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Chapter Text

The night air at Mount Hua was crisp, carrying with it the faint scent of pine and the distant hum of cicadas. The stars spread like a tapestry above the quiet sect, their light illuminating the tiled roofs and ancient stone paths that crisscrossed the mountain. For once, there was peace in the disciples’ quarters.

Inside his modest room, Chung Myung crouched by his writing desk, his wooden sword propped against the wall and his familiar mask lying beside him. He dipped the tip of a brush into ink, scribbling a note with the flourish of someone who had written countless excuses before.

“Gone for a walk. Don’t wait up. If you’re thinking of looking for me, don’t bother. Focus on being useful instead.”

He blew on the paper to dry the ink and then slapped it onto the low table with satisfaction. Standing up, he grabbed his mask, slid it over his face, and adjusted the brim of his straw hat. The loose, nondescript black robe he wore hung from his lean frame like a shadow. He glanced around the room, noting how pitifully bare it was. A few training manuals, an empty wine gourd, and a threadbare blanket were all that marked his presence there.

“What a miserable existence,” he muttered, slinging his wooden sword onto his back. “Not a drop of wine, no snacks, and constant nagging. If this is reincarnation, someone owes me an apology.”

Sliding the door open, he crept out into the hallway with the silence of a cat. The dormitory was still, the muffled snores of disciples filtering through the thin walls. As he passed one of the rooms, a particularly loud snort made him pause.

“Jo Gul…” he muttered with a grin, recognizing the obnoxious cadence of his fellow disciple’s snoring. “You’d think someone who talks so much during the day wouldn’t have the energy to sound like an ox at night.”

He moved on, slipping past Yoon Jong’s door and then Baek Cheon’s. The latter’s room was suspiciously quiet, as always. Baek Cheon was likely meditating in his sleep, the insufferable model student that he was.

By the time Chung Myung reached the outer gate, the thrill of escape was already coursing through his veins. He glanced back at the sect, his sharp eyes taking in the darkened windows and still courtyards.

“All of them snoring away without a care in the world,” he said to himself. “What would they do without me? No one else has the guts to shake things up around here.”

He stepped beyond the gate, his movements swift and deliberate. The forest greeted him with its earthy scent and the soft rustling of leaves. The moon was high now, its light casting long shadows across the winding path.

The night was perfect for causing trouble.

Back at Mount Hua, Jo Gul stirred in his sleep, rolling over with a groan. He kicked out once, then twice, before abruptly sitting up, his hair a disheveled mess.

“Why do I feel like something bad is about to happen?” he muttered groggily.

From the other side of the room, Yoon Jong groaned. “Go back to sleep, Jo Gul. It’s the middle of the night.”

“I’m telling you, I have a bad feeling,” Jo Gul insisted, running a hand through his hair. “Like something’s… off.”

“What’s off is your brain,” Yoon Jong replied, pulling his blanket tighter around himself. “If you don’t get back to sleep, I’ll make you run laps tomorrow.”

Jo Gul frowned, glancing around the room. The silence felt heavier than usual, and for a moment, he considered waking Baek Cheon. But the memory of the senior disciple’s wrath stopped him short.

“I’m just imagining things,” he muttered, lying back down. “Probably just a weird dream.”

Baek Cheon wasn’t sleeping.

He sat cross-legged in his room, his eyes closed and his breathing steady. But even as he meditated, his thoughts kept drifting. The sect had been unusually calm lately, and that calmness unsettled him. It was like the quiet before a storm.

A soft knock interrupted his thoughts.

“Baek Cheon.”

It was Yoon Jong, his voice low but urgent. Baek Cheon opened his eyes, immediately sensing the tension.

“What is it?”

“I think… I think Chung Myung’s gone.”

Baek Cheon’s brow furrowed. “Gone? What do you mean?”

“He left a note,” Yoon Jong said, holding up the scrap of paper. “Jo Gul found it when he woke up.”

Baek Cheon snatched the note, his frown deepening as he read the familiar scrawl.

“Gone for a walk? At this hour?”

“It’s Chung Myung,” Yoon Jong said helplessly. “Do we ever know what he’s thinking?”

Baek Cheon stood, his movements swift and purposeful. “Wake Yu Iseol. If Chung Myung’s sneaking out, it’s only a matter of time before something ridiculous happens.”

Chung Myung wandered through the forest, his steps light as he hummed a jaunty tune. The thrill of freedom filled his chest, the mundane worries of sect life left far behind.

“I wonder if the tavern in the next village is still open,” he mused. “Or maybe I should visit that bandit camp I heard about. It’d be a shame if they had all that stolen wine and no one to drink it.”

He paused at a fork in the path, considering his options. But just as he was about to take the left trail, a strange sensation washed over him.

The air felt… wrong. Heavy, almost.

Chung Myung’s hand instinctively went to his wooden sword. He scanned the shadows, his sharp eyes narrowing.

“Looks like the fun’s coming to me tonight,” he muttered.

In the distance, faint voices carried through the trees. He couldn’t make out the words, but the tone was clear—tense and hurried.

Grinning, he adjusted his mask and began to move toward the sound.

What he didn’t know, however, was that this time, things wouldn’t go as planned.

 

The forest was quiet, save for the rustling of leaves in the cool night breeze. Chung Myung moved through the trees with the fluid grace of a predator, his senses sharp. He’d followed the faint voices for a few minutes now, growing increasingly curious about who could be wandering the woods at such an hour.

As he crept closer, the voices became clearer, and the first thing that struck him was how absurdly mismatched they sounded.

“Listen, you absolute idiot! You can’t just yell at people that we’re selling the ‘Secret Elixir of Immortal Health.’ You need subtlety!” The voice was high-pitched, nasal, and filled with exasperation.

“Why not? It worked last time, didn’t it? They bought the bottles, didn’t they?” This second voice was deeper, slower, and far too confident for its own good.

Chung Myung’s lips twitched into a grin. He crouched behind a bush, peering through the branches at the duo who had stumbled into his path.

The first man was skinny to the point of looking malnourished, with sharp features and a face that practically screamed schemer. His wiry arms flailed about as he berated his companion. The second man was his complete opposite—chubby and round-faced, with a calm demeanor that suggested he rarely took anything seriously.

“I can’t believe I’m stuck with you,” the skinny one groaned, slapping his own forehead. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to find good marks? If you keep scaring them off, we’ll be eating grass by tomorrow!”

“Grass isn’t that bad,” the chubby one replied, shrugging. “You just have to boil it right. Add a little salt if you can find some—”

“For the love of—!” The skinny man grabbed his companion’s collar and shook him, though the effect was less than intimidating given their size difference.

Chung Myung, still crouched in the shadows, chuckled to himself. “Con artists? In this forest? Now this is interesting.”

The skinny one released his grip with a frustrated sigh. “Fine. Since you clearly can’t handle the talking, I’ll do it. Just stand there and look… useful.”

“Got it.” The chubby one saluted, looking pleased with himself.

Before they could continue their bickering, Chung Myung stepped out from the shadows, his wooden sword slung casually over his shoulder.

“Well, well,” he said, his voice carrying an edge of mockery. “What have we here? Two lost souls wandering the forest at night? Or should I say… two rats looking for crumbs?”

Both men froze, their eyes snapping to the masked figure emerging from the trees.

“W-who’s there?” the skinny one stammered, his voice cracking. “Show yourself!”

Chung Myung tilted his head, letting the moonlight catch the edge of his mask. “Isn’t it rude to ask for someone’s name without giving yours first?”

The chubby man squinted at him. “Why’re you dressed like that? You going to a festival or something?”

The skinny man smacked his arm. “Don’t antagonize him! He could be a bandit!”

“Me? A bandit?” Chung Myung barked a laugh. “Now that’s rich. If I were a bandit, you’d already be begging for mercy.”

The skinny one swallowed hard, his sharp eyes darting around as if calculating an escape route. “L-listen, friend, there’s no need for violence. We’re just humble merchants, traveling from village to village. Nothing illegal, I swear!”

“Merchants?” Chung Myung’s grin widened under his mask. “You mean to tell me those bottles of ‘Secret Elixir of Immortal Health’ are perfectly legitimate?”

The chubby one scratched his head. “Wait, how’d you know about that? Did we sell you some?”

The skinny one’s face turned pale. “Shut up, you idiot!”

Chung Myung took a step closer, the wooden sword tapping against his shoulder in a lazy rhythm. “I’ve met my share of swindlers, but you two? You might just be the most entertaining yet.”

Meanwhile, back at Mount Hua, the sun was beginning to rise, casting a golden glow over the sect. The disciples were already stirring, gathering in the training courtyard for their morning exercises.

Jo Gul yawned loudly, stretching his arms as he joined the others. “Another day, another round of beatings… I mean training,” he said, earning a chuckle from Yoon Jong.

“Don’t act like you don’t need it,” Yoon Jong replied. “If anything, you should be working twice as hard.”

“I’d work harder if I didn’t feel like collapsing by the end of the day,” Jo Gul shot back.

Baek Cheon, standing at the front of the group, cleared his throat. “Enough complaining. Let’s get started.”

As the senior disciple began leading the exercises, Yu Iseol stood silently to the side, her expression as calm and unreadable as ever. She moved with precision and grace, her focus unwavering even as the others grumbled and stumbled through the forms.

“Isn’t it weird that Chung Myung hasn’t shown up yet?” one of the junior disciples whispered.

“Not really,” another replied. “He disappears all the time. Who knows what that lunatic’s up to?”

Baek Cheon sighed, overhearing the exchange. “We’ll just have to make do without him. Focus on what he’s already taught us and stop relying on him to fix everything.”

Jo Gul snorted. “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one who has to spar with him every other day.”

“You’ll survive,” Baek Cheon said dryly.

The training continued, though there was a noticeable lack of the usual chaos that accompanied Chung Myung’s presence. For the disciples, it was both a relief and a strange void.

Back in the forest, the tension between Chung Myung and the two con artists had reached its peak.

“You’re not going to rob us, are you?” the chubby one asked nervously.

Chung Myung raised an eyebrow. “Rob you? With what? Those bottles of snake oil you’re carrying?”

The skinny one’s eyes darted to his satchel, which was indeed full of suspicious-looking bottles. “H-how about we make a deal? You let us go, and we’ll give you one for free! No charge! A gift, even!”

Chung Myung burst out laughing, the sound echoing through the trees. “A gift, huh? Alright, I’ll take you up on that offer. But I want to see you drink it first.”

The chubby one blinked. “Wait, what?”

“You heard me,” Chung Myung said, stepping closer. “Drink it. Prove it’s as miraculous as you claim.”

The two con artists exchanged panicked looks, realizing they had bitten off far more than they could chew.

