Grey-pine trunks rise like pillars of dusk-stained jade, so tall the first light doesn't fall so much as drip in viscous ribbons between their scaled bark. Jang walks inside those ribbons, shoulders brushing air cold enough to sting the raw crescent where his practice staff bruised him before dawn. The forest floor mutes every wheel-groan from the caravan; pine-needle mats swallow sound and give it back as a hush, broken only when the rock-crows on the cliff flutes loose their uncanny, half-human cries. Each time the birds shriek, Won-Il at Jang's left jerks as though the sky has sworn at him, and Jang forces the smallest grin so his friend will think the shiver in his own spine is just the morning chill.
They march single file: first the reliquary wagons—lacquered boxes draped in storm-cloth—then Han Jeong-il on a dappled mare, Yun Mi-rhe walking beside, abacus beads flicking like nervous teeth. Servants trail behind, arms numb from balancing kettles that swing dark water. Grey cloth banners twitch above the wheels, Jisoo's mending stitches visible only when a sun-shaft scythes low enough to silver them. Jang catches her eye once; she lifts her threaded needle in greeting, then returns to work before anyone notices the exchange.
Midmorning, resin thickens in the air, sweet but strangely cloying, and the travellers drift through a smear of scent so heavy that breath seems to stick. Someone up front warns the kitchen crew—never burn grey-pine wood for soup fire—but the warning slides down the column, half remembered, until by the time it reaches Jang it is only, "Smells'll scramble you if you're fool enough." He tucks the fact beside all the other narrow truths the journey is teaching him: wind patterns, wheel ruts, how gravel pitches when horses stamp impatient arcs. Observing costs nothing, and a thief of knowledge spends no coin.
By the hour when sunrays glow the colour of weak tea they stop beside a stream littered with boulders soot-black from past lightning strikes. The moment the wagons settle, Han calls watches and work details; disciples leap to unlash tents while servants break the first of the ration crates. Won-Il and Jang claim a ring of stones for the cook-fire. Jang crouches, palms open over the nest of twigs, and hears the faint hiss in his wrists where meridian bruises haven't faded. When the tinder answers the spark with a coughing pop he feels heat lick his scars like familiar tongues.
Later, when the stew simmers and the shadows tilt, Won-Il settles cross-legged opposite Jang, cheeks already glowing from reflected coals. "Teach me," he whispers, voice low so the nearer disciples will think it only a private joke. "Just the first breath. I want to know what it feels like before they send us chasing ghosts inside those ruins."
Jang glances round—Cho Sun-kyu is limping the perimeter, lantern bobbing; Han and Mi-rhe stand over a parchment map that keeps curling shut under its own stiffness; Seo Yun-tae lounges against a wagon shaft, eyes hooded—the snake pretending to nap. All safe enough for a minute.
"Sit straighter," Jang murmurs, tapping Won-Il's spine between the shoulder blades. "Imagine a rope from the top of your skull to the sky-root of the pines. Breathe down that rope and let the weight settle in your belly."
Won-Il inhales. His shoulders rise unevenly, knees wobble.
"Not there. Lower. Let the breath drip like sap."
Won-Il tries again. For three heartbeats his chest barely moves; then a tremor rattles him and he coughs, cuffing his lips with the heel of a soot-stained hand. Laughter climbs out, sheepish. "Feels like drowning in slow syrup."
"It does, the first times." Jang remembers tar-black vomit on the charcoal shed's floorboards and swallows the memory down. "You need more time than a single dusk. I'll guide you—after we're home."
A shadow crosses Won-Il's face, turning ember light to bruise. "Home." He rolls the word like he isn't sure which consonant should carry the hope. Then he rallies into a grin, punches Jang's arm—careful, playful. "Deal struck, little brother."
The grin softens something knotty inside Jang. Promise given, promise owed; he feels the hook set deep.
Footsteps crunch. An apple core arcs through the air, lands with a wet thwap in the stew pot, spattering both servants. Seo Yun-tae stands above them, arms folded. "I hate waste," he says, smirk tilting. "Pick it out, rats. Then work those miracle hands of yours." He wriggles a boot, silk hose white as salt. "March stones bruise."
Won-Il's knuckles pale, but Jang catches his sleeve, steadying him. He bows. "Of course, honoured outer disciple." The words taste like sand ground against teeth. He kneels, fingers brushing leather, massaging circles that hide a slow deliberate flex—Lotus-Root Guard in miniature. Seo's breath hitches, maybe because pressure points ache, maybe because he notes the hardened pads along the sides of Jang's hands.
"Been punching wall beams, rat?" The question drips curiosity dressed as contempt.
"Laundry poles, honoured one," Jang replies, head still bowed. "Starch beats out better if struck."
Seo chuckles, some private arithmetic moving behind his eyes, then saunters off, leaving ash-sting silence in his wake.
Cho Min chooses that moment to draw attention away, twirling a stave scavenged from cart-rail scrap. "Entertainment tax!" she calls, bright as cymbal clash. "Two moves for every bowl of rice." Disciples cheer; even Han's mouth flickers upward before he resumes map study.
Cho spins into the clearing, sandaled feet skimming pine-dust without stirring it. Heron-Loop Foot: left leg traces half-moon, right toe stamps the centre, hips corkscrew, stave snaps wind like silk ribbon. The motion is both playful and lethal; Jang's eyes track angles, joints, weight-shift. He sketches them in memory, overlaying each pivot atop Branch-Step diagrams tattooed behind his eyelids. Noted: knee stays bent, heel never fully roots—balance lives in constant surrender.
When Cho finishes, servants clap palms softly—applause reserved yet sincere. She winks at Jang, as though aware of his silent note-taking. "Dancers and weeds, little brother," she says in passing. "You follow where the bend leads."
Twilight drips into night violet. Scouts return with news of clawed tracks. One lays a strip of bark before Han: three furrows dig deeper than finger. Murmurs spasm through the camp. Mi-rhe pushes her spectacles higher, voice too low for most to catch: "Ley flux fluctuates in spikes—something breathing wind-blade Qi." Han orders torches doubled, march pace quickened at first light.
Tents rise, wheels chocked. Jang and Won-Il settle by the embers again, this time too weary for talk. Jisoo passes, handing Jang a strip of flatbread; in return he empties kettle water over her needle to dampen thread. Small exchanges, unspoken currency.
Deep night. Jang's turn at the Ghost watch. Others snore under oil-cloth; only torchfly sparks drift where horse breath curls white. The fire has guttered to coals; he lifts a lid to stir but pauses—air tastes metallic, penny-sharp. A breeze threads through the treeline, colder than before, carrying the faint stench of iron shavings. His pulse hammers once, twice.
Rock-crow? No—too late for their calls.
A twig snaps, crisp as jawbone breaking.
Jang's fingers close around the practice stave beside the kettle. He rises without a creak, stance angle sliding unconsciously into the Heron-Loop pivot he memorised hours ago.
And the forest holds its breath with him.