Mist leaks off the pines after the punishing double-march, turning every shoulder into a dim, sweating ridge of canvas. By the time the wagons rattle into a shallow saddle where moss glows violet in the dying light, ankles and tempers both ache. Han Jeong-il snaps a curt order—"make ground, no slack ropes"—and disciples fan out to stake torches even before the wheels still. Needles crunch under bootheels with a papery sigh -- a sound Jang has begun to recognise as the forest's cold applause whenever travellers look weakest.
He helps Won-Il roll the kitchen cart's cracked wheel onto a flat stone. Jisoo slits open the torn cover cloth and stitches faster than speech, the grey banner she mended earlier flapping against her shoulder like a nervous bird. Each time her needle flashes it catches the amber flare of torches, and Jang thinks of tiny comets scoring night. Behind them Cho Sun-kyu circles with that uneven prowl, lantern swung low; every third step the old knee injury grits and his mouth tightens, as though the dark itself owes him compensation.
Water duty comes next. They queue at the boulder stream, filling skins that steam in the chill. Jang's reflection wavers on the surface—a pale mask framed by soot-black patches where pine resin bobbles; he drops a pebble to smash the face apart before anyone can glimpse how gaunt the eyes have grown. When he straightens, Jisoo has appeared wordlessly at his elbow to pass a second skin. She nods toward the wagons. One dawn left, her lips shape, then she turns so the torch behind her shows only silhouette. He understands: the calendar scratch he carved in the rear rail at noon is now joined by a final diagonal, slashing through the previous four. Tomorrow night the ruins will rise.
Bread-crust supper. Broth reheated until it pretends to be stew. Won-Il dozes upright, spoon still balanced on palm; when Jang nudges him awake they both laugh under their breaths, though the sound holds more fatigue than humour. Across the fire Seo Yun-tae lounges with boots off, bare feet extended like a noble's challenge. The bruised heel where Jang's earlier massage pressed too hard is already swelling purple; Seo strokes it as if admiring fresh lacquer. His eyes track every servant movement, lingering longest on Jang's knuckles each time they flex to stir the pot.
Cho Min wanders close in the lull before night watch, an easy grin softening the hawkish lines of her cheekbones. She flips a pine needle between forefinger and thumb. "Remember," she murmurs, voice pitched for Jang alone, "the trick isn't balance, it's surrender. Let the weight spin past the ankle and borrow its momentum." She demonstrates with a fugitive half-step—barely a shift of sandaled toes—yet Jang feels the air fold differently. He bows his thanks. Cho merely taps a finger to her brow as if sealing a secret choreography, then saunters off to tease Won-Il about snoring like a forge bellows.
Full dark at last. Han calls the Ghost watch roster, his voice a blade slicing the hush into disciplined parcels of time. Servants own the black centre hours; disciples the gloaming, Core the fragile edge before sunrise. Jang draws the first Ghost shift, exactly as he hoped—there is still a breath of Qi left in him, and the ache of his Gate burns less when he walks.
He circles the fireline twice learning the ground. The resinous warning Cho Min gave the kitchen crew echoes in memory; torches burn pine now out of necessity, their smoke slightly sweet, almost narcotic. He keeps breaths shallow until lungs accept the new scent. Rock-crows mutter far above, voices warped into throaty half-human vowels by the cliffs. The camp's torches throw no further than the outer carts, leaving the pines beyond seeming to knot together like dark muscle.
On his third pass he pauses by the supply cart to ladle broth left from dinner. The surface holds stars—tiny, ragged, shaking with each ripple. He sips, letting lukewarm salt settle his stomach, then wipes the ladle clean before hanging it back on its hook. When he turns, a gust of air threads between the wagons—the wrong temperature, colder, metallic. He knows iron-scent now, has tasted it on old shackles, on the edge of marrow-fire pills, on the night his nose bled into scripture. This breeze is kin to that flavour.
He extinguishes the ladle's drip in dust, listening. The forest hushes; even the crows fall silent, as though instructed. Torch-flames lean east, bending under the push of a fresh draft. Coins, he thinks again—blood-slick coins. The memory of Han's medallion glint flares behind his eyes, and he touches the Fang-Stitched hem where the oiled-silk copy rests, absurd comfort though it weighs less than hunger.
A second gust follows, heavy with moss and something ranker—a feral wet-stone smell. Jang drags the practice stave from its sling against the cook-cart, grounding his back heel like Cho Min showed: bend, surrender, borrow. His heart thrashes, not in panic but in precise readiness, every thud sounding the pulse-drum that once counted lashes on a courtyard post.
Branches sway, creak, settle. Then a single limb gives a brittle crack, not far away and far too deliberate for wind. The noise is followed by a hush so complete that Jang hears the sap retreat inside the pines.
He shifts weight forward, stave crossing torso. One breath, two, each measured to the Lotus-Root cycle, anchoring the spinal heat without letting it climb into reckless surge. Shadows do not move; instead they deepen, as if something vast kneels just beyond sight, drawing darkness over itself like a cloak.
Somewhere behind him a sleeper murmurs, a syllable that dissolves before meaning. Jang's stare stays pinned to the treeline. Under the torch-smoke his nostrils flare—metal again, closer, raw.
Another crack, lighter, foot on bark perhaps, followed by the whisper of displaced needles.
Jang lifts the stave's butt an inch from the earth, preparing either parry or warning strike, not sure which he will choose when the thing shows itself.
And the night waits with him, every ember on every fire shivering as though the flames themselves have begun to doubt their right to burn.