“Uh… you see…” the skinny one began, but Chung Myung cut him off, his wooden sword pointing directly at the satchel.

“Drink,” he said, his voice leaving no room for argument.

The chubby one gulped, his hands shaking as he reached for a bottle. “W-we’re dead, aren’t we?”

The grin under Chung Myung’s mask widened. “Oh, not yet. But you’re about to wish you were.”

The skinny man rummaged through his satchel, his hands trembling as he pretended to look for the elixir. The chubby man stood frozen, his round face shiny with sweat. Chung Myung, arms crossed and wooden sword resting on his shoulder, watched them with the kind of patience that was infinitely more dangerous than anger.

“Any day now,” he drawled, tilting his head slightly. “Or are you two con artists even worse at lying than I thought?”

The skinny one yanked out a bottle and held it up triumphantly, the liquid inside a murky brown. “H-here it is! The finest, most potent elixir you’ll ever find!”

Chung Myung raised an eyebrow beneath his mask. “Looks like you scooped it out of a muddy river.”

“It’s, uh… aged! That’s why it’s so potent!” the chubby one chimed in, his voice breaking slightly.

Chung Myung leaned in, his presence suddenly suffocating despite his deceptively slight frame. “Drink it.”

The skinny man sputtered, holding the bottle out like a shield. “O-okay, fine! We’ll drink it! No problem at all!”

Just as he was about to unscrew the bottle’s cap, his hand brushed something small and cool at the bottom of the satchel. He frowned, pulling out a strange black amulet strung on a simple cord.

“Hey,” he muttered, holding it up to the chubby man. “Where’d this come from?”

The chubby man blinked. “What’s that?”

“I don’t know! It wasn’t here before…”

Chung Myung, who had been watching with growing amusement, squinted at the amulet. Its surface was polished obsidian, unnaturally smooth, and it seemed to shimmer faintly even in the dim moonlight. There was something about it that made his skin crawl—though he wouldn’t admit it.

The skinny man’s nervousness seemed to evaporate as his con artist instincts took over. “It must be valuable,” he whispered to the chubby man. “Look at how fancy it is. Maybe we can distract him with it.”

The chubby man scratched his head. “You think he’ll want it?”

The skinny man turned to Chung Myung, his voice suddenly syrupy sweet. “You seem like a man of taste and refinement. How about a gift? As an apology for the, uh… misunderstanding earlier?”

Chung Myung tilted his head, the exaggerated features of his mask making him look even more amused. “A gift? For me? How thoughtful.”

The skinny man held the amulet out, forcing an awkward grin. “Yes! It’s, uh… a protective charm! Wards off evil and ensures good fortune. A man like you needs all the good fortune he can get, right?”

Chung Myung stared at the amulet, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. Something about it felt wrong, but before he could voice his suspicion, the chubby man jumped in.

“It looks great with your outfit, too!” he said. “Really ties the whole mysterious masked warrior thing together.”

Chung Myung hesitated, his instincts warning him against taking the thing. But then, his pride kicked in. These two buffoons thought they could trick him? Him? The Plum Blossom Sword Saint?

“Fine,” he said, snatching the amulet. “But if this thing explodes or curses me, I’ll make sure you regret it.”

The skinny man laughed nervously. “Of course not! It’s completely safe!”

Chung Myung slipped the cord over his head, the black amulet settling against his chest. The moment it touched his skin, a sharp, icy sensation shot through him. He froze, his breath hitching.

“Hey,” he muttered, his voice low

 

The skinny man, who went by the name Hwi, stepped back, watching with wide eyes as the strange black amulet seemed to sink unnaturally against Chung Myung’s chest. His companion, the chubby and deceptively shrewd Dumok, scratched the back of his head with a puzzled expression.

“Uh… is it just me, or does he look… different?” Dumok asked, his voice uneasy.

“Different how?” Hwi snapped, his nervousness returning in full force.

“I don’t know! Just… look at him!” Dumok gestured wildly at Chung Myung, whose entire posture had changed.

The wooden sword that had hung casually over his shoulder now dangled loosely at his side. His head tilted downward, the brim of his hat casting a shadow over his face. Most alarming of all, his eyes—once sharp and full of mischief—had gone blank and colorless.

“Hey… uh… buddy?” Hwi ventured, waving a hand in front of Chung Myung’s face. “You alright?”

Chung Myung didn’t respond. He just stood there, eerily still, the faint breeze rustling his robes.

Dumok frowned, his usually slow thoughts picking up speed. “You think we broke him?”

“What do you mean ‘broke him’?!” Hwi hissed. “He’s not a toy, Dumok!”

“Well, you told him to put the weird amulet on!” Dumok shot back.

“I didn’t think it would actually do anything! It was just a distraction!”

Their bickering was cut short when Chung Myung finally moved. His head lifted slightly, and though his face was still hidden behind the mask, the way he turned his head toward them felt unsettlingly deliberate.

“You,” he said, his voice flat and devoid of its usual sharpness. “What is your command?”

Both men froze.

Hwi blinked. “Uh… what?”

“You put the Amulet of Subservience on me,” Chung Myung said, his tone unnervingly calm. “I am bound to your will.”

“Amulet of Sub—what?!” Hwi stammered, looking at Dumok in a panic. “What is he talking about?”

Dumok, for once, looked equally confused. “I don’t know! I thought it was just a fancy necklace!”

Chung Myung stood silently, waiting.

Hwi stared at him, his mind racing. “Okay, hold on. Are you saying… you’ll do whatever we tell you to do?”

“Yes,” Chung Myung replied, his voice empty of emotion.

Hwi’s mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air. Dumok, on the other hand, was already grinning.

“Whatever we tell him?” Dumok repeated, his tone slow but filled with growing excitement.

Chung Myung nodded.

Hwi, still half in disbelief, nudged Dumok. “Okay, this is weird. Like, really weird. We should just—”

“Use him!” Dumok interrupted, his eyes lighting up. “Hwi, don’t you get it? This guy’s a swordsman! Did you see the way he was holding that sword earlier? He’s good. Really good. We could use him to…” Dumok leaned in, his grin widening. “Make some money.”

Hwi blinked. “You mean… rob people?”

“Obviously! Think about it—he’s like the perfect partner in crime. Strong, fast, follows orders… and we don’t even have to split the loot with him!”

Hwi hesitated, glancing at Chung Myung, who stood eerily still, waiting for their instructions.

“This feels… wrong,” Hwi muttered, though his greed was quickly overtaking his apprehension.

“Since when do you care about wrong?” Dumok snorted. “Come on, Hwi. When are we ever going to get an opportunity like this again?”

Hwi’s shoulders slumped. “Alright, fine. But if something goes wrong, I’m blaming you.”

The two con artists quickly tested the limits of their newfound power. Their first target was a lone traveler heading toward the nearby village. The man carried a heavy pack, and his finely tailored clothes hinted at wealth.

“Alright, uh… Sword Guy,” Hwi said, still feeling awkward about the whole situation. “Go take that guy’s stuff.”

Chung Myung nodded wordlessly and stepped forward.

What happened next left both Hwi and Dumok speechless.

Chung Myung moved like a shadow, his speed almost impossible to follow. Before the traveler could even register what was happening, Chung Myung had disarmed him, tripped him, and neatly tied him up with his own belt. The pack was tossed to the ground at Dumok’s feet, its contents spilling out to reveal gold coins and expensive trinkets.

“Holy…” Dumok breathed, staring at the pile.

“That was… amazing,” Hwi said, his tone a mixture of awe and terror.

Chung Myung returned to their side, his expression blank. “It is done. What is your next command?”

“Uh… give us a minute,” Hwi said, trying to process what he’d just witnessed.

Dumok knelt by the loot, grinning like a child on their birthday. “We’ve hit the jackpot, Hwi! This guy is unstoppable!”

“Yeah, but…” Hwi glanced nervously at Chung Myung. “Doesn’t it bother you how… creepy he’s acting? It’s like he’s not even human anymore.”

“Who cares?” Dumok replied, stuffing gold coins into his satchel. “As long as he does what we tell him, I’m not complaining. This guy’s a gold mine!”

Meanwhile, back at Mount Hua, the disciples were growing restless.

“Where’s Chung Myung?” Jo Gul asked, breaking the silence as they took a break from their morning training.

“Does it matter?” Yoon Jong replied, wiping sweat from his brow. “He disappears all the time. He’s probably off drinking or gambling or… whatever it is he does.”

Yu Iseol, sitting cross-legged beneath a tree, opened her eyes and looked toward the mountain path. She didn’t say anything, but her expression was tense.

Baek Cheon frowned, the unease in his chest growing. “Normally, I’d agree with you, but something feels… different today.”

Jo Gul snorted. “Chung Myung doesn’t exactly follow a schedule. How are we supposed to tell when something’s off with him?”

“Even so,” Baek Cheon said, his voice firm, “we need to stay focused. He wouldn’t want us slacking off just because he’s not here.”

“Unless he comes back and yells at us for doing everything wrong,” Jo Gul muttered.

Baek Cheon sighed. “Let’s just get back to training.”

The disciples returned to their drills, but an unspoken tension hung in the air. For all his antics and unpredictability, Chung Myung was the heart of Mount Hua—and his absence, though not unusual, felt heavier than it should have.

Hwi paced back and forth, his bony fingers tapping nervously against his chin as Dumok sat on a nearby rock, inspecting the coins they had taken from their latest victim. The chubby man’s face lit up with a grin as he held a particularly large coin up to the moonlight, his greed outshining any concern he might have had for their situation.

“I’m telling you, Dumok, this is getting weird,” Hwi hissed, casting a glance at Chung Myung, who stood eerily still a few paces away. His mask hid most of his face, but his eyes—blank, colorless, and dull—looked like those of a man too exhausted to care about the world.

Dumok waved a hand dismissively. “Weird? Who cares if it’s weird? Look at what he can do! Did you see how fast he took that guy down? Like—bam! He didn’t even flinch!” Dumok mimed an exaggerated version of the encounter, complete with terrible sound effects.

Hwi stopped pacing long enough to glare at him. “Yeah, I saw! That’s exactly why I’m worried! No normal person can fight like that. Did you see how he moved? He didn’t even hesitate! What if he’s some kind of… of… demon or something?”

Dumok chuckled, his chubby cheeks wobbling. “A demon? Really, Hwi? This guy? Look at him! He’s just a really, really good swordsman.”

Hwi glanced again at Chung Myung, shivering despite himself. The young man stood as still as a statue, his wooden sword dangling loosely at his side. His breathing was so quiet it was almost imperceptible, and those deadened eyes made Hwi’s skin crawl.

