1015: The Mohist School's Art of Explosions (Part 3) [Please Vote for the Monthly Ticket]

Shexing Pass, the dungeon.

It lay beneath Shexing Pass.

The space was cramped, the darkness thick, and an unbearable stench lingered in the air. The dungeon had originally been used to hold prisoners of war and soldiers who had broken the rules. Rows of racks held all sorts of torture instruments. Many were visibly stained, with blackened marks that looked like dried flesh and blood; up close, they reeked of rot. Each cell was small, and prisoners had to eat, drink, and relieve themselves there.

A creak rang out, followed by the faint clinking of chains.

As the great door opened, candlelight from outside spilled in, barely driving back a sliver of the darkness. But when the door shut again, that glimmer was cut off. Two soldiers dressed as Northerners walked all the way to the end and stopped at the last cell to check the prisoner's identity.

A severely wounded prisoner was being held in this cell.

When they had thrown him in, he had barely been clinging to life.

After several days in confinement, that half-breath had become a full one.

One Northern soldier spat at the person inside, then kicked him in the arm. "Hey, wake up!"

The blood-soaked man lying on the ground finally stirred.

He slowly opened his eyes.

Even in his wretched state, their brightness shone through.

The Northern soldiers didn't bother being gentle. They grabbed him from either side and dragged him away. A conspicuous trail of blood streaked the ground behind them. His wounds, which had never healed, split open again, and fresh, warm blood poured out, covering the old, blackened stains. The two soldiers took him elsewhere and bound him to a torture rack. The room here was more spacious, and the circulating air carried away the heavy smell of blood