The Price Of Power

Min-Jae lay curled on the ground, his body bruised and aching. Every breath he took sent sharp pain through his ribs, but he had learned by now to endure. The beatings had become a routine part of his existence—just like hunger, just like exhaustion.

Somewhere in the distance, the other children huddled together, their whispers barely audible over the low torchlight crackling against the stone walls. They had all lost something. Their families. Their homes. Their freedom.

But Min-Jae had lost more.

He had lost his brother.

Jin-Woo's face flashed in his mind, his big, innocent eyes staring up at him, his small fingers clutching his sleeve every time he was scared. That warmth, that connection—they had torn it away from him, just like they had stripped him of everything else.

Was Jin-Woo still safe? Had he been taken too? Had he starved in that city, waiting for a brother who would never return?

Min-Jae clenched his teeth, his fists shaking. He had to get out of here. He had to survive.

Then, a voice—soft, delicate, like a whisper cutting through the pain.

"Don't cry."

Min-Jae flinched at the sound. His vision was blurry, but he saw her kneeling beside him—a girl with long, silver-white hair and piercing blue eyes. She looked at him, her expression unreadable, as if she had seen this scene play out too many times before.

Her voice was calm, almost gentle, but Min-Jae barely registered it. His mind was drowning in thoughts of his brother.

Then, another strike.

A boot slammed into his stomach, forcing the air from his lungs. The girl disappeared from his vision as he collapsed, writhing in pain. More kicks followed. Fists. Beatings that left him gasping, struggling to stay conscious.

The kindness in her voice was gone, lost in the darkness that surrounded him.

All that remained was pain.

When the beatings stopped, they were dragged—no, marched—deeper into the underground labyrinth that was now their prison. The seven of them, the ones who had survived the first hell, had no choice but to follow.

The air grew heavier, colder, as they descended. When they reached their destination, Min-Jae's stomach twisted.

The cavern was massive, torchlights flickering against damp stone walls. But what made his breath catch in his throat was the sight of the others—dozens of children standing before them, their faces gaunt, their bodies littered with scars.

At least seventy of them.

And the worst part?

They all had the same hollow eyes.

How long had they been here? How many had died before them?

A man stepped forward—a different instructor than before. He was taller, his gaze sharper, his presence suffocating. When he spoke, his voice was colder than the cave itself.

"You are no longer people."

Silence.

"You are tools."

Min-Jae swallowed. His hands curled into fists, nails digging into his palms.

"You will train. You will kill. And if you fail…" A smirk tugged at the instructor's lips. "You will die."

A few of the newer children whimpered, but no one dared to move.

The instructor continued. "To ensure your obedience, you will be given a gift."

A chill crawled down Min-Jae's spine.

"A special worm will be placed inside you," the instructor said. "If you disobey an order, it will kill you from within. If you betray us, it will eat you alive."

The cavern was filled with horrified silence. Some children trembled. Others bit their lips so hard they bled.

There was no escape.

Min-Jae closed his eyes.

Jin-Woo… I don't know if I'll ever see you again.

But I know one thing.

I will take revenge.

The next day, they were lined up before racks of weapons.

"You will choose a weapon," the instructor announced. "But do not mistake this for freedom. No matter what you choose, you will become assassins. You will learn to kill in silence, to strike before your enemy even knows you exist."

One by one, the children stepped forward.

Some chose swords—traditional, reliable. Others picked daggers—small, easy to conceal. A few even grabbed whips or throwing needles.

When Min-Jae's turn came, his eyes scanned the options before him.

Then, he saw it.

A thin, rusted-looking blade, almost forgotten among the polished weapons. It looked weak, fragile. But when he picked it up—

His breath caught.

The weight was perfect. The edge, despite its appearance, was sharp enough to cut with the slightest pressure. This was no ordinary blade.

It was a weapon meant for those who struck fast and without hesitation.

He took it.

"Those who chose swords or blades, follow me," the instructor commanded.

Min-Jae and forty-eight others stepped forward. The rest were taken elsewhere, led by different instructors.

As they walked, a strange tension filled the air. The further they went, the more Min-Jae realized something.

They weren't being led to a training hall.

They were being led to another hell.

When the instructor finally stopped, they stood before a massive, empty chamber.

He turned to them, his smirk widening. "From this moment on, you will wear these."

A guard stepped forward, holding heavy iron bracelets.

One by one, they were forced onto their wrists and ankles.

"Each one weighs twenty kilograms," the instructor explained. "You will not remove them unless ordered to do so."

Min-Jae barely had time to process the weight before the training began.

And it was brutal.

They weren't given weapons. Not yet. Instead, they were forced through relentless body training—running until their legs gave out, lifting stones until their arms burned, standing in painful stances until their muscles screamed.

For six months, they suffered.

For six months, they endured.

And then, the test came.

A final trial to determine who was worthy of continuing their training. Those who failed would die.

The challenge was cruel, merciless. Some collapsed from exhaustion. Others were beaten down by those desperate to survive. Blood soaked the ground, cries of agony filling the air.

When it was over, only fifteen remained.

Min-Jae stood among them, his breath ragged, his vision dark at the edges.

He had survived.

But at what cost?

Three years passed.

Pain became routine.

Death became meaningless.

The nightmares never left him.

He could barely remember the boy who had once walked the streets, holding his little brother's hand.

Now, he was a blade. A tool of death, sharpened with every day that passed.

But no matter how much they beat him, no matter how much they tried to break him…

One thing never changed.

His hatred.

And his thirst for revenge.