“I don’t like it,” Hwi muttered. “There’s something off about him. What if this amulet thing wears off and he decides to kill us?”

Dumok sighed, pocketing the coin. “Then we don’t let it wear off. Simple. Until then, we’ve got the best weapon in the world—and we didn’t even have to pay for him!”

Chung Myung’s flat voice interrupted their argument. “What is your next command?”

Hwi jumped, clutching his chest. “Could you not sneak up on me like that?!”

“I’ve been standing here the entire time,” Chung Myung replied, his tone devoid of emotion.

Dumok laughed. “See? He’s harmless.”

“Harmless?” Hwi gestured wildly at him. “He’s an emotionless killing machine! That’s the opposite of harmless!”

Chung Myung waited silently, showing no reaction to their argument. Hwi finally groaned, throwing his hands up in frustration.

“Fine, fine! But when this all goes horribly wrong, I’m blaming you!”

Dumok grinned, slapping Hwi on the back. “That’s the spirit! Now, let’s see who else is wandering the woods tonight.”

Their next target was a small caravan heading toward a nearby village. A pair of merchants sat atop a rickety wagon, their goods covered with tarps. They chatted amicably as their horses plodded along the uneven path, completely unaware of the danger lurking in the shadows.

Hwi and Dumok crouched behind a boulder, peering at the caravan with greedy eyes.

“That looks promising,” Dumok said, licking his lips. “Bet they’ve got something valuable under those tarps.”

Hwi nodded reluctantly. “Alright, but we do this quick. I don’t want to stick around in case someone comes looking for them.”

“Quick and easy. Got it.” Dumok turned to Chung Myung, who was waiting silently nearby. “Alright, Sword Guy. Go take care of them. Don’t kill anyone—just scare them off and bring us whatever they’re carrying.”

Chung Myung nodded wordlessly and stepped onto the path.

Hwi watched nervously as the young man approached the caravan. “You sure this is a good idea? What if they fight back?”

Dumok snorted. “Did you see what he did to the last guy? They won’t even get the chance to fight back.”

As it turned out, Dumok was right.

Chung Myung moved with an efficiency that was almost mechanical. Before the merchants even realized they were being attacked, he had disarmed them, cut the reins to the horses, and tipped the wagon over, spilling its contents onto the ground. He dragged the goods back to Hwi and Dumok, his expression as blank and unreadable as ever.

“Mission complete,” he said flatly, dropping the bundle of goods at their feet.

Hwi stared at the pile, his heart pounding. It wasn’t just the speed or precision of Chung Myung’s actions—it was the complete lack of hesitation, as if he were moving on pure instinct.

“This guy…” Hwi muttered, shaking his head. “He’s not human.”

Dumok, however, was already rifling through the goods, his eyes gleaming as he uncovered bolts of silk and small pouches of silver coins.

“Jackpot!” he crowed, holding up a coin pouch. “See, Hwi? I told you this would work out!”

Hwi didn’t respond. His gaze was fixed on Chung Myung, who stood silently, his wooden sword resting against his shoulder.

“Who is this guy?” Hwi muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “Where did he even come from?”

Dumok shrugged. “Who cares? All that matters is he’s ours now. As long as we’ve got that amulet, we’re set for life.”

Hwi wasn’t so sure.

Chapter Text

The sun hung high over Mount Hua as the disciples practiced their drills, their movements sharp but edged with a noticeable tension.

Baek Cheon, standing at the front of the courtyard, watched over them with crossed arms. He tried to maintain his usual stoic demeanor, but even he couldn’t shake the unease that had settled over the sect.

“Yoon Jong,” he called, his voice firm.

The second-generation disciple stepped forward, wiping sweat from his brow. “Yes, senior?”

“Any sign of him?”

Yoon Jong hesitated, then shook his head. “No. It’s been almost a full day now. He’s never stayed out this long before.”

Jo Gul, standing nearby, chimed in, “You know how he is. He probably got distracted by wine, gambling, or picking fights with random martial artists.”

Baek Cheon shot him a glare. “Normally, I’d agree, but this time… it feels different.”

Yu Iseol, silent as ever, glanced toward the mountain path. Her normally calm expression was strained, her lips pressed into a thin line.

“Maybe we should send someone to look for him,” Yoon Jong suggested.

Baek Cheon sighed, running a hand through his hair. “And where exactly would we look? He never tells anyone where he’s going. For all we know, he’s halfway across the province by now.”

The group fell silent, the weight of the situation pressing down on them.

Meanwhile, miles away in a bustling village market, Hwi and Dumok sat on the steps of a small inn, watching as Chung Myung moved through the crowd like a ghost.

“Look at him go,” Dumok said, biting into a meat bun. “Doesn’t even break a sweat.”

Hwi frowned, his arms crossed. “Yeah, well, maybe he should break a sweat. He’s been working nonstop for days now.”

“Oh, don’t get all soft on me,” Dumok scoffed. “He doesn’t need rest. He’s like… some kind of martial arts robot or something. Doesn’t even complain.”

Hwi’s gaze lingered on Chung Myung as the young man deftly slipped into the shadows, returning moments later with a bulging coin purse. He handed it to Dumok without a word, his blank eyes barely acknowledging their presence.

“Nice work, Sword Guy,” Dumok said cheerfully, pocketing the money.

Chung Myung didn’t respond. Instead, he simply turned and began scanning the crowd for his next target.

Hwi’s stomach twisted uncomfortably. Over the past few days, they’d used Chung Myung’s unparalleled skills to rob travelers, pick pockets, and even intimidate local merchants into handing over their goods. The haul had been enormous—more than they’d ever dreamed of—but it was starting to feel… wrong.

Not that Dumok seemed to care.

“Hey, Hwi,” Dumok said, leaning back against the steps. “You know, we could probably retire soon. Just a few more days like this, and we’ll have enough money to live like kings.”

Hwi didn’t answer. His eyes were fixed on Chung Myung, who had stopped moving.

“Uh… Dumok?”

“What?”

“He’s not moving.”

Dumok sat up, following Hwi’s gaze. Chung Myung stood in the middle of the market, his shoulders slumped and his head bowed. For the first time since they’d found him, he looked… human.

Before they could call out to him, his knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the cobblestones.

“Hey!” Hwi shouted, rushing over. Dumok was right behind him, his meat bun forgotten.

They knelt beside Chung Myung, who lay motionless on the ground. His breathing was shallow, and his pale face glistened with sweat.

“What’s wrong with him?” Dumok asked, his voice tinged with panic.

“I don’t know!” Hwi snapped, checking Chung Myung’s pulse. “He’s burning up. When’s the last time we let him eat or sleep?”

Dumok hesitated. “Uh… I don’t know? He never asked for food or rest, so I just figured he didn’t need it.”

Hwi groaned, running a hand through his hair. “Of course he needs it, you idiot! He’s not a machine—he’s a person!”

They exchanged a panicked glance before Hwi sighed. “Help me get him inside. We need to let him rest.”

Back at Mount Hua, the tension had reached a breaking point.

Baek Cheon paced the courtyard, his normally calm demeanor replaced by barely concealed worry.

“This is getting ridiculous,” he muttered. “He’s been gone too long. Something’s definitely wrong.”

Jo Gul, sitting nearby, looked up from his sword. “Do you think he’s in trouble?”

“I don’t know,” Baek Cheon admitted. “But I’m not going to wait around to find out.”

Yoon Jong stood, his expression grim. “What should we do, senior?”

Baek Cheon stopped pacing, his jaw tightening. “We’ll split into groups and search the nearby villages. If he’s not back by nightfall, we’ll send word to the elders.”

Jo Gul whistled low. “The elders? You really think it’s that serious?”

Baek Cheon nodded. “Chung Myung may be unpredictable, but he’s not careless. If he’s in trouble, we need to find him.”

Yu Iseol, standing quietly to the side, finally spoke. “We should hurry.”

The others nodded, their usual bickering replaced by a shared determination.

In the small inn room, Dumok hovered nervously by the bed where Chung Myung lay unconscious, his mask and hat removed to reveal a pale, boyish face.

Hwi sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the amulet still hanging around Chung Myung’s neck.

“We did this,” he said quietly.

Dumok shifted uncomfortably. “Hey, don’t beat yourself up. It’s not like we knew this would happen.”

Hwi shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. We used him. Pushed him too hard. And now…” He trailed off, his gaze dropping to the amulet.

“What do we do now?” Dumok asked, his voice unusually soft.

Hwi didn’t answer. For the first time in days, he felt the weight of his actions crushing down on him.

“We… we help him,” he said finally. “Whatever it takes.”

Neither of them noticed the faint flicker of light that passed through the amulet as they spoke.

The room was silent. The walls were shrouded in an oppressive darkness, endless and heavy, pressing in from all sides. In the center of it, Chung Myung stood motionless, his wooden sword gripped loosely in his hand. But this wasn’t the vibrant, cocky swordsman of Mount Hua. His eyes were hollow, his gaze vacant, and his shoulders sagged with exhaustion that ran far deeper than the physical.

A figure emerged from the void, stepping toward him. As the figure drew closer, its features became clearer: the long robes of Mount Hua, a sharp yet gentle gaze, and a calm demeanor that commanded both respect and devotion.

“Elder Hyun Jong,” Chung Myung murmured, his voice barely a whisper.

“Chung Myung.” The Sect Leader’s voice was firm yet distant, like an echo from a memory long past.

More figures appeared behind Hyun Jong: his senior brothers, their faces sharp with disappointment. The weight of their gazes bore down on Chung Myung, but their lips didn’t move. Instead, they simply stared, their silence more piercing than words.

Why…? Why are they looking at me like that? What did I do?

He opened his mouth to speak, to explain himself, but no sound came out. A creeping sensation spread from his neck—a cold, crawling itch that tightened with every second. He glanced down, his eyes widening in horror as he saw the tendrils of black spreading from the amulet around his neck, crawling under his robes, darkening his skin like ink spilled on parchment.

This… what is this?

The black tendrils climbed higher, reaching his jaw, his cheeks, threatening to cover his face entirely. His breaths came shallow and ragged as he stumbled backward, the voices of his brothers and sect leader now ringing in his ears, though their lips remained unmoving.

“You’ve failed us.”

“You’ve abandoned Mount Hua.”

“You betrayed what we stood for.”

“No!” Chung Myung shouted, his voice hoarse with desperation. “I… I didn’t… I…”

But the words felt hollow.

In the waking world, two days had passed since Chung Myung had collapsed. In the small inn room, Hwi and Dumok sat by the bedside, watching the pale young man with expressions that betrayed a mix of guilt and greed.

“Do you think he’s okay?” Dumok asked, his voice unusually subdued. He was chewing on a piece of dried meat, but for once, the action lacked enthusiasm.

