Chapter 1: Chapter 1: Death At Dawn, I

Wu Hao stared up at the little box that hovered in front of his sight. It was bright, blue, and unnatural. Slowly, he blinked. Then he blinked again, thoughts not quite managing to arrange themselves into something cohesive like surprise or curiosity. All he managed was unease, and after that his thoughts ran aground against the haze that dominated his mind.

"Huh," he whispered, which felt like all the reaction he could express. Several of the dark shapes around him stirred at even that, and he was sure that it had been noted. The Uncles would be told, he was sure, as they should be.

He waited for a moment to see if he could muster any other reaction, but no. His mind felt thick and sluggish, like it would be far easier to just not think at all. It would be simple to not think at all - to just listen to orders. Yes, that would be better for him...

Except - no. Those weren't his thoughts. That was a different mental voice that was speaking into his mind, burrowing into him like a worm burrowed into an apple. That was Father. But Father was good, wasn't he? All that was good was Father. All that was evil was not Father. He'd been taught so.

Hadn't he had his own mental voice, at one point? It was hard to recall. He remembered that it hadn't always been this hard to recall things, at least as much as he could recall things at the moment. But the more he tried to recall anything, the more his head throbbed like it was going to split apart.

Instead of thinking, he stared up into the darkness. Shapes moved outside the tent, discussing things in loud voices as if they didn't care that people were sleeping inside. Or might have been sleeping inside.

Everyone would be wide awake now, though. You didn't survive the winnowing to become a deathsworn if you weren't a light sleeper.

One of the spots of light in the darkness beyond the cloth walls moved closer, and closer, and then a gloved hand tore open the flaps that served as the entrance. A head swathed in black cloth poked through the door, and a blast of cold air came with him.

"Up!" he shouted. "Father will speak to you!"

Even before his head had disappeared into the night again and the flaps had fallen closed, there was already the rustle of cloth as everyone in the tent began to ready themselves. They rose from the bare ground that they'd slept on, pulled the strips of cloth that they'd shaken loose in their sleep back tight over their faces and pulled their rags closer, and then, one by one, they started to trickle out into the darkness beyond the tent.

Wu Hao remained lying down for a moment longer, then shook himself out of the weird mood he'd been in.

He had orders. All that remained now was for him to follow them. What else was there?

It was odd, though. He hadn't thought of himself as Wu Hao in... in.... in a while. In so far as he thought at all, he was 721 and only 721. A name was something he'd only had in the past. Before the trials. He'd discarded his name along with the rest of his humanity.

When he made his way outside of the tent, he squinted at the lights of the torches floating in the distance. Others like him were making their way out of the tents, movements quiet. He joined the silent procession towards the part of the hill where Father's tent had been set up.

Father stood, hands clasped behind his back. The flickering torchlight caught his scarred face at an odd angle, contrasting oddly with the shaggy beard that Father had started growing ever since the trek had begun. He wasn't tall, Father, but nonetheless he had a tendency to loom over you. It didn't help that Wu Hao was of average height.

Wu Hao could remember having had a different Father, at one point, but all memory of how that man had looked had been scrubbed away long ago, in the same way as the question if that man had also been Father or simply a father.

He shuffled into place, one among a mass of deathsworn. Each had been swaddled in black cloth made to conceal their identities even from themselves, distinguishable only by a single metal dogtag that hung from their necks. Why the costume was necessary Wu Hao didn't know, but it had been an order.

Taking a slight risk, he looked around out of curiosity to try and estimate the number of deathsworn that Father had at his command. It was hard even to estimate, though: shapes shuffled into momentary sight as the torches' light loomed their way and then were gone again. Were there only twenty of them or were there hundreds?

Why was he wondering at all? Wondering wasn't for him. He was better not thinking about anything.

A long, cold wind blew through the valley they were standing in, and if the instinct hadn't been beaten out of him Wu Hao would have shivered. Father didn't seem to feel the cold, and neither did his aides, the Uncles, whose names Wu Hao had never been told.

Maybe only minutes passed, or maybe hours did. Whatever the case, finally Father spoke.

"Tomorrow we join the war on the Heavenly Demon Cult," Father announced. His voice was raspy like always, but he was taking on a larger tone of voice than he usually would - he was making a speech. There was no reason to bother - knowing or not wouldn't mean anything to them - but it was a sign of Father's goodness that he explained even what he didn't have to.

"Tomorrow," Father continued, "we of the Red Dawn Sect will show the world just a mere fraction of our hidden strength. We will show the world that we are not to be trifled with. We join the Alliance in making war on the Demon Cult!"

He stared around, even if none of them returned his gaze. They had been trained to show no reaction whatsoever, keeping their breath even and their expressions empty no matter what. Emotions were impediments to being effective tools, and ineffective tools were discarded.

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"Tomorrow," Father roared, waving one of his fists, "we show not just the Demon Cult our strength, but the world! By our actions, we will show that attempting to forbid the ancient custom of deathsworn was nothing but foolishness, a law followed only by those too weak to see past the comforting illusions of life! We show the world that our Red Dawn Sect will do whatever it takes - whatever we must - to see the next dawn! For no matter how dark, night must end when the sun rises once more!"

