Wu Hao, brows furrowed, tried to focus on the work of digging the latrine as they'd been ordered to. He'd finished the climb, he'd gone through the other tasks, he'd stolen the knife from Uncle Liu. It lay bound to his arm beneath his sleeve, ready to be used.

  He couldn't focus, though.

  The problem was pretty simple: he didn't actually understand the fragment he'd received. He knew the actual knowledge, the same way as he knew that the sun came up in the morning, that everything had to come down no matter how high it went up, and that the filter in his chest seemed to have started eroding faster ever since he'd first unchained it.

  But he didn't understand it, much in the same way that he didn't understand why the sun came up.

  With the Rending Dagger Art, it'd been simple. If he pushed his qi through the dagger he could make it take shape in a specific way. Specific shapes resulted in staying longer or cutting better; switching from one shape to another was possible and could be pretty effective in a fight, depending on when and how you used it. The moment he'd first learned one of the moves he'd known that it was part of a set, and later he'd realized why each of the moves belonged in that particular set.

  The new fragment wasn't part of a style, though. Not in the way that the Rending Dagger Art had consisted of single moves that he'd been dripfed across multiple deaths. There was only a single move this time.

  It was called the Hound's Snapping Jaws. The name didn't really matter as far as Wu Hao knew, but he wondered at who the dog was supposed to be that it was referring to. Was it just a name, was it inspired by a particular dog, or - as he was beginning to think - was the hound him?

  Dogs weren't particularly more free than tools, were they? Whether it was a leash or a chain, they were tied down either way.

  He shook his head, emptied his mind of thoughts, and punctuated that with another angry stab of his shovel into the dark, hard ground.

  The problem with the Hound's Snapping Jaws technique was that it required two daggers. Wu Hao supposed that made sense, in a way. He'd been killed by a technique that used two daggers, so maybe this was because of that? It wasn't the first time that he'd thought that whatever resurrected him gave him the most applicable result he could get.

  Anyway, two daggers: something he might've overcome. He'd started learning the Rending Dagger Art when he didn't have a dagger and that'd worked itself out, a few deaths notwithstanding.

  But he didn't understand it.

  The point of the Snapping Jaws was to launch an attack from above and below at the same time, but Wu Hao simply didn't know how to.

  The way to use the qi was clear to him, separated into parts. Attack from above: a more complex strand that he'd need to tie himself into. Attacking from below was equally clear.

  Doing so at the same time was impossible. Wasn't it? He'd never had to even think about trying to use multiple strands of qi together. During the walk earlier he'd taken the little bit of qi that he had access to, to try and do two things at once. The simplest way that he could think about doing it was just taking a single pulse of qi and splitting it in half, lengthwise.

  It hadn't split. All he'd done was give himself a splitting headache and skinned hands from when he'd nearly fallen again. He'd put the Hound's Snapping Jaws aside, thinking about if Uncle Liu would miss a second knife.

  It was pretty fitting, though. He'd earned a reward from death as he usually did, but this time he felt more lost than he ever had. His goal had been simple: kill Xing Zhao and don't die in the attempt. All his planning, in so far as he'd made plans at all, had all been to serve that goal.

  He'd done that now, though. He'd killed a second-grade martial artist, had survived with absolutely ruined qi channels, and then he'd died a few hours later anyway. Huo Shanliang had killed him as easily as breathing - had publically peeled him like a grape without about as much effort involved.

  And while Huo Shanliang had said that he could restore Wu Hao, he hadn't told Wu Hao how. Wu Hao wouldn't get another opportunity to talk to him that wouldn't end with another offer, which would end with another death.

  So what now, then? He couldn't kill the cultist without triggering Huo Shanliang's interest, and refusing Huo Shanliang would lead to his death. Not refusing Huo Shanliang would mean nothing - he'd just hand his leash from one master to another. What would be the point?

  But he couldn't not kill the cultist, because otherwise their mission was doomed to fail. He hadn't managed to postpone the missions entirely and doubted he'd be able to. Maybe that was another avenue to explore. Then again, Wu Hao couldn't just run, because that'd see him dead, when his filter exploded after it wasn't shored up in 24 hours' time.

  Death wasn't as much of a deterrent as it'd once been, but even so he hated the thought of wasting a life like that.

  He was actually considering just going for it and trying to see if he could just escape by opening his filter himself, heading in some random direction and just going until he could no longer go or until he was caught and killed.

