Pine-pitch flares gutter in and out of focus as Jang drags one elbow beneath him. Every joint screams glass. His left ear leaks warmth; the soundscape around him contracts to a distant kettle-whistle, yet the world keeps happening at full volume—he recognises it only by the tremor of earth under boot-stamps and the rhythm of clashing steel that judders through his ribs.
A boot heel thuds beside his cheek. Yun Mi-rhe pivots, sluicing a clay vial's contents across a disciple's arrow-scored arm; the liquid foams lime-white where toxin lingers, then sizzles into vapour. "Away from the smoke line!" she barks, voice threaded with frantic calculation. One glance at Jang—recognition, perhaps even concern—but her hands are already on another patient, measuring pulse with abacus-quick fingers. Servants stumbling past her are given no second look.
On the north flank Seo Yun-tae vaults a toppled barrel, cloak snapping like a black sail. He lashes out with the flat of his sabre—not at cultists but at Won-Il and the others being herded to their knees, buying himself an opening to sprint toward the withdrawing Inner line. "Clear path for the key!" he shouts, coat swirling torch-glare. Cowardice disguised as strategy, Jang thinks, but the thought is faint, submerged beneath the roaring in his Gate.
Move.
His fingers close on broken pine-bark, nails gouging resin grooves. Sparks dance across vision; he forces breath into Lotus cadence—inhale four, hold four, exhale seven—but the meridian lattice shrieks, wild current whipping the damaged channel behind his heart. Blood ticks from nostril to lip; he tastes metal and pine.
A shape looms—Cho Sun-kyu, lantern-guard turned battlefield scavenger. The older man's lame knee jerks with impatience as he seizes Jang's collar. "Buffer's broken, rat—die further out, not at my feet!" He hurls Jang two paces toward the fires, then wheels to intercept a charging cultist, more interested in preserving his escape lane than in mercy. The shove spins Jang's world; ground meets shoulder with a crack that bursts white across his sight-line.
When clarity returns, he lies half-curled beneath the wagon where medical crates have spilled tincture bottles like fallen chessmen. Beyond the wheel gap a tableau glows hell-bright: servants trussed along a pine trunk, hooks beneath their chins collecting slow drips into bone cups. Won-Il kneels centre, mouth gagged with his own torn sleeve, eyes huge and wet. Each tremor of fear makes the claw at his cheek quake, and the cup below fills faster. The cultist holding him is little older than the boy Jang has just killed; same narrow shoulders, same fever-bright zeal behind a lacquer beak.
Move.
He wills marrow-fire into limbs. Pain sears, but one knee braces; then a calf; then a stagger upright with wagon frame for crutch. Peripheral snow eats half the scene—where his vision ends, imagination supplies screams. He plants broken stave like a cane, steadies the world, takes one step… another… Gate fissures wider and molten vertigo gushes; his heel skids in spilled tincture.
The Heart-Talon scroll still bulges at his sash. Its violet seal presses against ribs, foul and urgent, as though it has weight beyond paper. Jang's gaze flicks to Han Jeong-il: the Core disciple is twenty paces away, sabre carving perfect arcs, yet always retreating, preserving the silver chain beneath his robe. Keys above lives—protocol made flesh.
Soldiers of the Black Vulture chant now, rhythmic syllables that saw through torch-crackle: Blood yields sky, Lotus dies. Each chorus ends with claws snapped together like beaks. The line tightens round the prisoners—closing.
Jang's next step collapses; he catches himself on knuckles already raw, ear still bleeding. Sound narrows to a muffled surf. Won-Il's eyes lock onto his through the melee, pupils flaring with an impossible spark of relief—he believes Jang can still save him.
Blade glints. The cultist lifts it, edge silver with stolen light. Jang snarls silent promise, tries to heave upright, but sinews twitch uselessly. All his stolen power, all the borrowed footwork, and his body pays with interest it cannot afford.
Vision tunnels. Torch-glints smear into comets. The knife above Won-Il's throat arches back—time enough for one heartbeat, maybe two—and Jang realises both will pass before his muscles obey.
Move.
Nothing.
The blade sweeps forward, bright as a falling star.