"The dawn rises eternal!" the Uncles chanted, followed immediately by the sound of what had to be hundreds of boys repeating: "The dawn rises eternal!"

Father nodded, reined himself in a little, and gave himself a moment to breathe as he clasped his hands behind his back again.

"One hour from now," he said, more quietly, "we begin our march towards the battlefield. Each of you has specific missions, missions which I require you to fulfill. You will finish these missions or die trying. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, Father!" they all chorused as one.

"Good. Spare nothing, not even your own lives. When you die, know that you shall die for me, having been useful. A more fitting reward for your service I cannot imagine. I shall be near, though you shall not see me. I have my own part to play tomorrow, one more subtle than I'm willing to entrust to you."

He let this hang in the air for a moment, to see if anyone was brave - or stupid - enough to contradict him on this.

Something - even he didn't know what - made Wu Hao open his mouth.

"We'll die."

There was a sudden silence after that. No heads turned, but Wu Hao could feel the attention on him. Father stopped in the middle of his speech and stared, transfixed, at Wu Hao. The attention should have made him proud - that was how he'd been trained to be - but it just made him feel small.

"What was that?" Father asked, his voice falling from its elaborate speech-like tone back into his usual way of speaking. "Who said that?"

Several of the boys around him turned their heads, then, staring at Wu Hao to identify him.

"721," one of them suddenly rasped. It could have been anyone, but Wu Hao thought it was someone from his own group. "Father, it was 721."

Father marched forward, into the throng of boys. They parted in front of him, the way the dark parted in front of a torch.

"We'll die?" he asked as he walked, his voice oddly empty of any emotion Wu Hao could put a word to.

"Yes, Father," Wu Hao managed. His voice sounded odd in his ears - thin, weak. The voice of a scared child. He hated it, hated how human he sounded. "We'll die."

Father walked up to just in front of Wu Hao.

"How would you know?" he asked. His voice had changed again, into a sort of low whisper that slid from between his clenched teeth.

"I - " Wu Hao began, and then went quiet. Why weren't words coming? "I -"

The impact came before he could collect his thoughts, and he found himself on the ground, head in the dusty grass that had been kicked up by his fall. On his cheek he could feel, reddening and swelling, a four-fingered outline of burgeoning pain.

Father had slapped him. Father was staring down at him in disgust. Something in Wu Hao recoiled at the sight, regretting that Father should have to look at him like that.

"You?" he prompted.

"I thought -"

A foot slammed into his ribs. Something gave beneath the blow and Wu Hao coughed up blood onto the ground.

"You don't think," Father shouted. "I think! I and I alone! You do not think, you are a vessel that executes my thoughts!"

He squatted down and grasped Wu Hao's head by the hair, ignoring the rasped, pained breaths as he hauled Wu Hao up to his feet.

"Isn't that right, 721?" he asked. "Why would you think anything at all?"

Wu Hao, head swimming, was made to nod quickly, his head jerked up and down. He felt helpless.

"In fact," Father said, looking around, "thinking makes you defective. We don't need defective products in the Red Dawn Sect, do we?"

The crowd of identical black shapes, as one, echoed: "No, Father!"

"That's right," Father said, his grip loosening on Wu Hao's head. When he finally let go, it was only instinct that kept Wu Hao on his feet. "I judge you defective, 721. You know what that means."

"Please," Wu Hao said. "Father."

Father rummaged around his belt, taking a thin, long shape from a sheathe he had hidden somewhere. He handed it to Wu Hao, placing it within his hands when he didn't automatically accept it.

"721," Father said, staring straight into Wu Hao's eyes. "Father orders you. Slit your throat."

His hand trembled, and the dagger in it shifted minutely. His arm was raising itself, like a puppet whose strings had been pulled. He wanted to struggle but couldn't. It was so hard to think. Why was it so hard to think? He couldn't tear his eyes away from Father's muddy brown eyes, boring into his own.

He could hear his heart pounding in his ears like the war drums he had heard in yesterday's tomorrow. His hand still wouldn't stop, even as he tried to beg it to.

"Father," he managed to choke out, and then the sharp tip of the dagger kissed his throat. "I - I -"

There was a surge of something in Wu Hao, a tether that pulled itself tight, and the haze in his mind descended for the final time. It was like his mind went slack.

"I will obey," he heard himself say, and then a hot line of fire traced itself through his throat. Blood sprayed across Father's tunic, and he scowled. With fingers rapidly growing cold and numb, Wu Hao let the dagger drop and then fell backward.

He hit the ground with a dull thud, hands instinctively inching towards his throat. Agony was burning through him like he'd only felt once before, and -

Wu Hao's eyes, slowly sliding closed, snapped open. Father hadn't moved an inch since Wu Hao had fallen, and stared back at him. That, and the man's small frown of displeasure, was the last thing that he saw before he slid back into the blackness.

No one else had moved even a muscle.