A whistle slices the hush between pines, too thin for wind and far too fast.Jang looks up in the same instant a torch head splits beside his boot—shaft first, fire later—then three more iron heads bite wagon plank, breast-plate, throat. One servant staggers back, hands fluttering as if to pluck an arrow sprouting from his larynx; the shaft trembles, pumping grey-green droplets that hiss when they touch dirt. Sap on the nearest pine begins to foam where a missed barb nicks bark, and the foam steams, curling into a sickly vapour that smells of boiled coins.
Another whistle, a skein of them now, weaving overhead like greedy needles. Torches on the perimeter wagons tilt, splash, and suddenly light and dark strobe across the camp—amber, black, amber—as pitch slaps earth in molten fans. Screams pitch-shift, warped by the resin smoke already thickening in the hollow beneath the Grey-Pine canopy.
Han Jeong-il's voice punches through the chaos, martial cadence carried on amplified Qi: "Inner line, pull back! Servant ring out—now!"
Boots thunder. Inner disciples abandon stew pots, spare wheels, even the medical reliquary Yun Mi-rhe was cataloguing; skein jackets flare as they leap behind carts, leaving the grey-corded servants to lurch into a ragged oval. Jang feels the order like a physical shove. His own feet obey before thought can argue—buffer ring, expendable flesh promised by protocol—but every step is syrup: resin in lungs, heart kicking twice for each breath.
An arrow skims his shoulder, rips cloth, smears toxin on skin. Searing ice pricks but does not numb; Yun Mi-rhe's antidote vapour must already colour the air—he hopes. Another shaft thunks into a barrel, splintering the slat and releasing a gush of fermented mash that glitters where embers float. Two servants go down hard when their ankles slide through the sweet spill; neither rises before a second volley pins them to ground.
Jang's fists tighten. Steam coils from his knuckles—blood-heat meeting dawn chill—last remnants of morning drills that had left his Gate pulsing but stable. Now the pulse becomes a hammer. He counts the beat as Ma Gok once taught: one for fear, one for focus. The numbers help him see.
Out beyond the torch debris, shadows detach from trunks—cloaks black as unlit pitch, masks lacquered into beaklike curves. Junior cultists, half grown, some smaller than Jang, all armed with curved claws that throw back orange light like sickles of glass. They advance in a slow ripple, arrows forgotten, teeth of the ambush closing for personal harvest.
"Hold!" Han's command again, but it is distant, muffled by the blood rush in Jang's ears and the hymn of crackling sap.
A servant on Jang's left hesitates, makes a warding gesture instead of raising his pole. A hooked claw flashes; the man's arm leaves his body with shocking ease, bone white in torchlight before it spins into darkness. Resin smoke swallows his scream. The ring folds there, creating a funnel straight toward Jang.
He shifts sideways—Cho Min's "Heron-Loop" echoing in muscle memory—just as the first claw whistles across the space his throat occupied. Wood stave meets metal talon, ricochets sparks. The vibration numbs his palms but his stance holds, Branch-Step reflex seizing control of hips and ankles. He sees his attacker clearly now: a boy, maybe fifteen, eyes wide above a half-mask painted with vulture feathers, breathing hard as if frightened by his own momentum.
Time stretches. Torchlight slows to a smear; arrow shrieks fade beneath the sudden cavern of Jang's heartbeat. He feels grain of stave under sweat, hears his own breath drop into Lotus cadence without conscious call. Foot slides, hips coil, shoulders tilt—Cho Min's angle stripped of grace, welded to the Iron-Bough line.
The boy lunges again, twin hooks scissoring for Jang's ribs.
Jang meets them once—block, pivot—and the stave splinters at midpoint, halves spinning off into fire-laced shadows. Shock cracks the slow-motion trance. Empty hands now. But the kitchen knife Ma Gok tucked into his belt for carrot duty flashes into his grip, blade hardly longer than a finger. Instinct hisses: closer.
He steps inside the arc, parry hand guiding one hook past ear, knife driving under the boy's chin—the only gap in mask and leather. Flesh gives with soft resistance, like fruit too ripe. A gout of warm red stains Jang's forearm, turning torchlight russet.
Spurt.
Sound returns all at once—arrow hiss, servant wail, commands, crackle—and the boy gurgles, mask knocking against Jang's collarbone. For a heartbeat they stand cheek to cheek, breaths mingling, before the cultist slumps. Hooks clatter. Knees fold. Body hangs from Jang's fist until he realises the knife is still buried in throat. He yanks free; a second pulse of blood stripes his tunic.
Exhilaration detonates—survival triumph threaded with something hotter, darker—then collapses into a roar behind his ears. The forest tilts. Vignette darkness tightens around torch sparks. He crouches before he can fall, presses palm to earth. Qi whirls inside spine, erratic, embers caught in gust. Too much pull through wounded Gate; conduit walls scream, leak heat, threaten to split.
Hold. He drags breath, one, two. Copper floods tongue. Somewhere a disciple chants a focusing mantra; it sounds like prayer through water.
Vision sharpens enough to see the corpse inches away. The boy twitches—muscle echo, not life. Jang's knife still sticky. He forces trembling fingers to search jerkin pockets because training says information matters even when heart rebels. A parchment coil emerges, tied with violet thread; ink smears the edges, dark as coagulating blood. Another reach finds half-mask clasp and breaks it. Under lacquer, a face as young as his brother's had been before sickness: soft jaw, sprouting chin hair, fear frozen wide in glassy pupils.
The boy's tongue moves, film of blood glazing lips. Jang leans, hears words rasp through bubbling throat: "Black Vulture… will eclipse… Lotus…"
A tremor skates down Jang's spine colder than resin breeze. He lets eyelids close a moment; when they open, the boy's eyes are already dull.
Noise shifts again—north side of encampment: panicked chant, not disciples. Jang lifts gaze in time to see Won-Il dragged into torch-glare, wrists bound, knees scraping pine-needled earth. Three servants behind him, all roped, cultists pressing claw points beneath eyes to bleed "fear-drip" into wooden vials. Won-Il thrashes, sputters curses, looks straight at Jang though there's no way he can see through crowd.
Seo's voice slices from somewhere atop a wagon: "Inner line, pull back! Regroup around the key!" The medical reliquary tips as he kicks a wheel block free, letting supplies crash to buy himself momentum toward relative safety. Yun Mi-rhe shouts protest, drowned by roaring pines.
Jang pushes upright. Gate rips pain across ribs; left ear pops and wet warmth slides down neck—blood. The world narrows further but determination wedges inside the gap. He pockets scroll and mask fragment, braces shaky knees. Won-Il's scream knifes the smoke again.
He staggers a step. Torch glare tilts, blossoms into after-images. Knees lock. Another step—no, not even half. Qi flares, flickers, collapses. Ground rushes. He feels bark chips bite cheek, tastes dirt and resin as sky whirls above. Through tunnelling vision he still sees the blade lifting at Won-Il's throat, silver against riotous firelight.
Everything inside him howls move, but only darkness answers.