“He’s still breathing,” Hwi replied, leaning forward to place a hand on Chung Myung’s forehead. “His fever’s gone down. That’s a good sign, right?”

“Yeah, but…” Dumok trailed off, his eyes drifting to the wooden sword propped against the wall. “It’s weird, you know? For someone so strong, he’s… fragile.”

Hwi frowned, his fingers tightening into a fist. “Maybe we shouldn’t have worked him so hard.”

Dumok snorted. “No kidding. But hey, we’ve learned our lesson, right? From now on, we’ll feed him and let him sleep. Simple.”

Hwi glanced down at Chung Myung’s face. In sleep, he looked younger than ever, his features softened by exhaustion. It was easy to forget that he was a fighter, a man whose skill with a sword bordered on supernatural.

“What do you think his story is?” Hwi asked quietly.

Dumok shrugged. “I don’t know. Probably ran away from some village, got trained by some crazy old hermit. You know how martial arts types are.”

“Yeah, but…” Hwi hesitated. “Don’t you think he’s… different?”

“Of course he’s different,” Dumok said, rolling his eyes. “He’s a kid who can take down grown men without breaking a sweat. But as long as he listens to us, who cares?”

Hwi sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t know, Dumok. Sometimes I feel like…”

“Like what?”

Hwi hesitated. “Like we’re playing with fire.”

Dumok smirked. “Well, then it’s a good thing we’re quick on our feet, huh?”

At Mount Hua, the situation had grown dire.

Baek Cheon stood in the middle of a crowded village square, his expression tight with frustration. Yoon Jong and Jo Gul were at his side, both of them scanning the faces in the crowd for any sign of their missing junior.

“This is pointless,” Jo Gul muttered. “We’ve been to three villages already, and there’s still no sign of him.”

“Keep looking,” Baek Cheon snapped. “He’s out here somewhere. We just have to find him.”

Yu Iseol, silent as ever, moved through the market stalls with a grace that drew little attention. Her sharp eyes scanned every face, every shadow, searching for even the faintest clue.

As fate would have it, Hwi and Dumok passed mere feet away from her, their heads bent as they argued about where to find their next meal.

“This inn food is way too expensive,” Hwi grumbled. “If we’re going to keep this up, we need to start cooking for ourselves.”

“You? Cook?” Dumok scoffed. “You’d burn water if you tried.”

The pair walked on, completely unaware that the people searching for their “Sword Guy” were so close.

When Chung Myung finally stirred, it was well into the second night. He opened his eyes slowly, the dull ache of exhaustion weighing down his limbs. His mind was a haze, his memories fragmented. The only clear image was the dark room and the faces of his past, their voices haunting his thoughts.

Where… am I?

“You’re awake!” Dumok’s voice jolted him from his thoughts. The chubby man grinned, holding out a bowl of steaming soup. “Here, eat this. You’ll feel better.”

Chung Myung blinked, his expression blank as he reached for the bowl. The amulet still hung around his neck, its dark influence pulsing faintly beneath his skin.

“We let you rest for two days,” Hwi said, his tone cautious. “Figured you’d earned it.”

Chung Myung nodded slowly, his movements sluggish. He lifted the spoon to his mouth, his mind still foggy.

“You’re not mad, right?” Dumok asked nervously. “About, you know, us working you so hard?”

Chung Myung lowered the spoon, his blank eyes meeting Dumok’s. “No,” he said quietly. “I’m not mad.”

Hwi and Dumok exchanged relieved looks.

“Great!” Dumok said, clapping his hands together. “So… once you’re feeling better, we’ve got a job lined up. Nothing too hard, I promise. Just a quick in-and-out.”

Chung Myung said nothing, his gaze drifting to the window. Somewhere, beyond the hills and forests, Mount Hua stood tall, its disciples searching desperately for him.

But in this room, he was just “Sword Guy,” a pawn to be moved at the whims of two con artists who had no idea what they’d stumbled upon.

And the black tendrils continued to grow.

 

The next morning, sunlight streamed through the cracked shutters of the inn room. Dumok stretched with a loud yawn, his chubby form sprawling over the only chair in the room. Hwi, already awake, stood by the table, fiddling with the pile of coins and trinkets they’d amassed over the past few days.

Chung Myung sat cross-legged on the floor, his blank gaze fixed on the wooden sword resting across his lap. He had been silent since waking up the previous night, responding only when spoken to.

Hwi glanced at him, unease prickling at the back of his mind. He’s so quiet. Too quiet. You’d think a kid his age would get annoyed or complain… but not him. It’s like he’s not even there half the time.

“Hey, Sword Guy,” Dumok said, breaking the silence. “How’re you feeling? You good to work today?”

Chung Myung lifted his head slowly, his tired, colorless eyes meeting Dumok’s. “Yes,” he replied, his voice as empty as ever.

Dumok grinned, clapping his hands. “Great! We’ve got an easy job lined up—just a couple of merchants passing through the woods. Nothing you can’t handle.”

Hwi frowned, his fingers twitching nervously. “Are you sure about this, Dumok? He just woke up. Maybe we should let him rest a bit longer.”

“Rest?” Dumok waved a dismissive hand. “He had two whole days to rest! Look at him—he’s fine.”

Hwi hesitated, his gaze flickering to the faint shadows under Chung Myung’s eyes. Fine? He looks like he hasn’t slept in a year. How does someone even get that tired?

But before he could argue further, Chung Myung stood up, his movements slow but steady. “I can work,” he said flatly.

Dumok slapped Hwi on the back. “See? The kid’s a trooper! Now, let’s get moving before those merchants get too far ahead.”

The forest was alive with the sounds of rustling leaves and chirping birds as the trio made their way along the winding path. Hwi and Dumok walked ahead, their voices low as they discussed the plan. Chung Myung trailed behind, his wooden sword loosely strapped to his back.

Hwi’s thoughts were a whirlwind of unease. This isn’t right. We’re pushing him too hard again, aren’t we? But what are we supposed to do? Just let him go? He’s the reason we’ve been eating so well lately… and it’s not like we forced him to stick around.

Dumok, meanwhile, was grinning as he imagined their next payday. This is perfect. Sword Guy scares them, we grab the goods, and we’re out. Easy money, no risk. What could go wrong?

As they reached a bend in the path, Dumok turned to Chung Myung. “Alright, Sword Guy, here’s the plan: You jump out, scare them, and take whatever they’ve got. Simple, right?”

Chung Myung nodded, his face blank. “Understood.”

Hwi bit his lip, his stomach churning with guilt. Why does he always agree so easily? Doesn’t he care what happens to him? Or… is he just too tired to fight back?

 

At the same time, in a nearby village, the Mount Hua disciples were growing more desperate.

Baek Cheon paced back and forth in the small square, his frustration evident in the sharpness of his movements. Jo Gul leaned against a market stall, arms crossed, while Yoon Jong stood nearby, scanning the bustling streets for any sign of their missing junior. Yu Iseol remained silent as usual, her eyes locked on the ground, but the tightness in her posture betrayed her own growing concern.

“This is getting ridiculous,” Baek Cheon muttered, stopping abruptly. “We’ve searched three villages already, and there’s still no trace of him. It’s like he’s vanished.”

Jo Gul clicked his tongue, pushing off the stall. “You know Chung Myung. He could be anywhere—probably picking a fight with someone three towns over.”

“Or passed out in a tavern,” Yoon Jong added with a sigh.

Baek Cheon’s jaw tightened. “I want to believe that, but something feels wrong. He’s unpredictable, yes, but he’s not reckless. Not like this.”

Yu Iseol’s quiet voice cut through the tension. “We need to expand the search.”

Baek Cheon turned to her, his expression softening. “You’re right. We’ll split up again and cover more ground. Keep your eyes open for anything unusual.”

“Unusual?” Jo Gul scoffed. “This is Chung Myung we’re talking about. Everything he does is unusual.”

Despite the attempt at humor, no one laughed. The group dispersed, their worry thick in the air as they continued their search.

What none of them realized was that their missing junior was closer than they thought.

Not far from the village, in a secluded part of the forest, Chung Myung stood at the edge of the path, waiting for the signal from Hwi and Dumok. His wooden sword rested lightly in his hand, and his eyes—those tired, blank eyes—were fixed on the trail ahead.

Hwi and Dumok crouched behind a bush a few paces away, watching as the approaching merchants’ wagon creaked closer.

“Alright,” Dumok whispered, his excitement barely contained. “This is it. Sword Guy scares them, we grab the loot, and we’re out. Easy.”

Hwi glanced at Chung Myung, unease twisting in his gut. He doesn’t even hesitate anymore. Just follows orders like it’s all he knows. Is it really okay to keep using him like this?

The merchants drew closer, their conversation light and oblivious to the danger ahead. Dumok nudged Hwi. “Go on. Give the signal.”

Hwi hesitated, his gaze flicking between the merchants and Chung Myung. I should say no. I should tell Dumok we’re done with this… but what happens to us if we let him go? What happens to him?

With a reluctant sigh, he raised his hand and waved.

Chung Myung moved instantly.

The plan went as smoothly as expected. Within moments, the merchants were disarmed and fleeing down the path, leaving their goods behind. Hwi and Dumok worked quickly, stuffing bags of coins and other valuables into their satchels.

“You’re a natural, Sword Guy,” Dumok said with a grin, tossing another pouch of silver into his bag.

Chung Myung stood silently nearby, his wooden sword still in hand.

Hwi glanced at him, his unease growing. “Hey, you okay? You look… worse than usual.”

Chung Myung didn’t respond. Instead, he reached up and adjusted the amulet around his neck, his movements slow and deliberate.

Hwi’s stomach twisted. That thing… it’s gotta be the reason he’s like this. But if we take it off, what happens? Will he come after us?

“We should get going,” Dumok said, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Before someone comes looking for those merchants.”

Hwi nodded reluctantly. “Yeah. Let’s move.”

Back in the village, the Mount Hua disciples were still combing the streets.

Jo Gul stopped in the middle of the market, squinting at a pair of figures walking past with heavy bags slung over their shoulders. “Hey,” he said, nudging Yoon Jong. “Doesn’t that look suspicious to you?”

Yoon Jong glanced over. “Probably just travelers. Why?”

Jo Gul frowned, watching as the two men—Hwi and Dumok—disappeared into the crowd. “I don’t know. Something about them feels… off.”

“Everything feels off right now,” Yoon Jong muttered, his frustration showing. “Come on, let’s keep looking.”

Neither of them noticed the faint gleam of a wooden sword’s hilt poking out of one of Dumok’s bags.

That night, back at the inn, Hwi and Dumok sat at the small table in their room, counting the day’s haul.