  Wu Hao was sick of this place, he was coming to realize: sick of having to be emotionless, decisionless, sick of having to do meaningless tasks just to fill their time with makework, sick of being told what to do. Sick of being a living, unthinking tool.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Freedom's taste stuck to his tongue and made the hard work of digging that much more bitter. He wanted a proper weapon in his hand, not a broken-down shovel that threatened to break or knives he had to steal. He wanted to know a movement technique and sprint through the mountains and the forests, wanted to have companions the way those two guys at the camp near the battlefield seemed to be companions, wanted to be able to feel freely. He wanted to be whatever he wanted to be, wherever he wanted to be, however he wanted to be.

  Was that so much to ask?

  Biting back a frustrated curse, he pulled back the shovel and thrust it hard at the ground, uncaring of the way it quaked in his hand when it hit something hard. Qi could've made the movement a lot smoother, but with the filter applied he had little enough to spare that he'd prefer to use most of it on keeping himself warm. The mountaintops were never warm, but he'd relived tomorrow so often that he'd forgotten it'd been warm compared to today.

  Besides, the effort - frustrating as it was - felt like it matched his mood.

  When they were finally done digging more latrine than the camp would ever need, they were sent to go get dinner, such as it was. A puddle of room-temperature slop splashed down into a chipped bowl and Wu Hao dug in, mind occupied with more productive thoughts.

  Again, the puzzle remained. To avoid Huo Shanliang, he had to not kill the cultist, and also not be killed in return. It wasn't like any of the others had the ability to go kill Xing Zhao, so not killing him was out. If only there was -

  Wu Hao stopped eating, and he stared at the food blankly, all thoughts of eating forgotten.

  He'd been so utterly fixated on trying to survive the cultist's attack for so long that he'd nearly blinded himself to the idea that he didn't actually need to fight the other man. Uncle Bai didn't know about the cultist, as far as Wu Hao knew, and it was purely luck that they'd been the group who'd received that particular mission.

  Couldn't he just try to manipulate events so that he'd get a different mission?

  The other missions hadn't ever seemed all that more interesting - other battlefields to die on, other places to keep an eye on, that sort of thing. He'd thought about trying to get one of those instead, but he'd never found a reason to bother and no reason that he could use for Uncle Bai to give them a different task instead.

  He turned the thought around, wondering at it, prodding it from a few angles.

  An elbow poked him in the ribs, breaking through Wu Hao's thoughts, and he turned to see that it was 732. The other boy motioned his head at the food, which had never been all that warm and was growing steadily colder.

  Wu Hao looked down, nearly grimaced, lifted the bowl and let the rest of his dinner slide down his throat. It was easier to swallow that way. Then he stood up, handed it back to the blank-faced deathsworn who were responsible for the cooking, and sat back down near the rest of the group.

  He gave a short nod of thanks, received a quiet head tilt in return, and then they moved on. He'd been the last one, again, but it'd been a long time since he'd been bothered about what most of the others thought about him.

  Next was cultivation guidance, which required most of his attention. The Uncle there pushed qi down his back and Wu Hao shivered at the touch, at the feeling of his meridians being invaded by another's qi. Especially one that felt so cold. It joined the rest of the filter and he waited a few breaths until the Uncle moved on to the next, then relaxed his muscles and his focus.

  He inspected the filter again, trying to see if he could glean anything from its structure, but it told him nothing. His ball and chain would remain in place, for now.

  Back to thinking about the next mission, then, he thought as 726 led them back to the tent. Dinner was followed by cultivation guidance was followed by sleep, which was scheduled for now and would last exactly four hours, no more, no less. After that, more marching.

  Tomorrow, he would -

  "721," 726 said, voice quiet, cold.

  Again, Wu Hao was broken out of his thoughts.

  "What?" he asked, belatedly adjusting himself and adding: "Brother."

  They were standing outside the tent. Wu Hao's feet had led him straight there, just following the rest just a little behind. He hadn't thought about it.

  "You have not been focused," 726 said. "I have not been the only one to notice."

  Wu Hao fought not to roll his eyes. For all that it'd been a threat, what could they actually threaten him with?

  Death?

  "Yes, Brother," he said instead, casting his eyes down. "It will not happen again."

  "Yes," 726 echoed. "See to it that it does not. Otherwise -"

  "You will report to the Uncles," Wu Hao interrupted. "I understand and obey, Brother."

  726's fists clenched, but he didn't move, until finally he gave Wu Hao another glare, turned, and walked off and rejoined the others in the tent.

  That left Wu Hao standing in the cold, as the others began to huddle inside.

  No one else was around and it was dark, so he took a deep breath and exhaled it through his nose, trying to find some measure of calm in it.

  Tomorrow, he thought to himself, he might still die. He might fail to convince Uncle Bai and suffer the consequences, or he might fall in battle to someone other than the man who'd killed him so many times.

  But one way or another, he would ensure that tomorrow would be different.