Life among the slaves proved more grueling than his days in the tents. Backbreaking labor became routine once more, and his injured, stiff hand drastically reduced his efficiency, drawing more frequent shouts and lashes from the overseer. Rations reverted to their meagerest standard, occasionally even withheld as punishment for "wasting the tribe's grain during his recovery."
Humiliation and pain gnawed at him like maggots in bone. Yet this time, Gu Liang showed no trace of despair or fear. He endured everything in silence, burying all emotion deep within—like a dormant volcano, its surface cooled ash concealing surging molten lava beneath.
His eyes became the most voracious scanner. While laboring, he observed how the orc warriors wielded stone axes and bone spears with greater efficiency, studying their throwing techniques and power transfer methods. During breaks, he no longer stared blankly but silently memorized the shapes of herbs in the medicine woman's yard, recalling her methods for treating various injuries, even mentally simulating and rehearsing them.
At night, curled in a frigid corner, he would secretly move his injured hand by the faint moonlight. Enduring tearing pain, he fought the stiffness bit by bit, striving to regain its flexibility. Each pang felt like adding fuel to the fire of hatred burning deep within his heart.
He discovered that once his hatred had a concrete target (A Lie) and a vague direction (grow stronger, survive to exact revenge), his fear was suppressed. A cold, almost masochistic calm enveloped him.
Days later, he was assigned to clean a ravine on the tribe's outskirts where discarded waste and animal carcasses were dumped. The stench was overpowering, swarmed with flies and maggots—the most detested task for all slaves.
Gu Liang worked silently, wielding a wooden stick and a broken basket, mechanically clearing the debris. Yet his gaze swept sharply over the discarded bones, rotting hides, and assorted refuse.
Suddenly, his gaze was drawn to the bones of a small prey animal, recently discarded. The skull had been smashed open, its brain matter removed and consumed, yet within the cranial cavity remained traces of dried, congealed white... substance.
Brain residue? Or...
A thought struck him—fresh brain matter yielded the best results during tanning. He instinctively scanned his surroundings, confirming the overseer was far away and the other slaves were buried in their work, too busy to notice.
He quickly crouched down, carefully using a wooden stick to nudge the skull bearing the white substance to the bottom of his broken basket, covering it with other debris.
His heart raced from this furtive, almost instinctive act of "gathering."He didn't know why he was doing this... but it felt like a more primitive survival instinct kicking in after his dreams had been crushed—hoarding every fragment that might become "currency," even if they were worthless now. As if controlling these insignificant "resources" could grasp a tangible shred of something truly his in the void.
Over the next few days, like a squirrel gathering winter provisions, he seized every opportunity to secretly collect various "trash" in unnoticed corners: a relatively sharp fragment of black flint;a few exceptionally hard quill shafts shed from birds; small handfuls of finely textured soil in different colors; even the occasional dried herb blown out of the herbalist's yard by the wind or carelessly spilled by an apprentice.
His collection was insignificant, hidden in the most concealed crevice of a stone in the rest corner, much like the unseen hatred and hope within his heart.
That evening, after a day of labor, he dragged his weary body back to the corner. Glancing instinctively toward the hiding spot, his heart sank—there were signs it had been disturbed!
He nearly lunged forward to investigate, but forced himself to stop, maintaining a calm facade. He sat down as usual, closed his eyes, and feigned utter exhaustion.
Yet the alarm bells were already ringing inside him. Who? The overseer? Another slave? Or someone from A Lie's crew?
Not until late at night, when snores filled the air, did he glide over like a ghost, slipping his hand cautiously into the crevice.
The items were still there. But their arrangement differed slightly from his memory. And beside those dried herbs lay a small bundle of roots he'd never seen before—dark brown, emitting a peculiar pungent scent.
Not something he had gathered!
Gu Liang's fingers brushed against the unfamiliar bundle of roots and jerked back as if scalded. His heart pounded wildly as he scanned the sleeping slaves around him. In the darkness, only the rhythmic sounds of breathing filled the air.
Who placed this here? What does it mean?
He picked up the bundle, bringing it close to his nose. The pungent scent intensified, mingled with a faint, sweetish tang. He had no idea what it was. Poison? Or... another kind of "hint"?
Emma flashed into his mind. Only she would do something this inexplicable!
Had she discovered his secret stash? What did she mean by leaving this? Encouraging him to keep collecting? Or hinting that it was useful?
Useful? What use?
He stared at the bundle of dark brown roots, then glanced at his own hand, still not quite as nimble as before. A wild, audacious thought shot through his mind—could this actually help restore his hand's function?
Once the thought took root, it refused to be suppressed. The medicine from the herbalist had halted the rot and pain, but seemed to do little for restoring function. Could this be... a new hope?
A tremendous risk loomed before him. What if it was poison? What if it was another one of Emma's tricks or tests?
Yet the mad impulse deep within him—the desperate urge to seize any chance to grow stronger—ultimately overpowered caution.
He took a deep breath, as if embarking on a high-stakes gamble. He snapped off a small piece of root, placed it in his mouth, moistened it with saliva, and then, with extreme caution, touched it lightly with the tip of his tongue.
An intensely spicy, burning sensation exploded instantly on his tongue! Immediately followed by a spreading, needle-like numbness. But as the numbness faded, a distinct, faint pulsation emanated from the injured blood vessels in his hand, as if gently warmed from within. His stiff joints seemed to loosen ever so slightly.
Not a deadly poison! It seemed... it truly had some peculiar effect!
He dared not eat more and immediately spat out the root, yet that peculiar tingling sensation lingered.
Staring at the bundle of extra roots in his hand, his emotions reached an extreme complexity. Fear, suspicion, a faint glimmer of hope, and immense confusion over Emma's incomprehensible actions all tangled together.
What exactly was she trying to do? Strike him with a club, then offer a sweet date whose path he couldn't discern?
But regardless, this unexpected bundle of roots, like a pebble tossed into stagnant water, stirred faint ripples once more in his still, despairing heart.
He carefully hid the roots among his collection of "trash."
Perhaps... collecting and observing itself held a kind of power. Perhaps these insignificant scraps of "trash" and mysterious "gifts" would one day piece together an unexpected picture.
He remained silent, enduring as before. Yet deep within those lifeless eyes, beside the faint crimson ember, a new, faint glimmer of light flickered—a light called "inquiry."
He began observing Emma more intently, his gaze now carrying a different weight. It was no longer the searching of dependency or the bewildered pursuit of confusion, but the calm dissection and assessment of a strategist. He sought to decipher the logic behind her actions from her most subtle movements, piece together her true intentions, and even... calculate her worth and the risks she posed.
The dynamic between hunter and hunted was undergoing a subtle shift.
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and then Add to home screen.