The temple halls echoed with the grotesque rhythm of the jiangshi. Thump. Thump. Thump. Each hop brought the stiff corpses closer through the narrow corridors lined with faded murals of immortals and dragons. Feng Kuan gripped the dao tighter. The blade still flickered with blue-white flames fed by the spilled baijiu. The alcohol burned hot and fast along the edge, casting wild shadows that danced across the wooden beams and paper screens.
The infant strapped against his chest whimpered. Her small body trembled with every sob. Feng Kuan pressed a rough hand over her mouth for a moment, not hard enough to harm but firm enough to muffle the sound. "Quiet, little ghost," he muttered under his breath. "They come for your noise."
It was too late. The first jiangshi that had answered her earlier cry now lay charred and still behind him. But others followed. Three more emerged from the main hall. Their skin stretched pale and tight over bones. Arms locked straight forward with long blackened nails curved like hooks. Legs moved in rigid hops, joints frozen by whatever corrupted qi had pulled them from death. Their milky eyes stared at nothing yet their heads turned toward the living heat and the baby's faint cries.
Feng Kuan backed deeper into the side chamber. His boots crushed scattered incense sticks and broken pottery underfoot. At forty-eight his body no longer moved with the easy speed of his youth. The years of drink and disgrace had thickened his waist and slowed his reflexes. Yet the old soldier's instincts remained. He scanned the room for escape. A small window high on the wall offered nothing useful. The only door led back into the swarm.
Another jiangshi hopped forward. Its moan was low and guttural, like wind through hollow bamboo. Feng Kuan swung the flaming dao in a wide arc. The burning edge connected with the creature's shoulder. Flesh sizzled and split. The flame cauterized the wound instantly, preventing the unnatural regeneration he had seen moments earlier. The jiangshi shrieked, a sound that mixed pain with something almost human. It collapsed in a twitching heap, black smoke rising from the charred stump.
Two more pressed in. Feng Kuan's breath came heavy. Sweat mixed with the baijiu that had spilled on his robes. The gourd at his hip felt lighter already. He could not waste the liquor. It was both weapon and the only comfort he had left in this dying world.
He kicked over another brazier. Hot coals scattered across the floor and caught on dry rush mats. Flames licked upward. The temple was old and dry. Fire would spread quickly, as dangerous to him as to the dead. But he had no choice. He splashed more baijiu from the gourd onto a torn strip of the master's robe. He wrapped the rag around the dao's hilt and part of the blade, then touched it to the coals. Fresh flames roared along the steel.
The baby cried out again as the heat grew intense. Her wail cut through the crackling fire and the moans of the jiangshi. More thumps answered from deeper in the temple. Five or six now, drawn by the noise and the scent of living flesh.
Feng Kuan charged. He was no hero. He was a broken drunk who had failed his men and his empire. Yet something stubborn refused to let him drop the child and run. He slashed at the nearest jiangshi. The flaming blade severed its outstretched arm at the elbow. The limb fell and continued twitching on the floor while the body burned from the cauterized shoulder. He followed with a thrust to the chest. Fire spread through the corrupted qi like dry grass.
Smoke filled the chamber. His eyes stung. The infant coughed against his chest. He wrapped another strip of cloth around her face to filter the worst of it, tying it hastily with one hand while holding the dao with the other.
A jiangshi lunged from the side. Its nails raked across his left arm, tearing through robe and flesh. Pain flared hot and sharp. Blood welled immediately. Feng Kuan roared and brought the burning blade down on its head. The skull split with a hiss. Flames consumed the brain and the thing dropped.
He pushed forward into the main hall. Flames now climbed the wooden pillars and paper screens. The statue of Laozi looked on impassively as the temple began to burn. Two more jiangshi blocked the path to the courtyard. Feng Kuan moved with grim purpose. Each swing of the dao cost him. His shoulder ached from the old campaign injury. His legs burned with fatigue. At his age every fight was a negotiation with death.
He feinted left then cut right. The flaming edge caught one jiangshi across the torso. It staggered as fire ate through its chest. The second grabbed at his robe. Nails pierced fabric and scraped ribs. Feng Kuan headbutted it hard, feeling the crunch of brittle bone. Then he drove the dao upward under its jaw. Flame poured into the skull and the creature collapsed.
The courtyard opened ahead. Night air rushed in, cooler than the inferno behind him. Feng Kuan stumbled out, coughing. The baby's cries had weakened into exhausted hiccups. He did not stop to check her. There was no time.
Behind him the temple roared as fire consumed dry timber and ancient beams. Sparks rose into the dark sky like dying stars. The glow would draw more jiangshi from the surrounding hills. It would also light the way for any desperate survivors or rebel scouts. Nothing good came from light in these times.
Feng Kuan ran as best he could down the stone steps. His wounded arm throbbed with every heartbeat. Blood soaked his sleeve and dripped onto the infant's wrapping. The path wound through sparse pines and rocky outcrops. He did not know where he was going. Away from the temple. Away from the empire's crumbling heart. There were no safe zones left. No imperial garrisons that could offer shelter. No Taoist healers with secret cures. The plague spread faster than any army.
He paused at the bottom of the slope to catch his breath. The gourd felt dangerously light. He took a small sip, enough to steady his hands but not enough to dull the pain fully. The baijiu burned familiar and bitter. He looked down at the small bundle against his chest. The girl's face was smeared with soot and tears. Her eyes, dark and unfocused, met his for a moment.
"Why did I take you?" he whispered. His voice was rough, cracked by smoke and years of silence. "I should have left you there to burn with the rest."
The infant made a small sound, not quite a cry. Her tiny fist clutched at his torn robe. Feng Kuan felt something twist in his chest. Not warmth. Not hope. The empire was ending. Famine had stripped the land bare. Rebels burned villages while the dead rose to finish what hunger started. He had no milk for her, no clean water, no medicine. Carrying her would slow him. Her cries would betray their position again and again.
Yet he could not set her down. The thought of walking away into the night alone felt worse than the weight on his soul. It was the same stubborn refusal that had kept him alive after the flogging and the disgrace. He had failed his troop once. He would not fail this small life so quickly.
A distant moan carried on the wind. Another jiangshi, drawn by the burning temple or the scent of blood. Feng Kuan straightened. He tore another strip from his robe and bound his wounded arm roughly. Then he splashed the last of the baijiu onto the dao blade and ignited it again with sparks from his flint striker against the steel.
The flame danced along the edge, smaller now that the gourd was nearly empty. It would have to be enough.
He adjusted the infant's wrapping so she rode more securely against him. Her head rested near his shoulder. "Stay quiet if you can, little ghost," he said. "The road ahead is long and it leads nowhere good."
Feng Kuan turned his back on the burning temple and walked into the vast darkness. The hills stretched endless under a starless sky. Smoke from distant villages mixed with the glow of the temple fire. Somewhere out there the Ming Empire continued its slow death. Armies clashed while the dead feasted. No one was coming to save them.
He was forty-eight, drunk, disgraced, and wounded. He carried a nameless infant who could not understand the world she had been born into. Every step hurt. Every cry from the child pulled more danger toward them.
Yet he kept walking.
The night swallowed them both. Behind him the temple collapsed in a roar of flames and falling beams. Ahead lay only ruin and the long, merciless road.