“I’m telling you, Hwi, we’re set,” Dumok said, his eyes gleaming as he ran his fingers through a pile of silver coins. “At this rate, we could retire in a week!”

Hwi didn’t respond. His gaze was fixed on Chung Myung, who sat motionless in the corner of the room, his wooden sword resting across his knees.

“Hey,” Hwi said quietly, his voice barely audible.

Dumok looked up. “What?”

“Do you ever wonder… if we’re doing the right thing?”

Dumok snorted. “What’s there to wonder about? He doesn’t care. He’s fine with this.”

Hwi’s jaw tightened. “But what if he’s not? What if he’s just too tired to fight back?”

Dumok waved a hand dismissively. “You worry too much. Sword Guy’s fine. Just make sure he gets some food and sleep, and we’re golden.”

Hwi sighed, his unease refusing to fade. How long can we keep this up before something goes wrong?

Across the room, Chung Myung’s grip on his sword tightened ever so slightly, the black tendrils creeping further across his skin.

 

The mask felt rough against Chung Myung’s skin, but he slid it into place without hesitation. The familiar weight of the straw hat settled on his head, tilting forward just enough to obscure most of his face. Only his dull, colorless eyes and pale hands were visible, giving him the appearance of a shadow given form.

Weeks had turned into months. The boy once known as the blessed dragon of Mount Hua now existed solely as “Sword Guy,” the nameless, faceless tool of Hwi and Dumok.

The first time they’d asked him to kill, even Hwi had faltered.

“Assassinate?” he’d echoed, his voice trembling. “You mean… you want him to kill someone?”

The burly man who had hired them had laughed. “You said your guy was the best, right? This is just another job. Pay’s good, too.”

Hwi had swallowed hard, glancing nervously at Dumok. “I don’t know if we should…”

“It’s just a job, Hwi,” Dumok had said, his voice calm but firm. “He doesn’t care. Look at him—he doesn’t even flinch.”

And it was true. Chung Myung had stood silently beside them, his mask hiding any trace of emotion. When they gave the order, he moved without hesitation, slipping into the shadows like a wraith.

By the time he returned, the job was done, and his wooden sword was clean as if nothing had happened.

From then on, the jobs became more dangerous, more brutal. No longer content with simple theft, Hwi and Dumok began taking contracts from wealthy clients—intimidation, duels, even assassinations.

Hwi hated every second of it.

This isn’t what I signed up for, he thought late one night as he watched Chung Myung eat a bowl of plain rice in silence. We were supposed to be con artists, not killers. How did it come to this?

But Dumok seemed unfazed, always ready with a justification. “We’re not hurting him. He’s the best at what he does. Why not let him do it?”

Hwi knew it wasn’t that simple. But what could he do? Sword Guy never complained, never resisted. It was as if he didn’t even care what they made him do.

Or maybe he’s just too tired to care anymore.

The rumors spread quickly. A mysterious swordsman, masked and silent, was cutting a bloody path through the martial world. Witnesses spoke of his eerie precision, his blank gaze, and the way he seemed to move like a shadow, appearing and disappearing without a trace.

Some called him a demon. Others believed he was a cursed wanderer, bound to the will of whoever held his leash. But no one knew his name, his origin, or his purpose.

Back at Mount Hua, the disciples heard the rumors but paid them little mind.

“Some masked swordsman?” Jo Gul scoffed as they sat in the training courtyard one afternoon. “Sounds like one of those ridiculous stories merchants tell to make their goods sound more exciting.”

“It could be real,” Yoon Jong said thoughtfully, leaning on his sword. “There are plenty of dangerous people in the martial world.”

Baek Cheon frowned, glancing toward the mountain path. “We should stay cautious. If there’s any truth to the rumors, this ‘Sword Guy’ could be a threat.”

Yu Iseol remained silent, her sharp gaze fixed on the horizon.

“Do you think Chung Myung would’ve gone after him if he were here?” Jo Gul asked, grinning. “He’d probably challenge the guy just to prove he’s better.”

Baek Cheon’s frown deepened. It had been months since Chung Myung had disappeared. They had searched every nearby village, every possible lead, but it was as if the boy had simply vanished into thin air.

Where are you, Chung Myung?

In the shadows of yet another unfamiliar city, Chung Myung slipped into the inn where Hwi and Dumok waited. The weight of the jobs, the endless commands, and the poison seeping from the amulet into his veins was taking its toll.

His steps were slower now, his movements more mechanical. The black tendrils had spread across his chest and down his arms, though they remained hidden beneath his robes. His mask and hat never came off in public, and no one—not even Hwi and Dumok—had seen his face since the day they put the amulet on him.

“You’re back!” Dumok greeted him cheerfully, waving him over to the table where a plate of food awaited. “Good job today. That duel was a close one, huh?”

Chung Myung sat down without a word, picking up the rice and eating mechanically.

Hwi, seated across from him, studied him with a frown. He’s getting worse. Every time he comes back, he looks… smaller. Like he’s fading away.

“You need more rest,” Hwi said abruptly.

Chung Myung didn’t respond, continuing to eat in silence.

Chapter Text

“He’s fine,” Dumok said, waving Hwi off. “He’s tougher than he looks. Right, Sword Guy?”

Chung Myung didn’t answer. He finished the bowl of rice, set it down quietly, and stood. The wooden sword on his back shifted slightly with his movement, but he made no move to speak, no move to sit longer than necessary.

“Hey,” Hwi said, his voice sharper than usual. “Sit down. You’re not going anywhere yet.”

Chung Myung paused, his head tilting slightly in what might have been confusion.

Dumok frowned. “What’s your deal, Hwi? He’s fine—”

“He’s not fine,” Hwi snapped, his tone uncharacteristically serious. “Look at him, Dumok. He hasn’t slept properly in days. I’m not sending him out until he rests.”

Dumok leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “He doesn’t complain, does he? If he doesn’t think he needs rest, why are you making a big deal about it?”

Hwi’s hand slammed against the table, startling both Dumok and Chung Myung. “Because he’s not some tool we can just keep using until he breaks!”

The room fell silent.

Chung Myung stood motionless, his mask hiding any reaction to the argument. But somewhere deep inside, where the amulet’s influence couldn’t entirely smother his thoughts, a flicker of recognition stirred.

They’re fighting… over me?

It was a strange sensation. For months, he had moved through life like a puppet, obeying commands without hesitation or thought. Now, for the first time, he felt the faintest spark of something else.

“What’s gotten into you?” Dumok muttered, his tone defensive.

Hwi glared at him, his chest heaving with frustration. “I don’t know, Dumok. Maybe it’s the fact that we’ve been treating a kid like he’s some kind of machine! Look at him. He’s barely hanging on!”

Dumok opened his mouth to argue, but the words died on his lips as he looked at Chung Myung. For the first time, he really looked at him—the way his shoulders slumped under the weight of exhaustion, the hollowness of his eyes, the faint tremor in his hands as he adjusted the strap of his sword.

“Fine,” Dumok said after a long pause, his voice quieter. “He can rest tonight. But tomorrow, we’ve got another job lined up.”

Hwi scowled but didn’t push further. It’s better than nothing.

“Sit down,” Hwi said to Chung Myung again, more gently this time.

Chung Myung hesitated for a moment before obeying, lowering himself onto the chair. His mask hid any expression, but the tension in his posture seemed to ease slightly.

The days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months. The jobs grew harder, riskier. The con artists moved from city to city, never staying in one place for too long. Chung Myung followed them without question, his movements mechanical, his will crushed under the weight of the amulet’s poison.

The black tendrils had spread further, curling up the sides of his neck and creeping toward his jaw. They reached down his arms, snaking over his chest and back. Hidden beneath his robes and mask, the spreading darkness went unnoticed by Hwi and Dumok.

How much longer can I keep going?

The thought came unbidden, slipping past the numbing fog that clouded his mind. Every step felt heavier, every swing of his sword more laborious. The amulet’s influence weighed on him like chains, dragging him deeper into the void.

In a bustling city far from Mount Hua, the two con artists and their masked swordsman found themselves at yet another inn. The room was cramped and dimly lit, but it was enough for their purposes.

Hwi sat at the table, counting the coins from their latest job. His brow furrowed as he ran his fingers through the pile. “This isn’t enough,” he muttered. “Not for a job like that. They shorted us.”

“They’re lucky we don’t go back and make them pay extra,” Dumok said, reclining in his chair. “Sword Guy could’ve handled it easy.”

Chung Myung sat by the window, his head bowed as he stared blankly at the wooden sword across his lap.

“Yeah, and what happens when Sword Guy collapses again?” Hwi snapped, his frustration spilling over.

Dumok sighed, shaking his head. “We’ve been over this, Hwi. He rests, he eats, and he’s fine. We’ve got a good thing going here. Don’t ruin it.”

Hwi’s jaw clenched. A good thing? Is that what we’re calling this now? He glanced at Chung Myung, guilt gnawing at his gut.

Why do I feel like we’re running out of time?

Back at Mount Hua, the disciples sat in the main hall, listening as the Sect Leader addressed them.

Hyun Jong’s expression was grave as he spoke. “The rumors have grown more frequent. A masked swordsman moving through the martial world, leaving destruction in his wake.”

Baek Cheon frowned, his mind racing. A masked swordsman… Could it be—? No. That’s impossible. There’s no way Chung Myung would—

Jo Gul leaned over to Yoon Jong, whispering, “You think it’s him? I mean, it kind of sounds like something he’d do.”

Yoon Jong shot him a glare. “Don’t be ridiculous. If it were Chung Myung, he wouldn’t be hiding under a mask.”

Baek Cheon’s voice cut through their whispering. “Enough. We have more important things to focus on.”

Yu Iseol, sitting silently at the back of the hall, lowered her gaze. She hadn’t spoken of it, but the rumors had been gnawing at her as well.

Chung Myung… where are you?

None of them knew how close the masked swordsman was. How he sat in an inn not far from Mount Hua’s reach, hidden in plain sight as he carried out the will of two strangers. And none of them knew the toll it was taking—not just on his body, but on his soul.

 

The morning sun rose over the valley, casting long shadows across the bustling city streets. Mount Hua’s disciples had arrived earlier that day, their search for Chung Myung leading them to the edge of the martial world’s rumor mill. The stories of a masked swordsman—cold, deadly, and unmatched—had reached even the most remote corners of the region.

Baek Cheon stood in the middle of a crowded square, arms crossed, his expression tense.

“This is the third city in a row where we’ve heard about him,” he said, his voice low but firm. “The rumors are too consistent to ignore. We need to find this ‘Sword Guy.’”

