I am a servant, one of many serving in the Military District. Our roles were small, always bullied by soldiers and guards. But unlike the others, I had another duty. I was sent here not only to serve, but to collect information. We never asked directly; instead, we listened, watched, and remembered—especially the careless words servants traded when they thought no one paid attention. I did not know how many were like me in this place. But the incident that followed would set me apart from them all.

Day and night I pushed the cleaning cart along the halls of the Military District. My duty was simple: clean, polish, and make sure every hall shone by morning. You already know my shift, yes, the night shift. Long halls, empty except for me and a few patrol guards. With such a role, I could collect almost nothing.

Do you wonder how a servant like me could write? The truth is, I cannot. I never learned. What you are reading is not from my hand but my voice, the story of many men who died to give me the Hero Writer's draft. And so I must tell you the story of them.

That night was like every other — silent, dirty. I was cleaning blood from the hall, the Hero Writer's blood. Yes, he had been tortured by the Empress, and his blood stained the floors. The morning and evening shifts had tried, but they could not wash it all away. He had been dragged from the prison to the guest hall, a long road, and I was the one who must make every step of it shine again before morning.

That night I heard shouting. Doctors ran past me, one bumped into me, cursed me, then hurried away. I wanted to follow, to see what happened. But I could not. If I failed to finish my cleaning, I would be punished.

My work was nearly complete when a group of wardens came, carrying a body. Doctors followed with them. I could tell even before the blanket slipped that it was a dead man. But when the dirty cloth lifted, I saw his face — the terrible, twisted face of death. The Hero Writer's face. That image still haunts me.

My task in the hall was finished, but curiosity pulled me toward the guest room. A guard raised his hand and gestured me away. Then came a large, harsh laugh — the voice of the Empress. Soon after, everyone came out of that room. One guard grabbed my wrist and pulled me forward. His order was clear: go inside and clean the mess.

The Hero Writer's body lay there. The ground beneath him was dark with bloodstains. I scrubbed and scrubbed, while some guards lifted his corpse.

I asked quietly, "That man... he seemed to die a terrible death. Where will you take him?"

One guard answered flatly, "To the morgue. His face is too disgusting. The men there will fix it, then bury him."

I said again, almost to myself, "So disgusting... I meant his blood. It makes such a mess. I work so hard to clean it, yet more comes."

Another guard grunted, "He made the Empress angry. This death is her wrath."

I dared to ask more: "Why not just dump his body in the trash yard? Why bury him?"

They wrapped the body tighter. One replied coldly, "Because he was a famous writer. A luxury funeral is required. No more questions. Keep cleaning."

I finished my work and returned to my quarters to rest. The day-shift cleaners stirred awake, preparing for their turn.

Days slipped by, and soon my shift began again. As always, I passed the hidden spot. I thought nothing of it but today was different. Something waited there.

It wasn't a person. It was a message.

Though I could not write, I had been trained to read the encrypted marks of the organization. Every servant-agent could. The message was short and urgent:

"Warden suspicious. Help."

My breath caught. The Warden, the one sent to guard and aid the Hero Writer, was in danger, or perhaps under suspicion himself.

I could do nothing here. My broom and cart were my only weapons. But I could send the message onward. And that alone might save him.

I carried the message to another hidden spot, then returned to my work. My shift ended quickly, yet I could not rest.

Instead, I crafted more encrypted notes, calling for aid to the Warden, and waited for night to come.

Evening arrived. The day cleaners returned, and the evening shift began. I overheard whispers among them: the Warden had killed guards, escaped, and was now hiding somewhere within the prison.

My heart froze. His cover was broken. His identity exposed.

I dared not risk it any longer. One by one, I burned the messages I had written, until nothing but ash remained. Then, with a steady hand on my cleaning cart, I went out to begin my night shift.

In my hidden spot, another message awaited me — but not from the Warden.

It was from another agent, and it was strange. Urgent. He asked any night-shift servant to come directly to his post and meet him.

My breath caught. A direct meeting? That was almost unheard of. No agent wanted to reveal themselves, not even to another in the same cause. To break that silence meant only one thing: desperation.

