Jie Jian's Diary of Lying Low

In the end, Jie Jian did not say those words aloud.

He bent down and picked up the iron pickaxe. The handle felt heavy and rough in his hand, immediately rubbing the web between his thumb and forefinger raw. Copying the prisoners beside him, he slung the pickaxe over his shoulder, lowered his head, and blended into the line heading toward the rock wall.

"Damn it, this pickaxe weighs more than my life," Jie Jian muttered under his breath.

An old prisoner as skinny as a bamboo pole glanced at him, baring a mouthful of yellow teeth. "New here? Save your strength and stop talking. The guards here have ears sharper than dogs."

Jie Jian glanced at the old prisoner and said nothing more.

After walking for five or six minutes, the line dispersed before the rock wall. The prisoners each found a spot and began hacking at the stone with their pickaxes. Before long, the constant clanging of metal against rock mixed with heavy panting, like an endless funeral dirge.

Jie Jian found a spot near the edge and copied the others, swinging his pickaxe into the rock wall.

With a clang, sparks flew. The impact numbed his hand, but the rock did not budge.

"..."

Jie Jian stared at the faint white mark on the wall in silence for two seconds.

"No, does this rock have iron mixed into it or something?"

He tried several more times. Each swing took all his strength, and all he got in return was aching hands and nearly identical white marks.

It was as if the pickaxe had a blood feud with the rock wall and refused to give him any face at all.

Just then, the old prisoner as thin as a bamboo pole quietly reminded him from beside him:

"Don't