Days bled into one another, each marked by the rising sun and the brutal, unforgiving weight of the axe. The first day, Meng Ru's hands blistered. The breath, the blisters broke, weeping fluid that stung with every impact. By the fourth day, the raw skin had begun to harden.
His life settled into a grim rhythm. Awaken in the dark, consume a bowl of watery gruel, and then head to the woodpile. He would work until his muscles screamed and his vision swam with exhaustion. At midday, Feng Yin would appear with another bowl of gruel and a waterskin. She never lingered. She would place the items on a nearby stump, watch him for a moment with her calculating gaze, and then leave. Her silence was a constant reminder of his status: a tool being sharpened, its worth yet to be proven.
At first, his efforts were clumsy, a brute force expenditure of his meager strength. The axe would often glance off the tough, knotted wood, jarring his arms and sending splinters flying. But as the days turned into a week, something within him began to shift. The scholar's mind, dormant and buried, started to analyze the task.
He stopped swinging wildly. He began to observe.
He studied the grain of each log, noting the subtle patterns and fissures. He learned to read the wood, to see its weaknesses. He adjusted his stance, putting the weight of his body into the swing, not just his arms. He discovered the precise point on the axe blade that delivered the most force and the optimal angle that would split a log with two clean strikes instead of ten ragged ones.
His work became a form of meditation, a cold, focused application of logic to a physical problem. Each swing was a calculation. Angle, force, follow-through. The pile of split firewood grew steadily, a testament to his grim efficiency.
One afternoon, as he paused to wipe sweat from his brow, he noticed Feng Yin watching him from a distance. She had brought his midday meal but hadn't left immediately. Her arms were crossed, her expression unreadable, but her eyes were fixed on his growing stack of perfectly split logs. It was a neater, more uniform pile than any of the other laborers produced.
When their eyes met, she gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod before turning away. It was not praise. It was an acknowledgement.
That night, as he lay on his straw mat, the familiar ache in his muscles was different. It was no longer the sharp pain of protest but the deep, satisfying throb of labor well spent. He flexed his hands in the darkness. The skin was rough, calloused, and ugly. They were no longer the hands of a scholar. They were becoming the hands of a survivor.
He did not know what his past held or what knowledge or status he had lost. It didn't matter. That person was gone, a ghost. In his place was Meng Ru, a boy with soft hands who had been given a dull axe and a pile of wood.
But the wood was being split. The axe was feeling lighter. And the Awakening Ceremony was two weeks closer. He was paying his debts, one log at a time. And soon.