The iron rails visible within his field of vision had not yet reached even the halfway point.
Temporary planks had been laid over the wet earth exposed along the carved-out mountain slope. Iron rails were hoisted onto them, then lowered again.
Each time a hammer fell, the metal let out a wrenched, grinding sound. Gaps that didn’t align were forced together by brute strength.
Hundreds of prisoners swarmed like ants. On the backs of their labor uniforms, numbers had been painted in red.
They were all mixed together — rebel forces dragged in from the empire’s borderlands, farmers swept up in tax riots, soldiers from defeated nations, and scholars and officials branded as political criminals.
There were northerners with dark reddish beards, people from southern coastal nations with deep-set features, and mountain tribespeople accustomed to tribal languages — all connected in a long chain of iron links.
Among them, the Baekah People — with their pale skin and slender frames — were easy to pick out even amid the identical labor uniforms and clouds of dirt.
“Lift!”
“One, two!”
The order from a Propaganda Corps officer was followed by a chant. Only the imperial language was used here.
“For the Daeryun Federal Empire!”
“Long live the imperial family!”
Shin Yigyeom sneered.
“…What a joke.”
Being dragged into this group — the Imperial Propaganda Corps, a name he found distasteful from the very start — and being forced to shout absurd slogans every hour was more agonizing than carrying the heavy rails.
The nature of Shin Yigyeom’s disposition had shifted — from torture to extract information, to punitive display as a public example.
On the day the imperial palace was thrown into an uproar by the report concerning the Mumyeongdan, the inner court and the Palace Guard’s records room had been sealed off, and every individual whose name appeared in the documents was summoned without exception.
To the First Interrogation Room where Shin Yigyeom was being held, several former Palace Guard colleagues who had served alongside him came and went. It had been the Palace Guard Commander — with whom he shared a particularly deep personal bond — who had requested a special meeting with the Dark Bureau.
It did not take long for the expressions of the colleagues who confirmed his face in person to shift from disbelieving shock to contempt.
Some asked what had happened. Some turned away coldly, saying they had no desire to know the reason.
One subordinate who had always saluted him crisply and shown him great respect spat in Shin Yigyeom’s face, calling him a disgusting human being.
Shortly after, Shin Yigyeom was inducted directly into the Imperial Propaganda Corps. In the early morning, bound with rope, he was paraded once around the imperial capital — his face made known to the crowds gathered there — before being dragged to this rugged mountain terrain, a journey of over four hours. That had been a month ago.
Morning wake-up came before sunrise, when the sound of an iron rod striking the railing rang out. The prisoners would jerk their bodies upright on reflex. Anyone even slightly late to the assembly grounds would be beaten.
Meals came once a day — watery grain gruel and a few pieces of vegetables with no salt. Rations were always insufficient, and those who were slow to line up had to scrape dried remnants off the bottom of the pot.
The Mumyeongdan members in particular were made to go hungry most of the time, and this was largely due to the deliberate interference of the officers.
Gwak — who functioned as the leader among the officers — took a particular dislike to Shin Yigyeom for having come from the ruling class, and had taken to openly tormenting the members of his group.
“Keep the line straight. The spacing is off!”
The weight of the rail resting on Shin Yigyeom’s shoulder ground into his bones. The iron had grown scorching in the sun, as if heated over a flame. As his palm pressed against it and slipped, the skin that had already been stripped away several times flared a raw, stinging red.
“Move properly!”
Not even a moment’s hesitation was permitted. Prisoners were kicked before they even had a chance to set the rail down. When one man’s balance gave out and he dropped to his knees, one side of the rail tilted and came crashing down on the shoulders of the others.
Shin Yigyeom clenched his teeth and held on. Drop it and get beaten. Can’t hold on and get beaten worse.
The rail was barely lowered. Thud — a cloud of pale dust rose up.
“Who the hell just let go?!”
Gwak approached, whip in hand. With every step he took, the punishment tools hanging from his belt clattered noisily against each other.
The prisoners’ bodies locked up at the sound alone — and Gwak, seemingly savoring their reaction, walked forward and made a show of kicking the rail with the tip of his boot.
“If that’s how you’re going to do it, your group gets no meal today.”
“S-sorry. I burned my hand, I—”
Before the prisoner could finish, the whip cut through the air.
“Where do you think you are, talking back?!”
The man who was struck collapsed to the ground. Gwak kicked him in the side and ribs with abandon. The prisoner’s body lurched hard. He was in a state so physically and mentally depleted that just a few strikes was enough to knock him unconscious.