Jo Gul leaned casually against a post, though the unease in his posture betrayed his outward calm. “You really think it’s Chung Myung? I mean, sure, it sounds like him… but a masked assassin? That’s not exactly his style.”

Baek Cheon shot him a look. “Do you really think you know his ‘style’? This is Chung Myung we’re talking about. He could be doing anything for any reason.”

Yoon Jong frowned, adjusting the sword at his side. “The question is, if it is him, why is he hiding his identity? And why hasn’t he come back?”

Yu Iseol stood silently at the edge of the group, her eyes scanning the square. She said nothing, but the faint tightening of her jaw hinted at her growing worry.

Baek Cheon sighed, rubbing his temples. “Alright. We’ll split up. Ask around. Someone in this city has to know more about this ‘Sword Guy.’”

Jo Gul smirked, trying to lighten the mood. “And what if it’s not him? Are we going to challenge some random masked swordsman to a duel?”

“If it’s not him, we’ll find out soon enough,” Baek Cheon replied sharply. “But if there’s even a chance it’s Chung Myung, we need to take it.”

The group dispersed into the city, each taking a different approach.

Jo Gul wandered into a noisy tavern, leaning casually against the bar as he flagged down the barkeep. “Hey,” he said, flashing his most charming grin. “Heard any interesting stories lately? Maybe about a certain masked swordsman?”

The barkeep, a grizzled old man with a missing tooth, raised an eyebrow. “Masked swordsman, eh? You mean that ‘Sword Guy’ everyone’s been talking about?”

“That’s the one,” Jo Gul said, trying to sound nonchalant.

The barkeep snorted. “He’s trouble, that one. Showed up here a couple weeks ago, took out three mercenaries in less than a minute. Didn’t say a word, just left after he was done.”

Jo Gul’s grin faltered. Three mercenaries in a minute? Sounds like him, alright.

“Any idea where he went after that?” Jo Gul asked.

The barkeep shrugged. “Who knows? He’s like a ghost—shows up, does his thing, and disappears. Don’t think he’s still in the city, though.”

Yoon Jong, meanwhile, approached a group of merchants setting up their stalls. He bowed politely, his tone measured and respectful. “Excuse me, but I’m looking for information about a swordsman who’s been traveling through this area. Wears a mask, carries a wooden sword.”

One of the merchants, a stout woman with sharp eyes, chuckled. “You mean the one everyone’s scared of? Yeah, I’ve heard about him. Supposedly, he’s been working for all kinds of shady folks—mercenaries, rich lords, you name it. Took out a gang of bandits not far from here, too.”

Yoon Jong frowned. “Do you know where he might be now?”

“Last I heard, he was headed north,” the woman said. “But who knows? That guy’s unpredictable.”

North. Yoon Jong repeated the word silently to himself, his mind turning over the possibilities. Could it really be him? If it is, why would Chung Myung be working for people like that? It doesn’t make sense.

He bowed again to the merchant. “Thank you for your help.”

As he walked away, his grip tightened on the hilt of his sword. We’re close. I can feel it. If this really is Chung Myung, there has to be a reason for everything… right?

Jo Gul and Yoon Jong met up in the square an hour later, both wearing grim expressions.

“North,” Yoon Jong said simply, echoing what Jo Gul had also learned from the barkeep.

Jo Gul nodded, running a hand through his hair. “Same here. He was last seen a couple of weeks ago, but it’s like he disappeared after that. No one knows where exactly.”

Baek Cheon approached them, his own face tight with frustration. “I spoke to a few more people. They’ve all heard of him—Sword Guy—but no one knows who he is or where he comes from. Just that he’s strong, quiet, and… deadly.”

Jo Gul glanced around the square, lowering his voice. “Think about it, senior. If it’s not Chung Myung, we’re chasing shadows. If it is him… then something’s seriously wrong. He’s not just picking fights—he’s working for dangerous people.”

Baek Cheon clenched his fists. “We’ll find him. Whatever it takes.”

Yu Iseol joined them without a word, her expression unreadable but her eyes sharp. She had nothing to add; the rumors had all been the same no matter where she asked. But the faintest flicker of something—an instinct, perhaps—gnawed at her.

If it’s him, why hasn’t he come back?

Hwi and Dumok weren’t far from the Mount Hua disciples that day, though neither side noticed the other. The con artists walked through a crowded alley with satchels full of coins and trinkets jingling at their sides.

Hwi glanced nervously at Dumok. “I don’t know about this next job, Dumok. The client’s weird. Too many questions, not enough answers.”

Dumok rolled his eyes. “You always get jumpy when the client’s too rich. Relax. It’s another duel, right? Sword Guy’ll handle it, just like he always does.”

Hwi sighed, his stomach twisting with unease. He’s not wrong, but… something doesn’t feel right about this one. And Sword Guy’s been getting weaker. What if one day, he can’t handle it? What then?

Behind them, Chung Myung followed silently, his wooden sword strapped to his back, his mask and hat concealing all but his pale hands and blank, weary eyes.

That night, as the disciples gathered in a dimly lit inn room to compare notes, Baek Cheon leaned forward, his voice low and tense.

“Every lead points to him heading north,” he said, glancing at the others. “But no one knows where exactly. If we want to find him, we’ll have to follow the trail ourselves.”

Jo Gul frowned. “But what if it’s not him? We’ll be chasing a phantom.”

“It’s better than doing nothing,” Yoon Jong countered, his tone unusually sharp. “If it’s not him, we move on. But if it is…” He trailed off, unable to finish the thought.

Yu Iseol, who had been silent all evening, finally spoke. “We can’t let him stay like this.”

Her voice was calm, but the weight of her words hit the others like a hammer.

Baek Cheon nodded. “We leave at first light.”

The following morning, Hwi, Dumok, and Chung Myung left their inn just as the Mount Hua disciples passed through the same district. The two groups brushed past each other in the crowded street, the disciples too focused on their search and the con artists too busy discussing their next move to notice.

Chung Myung’s masked face turned slightly, his dulled eyes flickering toward Baek Cheon as they passed.

Familiar…

The word floated faintly through his fogged mind before it disappeared. He kept walking, his wooden sword bouncing lightly against his back.

Baek Cheon felt the faintest twinge of something as he glanced over his shoulder, but the masked figure had already disappeared into the crowd.

“Senior?” Yoon Jong asked, noticing his hesitation.

Baek Cheon shook his head. “Nothing. Let’s keep moving.”

Hours later, the two groups continued moving north, their paths unknowingly converging.

Chung Myung’s steps grew heavier, the poison of the amulet pulsing through his veins like ice. He stumbled slightly, and Hwi shot him a worried glance.

“You alright?” Hwi asked, his voice low.

“I’m fine,” Chung Myung replied flatly, his tone devoid of emotion.

Hwi frowned but said nothing. Dumok, walking ahead, glanced back. “Come on, Sword Guy. Don’t fall behind.”

Chung Myung followed, his steps mechanical, his mind clouded by exhaustion.

The Mount Hua disciples, just a few miles behind, pressed on with growing urgency.

We’re getting closer, Baek Cheon thought, his fists clenching as he led the way. Chung Myung… wherever you are, we’re going to bring you back.

But neither side knew how close they truly were—or the storm that was brewing just beyond the horizon.

The mood among the Mount Hua disciples had soured. Days of searching with no solid leads had left them frustrated and weary. Despite their best efforts, the mysterious masked swordsman—Sword Guy—seemed to be nothing more than an untouchable shadow, always a step ahead.

Baek Cheon sat on a low wall by the side of a bustling road, his arms resting on his knees as he stared at the ground. Jo Gul paced in front of him, muttering to himself, while Yoon Jong leaned against a post, frowning at the passersby. Yu Iseol stood a short distance away, as silent and watchful as ever.

“This is pointless,” Jo Gul said, throwing his hands in the air. “We’re chasing rumors and ghosts. If Chung Myung doesn’t want to be found, we’re not going to find him.”

“We don’t know it’s him,” Yoon Jong said evenly. “Not for sure.”

“Then why are we even doing this?!” Jo Gul snapped, spinning to face him. “What if we’re wasting time chasing some random swordsman while Chung Myung is… is…”

He trailed off, unable to finish the thought.

Baek Cheon lifted his head, his jaw tightening. “We’re not giving up. If it’s not him, then fine, but we’re not leaving without answers. He wouldn’t give up on us.”

Jo Gul sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, yeah. I know. It’s just… hard.”

Yu Iseol’s gaze shifted suddenly, her sharp eyes locking onto a man weaving through the crowded market.

“He’s connected,” she said quietly, her voice barely audible over the noise.

Baek Cheon frowned. “What?”

“That man,” she said, nodding toward him. “I saw him talking about the masked swordsman to some merchants earlier.”

The disciples turned to look. The man was stocky, with a shifty demeanor and a satchel slung over his shoulder. He glanced around nervously as he moved, muttering to himself.

Jo Gul raised an eyebrow. “He doesn’t exactly scream reliable source.”

“He’s worth a try,” Baek Cheon said, already rising to his feet.

The man—one of Hwi and Dumok’s contacts, though the disciples didn’t know it yet—was startled when the four of them surrounded him.

“W-what do you want?” he stammered, clutching his satchel tightly.

“We have a few questions,” Baek Cheon said firmly. “About the masked swordsman people have been talking about.”

The man’s eyes darted around nervously. “I don’t know anything about that!”

Jo Gul stepped closer, his tone light but edged. “Come on, don’t be like that. We just want to talk.”

The man hesitated, his gaze flickering between them. He seemed to weigh his options before sighing. “Fine. What do you want to know?”

“Where can we find him?” Baek Cheon asked.

The man scratched his chin, looking reluctant. “He doesn’t stay in one place for long, but… if you want to see him in action, there’s a duel happening tomorrow. Big one. Some lord paid a fortune to arrange it.”

Yoon Jong frowned. “A duel?”

“Yeah. Against some swordsman from the southern provinces. Word is, they hired the masked guy to take him out.”

Baek Cheon’s expression darkened. “Where is it?”

The man hesitated again, but the intensity of Baek Cheon’s gaze broke him. “North edge of the city. The old training grounds. That’s all I know, I swear.”

Baek Cheon nodded, stepping back. “Let’s go.”

The disciples turned and left, their urgency renewed.

At the inn, Chung Myung sat slumped in a chair, his breathing labored. The poison from the amulet had spread further, black tendrils curling around his neck and reaching the edges of his jaw. Sweat dripped from his pale face, soaking into his mask, and his hands trembled faintly as he rested them on his lap.

Hwi watched him nervously, his guilt growing by the minute. “He’s not doing well, Dumok,” he said quietly.

Dumok, leaning against the wall with a piece of bread in his hand, shrugged. “He’s been worse. He’ll be fine.”

