227.
〈The Breath of the Dead Returns〉
The night over Liaodong was long.
A snowstorm swept across the steppe, and the wind howled like a beast.
At its center, inside an abandoned shrine on the plain, flames rose.
The walls, smeared with red earth, were packed with indecipherable symbols, and a drum of stretched hide sounded slowly.
Thud… thud… thud…
To the rhythm of the drum, a shaman woman of the northern Yuan danced.
Her eyes were rolled back, showing only white, and her hair scattered of its own accord, though there was no wind.
Before her stood Itak, Yerek, and Bayanbuqa.
On the ground lay those who had died in the two assassinations—the remnants of the Shadow Guard.
Itak asked,
"Do they truly return?"
The shaman answered in a rasping voice.
"They do not come back to life.
They return."
Her fingertips descended over the corpses.
A black liquid seeped from mouths, noses, and wounds.
It was not blood, but solidified killing intent and congealed resentment.
"Fire of spirit descent," she intoned.
"Breathe the strength of the dead into the bodies of the living."
As the flames surged, the corpses began to tremble.
Muscles convulsed, and dark veins swelled beneath the skin.
Yerek took a step back.
"This is no longer human."
The shaman smiled.
"It is no longer human."
Bayanbuqa swallowed and asked,
"What do you call it?"
"Shadow within Shadow," she said.
"The shadow behind the shadow.
The third shadow."
The corpses rose.
Their eyes were empty, their lips bluish.
Their movements were faster and more precise than in life.
They were not jiangshi, but figures with another shadow laid atop their own.
Bayanbuqa wiped the sweat from his brow.
"And their control?"
The shaman gripped the bone charm at her neck.
"As long as this blood flows, they are in my hand."
"They will move as we wish."
"No," she said.
"They go to devour Park Seongjin's soul.
They will drink his breath and drain his qi.
That will be the end."
At her gesture, the three beings seeped into the air.
The snowstorm surged, and the direction of the wind shifted.
They vanished before the eye.
That night, the wind was different.
Not the cold of winter, but a current carrying the breath of mountains mixed with the smell of blood.
Park Seongjin opened his eyes on the wooden floor.
The qi within his body, just risen from meditation, was flowing in reverse.
Something was coming against the current.
He stepped outside.
Beyond the ridgeline, darkness pressed forward.
It moved with a flow of its own, and shapes rose within it.
Three of them.
They mimicked human forms, but had neither skin nor warmth.
As they drew nearer, the air grew cold, and before breath could reach the lungs, it froze.
"The breath of the dead."
His fingertips trembled slightly.
This was not killing intent.
It was death-qi—the residue left when killing intent itself had died and hardened.
The three shadows moved at once.
There were no footsteps.
The direction of the air shifted once, then again, then a third time, and distance itself folded.
Park Seongjin twisted his body and unfolded the sword that cleaves currents.
Without light or sound, only the air tore.
Clang—
The instant his blade met the first form, a recoil struck back.
There was no sensation of cutting flesh.
It was like metal rebounding off metal, the shock snapping into his wrist and shuddering up to his shoulder.
He did not stop.
Planting both feet, he drove in low.
The blade aimed for the chest, but caught on something unseen.
A tough membrane bowed and held, sparks bursting along its surface.
A jolt stabbed across the back of his hand.
The figure laughed.
There was no sound, yet a low vibration echoed inside his body.
Park Seongjin poured in more force—and the rebound doubled.
His shoulder twisted, and the strength in his legs drained away as if soaked by water.
His qi was being shaved away.
With every strike, the force he poured in was absorbed whole.
He was breaking something—but it was not the enemy.
It was his own power.
"This is not a contest of force."
The words slipped out low.
He braced one hand on the ground and gathered his qi.
But the moment it touched the membrane, it was swallowed.
Only hollow reverberation returned.
His arms shook.
His breath shortened.
Though his feet were planted, it felt as though the ground beneath him kept falling away.
He understood.
The more he tried to break it, the harder it became.
The more power he used, the more the fight was already lost.
Holding his sword upright, Park Seongjin stopped pressing forward.
This was no longer a battle to shatter, but a battle to change the path.
He lowered the blade and closed his eyes.
Do not break it with the sword.
Change the grain.
He calmed the tremor in his fingertips.
Drawing out the qi within him, he laid it into empty space.
Tracing the currents of wind one by one, he drew invisible lines.
The air twisted, ever so slightly.
The recoil lessened.
The current split, and a gap appeared.
The shadows wavered.
He tore that gap open—not with steel, but with a blade made of qi.
The force still rebounded, but the裂 widened.
Sweat beaded on his skin, his vision narrowed, and his focus sank deeper.
At last, a true fracture opened.
As he entered it, the shadows scattered without a sound.
The first split in two.
Instead of blood, black mist burst outward.
When the second lunged, he slammed his hand to the ground and released true qi.
A pillar of earth surged up, and the shadow struck it and shattered.
The last one retained a human shape.
There was still something in its eyes—the gaze of the living.
Then the air collapsed.
Wind and sound vanished.
A vortex rose beneath his feet.
Poison, cold, and the resentment of the dead erupted at once.
He stopped his breath and gathered his qi into a single point.
"The Sword that Cleaves Currents—complete form."
His hand cut through the void.
The air disappeared.
Everything stopped.
Wind, death, and shadow were torn apart and vanished.
Near dawn, he stood amid the ruined courtyard, catching his breath.
In the air lingered not the smell of blood, but of ash.
Only afterward did he realize it:
nothing remained of what had come, nor of what had vanished.
He sank to one knee, breathing hard.
His wrists were swollen, his arms slack.
He did not smile.
Biting his lip, he wiped his sword clean.
What he had faced was not a clash of strength,
but an entirely different logic of combat—one that absorbed physical force itself.
That understanding weighed heaviest of all.
Park Seongjin sent word to Song Isul, asking him to investigate the origins of this rite—and its weakness.