The Path of Pain

Chapter-7: The Path of Pain

Pain.

It was the first thing Kim Han felt when his consciousness returned. His ribs ached, his face was swollen, and dried blood caked his lips. He tried to move, but his limbs wouldn't respond.

The last thing he remembered was Daichi Sato's crimson eyes staring down at him, whispering a promise of suffering.

Now, he was somewhere dark. Cold stone pressed against his back, the damp air thick with the stench of sweat, blood, and decay.

A dungeon.

The sound of footsteps echoed, growing louder. A heavy wooden door creaked open, allowing a sliver of torchlight to illuminate the cell. Kim Han barely had time to react before a bucket of ice-cold water was thrown at his face.

"Wake up, filth."

A deep, guttural voice. Not Daichi. Someone else.

Kim Han coughed violently, his body shaking from the sudden cold. As his vision adjusted, he saw a towering figure standing before him—a man dressed in black robes, his face covered in scars.

"Stand up," the man ordered.

Kim Han tried. His arms trembled as he pushed himself up, but his body betrayed him. His legs buckled, and he collapsed back onto the stone.

The man sighed. A boot slammed into Han's stomach.

White-hot pain exploded in his gut as he gasped for air.

"I said, stand up."

Kim Han gritted his teeth, swallowing the scream that threatened to escape his throat. His body protested, but he forced himself onto his knees. His muscles burned, his ribs screamed in agony—but this time, he didn't fall.

The man nodded. "Good. You'll need that stubbornness where you're going."

Without warning, iron shackles were clamped around Han's wrists and ankles.

Two masked guards grabbed him by the arms, dragging him forward. The dungeon walls blurred past him as they led him through a series of narrow corridors. The sound of distant screams echoed through the stone passageways—some pleading, others howling in agony.

Then, they stepped outside.

Blinding sunlight stabbed into Han's eyes, forcing him to squint. When his vision cleared, his stomach twisted at what he saw.

A training ground. But this was no ordinary dojo.

Bloodstained sand covered the ground. Broken weapons were scattered everywhere. Several young boys, no older than Han, stood in ragged clothes, their bodies covered in bruises and scars.

A group of dead bodies hung from wooden poles nearby—failed trainees.

This wasn't training.

This was survival.

The scarred man walked ahead and turned to face Han. "This is where you'll either become a warrior… or die as a failure."

Kim Han said nothing. He couldn't. The horror of what lay ahead kept his throat dry.

"Your training begins now," the man continued. "There are no rules here. You fight, you survive, or you die. Simple."

He gestured toward the group of boys. "These are your brothers now. But don't get too close. Some of them won't last a week."

The boys stood in silence, their hollow eyes void of emotion.

The man smiled coldly. "Now… let's see if you're worth keeping."

A wooden sword was thrown at Han's feet.

"Pick it up."

Kim Han hesitated, then reached for the weapon. It was heavy in his hands, unfamiliar.

A boy, slightly older than him, stepped forward. His face was covered in scars, and his eyes burned with something close to madness.

"This one's been here longer," the scarred man said. "Kill him, or he'll kill you."

Kim Han's heart pounded.

He had never held a sword before. Never fought for his life.

The older boy didn't hesitate. He charged forward, swinging his wooden sword like a wild animal.

Instinct took over. Kim Han barely dodged, feeling the rush of air as the weapon whistled past his face.

The boy swung again.

Kim Han wasn't fast enough this time.

The wooden sword slammed into his ribs.

Pain shot through his body. His knees buckled, but he forced himself to stay standing. He couldn't fall.

The boy grinned, raising his sword for another strike.

Something inside Kim Han snapped.

As the sword came down, he lunged forward, taking the hit on his shoulder. He ignored the pain and slammed his forehead into the boy's nose.

A sickening crunch. Blood sprayed across the sand.

The older boy staggered back, dazed.

Kim Han didn't stop. He gripped his wooden sword with both hands and swung—hard.

CRACK.

The boy collapsed. His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, his consciousness fading.

Kim Han stood over him, panting, his body trembling. His fingers ached from gripping the weapon too hard, but he refused to let go.

The scarred man chuckled. "You're not completely useless after all."

He gestured to a group of guards. "Take him to the pit."

Kim Han's stomach dropped. The pit?

Two men grabbed him, dragging him toward a deep hole carved into the ground. A well of darkness.

Without warning, they threw him in.

Han hit the bottom hard. Dust filled his lungs as he coughed, struggling to rise.

Then—he heard them.

The sound of chains rattling.

From the shadows, figures emerged.

More boys.

But these ones were different.

Their bodies were skeletal. Their eyes were wild with hunger. Some had dried blood on their hands.

Kim Han realized too late what this was.

A voice echoed from above.

"No food. No water. If you want to live… you'll have to take it from them."

The scarred man's laughter rang in his ears.

The pit wasn't just a prison.

It was a slaughterhouse.

And Kim Han was the newest piece of meat.

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