But his meeting place lay outside my routine. If I went, my absence would be noticed. If I showed myself, my cover might be shattered.

So I did what I could. I carried the message to another hidden spot, hoping the agent who used it would see the words and come to his aid.

The hall smelled of sweat, blood, and old dust. My hands pushed the heavy cart forward, the wheels squeaking against the stone floor. The brush in my hand scraped against dried stains that had sunk into the cracks. I worked like every night before, every stroke the same, but tonight my chest was burning.

The hidden message weighed inside me like a hot coal. "Warden was suspicious, help." And now another call, urgent, from an agent I had never seen.

My heart screamed at me to run, to answer, to do something, but my arms kept scrubbing. The guards passed me by without a glance. If I faltered, if I let them see the tremble in my hands, suspicion would fall on me.

So I cleaned. I polished the marble until it shone enough to blind the morning sun. I swept away the blood flakes as if they were only dirt. I bent my back lower than usual, so no one would see the tears stinging in my eyes.

Unwilling, unchosen, yet forced, I did my servant's work.

The echo of boots struck the empty hall before I even saw them. A group of guards marched toward me, their footsteps sharp and heavy like hammers pounding stone. My hands froze on the mop handle, but I forced myself to keep moving it, slow and steady, as if I heard nothing.

Too late.

They reached me, shoved me aside without a word, and pulled open my cleaning cart. Brushes, rags, buckets, soap — all rattled as they searched through it, their gauntleted hands tossing aside the tools of my servitude as if they were scraps. One leaned low, sniffing at the buckets, another dug his fingers into the piles of cloth, as though he expected a dagger or a letter to be hidden there.

I lowered my head, lips sealed, heart pounding so loud I feared they would hear it. At last, with a grunt, they stepped back and left. The boots faded into another corridor. My body sagged, but my hands moved again, pushing the cart forward. Always forward.

When I finally dragged myself back to my quarter, the other cleaners were already returning from their shifts. Each of them told the same tale in hushed tones — soldiers had checked their carts too. Every rag, every tool, overturned and examined. None of us knew what the soldiers sought, only that their suspicion had spread to us like a shadow.

That was the third day. Two days had passed since I received the encrypted message, and ever since, my head ached from carrying the burden of it. Yet I still waited. Each night I lingered at my hidden spots, expecting another scrap of coded words, another sign from the warden, another call for help.

But today — nothing. No message reached me.

I worked in silence, my thoughts louder than the echo of my broom against the stone floor. Where was the warden now? Where was the agent who had begged for others to come? Were they alive, or already taken?

I knew the Military were sweeping through the inner army, tearing apart the shadows to hunt the rebels. Servants, guards, soldiers alike — no one could move carelessly now. Everyone had to be careful. Too careful.

And in that suffocating silence, I feared that carefulness had already come too late.

But suddenly, the warden rushed past me — breath ragged, eyes wide. Soldiers thundered after him. I was caught in their storm, shoved aside, stumbling, falling hard to the ground.

Steel clashed with steel, gunfire cracked the silence, and then... nothing but shouts. A soldier barked at me, ordering me inside. "Clean up."

Inside, the warden's body lay broken, our agent. Our exposed one. Our brother in shadows.

Tears slid down my hand as I worked. The soldiers didn't see it. To them, this wasn't an agent who died for something greater. To them, it was just a woman crawling on the ground in fear before a corpse.

They carried the body away, leaving the blood, the wreckage, leaving all of it to me.

Once the soldiers carried away the warden's body, I stayed behind, scrubbing the last of the blood. My hands trembled, but I couldn't stop — my duty chained me there.

The door opened again. Another soldier stumbled in, his head wrapped in a fresh bandage. His voice was harsh, full of anger:
"Where's that cursed warden?"

I shook my head quickly, eyes lowered.

He spat a curse, slammed his fist against the wall, and left.

But I knew. Beneath that uniform and fury, he was no ordinary soldier — he was one of us. An agent. He had come, too late, only to find his comrade already gone.

My mind wasn't working anymore. Every corner blurred, my hands moved without focus. The stains I scrubbed only grew darker in my eyes, as if they belonged to the warden still lying there.