“He’s coughing more,” Hwi pressed. “Sweating. You can’t tell me you don’t see it.”

“So what do you want to do?” Dumok asked, his tone sharper than usual. “Tell him to stop? Send him away? We’ve got a job tomorrow, Hwi. A big one. We can’t afford to let him rest now.”

Hwi’s fists clenched. What are we doing? He’s just a kid.

Chung Myung stirred slightly, lifting his head to meet Hwi’s gaze. His eyes, dull and blank, betrayed no emotion.

“I’m fine,” he said, his voice hoarse but steady.

Hwi flinched. “No, you’re not—”

“I’m fine,” Chung Myung repeated, rising slowly to his feet.

Dumok grinned, clapping him on the back. “See? Told you he’s tough.”

Hwi said nothing, but his unease deepened.

The next day, the old training grounds were buzzing with anticipation. A small crowd had gathered to watch the duel, their whispers and murmurs filling the air.

The Mount Hua disciples stood near the back.

The old training grounds were a mix of crumbled stone and overgrown grass, with faint remnants of a once-proud arena scattered across the area. A crowd had gathered in a loose ring, their chatter creating a low hum that filled the air. The duel was the talk of the town—two renowned swordsmen, one of them the infamous masked “Sword Guy.”

The Mount Hua disciples stood at the edge of the gathering, their eyes scanning the field.

“This place is a dump,” Jo Gul muttered, kicking a loose rock. “Are we sure this is the right spot? I’ve seen better dueling grounds behind a chicken coop.”

Baek Cheon gave him a sharp look. “Focus. If the masked swordsman is here, we’ll find him.”

Yoon Jong frowned, glancing around the crowd. “How do we even recognize him? He could be anyone.”

“Masked,” Yu Iseol said quietly, her gaze fixed ahead.

Jo Gul raised an eyebrow. “Thanks, Yu Iseol. I never would’ve guessed that the ‘masked’ swordsman is wearing a mask.”

She ignored him, as usual, her sharp eyes tracking every figure that moved toward the center of the field.

“Over there,” she said, tilting her head slightly.

The others followed her gaze and saw him: a slim figure in a black robe and straw hat, moving silently toward the center of the field. The brim of his hat obscured most of his face, and his hands were tucked loosely into his sleeves.

“That’s him?” Jo Gul asked, squinting. “Doesn’t look like much.”

Baek Cheon frowned. “Don’t underestimate him. Look at the way he walks—balanced, deliberate. He’s not just some random swordsman.”

Jo Gul snorted. “You sound like Chung Myung when you talk like that.”

Baek Cheon’s expression darkened at the name, but he didn’t respond.

The swordsman stepped into the dueling circle, his wooden sword strapped to his back. The crowd grew quieter, their whispers shifting to awe and tension.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” a loud, pompous man called out, stepping forward with a flourish. “Today, we witness the clash of two legends! On this side, the Silent Phantom himself—‘Sword Guy!’”

The crowd cheered, though the figure in the mask gave no reaction.

“And on the other side,” the announcer continued, gesturing to a towering, heavily armored man entering the circle, “the Southern Steel Dragon, Mo Kang!”

The crowd roared as Mo Kang raised his massive blade, grinning confidently.

The Mount Hua disciples watched in silence as the duel began.

Chung Myung moved like a shadow, his wooden sword slicing through the air with precision that seemed almost effortless. Mo Kang, despite his size and strength, struggled to keep up, his heavy blade clanging against the wooden sword in a flurry of strikes.

“Wow,” Jo Gul muttered, watching in awe. “He’s good.”

“Too good,” Yoon Jong said quietly.

Baek Cheon’s brow furrowed. “That movement… it’s familiar.”

Yu Iseol remained silent, her hand tightening on the hilt of her sword.

In the center of the field, Chung Myung’s body screamed with every movement. The poison from the amulet pulsed through his veins, leaving his limbs heavy and his chest tight.

Move. Just keep moving.

He sidestepped Mo Kang’s strike and countered with a precise blow to the man’s wrist, forcing him to drop his blade. The crowd erupted in cheers, but Chung Myung barely heard them.

He staggered slightly as he stepped back, his chest heaving. A faint, wet cough escaped his lips, and he felt something warm and metallic trickle down his throat.

Not now. Keep going.

He wiped his mouth quickly with his sleeve, the faint smear of blood hidden beneath the fabric.

Baek Cheon’s eyes narrowed as he watched the fight. “Did he just… stumble?”

“He’s coughing,” Yu Iseol said softly.

Jo Gul blinked. “Coughing? How can you even see that from here?”

“I saw it too,” Yoon Jong said, frowning. “Something’s wrong with him.”

Baek Cheon’s gaze hardened. If it’s him…

The duel ended with a final, sharp strike that sent Mo Kang sprawling to the ground. The crowd roared as the masked swordsman turned and began walking away, his movements slow and deliberate.

“That’s it?” Jo Gul muttered. “No grand speech? No victory pose? This guy really is the ‘Sword Guy.’”

“He’s leaving,” Yu Iseol said.

Baek Cheon stepped forward without hesitation. “Follow him.”

Chung Myung’s legs felt like lead as he slipped through the streets, his straw hat tilted low over his face. The fight had drained what little energy he had left, and his chest burned with every breath.

Keep moving. Don’t stop. They’ll notice if you stop.

The faint taste of blood lingered in his mouth, and he resisted the urge to cough again.

“Hey!” a voice called from behind.

Chung Myung froze.

“Wait a second!”

He turned slowly, his blank eyes meeting the sharp gaze of Baek Cheon.

Baek Cheon stared at him, his heart pounding. Those eyes… it can’t be…

“Who are you?” Baek Cheon demanded.

Chung Myung didn’t respond. He simply turned and began walking away.

Baek Cheon took a step forward. “Answer me!”

Yoon Jong, Jo Gul, and Yu Iseol caught up, their own expressions filled with confusion and disbelief.

“That movement… that sword… it’s him, isn’t it?” Yoon Jong said quietly.

Jo Gul frowned. “No way. Why would Chung Myung hide from us?”

Yu Iseol stepped forward, her voice calm but firm. “Chung Myung.”

Chung Myung froze again, his shoulders stiffening slightly.

The disciples exchanged looks of shock and recognition.

“It is him,” Baek Cheon said, his voice tight. “But… why?”

Chung Myung remained silent, his pale hands trembling faintly as he gripped the strap of his sword.

Jo Gul frowned. “What’s wrong with him? Why isn’t he saying anything?”

Before they could approach further, a figure appeared from the shadows: Dumok, his grin wide and careless.

“There you are, Sword Guy! Come on, we’ve got another job lined up.”

The Mount Hua disciples froze, their confusion deepening as Dumok clapped Chung Myung on the shoulder and began leading him away.

“Wait!” Baek Cheon shouted.

Chung Myung didn’t turn back.

Baek Cheon’s shout echoed through the narrow street, but neither Chung Myung nor Dumok paused. Dumok’s grip on Chung Myung’s shoulder seemed more casual than commanding, yet it was clear he expected to be obeyed.

The Mount Hua disciples stood frozen for a moment, disbelief written across their faces.

“That was him,” Jo Gul muttered, his voice shaking slightly. “I know it was.”

“It’s him,” Yoon Jong confirmed grimly. “But why didn’t he stop? Why didn’t he even look at us?”

Baek Cheon’s jaw clenched, his fists tightening. “We’re following them.”

Yu Iseol nodded without a word, already moving.

Dumok, oblivious to the tension trailing behind him, led Chung Myung through a side street toward an alley. “You’ve got to rest up for this next one,” he said, patting Chung Myung’s back as if they were friends. “Big client, big payout. You’ve been doing great lately, Sword Guy. Almost makes me feel bad for working you so hard. Almost.”

Chung Myung didn’t respond. His body felt like it was made of stone, heavy and unyielding, each step a monumental effort. The burning in his chest flared again, forcing him to cough.

Dumok glanced back, frowning. “You alright? Don’t tell me you’re getting sick or something. We can’t have you collapsing on us again, not with the kind of money they’re offering this time.”

Chung Myung wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, hiding the streak of blood. “I’m fine.”

It’s a lie, he thought numbly. But I have to keep going. I can’t stop now. They won’t let me stop.

The Mount Hua disciples trailed behind, careful to keep their distance.

“Who was that guy with him?” Jo Gul asked, his voice low.

“Not a friend,” Baek Cheon said sharply. “You saw the way he acted. He’s using him. Controlling him.”

Yoon Jong frowned. “But why? And how? This is Chung Myung we’re talking about. No one can control him.”

Jo Gul’s expression darkened. “What if it’s not just control? What if… he’s hurt? Or sick?”

Baek Cheon’s heart sank at the thought, but he shook his head. “We’ll find out soon enough. Just stay quiet and keep following them.”

Yu Iseol, who had been silent, suddenly spoke. “Look.”

They turned their attention back to the pair ahead just in time to see Dumok leading Chung Myung into a shabby inn at the edge of the city.

Baek Cheon’s eyes narrowed. “That’s where we’ll get our answers.”

Inside the inn, Dumok dropped into a chair with a sigh, motioning for Hwi to join him. Chung Myung remained standing, his posture rigid, his head bowed.

“You’re late,” Hwi muttered, glaring at Dumok. “And he doesn’t look good.”

Dumok waved him off. “He’s fine. He’ll be ready for the job tomorrow.”

“He’s coughing up blood,” Hwi snapped, his voice rising. “How is that fine?”

“It’s not a big deal,” Dumok replied with a shrug. “He always pulls through. You worry too much.”

Chung Myung coughed again, this time harder, and his body shook slightly. The sound made Hwi wince, guilt flooding his chest.

This isn’t right, Hwi thought, watching as Chung Myung leaned against the wall for support. We’re killing him. Bit by bit, we’re killing him, and all for what? More money?

“Go lie down,” Hwi said abruptly, his voice softer.

Chung Myung didn’t move at first, as if he hadn’t heard the command. Then, slowly, he nodded and shuffled toward the corner of the room where a thin mat was laid out.

Dumok raised an eyebrow. “You’re getting soft, Hwi.”

“Shut up,” Hwi snapped. “If we don’t let him rest, he’s going to collapse in the middle of the next job. Then where will we be?”

Dumok rolled his eyes. “Fine. Let him rest. But tomorrow, we’re back to business.”

Outside the inn, the Mount Hua disciples crouched beneath a window, listening intently.

Baek Cheon’s expression darkened with every word they overheard. “They’re using him like a tool,” he muttered, his voice low but furious. “They’ve been working him to the point of collapse.”

“They mentioned him coughing blood,” Yoon Jong said quietly, his tone grim. “He’s sick. Or poisoned.”

