Chapter One: The Slaveholder’s Paradise

The blazing furnace flickered with light, leaping like a passionate, exotic dancer. A group of gaunt men, women, and children huddled against the wall, pressed closely together on the ground. Every head was bowed, faces lowered, terror flickering in their eyes; some timid girls trembled uncontrollably.

In front of the fire, a man clad in silver robes lounged on a cane chair draped with bear fur. His pampered, fair skin was more delicate than that of many young maidens. He appeared barely past twenty, reclining with languid indifference, utterly unmoved by the cries of agony that occasionally pierced the room, and completely unbothered by the bloody spectacle unfolding on the table before him.

Upon the table lay a blood-soaked figure, limbs bound and fixed in place. The curves of her body betrayed her as a young girl, yet it was impossible to discern whether she was beautiful—her head and face were smeared with a mixture of blood and sweat. She bit her jaw tightly, struggling not to make a sound, but the sharp pain repeatedly broke her resolve, and each scream was met with a merciless lash upon her hips.

Beside the table stood a middle-aged man, past forty, his beard trailing down to his chest. He worked swiftly with his tools, plunging them into the girl's skin again and again. Whenever he paused, someone would rinse her back with water, momentarily washing away the blood, only for fresh crimson to well up from the open wounds.

Ordinary tattoos did not bleed so much, but this was the master's perverse pleasure—he wanted deep incisions, wanted to see the red seep out, to hear the tormented screams from the table.

Now, he was already bored. His gaze drifted about the room, searching for the next target.

Every slave in the room kept their head bowed in terror, not daring to meet his eyes, each afraid they would be the next to be strapped to the table. They privately called it the Table of Nine Deaths and One Life—many did not survive the tattooing, succumbing to blood loss before it was done.

Even those who survived the ordeal were often soon claimed by sickness, their frail bodies withering under the torment until death took them. If no one had ever survived, they would have named it the Table of Certain Death. Yet one person had lived—a woman, who now stood quietly behind the slave master, just as indifferent as he, watching the girl on the table grow silent.

She bore nine vividly colored phoenixes tattooed upon her, each with a distinct posture, all gathered upon her face. Beneath her clothes, her body was covered in phoenix patterns. She had survived the table, and though still a slave, had become the master's sole property. Since the old master’s death, no one else dared command her.

Every night, the young master would cling to her, caressing and kissing each colored phoenix on her skin with longing.

But the young master was not content with just phoenixes—he wanted dragons, scorpions, venomous snakes, fierce tigers, and more. Every month, he would spend two days in this room, selecting slaves to be bound to the table.

For the slaves, these days were a living nightmare. Each was herded into the room in terror, and those not summoned rejoiced at their fortune. Each time, seven or eight would die, but the young master cared not.

He owned hundreds of acres, hundreds of slaves. If he wished, people would eagerly present crowds of slaves for him to choose from. Even unbidden, military officers would sometimes deliver prisoners of war, seeking his favor or repaying his family’s patronage.

Just days ago, a group of a dozen young slaves had been brought to his estate.

The tattooist suddenly stopped, bowed his head, and said to the young master, “She’s gone.”

The young slave master, Zheng Pi, yawned disinterestedly. “Take her out,” he drawled, then complained, “Useless! Dead before the work’s done. If you can’t find someone better next time, I’ll tie you to the table myself!”

A burly man standing behind Zheng Pi hastily promised to select stronger ones next time, then flattered, “Master, please don’t be angry. Someone like Phoenix Girl is a true marvel—there’s really nothing lacking in our efforts. These girls are usually strong, doing hard labor for days without rest, but the moment they’re on the table, they just can’t endure!”

The young master didn’t bother to reply and waved for the tattooed woman—the Phoenix Girl—to come to his side.

“Go fetch that landscape ink painting and bring it here for the tattooist to copy.”

Phoenix Girl answered softly, shuffling out the door and treading across the white snow toward the master's study.

She heard the overseer cursing at the laborers and frowned, knowing that the master’s bad mood could only get worse if he heard this upon her return.

As she drew closer, the overseer’s words became clear: “You little bastard, still so stubborn! Still so stubborn! I’ll beat you to death, just like squashing a grasshopper…”

She saw the overseer whipping a small slave who was shielding his face with his arms. Even as the child struggled to stand, he was kicked down into the snow, his hands and feet fettered. Despite the beating, the child did not cry or shout. He stared coldly at the overseer, expressionless, as if the whip had not landed on him at all.

Phoenix Girl considered the scene, an idea forming in her mind—perhaps this one could survive the ordeal and please the master. She noticed the child’s feet were red with cold and his body injured; he would need time to recover before being sent to the table.

She approached and called the overseer to stop.

“We all belong to the master. Life and death are his to command. Since when do you, a lowly cur, have the right to speak so carelessly? Since when is it your place to decide to kill the master’s property?”