Lucky for me, the others noticed. The cleaners beside me stepped in, covering my mistakes, finishing the places I left undone. Not a word was spoken, but I knew, they understood.

The night dragged on, endless and heavy, but at last it ended. I whispered thanks to my workmates before returning to my quarters, my body weak, my heart heavier still.

The next day, our routines changed. We cleaners always rotated halls in a cycle, nothing strange about that. This time I was given the northern hall.

As I worked, I passed by my hidden spot. A message waited. A request to meet. This time, the meeting place lay along my route, so I destroyed the paper, slipped it into the water bucket, and pressed on.

The soldiers stopped me halfway, examining both me and my cart. Their eyes lingered, but they found nothing. With a curse, one of them slapped a small mark onto the cart, their sign that it had already been checked. They never wanted to touch cleaning tools twice.

That night was quieter, less dirty than others. My work ended quickly, and with the halls already shining, I pushed the cart aside. Then, with every step counted and every shadow measured, I made my way to the meeting place.

I lingered at a hidden corner near the meeting place, pretending to scrub at the floor. My ears caught the softest steps, then a shadow broke from the darkness.

A guard.

He walked straight toward me, and before I could bow or step aside, his voice cut the silence:

"From green life to white life, everyone live."

The password.

I looked up. Our eyes met for a breath, then he brushed past me, as though I was nothing more than another servant at work. Yet in that brief crossing, his hand moved, careless to others, precise to me.

Something dropped into my empty bucket. A folded scrap.

I rose slowly, lifting the bucket, letting my brush stir the water until the message sank deep. When I later unfolded it, the letters shone in the encrypt I had been taught to read.

It was short, urgent. A place. A mark. A hiding spot where something waited for me.

The place the guard marked out... it lay right on my way back to the quarter. Fortune, or trap I couldn't tell.

Still in my role, broom in hand, I bent to "clean." My brush scraped against the stones, slow and steady. Then, there, a corner of cloth out of place, tucked beneath the base of the wall. My fingers moved like nothing more than a servant chasing dust, but I knew what I touched was no rag.

A package. Hidden carefully.

I drew it out with one practiced sweep, pressed it under an old rug, and slid it into the shadows of my cleaning cart. The wheels squeaked on, my steps heavy but unbroken, as though nothing had changed.

Soldiers passed by. Their boots echoed against the hall. My heart pounded so loud I thought it would betray me. One of them glanced my way — then his eyes fell on the black smear mark, the seal of inspection already stuck to my cart. He spat, muttered a curse, and turned back to his men.

No one touched the dirty cart again.
No one wanted to.

I kept pushing, kept scrubbing, until the bell struck my shift's end.

The night shift ended.

As always, I slipped into the bath chamber, not for rest, but to wash away the filth of blood and dust clinging to me. Yet tonight I did not bathe. My hands trembled as I pulled the bundle from beneath the rug, the hidden package the guard had left for me.

I unwrapped it slowly. Inside lay parchment, the faint strokes of encrypt script only our kind could read.

The message was short, urgent, and mercilessly clear:

The draft inside must be delivered to the agents beyond these walls. It is the work of the Hero Writer. It is the story of the Warden, his sacrifice, the fallen comrade who died in that chase, and the attempt that almost freed him.

The draft was not paper. It was blood, carved into words by men who gave their lives for it.

I held it in my hands, knowing it was heavier than stone. The guards thought they had buried rebellion with bodies and chains. Yet here, in my cart, in my trembling hands, the story still lived, waiting for me to carry it forward.

I broke the mop handle apart, my hands steady though my chest throbbed with fear. The hollow space I had carved days ago, a secret I had never dared use, now became the hiding place of the Hero Writer's draft.

I slid the rolled parchment inside, then fixed the false handle back into place. To any soldier's eye, it was nothing but a cleaner's tool, dirtied by use, worn smooth by sweat. Yet within it lay the most dangerous treasure of the revolution.

How would I carry it out? How could a servant, a cleaner, walk between soldiers and spies with the weight of a nation hidden in her hands?

Exhaustion crushed me. My head slumped to the cot.

And in sleep, the nightmare came.

