A jolt at the wrist yanks him forward; the short-shanked manacle chain is deliberate, forcing a half-shuffled step that scrapes his boot leather against stone. Two torch-bearers pace to either side, the third guard walking behind so close he can feel the tremor of mailed plates each time the Judgment Gong reverberates across the fortress tiers. The note hangs longer tonight—a raincloud of metal that refuses to move on—yet dawn's first thread of light already limns the ridgeline. In that pale band every roof-tile glows ash-gold, like kiln shards before quench.
He counts the clacks of iron on flagstone, synchronising breath to the rhythm the way Grey-Pine drills taught: inhale on odd, exhale on even, each cycle sandpapering the tinnitus to a manageable hum. The courtyard empties around them, but he knows curtains twitch behind lattice shutters; gossip has out-run the guard detail, and eyes harvest every angle of the condemned servant who somehow came back.
At the holding vestibule a junior scribe steps forward, ledger clasped like a shield. "Prisoner Jang, son of—" The quavering voice loses footing because servants have no lineage worth printing. Ink trembles on brush; the boy pretends it is chill rather than fear. Jang supplies, "Born of the river quarter, recorded orphan." Quill scratches red characters. Life-ink, they call it, though he smells only watered cinnabar. He wonders if the ledger remembers ox blood the way coal remembers strikes.
Chains are looped to a floor ring inside a narrow cell barely wide enough to pivot. Straw smells of mould, not the comforting hearth-mould of the forge but sick, sunless rot. The guards leave without comment. Walls drink the last torch-glow, and darkness constricts until only the wrist-cord's hemp fibres remain tangible, pulsing faintly where Kwan's hand tied them.
He closes eyes. Beneath eyelids, petals form: three slate shapes, edges feathering into talon spears. Tonight's breakthrough replays one heartbeat slow, letting him probe the seam where vectors fused. The marrow flare there is still volatile, a pocket of wind trapped in hot ore—if it expands mid-strike the petal will shear off-line and Gate #2 will burst. He threads breath around that dangerous hollow, tempering it with the memory of pine needles dripping grey dawn rain onto Won-Il's grave. Needle, drop, root. Fade roar, steady pulse.
Ink is cheaper than courage.
The whisper is not audible; it rises from somewhere behind the cell's rear wall, born in another room—or another conscience. Jisoo, hunched over a bolt of laundry loft muslin, lamp-flame bathing her in brass. She rehearses each stroke of the stolen fragment until muscle remembers and thought is unnecessary. When the copy is flawless, she dilutes soot with clove oil: a scent that masks fresh grinding, so any inquisitor might believe the work decades old. Title characters bloom last—Servant Jang's Secret Art—each barbed to hook a tribunal mind already baited with rumour. She leaves the original practice notes rolled inside a new tube lacquered to match the sect archive red. One lie wearing two skins.
She does not flinch while delivering the proof. The junior-disciples' hall stinks of vinegar liniment, broken straw dummy, and Seo Yun-tae's rage. He paces, arm in sling, hair unbound, every second footfall kicking a splinter across the floor. "Public kill," he repeats, voice hoarse from earlier curses. "Not merely victory. I want the pond red before the old goats finish reading charges." Jisoo bows, presents the scroll. His fingers tremble when they meet paper, tremble harder when eyes scan incriminating strokes. Promises trade across the void—his outer-disciple sash for her silence, her accusation for his blade.
Back in the straw-sour cell the echo of that bargain brushes Jang's awareness, though he cannot know its shape. A prickle runs up spine nonetheless, as though cellar ash remembers betrayal for him. He shifts, feeling the cracked vesicles along knuckles seep clear fluid; the poultice has stopped bleeding but nerves complain. Dawn-gleam slips through the barred window high above head level, painting the opposite wall with prison-bar shadows that twitch whenever a celebratory lantern outside sways in wind. Festive lamps for a duel: the sect will feast on spectacle while pretending to weigh justice.
Boots approach—five pairs by cadence. Keys grind; chain rattles. Instructor Lee steps in, robes immaculate, eyes red-rimmed from ink vigil. "The tribunal convenes within one bell," he says. "You will answer two counts: cowardice in the field and possession of forbidden practice. The latter may be obviated should death in duel precede verdict." A pause, almost wistful. "Confess now, and the ledger may record a merciful line."
"Truth is a blade," Jang recites his earlier lesson back to him, throat raw but steady. "I'll sharpen it where they've prepared the stone."
Lee studies him, perhaps searching for the tremor men usually carry into last sunrise. Finding none, he motions the guards. Chains loosen from ring, now linking ankles far enough apart to climb stairs yet short enough to hobble. Weight drags wrists forward, but Lotus-Mist flickers—its infant sheath reinforcing tendons like silk threads tightened across a fan—and posture rights itself before anyone notices.
They emerge onto the top step of the gallery passage that overlooks the bamboo bridge. Early spectators cluster already: outer disciples leaning elbows on balustrades, instructors conversing in hush meant to appear impartial, servants pressed behind rope so their sweat and hope remain quarantined. Somewhere among that crowd stands Jisoo, face blank as untouched parchment. He cannot scan for her; looking would concede weight. Instead he tastes the air—ink, pond algae, oiled bamboo—and lets intuition decide who sharpens quills for his epitaph.
Below, the bridge gleams wet where dew has kissed freshly sanded canes. Thin planks bow with each breeze, their joints bound by hemp lashings identical to the cord at his wrist. He remembers the coal-cellar superstition: ash returns every strike thrice when mis-wielded. Perhaps wood does, too. A thought sprouts—Branch-Step force angled through weakest lash, pulse timed to opponent's shift—but planning can wait; first he must survive the reading of charges without letting truth leak out with blood.
Guards halt him at dais foot; chains remain. Scribe with crimson ledger stands ready, brush hovering. Ma Gok, cane resting across knees, watches from infirmary alcove brought to overlook: a silent wager in his eyes. Kwan nowhere visible, but the hemp cord warms with remembered grip.
The gong primes, its mouth filling with striker's anticipation. Jang inhales the grey-pine cadence one last time and feels roots coil around marrow leaks, sealing them enough for a single bloom. In the stillness before sound, petals unfurl behind his eyelids—quiet, breath-shaped, waiting for hammerfall.
The striker swings.