The sword's tumble ends in a hard metallic skitter, vanishing into the nearest groove the way rainwater slips beneath roof-tiles. A moment later the siphon runes ignite: thin blue sigils that drink steel and blood alike, dragging blade and crimson tide down to the hidden cistern with a hiss too soft for the crowd but clear inside Jang's ringing skull.
His heartbeat steadies; the tinnitus thins to a faint coastal wind. He realises he is still braced to strike again, shoulders torqued, wrist angled for a finishing thrust that no longer matters—because the manacles have judged for him. They lie at his feet like two broken beetles, hinges gaping. Tiny threads of steam curl from the seared flesh they leave behind, lotus-rim scar already cooling to a pale jade outline.
Across the fractured tiles Seo tries—and fails—to rise. Copper lamellae gape where the petals caved his breastplate; every breath saws air through cracked cartilage. The tiger mask hangs by one strap, eyes no longer furious but wide, stunned, lost. When he reaches for the saber that is no longer there, the gesture ends halfway, fingers remembering the hole punched through guard and hand alike.
Silence holds the arena, deeper than prayer. Then the promotion horn sounds. Its hollow bamboo moan echoes against stone tiers, picking up a second, quieter resonance—as though every name carved along its length sighs awake to greet a new companion. Some elders incline their heads; others do not.
Elder Choi's slippered feet rasp over grit while he speaks, voice flat enough to slice paper. "In accordance with Maxim Thirteen, the servant Jang whose strength has prevailed will be entered upon the rolls of Outer Disciple. Let all present witness." A scribe at his shoulder hurries to dip brush in cinnabar ink; the quill's scratch seems louder than the horn.
Grandmaster Baek remains seated, palms folded, eyes half-lidded. Only the smallest twitch along one lid betrays thought. Jang meets that gaze for the span of one breath. Frost. Calculation. Something unreadable beneath.
A ripple runs through the spectator rings: shock, outrage, exhilaration braided into a single, breathless murmur. Someone begins a cheer; it dies after three syllables, servants remembering the five-word rule and biting tongues bloody to obey.
Jang bows—just low enough to satisfy doctrine, no lower. The movement sends dull pain rolling from manacle burns to elbow, but the Gate holds; the roar in his spine quiets, awaiting the next demand. When he straightens, he finds Kwan at the servant gallery rail. The warehouse-master's eyes blink back wetness that might be pride, might be terror. Beside him Ma Gok gives a barely perceptible nod: acknowledgement of debt paid, warning of debts yet owed.
Farther along the rail Jisoo stands very still, sleeve pressed to mouth. The scroll she forged is nowhere in sight, but ink speckles dot her knuckles like guilt she cannot rinse away. She lowers her gaze before Jang can read the rest.
Ceremony completes itself with mechanical precision. Two apprentices approach carrying a folded slate-grey sash—the provisional colour allotted to duel-promoted novices. They hesitate, unsure if slave-rough linen robes may bear it. Jang relieves them by taking the cloth himself, draping it over a shoulder rather than around his waist, a quiet reminder that garments do not make power.
No one moves to stop him when he turns toward the pavilion arch. The elders are already embroiled in murmured debate; Baek's councillors cluster tight, their whispers sharp as awls. Above them the promotion horn still resonates, though the note is fading, swallowed by the cavernous hush left in victory's wake.
Each step off the stone lotus feels heavier, as though the grooves beneath try to claim him too. He refuses. Outside the arch the sunlight has warmed from pearl to pale gold, washing the courtyard where koi once flashed. A breeze lifts his scorched sleeve; beneath, the lotus scar pulses, faint and steady, root-stem-bloom in perfect tempo with his heart.
Behind him tiles tremble once more—perhaps settling, perhaps remembering the impact that cracked them. Ahead lies a maze of corridors, hidden inquiries, accusations yet to bloom. But whatever trial waits, it will meet an outer disciple who has worn iron fangs and taught them to open.
Jang does not look back at the tiger left to bleed among drained channels, nor at the crimson stains being scrubbed by silent acolytes. He follows the breeze instead, letting it ghost over burned wrists, letting it whisper that scars can be keys, that power can be proof, that tomorrow the sect must choose what kind of bloom it will allow to grow from the blood it demanded.
Heartbeat. Root—Won-Il.
Heartbeat. Stem—fragment.
Heartbeat. Bloom—whatever comes next.
And with the rhythm drumming quiet victory through bone and brand alike, he steps into the light the elders can neither censor nor deny.