The prison hall stretched endless, darker than night. The stones I had scrubbed gleamed wet, not with water but with rivers of blood. My bare feet sank into it, each step sticky and heavy.

From the shadows, faces rose, the Hero Writer, his mouth sewn shut with iron wire. The Warden, riddled with bullets, arms stretched toward me as if begging. Behind them, countless others, nameless servants, cleaners, prisoners, all with hollow eyes.

They whispered in one voice:
Carry it.
Carry it out.
Do not fail.

Then the Empress appeared at the far end of the hall, taller than a tower, her crown burning like fire. She laughed, and the walls of the prison split open like jaws. Chains shot out from the stone, wrapping around my arms, my legs, my throat.

I clutched at the mop, the false handle in my hands glowing faintly. Inside it, the draft pulsed like a heartbeat. I tried to run, but the chains dragged me down, pulling me beneath the blood.

Just before I drowned, the Hero Writer's voice broke free of the stitches, raw and torn:
"If you fall, all of us die again."

I woke screaming, sweat soaking my clothes, the mop beside me still and ordinary. Yet my hands shook. I knew then, this was no longer just cleaning duty, no longer just survival. The draft inside the mop was life itself.

I woke in the evening, head still heavy from the dream. The day shift murmured among themselves, their whispers crawling through the air:

"The guests have already gathered for the Hero Writer's funeral... the hall is full."

The funeral would take place in a day or two.

The words struck like fire to my chest. I remembered the first time I saw him, breathing, alive, eyes that still carried defiance even under chains. My mind burned with an idea so reckless it nearly choked me:

The Hero Writer had created his piece. He, and no one else, must be the one to carry it out.

The draft hidden in my mop, it belonged to him. Even dead, he must be its vessel.

So I waited. Waited with clenched fists and trembling hands for my shift to come. The morgue was not in my routine. But I traded shifts with another cleaner, forcing my chance. This night must succeed. If I failed, if suspicion grew, not only the draft but my cover, my life, and the meaning of the Warden's sacrifice would all be lost.

I stepped into the night hall with a breath that felt like my last.

The corridors were dim when my shift began. Soldiers still marched in pairs, their boots echoing against the stone, but the further I moved, the quieter it became. The morgue lay in the forgotten wing, where only the cold walls and the smell of death remained.

I traded routes with another cleaner, a dangerous choice, but no one questioned a servant's request if it seemed small. They thought me timid, harmless. That was my only shield.

At the door of the morgue, two guards leaned against the wall. They spoke of dice and wine, their spears resting nearby.

I stationed my cart in the corner where I could observe the guards, almost hidden from their sight. I began my work, slow and steady, cloth in hand. Then a patrol squad of soldiers passed by. One of them looked at me, I caught his eyes, and I recognized him. He was the agent who had given me the package.

I glanced toward the morgue guards, but they were still laughing about dice and wine. My comrade turned away, blending back into his squad as they marched on.

I kept cleaning near the morgue, waiting for my chance.

Then came the sound, the heavy march of many boots, the shouts, the clash of swords. I crouched low, covering my head in the corner. One of the two guards at the morgue broke from his post and ran to see what was happening. He ignored me completely; to him, I was only a cowardly servant cowering at the noise of battle.

"Come help! The rebels!" he shouted back at his comrade.

The other guard abandoned his place as well. The morgue meant nothing to them comraded to the fight.

The moment they joined the fray, I wasted no time. I slipped inside the morgue.

Inside the morgue, a servant was tending to the Hero Writer's body. His form looked cold, preserved with care for the coming funeral. The servant worked gently, hiding the wound on his face, polishing his skin, dressing him with reverence.

A black suit with a white shirt lay folded nearby, prepared for him. I knew I couldn't risk hiding the draft on his body, the servant's hands would find it.

Then I saw it: the coffin, standing unnoticed in the corner, half-prepared, waiting. The servant's focus was still on the Hero Writer.

I crawled near the coffin, heart hammering, and slipped the draft beneath the white sheet. My fingers shook as I carefully smoothed the fabric, leaving no wrinkle to betray me. If they placed his body here without disturbing the sheet... then I would succeed.

I hoped.

