Five days had passed since Li Yuan arrived in Zhardar. Five days of observing, listening, and understanding every layer of the deeply rooted system of slavery in this city.
He had followed merchants to the warehouses where they "stored" slaves before selling them. He had listened to business conversations in taverns where prices were negotiated with a professional coldness. He had seen city officials collecting taxes from every transaction, making the government itself a partner in this cruelty.
And every day, his anger grew deeper—not a hot, explosive anger, but a cold, controlled one, like the ice on the highest mountain peak.
On the fifth night, Li Yuan walked through the darkest part of the city—the place where those who had been purchased but not yet moved were "stored" in conditions even worse than the warehouses on the city's outskirts.
Here, there weren't many guards. There was no need. The slaves kept here were already too weak or too broken to escape. They simply waited—waiting to be moved to a mine that would kill them in a few months, or to a brothel where they would lose the last of their humanity, or to homes where they would be no more than property that could be discarded at any time.
Li Yuan stopped outside one of the warehouses, listening through his Wenjing Realm. And what he heard made something inside him tremble with an intensity he hadn't felt in thousands of years.
A voice. A voice singing.
It wasn't a joyful or even a sad song—it was a song born of a despair so profound that it could only be expressed through a heart-wrenching melody.
Li Yuan entered the warehouse in absolute silence. The interior was dark, lit only by a single, dying torch in the corner. Dozens of people sat or lay on the dirty floor, chained to the walls or to each other.
And in the darkest corner, an old woman—dark-skinned with matted white hair, her body so thin that her bones were visible—was singing with a cracked voice that still carried a terrifying beauty.
Li Yuan didn't understand the language she was using, but through his Wenjing Realm, he heard the meaning behind the words:
Our tears flow like rivers
But no one hears our cries
We are treated like animals
But we are still human
We still remember our names
We still have souls
The old woman stopped singing when she became aware of Li Yuan's presence. Her eyes—which should have been empty of hope like the others—stared at Li Yuan with an unexpected intensity.
"You are different," she whispered in a cracked voice. "I sense something about you. Something that... is not of this world."
Li Yuan walked closer, kneeling in front of the woman. Through his Wenjing Realm, he heard her intention: no fear, no false hope, just a quiet acknowledgment of something she didn't fully understand but felt with a soul that had suffered for too long.
"Who are you?" Li Yuan asked softly.
"My name is Amara," the woman replied. "I was once a village leader. But when the war came, we lost. Everyone who survived was sold into slavery. That was twenty years ago."
Twenty years. Li Yuan felt the weight of that time—twenty years of living as property, twenty years of losing dignity little by little, twenty years of surviving in conditions designed to destroy the soul.
"Why do you still sing?" he asked.
Amara smiled—a sad smile that also carried unexpected strength.
"Because when they took everything from us—our freedom, our names, our dignity—there is one thing they couldn't take: the memory of who we used to be. And as long as we can still sing, as long as we can still remember, they haven't completely destroyed us."
She looked at the other slaves in the warehouse—some of them were listening, others were too tired or sick to care.
"This song is my village's song. I teach it to anyone who is willing to listen. Some of them aren't even from my race, don't even speak my language. But they learn this song because it reminds them that they are still human."
Li Yuan felt something in his chest—not just anger at the system that created this suffering, but also something more complex: admiration for human resilience, for the ability to maintain humanity in the midst of systematic dehumanization.
"Amara," he said in a tone that carried a deep seriousness. "If there was a way to change this system, to stop this trade, would you take that chance?"
The old woman looked at him with eyes that suddenly became sharp.
"You speak of revolution. Of rebellion."
"Perhaps. Or perhaps something different. But I need to know: would the slaves here—in this whole city—stand up if given the chance? Or are they already too broken?"
Amara was silent for a long time, contemplating the question with the seriousness it deserved.
"Some are already too broken," she finally answered with brutal honesty. "They have lived as slaves for so long that they don't remember how to be free. They are afraid of freedom because it means responsibility, choice, the possibility of failure."
"But others..." Her voice became stronger. "Others are just waiting for a spark. They haven't lost all hope. They have only lost the belief that change is possible."
She looked at Li Yuan with an intensity that made even someone who had lived for fifteen thousand years feel challenged.
"So the real question is: are you that spark? Or are you just another traveler who will disappear after witnessing our cruelty?"
Li Yuan felt the weight of that question. It wasn't just a question about action—it was a question about responsibility. If he sparked a rebellion, if he gave hope and then failed, the consequences would be worse than not acting at all.
"I don't know," he replied with a honesty that was rare for him. "I have lived long enough to see that revolutions often create their own suffering. That destroying an old system doesn't guarantee that something better will replace it."
"But I also know this: the current system cannot be allowed to continue. Too many are suffering. Too many are dying. Too much humanity is being lost."
Amara nodded in understanding.
"Then you face the same dilemma as we do: the risk of acting versus the risk of not acting. Both bring suffering. The question is which suffering you can live with."
She reached for Li Yuan's hand—a hand that was wrinkled and scarred from twenty years as a slave—and held it with unexpected strength.
"If you decide to act, know this: we are not asking for rescue. We are not asking for someone to fix everything for us. What we are asking for is only a chance—a chance to stand up, to fight, to choose our own fate even if that choice leads to death."
"Because death in the struggle for freedom is more dignified than living forever as property."
Li Yuan left the warehouse with his mind spinning. The conversation with Amara had changed something in him—not in terms of anger (that was already there), but in terms of understanding what was at stake.
This wasn't just about destroying an evil system. It was about giving people who had lost everything a chance to reclaim their humanity—even if that chance came with the risk of death.
He walked to the edge of the city, to the place where the desert met the settlement, and sat in a deep silence. The stars above flickered with a light that didn't care about the human suffering below.
Through his Wenjing Realm, he expanded his perception to all of Zhardar—listening to the intentions of the thousands of souls living in this city.
Merchants sleeping soundly with their profits. Buyers planning how to "use" their new purchases. Guards bored with their routine jobs. Officials calculating the taxes collected.
And the slaves—thousands of them—who lay in the darkness with chains that bound their bodies but could not fully bind their souls.
Some were completely broken, just as Amara had said. But others... others still carried a spark of resistance, a small and fragile hope that was not completely dead.
If I act, Li Yuan contemplated with a deep seriousness, I must do it in a way that gives them the chance to seize their own freedom. Not as a savior who fixes everything for them, but as a catalyst who creates the conditions in which they can stand up.
But how? How do I create that opportunity without creating a chaos that will kill more innocent people?
He closed his eyes, allowing his Water Comprehension to flow through his consciousness. The water that teaches flexibility, that teaches that true strength is not in rigidity but in the ability to adapt, to find the most effective path even when that path is not clear.
And slowly, a plan began to form—not a perfect plan, with no guarantee of success, but a plan that provided the best chance for meaningful change without a mass slaughter.
But before he could execute that plan, he needed to do one more thing: he needed to talk to those who controlled this system. He needed to understand if there was—even the smallest possibility—that they could be made to see the cruelty of what they were doing.
Because if there was a chance for change without massive violence, Li Yuan had to try it first.
But if there was no such chance...
Then the calm water would become a flood that would destroy everything in its path.
And Li Yuan—who had held his patience for fifteen thousand years—would finally let the anger he had controlled for so long flow free.