A single drop of crimson slid from Jang's knuckle, spattering the straw at his feet with a soft hiss. He studied the tiny puddle—each bead a testament to another lesson learned at marrow's expense. His fingers flexed, knuckles raw from the dawn's sparring, and a trickle of blood traced lucid lines across his palm. The servants pressed close, their faces lit by the wavering lanterns and wide with unspoken questions. Jang lifted his hand, letting the drip punctuate the hush. "Refinement costs flesh," he said, voice low but unwavering. "Remember that. Every strike draws marrow, and every breath must pay that price."
Behind him, a distant drip echoed against warped floorboards—droplets of moisture from the granary's fractured roof. As the servants watched, Ara's jaw clenched. Seul's forehead glistened with sweat. The twins exchanged a quick glance, their mirrored expressions alight with resolve. The laundry boy pressed his lips together, and the stable girl straightened her shoulders. None turned away.
A sudden metallic clink shattered the moment. The loft hatch above creaked, and Kwan's silhouette dropped a rough-hewn wooden crate to the floor. The lid thudded open, and the servants recoiled as discarded practice swords clattered onto the straw. Each blade bore heavy dents and pocked edges—the weapons of failures now repurposed for their growth. Kwan's voice emerged from the lantern halo, low and urgent: "They will test you every dawn. Learn their weight—each sword is a teacher in iron." He stepped back into the hatch's shadow and vanished, leaving only the scent of bay-leaf tea and the echo of metal on wood.
Jang moved among the blades, handing one to each student. The young faces reflected the lantern's amber glow as they lifted the swords, turning the scuffed steel over in careful hands. Seul frowned at the reverse edge. "It's unbalanced," she murmured, but Jang only nodded. "Good," he said. "Notice. Compensation is the first step to control." Ara hefted her blade with rigid determination, searching for the balance point like a sculptor sizing clay. The twins tested the heft in synchronized motions, their pale eyes dancing with excitement. Even the laundry boy flexed his fingers, tracing the cold steel's curve.
Jang watched them, chest tight with pride and concern. "Tomorrow," he said, "we begin sparring drills. Yesterday was promise—today is proof." The students murmured assent, their voices a soft chorus under the lantern light. He allowed himself a small smile. "Rest now. Gather strength for dawn."
They arranged the swords in a neat semicircle and settled onto the straw, patching bandages against raw knuckles. Seul glanced at Jang, eyebrows raised. "You bleed for this," she said quietly. Jang met her gaze. "So will you," he replied. "Only then will you know what it means to stand as iron-lotus."
Beyond the granary walls, wind-chimes tinkled in a sudden breeze, a fleeting lullaby swallowed by the stillness of night. Jang paused, listening for a moment to that distant music, before turning to slip away through the hatch and into the steamy shadows of the courtyard outside.
A drip of water followed him down the corridors, each step a soft thud on the stone floor. He crossed the compound's slick courtyards toward the Inner Sanctum, where a single lantern burned in a high window. The heavy doors creaked as he entered, and the heat of countless oil lamps washed over him. In the center of the circular chamber, Grandmaster Baek crouched beside a low table of black obsidian, studying a fractured tile shard under the lantern's revelatory glow.
A figure stood opposite—an elder shrouded in shadow, face hidden behind a fractured-talon mask. Neither turned at Jang's approach; their silence folded around him like steel.
Baek's finger traced the tile's jagged edge. "Lotus petals split stone," he murmured, voice as cold and hard as the obsidian beneath him. The masked elder's breath hissed through the mask's vents, as though echoing some unseen furnace. Baek lifted his cane, its ivory tip tapping a measured rhythm against the floor: three taps, brief pause, three taps again.
"If three Jin Seals were placed here," Baek continued, "they would shatter the mountain itself." He paused, letting the words settle like dust in the lantern light. "Imagine what one man, armed with such fragments, might unleash."
The elder inclined its head once, mask-breath fogging in the lantern glow. Baek stood, pressing the cane lightly to Jang's chest as he passed. The weight of that touch lingered—too light to be a command, too heavy to be ignored. Jang bowed, head lowered so the steel lantern cast his ash-crown into sharp relief against the shadow.
Before he could speak, Baek's lips curved in a ghost of a smile. "Watch the branches," the Grandmaster whispered. "They grow in places the roots cannot follow." Then Baek turned, following the shadowed elder to the far door. The chamber's silence snapped shut behind them, leaving Jang alone with the fractured tile and the faint sound of a distant water drip.
He picked up the shard—cold, sharp, and impossible to ignore. The tile's grooves still held flecks of sealing salve, a reminder of blood and ritual. Jang tucked it into his cloak, spine straightening beneath the weight of secrets and promises. The lantern above guttered, as though acknowledging the fragility of the moment, before steadying into its final glow.
Exiting the sanctum, Jang retraced his steps through steaming corridors. The wind-chime lullaby drifted once more, weaving between stone arches as he climbed back into the loft. The abandoned granary lay silent, its rafters dark, but the soft breathing of his new charges greeted him like kin.
He paused at the hatch, lantern light spilling onto the straw. The swords lay at the edge of the circle, still and waiting. Jang hung the headband on the iron frame and reached inside his cloak for the practice tile shard. Beneath the earthen floorboards, the first roots of a revolution had taken hold.
Above, the wind-chimes tinkled—uncertain notes in the storm that was coming.