After hiding the draft, I slipped from the morgue, praying no one lingered outside. My hand clutched the scrub rag so tightly my knuckles ached.

The moment I stepped out, I dropped to my knees, bowing low to the floor, as if still cleaning.

Then, boots. Voices.

The two guards had returned.

"You there!" one barked.

My heart froze.

I lifted my head with a face full of terror, not acted, but true. Terror that they would see me here where I didn't belong. Terror that they would march back into the morgue, peel back the sheet, and undo everything, the Hero Writer's sacrifice, the agent's death, my own risk.

Terror that all our work would vanish in a moment.

The other guard barked, "Quit trembling, you coward. Go clean over there, we don't need you polishing our post."

The second one laughed, spitting on the ground. "Look at you. So cowardly, so weak. Afraid of a fight, so you came here to hide yourself. Now move, you lazy pig."

They had just won their skirmish, and satisfaction dulled their eyes. To them, I was nothing but a frightened servant to jeer at. Not one of them noticed that the morgue door behind me stood slightly open.

As they talked of the clash and boasted of their blows, I bowed low, head down, letting their insults wash over me. My hand crept behind, found the edge of the door, and slowly, ever so slowly, closed it tight.

The secret was sealed inside.

I took up my cart with shaking hands and pushed it where they commanded, to the place of the fight, where blood still stained the floor.

I prepared myself, ready to see blood — but the sight broke me. My legs gave way, trembling; tears spilled, hot and unstoppable. I could not step closer. A soldier's voice cut the air, sharp with suspicion. 'You knew these dogs?' he spat, pointing at the heap of bodies.

Six or seven of our agents lay there, still and broken, their blood soaking the stones. I recognized one — the patrol agent, the only one who had ever looked at me and known who I was. His eyes had once met mine, steady and sure. Now they would never open again.

The others I could not name, yet I knew them all the same. From the way their bodies leaned toward one another, from how their blades still clutched in stiff hands pointed outward, defiant even in death — they had fought side by side until their last breath.

And then the truth pierced me deeper than any blade: this was no accident. The patrol agent had understood. He had seen me, known my path, and guessed my need. He had gathered them, called them into the jaws of death, to hold the soldiers long enough for me to act.

This was not luck. This was sacrifice. Calculated, deliberate. A gift paid for with blood.

The ray of light flashed in my mind, the soldier's question. If I answered wrong, I would join my comrades on the stones. And this time, only I knew where the draft was hidden. I had to live. Live to deliver the message, or else the sacrifice of the guard from the warden, the patrol agent, and all who lay here would be wasted.

My voice shook as I forced the words out.
"I...I...afraid...sir...I...never...seen...too...much...bo...body...here..."

And then I let go. Warm shame spread down my legs, soaking my dress, puddling on the floor.

The soldier's face twisted, then he barked a laugh and stepped back.
"Ha! Look at you! A piss-soaked coward, too scared to come close!"

Another joined him, sneering.
"Then let us clear the corpses for the lady, so she can mop up her own piss with their blood."

Their laughter crashed over me. It burned, but it also hid me. I bowed my head, trembling, letting my piss and their scorn cover the truth, cover my sorrow, cover my identity.

The soldiers dragged the bodies away, still talking, their voices rough with pride.
"These scumbags killed a patrol, ha! Thought they were good. My squad came down, cut some, the rest ran here."

The words struck me harder than their laughter. I counted again, careful, my eyes following each broken shape. Not seven. More. Many more had joined the diversion.

My heart froze. Tears blurred my sight, falling silent and unseen. The soldiers never noticed. They were too busy boasting of their victory, too blind to see that the ground they mocked was paid for in blood, a gift I alone carried forward.

I was safe for now. No soldier spared suspicion for an old hag like me. To them, revolution agents were officers, wardens, secretaries, soldiers, never a bent woman with a broom. They could not imagine that the one who swept their floors also swept her tears away with the blood of her fallen comrades.

When I swept, a shout cracked the stillness. The morgue guard. My heart froze. Had they found the draft? Had they seen something wrong in the coffin? I held my breath as more voices rose, servants hurrying past me. Not soldiers — not guards. My chest loosened a fraction. Moments later, I saw them lift the coffin and carry it away. My heart beat again, wild and hard. They were moving him. Hero Writer, lying above his draft. He would rest on it now, hidden with him. And that meant, one day, we must disturb him again — to take it back.