The overseer immediately bowed and smiled obsequiously. “Forgive me for disturbing you, Phoenix Girl. My words were out of line—please, don’t let the master know.” As he spoke, he slapped himself twice.

Phoenix Girl saw the boy had already stood up, his body covered in bloody welts, yet still wearing that indifferent expression. This only confirmed her thought—perhaps such resilience could see him through the ordeal.

“Remove his shackles. Don’t make him work for several days, feed him well and let him heal.”

The overseer hesitated, not understanding why she suddenly showed kindness to a newcomer. “But… General Cheng specifically ordered us to keep a close watch on him. He’s unruly, and today he…”

“Enough with your excuses!” Phoenix Girl ordered, and hurried away.

The overseer, full of resentment, saw the boy’s nonchalant face and felt mocked and challenged. Noticing other young slaves glancing at him, he grew even more humiliated, imagining they all laughed at him in their hearts.

He swung his whip and cursed, “What are you all looking at! Don’t think anyone will stand up for you lowly brats. She’s just a cheap woman…”

Before he could finish, the boy he had beaten so cruelly curled his lips into a mocking smile, then shouted at the top of his voice, “Phoenix Girl, he called you a cheap woman!”

His voice rang out over the snowy yard, clear and sharp.

The overseer was struck dumb.

Fearing Phoenix Girl hadn’t heard, the boy shouted again, even louder.

Phoenix Girl, not far away, stopped at the first cry. Memories from years ago surged up—she had always harbored resentment, but she was a slave, after all. Since winning the master’s favor, everyone treated her with deference; she had found no pretext to exact revenge. No one dared speak of her past, much less let rumors reach the master.

For so long, she had almost forgotten those old humiliations.

Now, with this sudden reminder, shame and anger welled up inside her. She couldn’t even recall if this overseer had once bullied her specifically—there had been too many to remember. But now, with someone offering themselves up as a target, how could she let it go?

At the boy’s second shout, she turned back and called out from a distance to two other overseers nearby.

“Without the master’s order, I dare not kill his slaves—but the master still gives me some authority. A slave who speaks such filth is mine to punish! Beat him to a pulp for me, and if you don’t, I’ll beat you instead!”

“Phoenix… Phoenix Girl! Phoenix Girl—!”

The overseer paled as Phoenix Girl strode away without so much as a backward glance, and began to beg for mercy. It was useless. The two men beside him seized him, forced him to the ground.

“Brother, come on, think of our friendship—don’t go too hard…”

The two overseers exchanged glances and whispered, “Brother, don’t blame us. Phoenix Girl gave the order—we have no choice. If we don’t break you, we’re dead men too. Forgive us.”

With that, they kicked and stomped between his legs with savage force until his trousers were soaked in blood. When they judged the job done, they stopped, not wishing to kill him, and wiped the sweat from their faces.

The boy who had been beaten stood by, watching in silence, never joining the other children’s cheers of approval. When the two overseers finished, he dragged his shackles closer.

“Why stop now, brothers? Even if Phoenix Girl ordered it, he’ll surely hold a grudge. She only said to punish him, nothing more. He’ll still be your overseer in the future—what if he seeks revenge?”

Though so young, the boy’s words were as shrewd as an adult’s. He let his words linger, intentionally leaving the threat unfinished.

The two overseers pushed him aside, shouting for him to stand clear, but exchanged another look, and silently steeled themselves. With renewed fury, they beat the now-unconscious overseer until the snow was stained bright red. Only after checking for breath and finding none did they finally stop. One went to report to Phoenix Girl, the other whipped the children back into their wooden pen like cattle.

Inside, the other young slaves crowded around the boy, asking what he’d said. He, calm beyond his years, betrayed no pride at having orchestrated the killing, and simply smiled, saying it was nothing. The other children, less composed, believed him, declaring the overseer got what he deserved, and praising the boy’s courage in taking the blame for them all.

The trouble had started when a girl, dared by the others, had been caught stealing food from the kitchen. When the overseer demanded to know who was responsible, and no one answered, he drove them all outside to be punished.

The boy confessed, claiming he alone had stolen and eaten the food, though in truth he knew nothing of it and hadn’t received any of the stolen meat.

Those involved felt grateful. Once the overseer left, they took out the food they’d hidden and offered it to him.

The boy looked at the cooked meat, and though he was starving, saw the hungry eyes of others who hadn’t had any, and forced himself to decline. “I’m strong. We’ve all been starved since being brought here. You’re weaker—eat.”

The other children, though eager, restrained themselves, and those with food tried to persuade him. When he insisted, they agreed and divided it among the rest.

He watched them devour it, his own stomach growling painfully, yet forced himself not to look or eat, sitting alone in the corner.

A filthy, thin little girl crept over and sat beside him, then magically produced a chicken leg from her clothes. With greasy, grimy hands, she offered it to him.

“You eat too!”

“I don’t need it. You eat more yourself, so you won’t have to steal again.”