The constables herd them through an echoing cloister where frost still froths in the flagstone seams. Each footprint that Jang leaves is a darker grey than the last—the poultice has slowed the bleeding but not quenched it—and he wonders whether the corridor will remember his passage in stains long after verdict is given.
Morning incense has only just been lit; the resin bite mingles with boiled-rice porridge drifting from the refectory two courts away. Bellies growl behind him, but no one breaks formation. The two junior guards flanking Jisoo exchange whispers about "ghost-soaked mountains" until Instructor Lee's single throat-clear slices the air; silence drops like a shutter, and the procession continues.
They halt beside an iron-clamped storeroom. A quartermaster unlocks the door, retrieves an armful of folded canvas and bamboo poles. "Arena attendants," he mutters, shoving the bundle into the nearest grey-ink's arms. Even before the duel, servants are pressed into building its stage—proof, were any needed, of the sect's hierarchy writ in practical labour. Jang is spared the assignment only because Lee has other plans for him.
A side-gate disgorges two medics bearing Seo Yun-tae on a sling chair. The outer disciple's face is the colour of old bruises; leech cups dot his shoulder to draw out lingering toxin. Yet hatred sharpens his features into something almost luminous. As the chair passes Jang, Seo reaches, grabs his sleeve with a strength that jars bone. "Sleep well, rat?" he rasps. "Enjoy the dream. Dawn ends it."
Constables pry the fingers loose, but Seo's nails have already scored bloody crescents through the bandage beneath. Jang neither replies nor glances away; he lets the silence do what words cannot—echo, hollow and unanswerable.
Their path forks: servants to the infirmary once more, Seo toward the outer disciples' ward. The moment the chairs turn the corner, a cane taps three steady beats on the flagstones—Ma Gok's signature. He stands inside the infirmary threshold, lantern behind him throwing his silhouette long across the floorboards like a pointing spear.
Bandage change is brusque: snip, peel, wipe, rewrap. Camphor stings; cooling salve hisses on half-healed seams. "Could have asked for tremor-leaf," Ma Gok murmurs without looking up, knotting linen. "Turned it away. Good." Another tug. "Need the shake to remind you you're still flesh."
Jang clenches teeth. "He filed?"
"Tribunal registrars worked through night." The cane lifts, rests across Ma Gok's crooked elbow as he leans close enough that only Jang can hear. "Bamboo bridge, first bell after sunrise. Two witnesses each. Choose wisely. Witness may drag you out if you're dying, but loses life-debt if you survive on your own."
"Will you stand for me?"
The elder's single eye flickers—an ember behind ash. "I have a different station tomorrow." Soft exhale. "Bring someone whose fear can still bend." He straightens, voice resuming its usual iron rasp. "Sleep if you can."
He limps away, cane whispering its triplet on the planks: tap-tap-tap. Jang files the rhythm beside every lesson pain has branded into memory.
Cots groan as servants settle. Bandage-white moonlight has fled; a healthier silver creeps in, layered with the first hints of pearl-grey dawn. Jang lowers himself, but does not lie flat—Gate protests when spine fully meets straw. Across the aisle Jisoo rolls to face the wall, yet the blanket's rhythm against her ribs stays too even for slumber. When she finally rises for the latrine bucket, Jang's half-shut eyes watch her shadow pause beside the storage chest. She does not reach for the key—only studies the lock, as though memorising the scratches around it. On her return she passes his cot, and a whisper of charcoal scent trails her—reminder of every dawn they once survived in a shed that now feels a lifetime buried.
Sleep flits in short bursts. Each time he surfaces, the infirmary is lighter. At last the rooster cries. Immediately the outer court drum answers: two blows, second rising. Pre-duel summons. Attendants hurry through aisles, rattling tin bells that jolt drowsing patients upright. Jang sits, flexes fingers; lotus mist unfurls once beneath gauze, more sure of itself than the man who made it. With care he loosens the belt pouch, checks the fused fragment roll. Silk quiet, safe. The Medallion is not here to weigh his conscience—it waits beneath grey pine and red earth—but even unheld it tugs at thought like hidden magnet.
He dresses: plain servant tunic laundered thin, fresh head-cloth to mask half-healed scalp wound. No armour allowed for his class; only an oiled-wood practice stave presented by the quartermaster—weapon parity rule. He balances the stave across palms; wood light, grain tight, tip stained darker where past users' sweat sank in.
Kwan arrives during final checks, sleeves still soot-dusted from dawn kiln shift. He offers no hug, only presses a thumb to the new knot on Jang's bandage—silent benediction. "Witness slots?" Jang asks. Kwan nods. "I signed Jisoo's name beside mine. Told registrar she handles account ledgers; they like tidy handwriting for duel records." The man's weary smile hardens. "Make us write only your victory."
Footsteps behind: Jisoo herself, hair combed simple. She says nothing about the choice, only meets Jang's gaze long enough for him to glimpse the ledger-red glint in her eyes—ambition, or fear, or both dressed as resolve.
Constables herd them into sunlight. Frost has melted; flagstones sweat under growing day. Up ahead the bamboo bridge stretches over the koi pond exactly as Jang saw through the window—thirty paces, rail-less, centre planks slightly bowed. Beneath, water mirrors sky save where fish break surface, ripples promising the colour blood will soon lend.
Crowd lines the courtyard edges: servants in grey, outer disciples in charcoal, inner in white, instructors in robe-black and crest sashes. Gate-guests from allied sects perch on pavilion balconies, eyes bright as hawks hunting scandal.
Seo Yun-tae stands at far end of bridge, torso bare, bandaged ribs shining with salve. He leans on a polished bo staff whose inlaid silver filigree mocks Jang's utilitarian stick. When he spots his opponent, he twirls the staff once—a languid circle that says both welcome and funeral procession. Around him, supporters unfurl a small banner: stylised lotus pierced by spear. The message hangs in cold air, needing no words.
Instructor Lee steps onto the pond's stone rim, scroll in hand. "Challenge of honour between Outer Disciple Seo Yun-tae and Servant-Grade Porter Jang Seong-jin," he intones. "Terms: until first blood upon water, or concession, or death." His gaze skims the spectators, pierces Jang. "Witnesses: Kwan Ho-rim. Mun Jisoo. Acknowledged."
Drumsticks lift.
Jang exhales. Mist threads pulse once around his knuckles then hide, satisfied. He feels the fractured Gate whisper—not scream—and for the first time since the gorge he senses a rhythm he might ride instead of endure. Bamboo creaks beneath his initial step; koi scatter beneath the shadow.
Across the distance Seo crouches into opening stance, wolf-smile carved on his face.
Just before drumbeat crashes, sunlight glints through infirmary windows behind the crowd, flashes gold along the rail-less bridge. The light paints everything the colour of dawn petals—gentle, lethal, inevitable.
If this is the next Gate, Jang thinks, shifting his weight into the first beat of Branch-Step, then bloom.
The drum falls.