I finished my work late and returned to my quarters. The night cleaners spoke in hushed voices about the midnight clash, the uprising. My heart nearly stopped. The agents had risen in the dark, striking a patrol, cutting down soldiers before they themselves were all cut down.

Not seven. Not a dozen. Nearly a hundred. A hundred comrades had joined the diversion.

My blood boiled, not with rage, but with the searing heat of their sacrifice. The memory of the patrol agent's eyes returned to me, the one who had seen me, who had understood without a word. He had sent the encrypted call. Some had answered by rushing to his side, blades in hand. Others had carried the word further, until the city itself burned with hope that their rising, their blood, might buy me time to finish my work.

The next night, I worked by candlelight, fingers trembling as I pressed ink into paper. I created the double-encrypt message, the one taught by the Colonel himself, reserved only for direst need. Every infiltrated agent knew it, but only the leader could unlock its final truth. If any of our scattered comrades found it, they would know where it must go.

I folded it carefully, hid copies in every hollow, every crevice I knew. Last night's slaughter had emptied too many of our safe spots. Too many hands that once carried messages were now still and cold. I could only hope that someone, anyone, would stumble upon the words and carry them beyond these walls.

If soldiers found it, they would see only scratches, meaningless signs, a servant's scribbles. They would never break it.

But to us, it was life. To us, it was the whisper of survival carried in the shadows.

That night, while I cleaned the hall, the sound reached me, the slow march of boots, the mournful cry of horns, the weight of silence between them. A funeral. The funeral of Hero Writer.

I could not see, but I heard everything. The coffin carried, the whispers of respect, the muted sobs of those who had once read his words. They thought they buried only a body. But I knew, inside that coffin, beneath his still chest, lay the final piece of story. His last draft.

He was leaving this hell, carried out under their watch, cloaked in the rites of death. And with him, the hope we had guarded.

So many had fallen for this. So many had given themselves so that his words might cross the walls. And me, I, too, had offered my life in silence. Like them, I clung to one desperate belief: that this draft would be worth the blood. That if our lives were the ink, then his words would be the flame.

We were ready. Ready to give away everything, to vanish into dust, so long as the story lived.

At last, my message reached the outside. Who carried it, I did not know. But I knew this, they never lost hope, and neither must I.

When I received the empty, blank page, I understood. It was the sign, the mark that the double-encrypt message had passed beyond these walls. Another agent had seen it, taken it, carried it out.

My hands trembled as I held that emptiness, because it was not empty at all. It meant the chain was unbroken. It meant our voices, though silenced here, still lived beyond.

I hoped, yes, I hoped one more time, that all our sacrifice would not be in vain.

I lived. Yes, I lived. Now I live among my comrades. They praised me as a Hero, because of the double-encrypt message — because I carried hope through the shadows and gave it to them, so they might fight on.

But I told them the truth: I was no Hero. I was only a messenger. A trembling old servant who swept the floors, who wept over bloodstained stones, who carried sorrow in silence. The Heroes were not me.

I told them my story. I told of the diversion, of the agents who rose in the night with nothing but courage and blades, knowing they would not return. I told how they fought, side by side, and how their bodies leaned toward one another even in death, as if to shield me one last time.

My comrades listened. Some clenched their fists. Some bowed their heads. Many wept.

At last, when I sat among them — alive, unbound, no longer afraid — I searched for the word to name those who had fallen. My lips trembled, but no word came. My grief was too heavy, my voice too frail.

Then my comrades spoke.

"Heroes."

The word fell like a torch in the darkness. It burned away my doubt. It gave light to their memory.

Yes... Heroes. That was their name. Not mine, never mine — theirs, and theirs alone.

And as long as I live, I will carry that name. I will whisper it to the next generation. I will make sure the world never forgets that in this place, in this time, when hope itself seemed buried, they rose, and they gave everything, so that a story might live.

Not luck. Not chance. Not accident.

Sacrifice.

Heroes.