to trade for Bone Mending Paste.’

Bone Mending Paste! Xu Qing Feng’s bloodshot eyes flew wide. His elder brother, Xu Qing Xuan, had mentioned it while helping at a medicine shop—a miraculous healing salve low-level cultivators dreamed of, capable of reconnecting severed meridians! His shattered dantian and scorched meridians suddenly glimpsed a faint glimmer of hope.

‘How do I trade for it?’ His voice was as hoarse as sandpaper on wood.

‘Ten matches.’ Scarface spat out the chewed grass and held up two bony fingers. ‘Win one match, earn one point. Ten consecutive wins, trade for a box of Bone Mending Paste. Lose one match, lose three points. Owe points…’ His withered finger drew a line across his throat, accompanied by a soft ‘k’ sound.

Ten matches! Darkness swam before Xu Qing Feng’s eyes. The corpse poison from that body-cultivator butcher’s desperate last strike on the blood arena, the sensation of lightning piercing a chest, the Golden Core elder’s icy gaze like looking at scrap metal—all life-or-death moments. In his current state, with his foundation destroyed and relying only on instinct and his berserk lightning spiritual root, ten consecutive wins was nothing short of a fool’s dream!

‘Scared?’ A flicker of barely perceptible mockery passed through Scarface’s murky eyes, quickly veiled by numbness again. ‘Bone Mending Paste is good; it can patch up your broken body. But the Blood Boiling Pill is poison. The more you take, the more brittle your meridians, the closer you get to death. The Thunder Prison Sect doesn’t keep idle men, and certainly not cripples. Either get torn apart in the arena, or burn to ashes from the Blood Boiling Pill. Your choice, Ding Wei 76.’

He stopped looking at Xu Qing Feng, shrinking further into the shadows. He fumbled another withered grass stem from his chest and stuffed it into his mouth, his cheeks mechanically working. That grass… Xu Qing Feng’s blurred vision caught an anomaly. The stem wasn’t completely withered; the base seemed to have a barely noticeable hint of moist, deep green.

Heavy footsteps and the clatter of chains echoed from deep in the corridor. Two burly men with fierce expressions, wearing black leather aprons, stopped outside the cage. One brutally struck the bars with an iron rod, sparks flying.

‘Ding Wei 76! Roll out! ‘Mad Dog’ needs a warm-up punching bag!’ The roar reverberated in the cramped space, the iron cage humming.

Gritting his teeth against the excruciating pain, Xu Qing Feng swayed unsteadily to his feet. The Blood Boiling Pill’s energy surged through his veins, bringing waves of fleeting, hollow heat, but the chilling cold from the black curse mark clung to him like a shadow. He staggered toward the cage door, chains dragging with a piercing screech. As he passed Scarface, the withered old war slave still kept his eyelids lowered, chewing, as if nothing concerned him.

‘Kid, remember,’ just as Xu Qing Feng was about to step out, Scarface’s broken-bellows voice drilled into his ear, so low it was almost inaudible beneath the rustling of chewed grass. ‘Mad Dog’s left knee was shattered by an Iron Armored Rhino three years ago. On rainy or cloudy days, it turns to mush…’

Xu Qing Feng’s pace halted imperceptibly. He didn’t look back. Dragging his heavy chains, facing the roar mixed with frantic howling from the blood arena at the corridor’s end, he limped step by step into the deeper shadows.

‘If you want to live, apply to go to the Lightning Pool after you kill Mad Dog. Whether you end up as a handful of ashes will be up to you.’

The iron cage door clanged shut behind him, the heavy lock falling like a death knell. From deep in the corridor, the howls and clashes of metal from the blood arena grew clearer, like the roar of a starving beast. Xu Qing Feng dragged his shackles, every step pulling at his dantian and right arm. In the shadows, Scarface’s murky eyeballs shifted slightly, his gaze like viscous venom silently wrapping around the youth’s scorched, broken retreating figure. Finally, it settled on the faintly visible like black markings beneath the charred skin on his arm, which writhed slightly with each step. On the cold stone floor beneath him, his bony finger traced three intersecting short lines with his nail, forming a distorted lightning pattern. It was then completely buried by the grime scraped up by his boot sole.