The veins on the back of Shin Yigyeom’s hand rose. He forced himself to look away from the prisoner’s face — eyes rolled back, foam gathering at the corners of his mouth.
If I charge at them now, taking out the officers might be possible — but the moment I do, not just the Mumyeongdan members, but my entire group will be put in danger.
“You there, come here.”
Gwak clicked his tongue at the fallen man, then immediately called out to a prisoner from the group behind.
The prisoner who was called broke into a run without delay. He knew what would become of him if he hesitated even a moment.
The empty spot was quickly filled by someone else, and the other prisoners struggling to pull themselves upright were stiff with terror.
“Move it, move it!”
Propaganda Corps officers walked up and down, dealing out kicks and lashes.
“Knowing the Empire is feeding even vermin like you — shouldn’t that make you work harder?”
“…….”
Shin Yigyeom forced his rage back down his throat and slid his hand under the rail. Then, as if settling into place, the surface of the rail found the center of his palm naturally. It was Three, his comrade behind him, giving him a hand.
Even in the midst of these relentlessly brutal conditions, it was because of his comrades that he was able to endure. Even now, Operations Two and Three of the Mumyeongdan would be ongoing without pause.
As Shin Yigyeom gritted his teeth and hoisted the rail, something tore inside his shoulder.
For a moment his vision blurred — and in that instant, the young member ahead of him stumbled, and once again the rail lurched to one side.
Shin Yigyeom, whose knees nearly buckled, drove every ounce of strength he had left. Pain shot through his clenched jaw, and a ringing started inside his ears. His shoulder sagged and his feet seemed to be driven into the ground — but he barely managed to hold the weight.
He could see the shoulders of the young member ahead of him trembling. The moment that kid let go of the rail, everyone would get hurt.
Shin Yigyeom wrenched the weight hard toward himself — and from beneath the now-level rail, a rush of relief broke loose. We made it.
“Seventy-Nine. You alright?”
“…I’m sorry, hyung Two.”
The voice of the young member answering without being able to look back was trembling. Shin Yigyeom whispered low.
“Hold on just a little longer. Break time is coming soon.”
“Yes, hyung.”
In truth, break time amounted to nothing more than a single mouthful of earthy-tasting water and a few minutes of sitting on a pile of rocks under the blazing sun. Even so — you needed to be able to see the end of something before you could find the strength to go on.
“Hey, you there!”
Just then, Gwak — who had been watching their direction — strode over with an air of dominance. As his outer robe flapped, the prisoner punishment rod, short club, and hooked whip hanging from his belt swung and jangled.
“What were you just muttering?”
“Pardon?”
“I’m talking to you.”
Gwak’s eyes gleamed. Confirming that the color had drained from the young member’s face, he smiled with a strange, ugly satisfaction.
Shin Yigyeom stepped forward, positioning himself to intercept Gwak’s gaze, and stared at him without blinking once.
He dipped his head just enough not to provoke, maintaining the angle of his gaze to avoid looking servile. It was a method of emotional control he had learned during his days in the Palace Guard.
“What are you?”
“I apologize. I couldn’t see ahead because of the sweat, so I asked.”
“Oh ho… can’t see ahead?”
Gwak lifted the whip into one hand and repeated the question back.
“Yes.”
“Is that really true?”
Gwak jabbed the butt end of the whip handle into Shin Yigyeom’s shoulder — the very spot where the rail had just been resting, where the muscle had been wrenched and the skin had bled.
It hurt badly enough to steal his breath, but Shin Yigyeom made no sound. He bit hard into the inside of his lip — and then the same spot was jabbed again. His shoulder flinched involuntarily for just a moment, and the corner of Gwak’s mouth stretched long.
“Then you’ll just have to work more, won’t you? Since you were a burden to others because you couldn’t see. Hm?”
Just then, from a distance, the sound of hoofbeats reached them.
A heavy, muffled rhythm treading over dirt — a procession arriving at steady intervals. Trained warhorses raised pale clouds of dust as they encircled the labor grounds.
The hammering stopped, one by one. Hands that had been holding rails froze at an awkward mid-air height. Without anyone giving the order, every gaze snapped to a single point.
The air grew still — and then horses bearing black banners came clearly into view. Those mounted upon them were silent, their faces below the nose covered by iron half-masks. They were the Heugnyeongwi Special Operations Unit of the Dark Bureau.