Jo Gul clenched his fists. “What kind of monsters do this to someone?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Baek Cheon said, his voice sharp. “We’re getting him out of there. Tonight.”

Yu Iseol nodded, her gaze fixed on the window. Chung Myung… you’re not staying here another night.

Inside, Chung Myung lay on the mat, staring blankly at the ceiling. His chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, his body trembling from the poison coursing through his veins.

They’re close, he thought, his mind foggy but aware. The others are close. I can feel them.

But the amulet’s influence weighed heavily on him, smothering the flicker of hope before it could grow.

It doesn’t matter. I can’t go back.

A faint cough escaped his lips, and he closed his eyes, the taste of blood lingering in his mouth.

I can’t go back.

 

Night fell over the city, casting long shadows across the narrow streets and alleyways. The inn where Hwi, Dumok, and Chung Myung stayed was quiet now, save for the muffled creaks of the old wooden floorboards and the occasional murmur of voices from other rooms.

Outside, Baek Cheon crouched behind a stack of crates with Jo Gul, Yoon Jong, and Yu Iseol at his side. The tension was palpable, their breaths shallow as they prepared for what was to come.

“We’re going in,” Baek Cheon whispered, his tone firm but cautious. “We’ll try to avoid a fight if we can, but if it comes to it, don’t hold back. Our priority is getting Chung Myung out of there.”

“Do we even know what we’re walking into?” Jo Gul asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Baek Cheon’s jaw tightened. “No. But we’re not leaving without him.”

Yu Iseol’s quiet voice cut through the darkness. “There’s movement inside. We have to act now.”

Baek Cheon nodded, motioning for them to follow as they crept toward the back entrance of the inn.

Inside, Hwi leaned against the wall, his arms crossed as he stared at the sleeping figure of Chung Myung. His breathing was shallow, and his hands trembled even in sleep.

“Look at him,” Hwi muttered. “He’s a wreck.”

Dumok, sitting at the table with a bowl of stew, barely glanced up. “He’s always like that. What’s your point?”

“My point,” Hwi snapped, “is that this can’t keep going. He’s not going to make it if we keep pushing him like this.”

Dumok sighed, setting the bowl down. “You’ve been saying that for months, and guess what? He always pulls through. You’re just being paranoid.”

Hwi shook his head, running a hand through his hair. It’s not paranoia. He’s getting worse. I can feel it.

Chung Myung stirred slightly, his body shivering even under the thin blanket. A faint cough escaped him, the sound wet and heavy, and Hwi winced.

“See?” he said, gesturing toward Chung Myung. “That’s not normal.”

Dumok shrugged. “He’ll rest tonight and be fine tomorrow. Same as always.”

Hwi opened his mouth to argue, but a faint noise from the hall caught his attention. He stiffened, his eyes narrowing. “Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?” Dumok asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Shh!” Hwi hissed, moving toward the door. He pressed his ear to the wood, his heart pounding.

Footsteps. Quiet, deliberate. Someone’s out there.

The Mount Hua disciples moved swiftly but silently through the inn, their steps muffled by years of training. Yu Iseol led the way, her keen senses picking up every creak and shift in the old building.

“They’re in the last room,” she murmured, glancing back at Baek Cheon.

He nodded, motioning for the others to spread out. Jo Gul and Yoon Jong took positions by the door, while Baek Cheon and Yu Iseol flanked the hallway.

Baek Cheon’s mind raced. We have to do this quickly. If they’re armed, it’ll turn into a fight, and I don’t know what state Chung Myung is in. But we can’t wait any longer.

He raised his hand, signaling for Jo Gul to open the door.

Hwi’s heart jumped as the door burst open, slamming against the wall. Jo Gul and Yoon Jong rushed in, their swords drawn, while Baek Cheon and Yu Iseol followed close behind.

“What the—?!” Dumok yelped, nearly knocking over his chair as he scrambled to his feet.

Hwi stepped back, his hands raised. “Whoa, whoa! What’s going on?!”

“Where is he?” Baek Cheon demanded, his voice sharp and unwavering. His eyes scanned the room, locking onto the small, shivering figure on the mat in the corner.

Jo Gul froze, his sword lowering slightly. “It’s him,” he said softly, his voice tinged with disbelief.

Yoon Jong’s eyes widened. “Chung Myung…”

Chung Myung stirred at the sound of his name, his head turning slightly. His dull, colorless eyes met theirs, but there was no spark of recognition, no glimmer of the mischievous, unyielding spirit they knew.

“Chung Myung!” Baek Cheon stepped forward, his heart pounding. “It’s us! We’ve been looking for you!”

Chung Myung didn’t respond. His body trembled, and he coughed weakly, blood staining the edge of his sleeve.

Jo Gul’s voice broke the heavy silence. “Why isn’t he saying anything? Why is he just… sitting there?”

Hwi and Dumok exchanged panicked glances, their usual bravado gone.

“Hey, hey, we don’t want any trouble!” Dumok said, holding up his hands. “We didn’t hurt him, alright? He’s been working for us, that’s all!”

“Working for you?” Yoon Jong snapped, his grip tightening on his sword. “You’ve been using him, haven’t you?”

Hwi stepped forward, his hands still raised. “Listen, we didn’t know he was… important, okay? We just—”

“You’ve been working him to death,” Baek Cheon growled, his voice low and dangerous. “Look at him! Does he look fine to you?”

Hwi flinched, his guilt finally surfacing. “We didn’t mean for it to go this far… He never said no, alright? He just kept going.”

Jo Gul’s face twisted with anger. “You think that’s an excuse?!”

Yu Iseol knelt beside Chung Myung, her hand hovering over his trembling form. “The amulet,” she said softly, her eyes narrowing as she noticed the black tendrils creeping up his neck. “It’s poisoning him.”

“What?” Baek Cheon asked, his anger shifting to alarm.

Yu Iseol pointed to the faint glow of the amulet around Chung Myung’s neck. “It’s controlling him. Killing him.”

Hwi took a shaky step back. “We didn’t know… We thought it was just a charm—”

“Shut up!” Baek Cheon barked, his focus now entirely on Chung Myung. “We need to get him out of here. Now.”

Yoon Jong and Jo Gul moved quickly to help, their earlier fury replaced by urgent determination.

“Chung Myung,” Yoon Jong said gently, his voice trembling. “We’re here. We’re taking you home.”

Chung Myung blinked slowly, his lips parting as if to speak. But the words didn’t come. Instead, he coughed again, more blood staining his sleeve as his body shuddered.

Baek Cheon’s heart clenched. What have they done to you?

As they lifted him carefully, Dumok and Hwi watched in silence, their faces pale.

“We didn’t mean for it to…” Hwi started, but the words died in his throat as Yu Iseol’s cold gaze flicked toward him.

“No excuses,” she said quietly, her voice like ice.

The disciples carried Chung Myung out of the room, their movements swift but careful.

As they stepped into the night, Jo Gul looked back at the inn, his face dark with fury. “If we ever see those two again…”

“They’re not our priority,” Baek Cheon said, his voice tight. “Right now, we get Chung Myung out of here and figure out how to save him.”

Yoon Jong glanced down at Chung Myung, his eyes glistening. “We’re here now. You’re going to be okay.”

But deep down, even he wasn’t sure how true that was.

Chapter Text

The journey back to Mount Hua was long and tense, the weight of their burden pressing heavily on the disciples. Baek Cheon led the group with unwavering focus, though worry etched deep lines into his usually composed face. Jo Gul and Yoon Jong walked on either side of the litter carrying Chung Myung, their eyes darting to him every few moments as if they were afraid he might stop breathing. Yu Iseol followed in silence, her gaze fixed on the horizon, her steps never faltering.

Chung Myung lay motionless, his breathing shallow, his face pale beneath the mask. The black tendrils from the amulet had crept further up his neck, now visible on his jawline. He coughed occasionally, the wet, ragged sound of it sending a chill through his companions each time.

We’re almost home, Baek Cheon thought, his hands clenching into fists. Just hold on a little longer, Chung Myung.

The sun was beginning to set when the gates of Mount Hua came into view. Hyun Jong, the sect leader, stood at the entrance with the elders, his calm yet commanding presence radiating over the gathered disciples.

When he saw Baek Cheon and the others approaching, his sharp eyes immediately locked onto the figure on the litter. His expression didn’t change, but his hand tightened slightly on the edge of his sleeve.

Chung Myung… What happened to you?

As they drew closer, murmurs rippled through the crowd of disciples who had gathered.

“Is that…?”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Why isn’t he moving?”

Hyun Jong raised a hand, silencing the whispers. “Bring him to the infirmary,” he said, his voice steady but firm. “Now.”

Baek Cheon and the others nodded, pushing past the crowd as they carried Chung Myung toward the infirmary. The younger disciples parted to let them through, their eyes wide with worry and confusion.

Inside the infirmary, Hyun Jong stood by the bed as the disciples carefully laid Chung Myung down. His mask and straw hat had been removed, revealing his pale, sweat-drenched face. The black tendrils from the amulet were stark against his skin, their unnatural appearance sending a shiver through everyone present.

Hyun Jong’s gaze softened for a brief moment before his composure returned. “What happened to him?”

Baek Cheon stepped forward, his voice heavy with guilt. “We found him working for… people. They were using him to fight and complete dangerous jobs. He’s been overworked, poisoned, and… this amulet—” He gestured to the dark object around Chung Myung’s neck. “—it’s controlling him somehow.”

The elders exchanged worried glances, but Hyun Jong remained calm.

“Have you tried removing it?” Hyun Jong asked.

Yu Iseol nodded. “It won’t come off. We’ve tried everything. It’s… like it’s fused to him.”

Hyun Jong frowned, his sharp eyes narrowing as he studied the amulet. What sort of power could do this? Who would dare use such a thing on one of my disciples?

Behind him, the other disciples began gathering at the doorway, craning their necks to catch a glimpse of what was happening.

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Is he going to be okay?”

“Why does he look like that?”

Hyun Jong turned slightly, his commanding presence silencing the growing noise. “Return to your training. This is not a matter for idle speculation.”

The younger disciples hesitated, but the authority in his voice left no room for argument. Slowly, they dispersed, though their worry lingered.

Jo Gul stood by the bed, his jaw tight as he watched Chung Myung’s shallow breaths. “He’s not like this,” he muttered. “He’s supposed to be stronger than this. He’s… he’s Chung Myung.”

Yoon Jong placed a hand on Jo Gul’s shoulder, his own voice trembling. “He’ll pull through. He has to.”

Hyun Jong glanced at the group, his tone softer now. “You’ve done well to bring him back. Leave him to rest. We will do what we can.”

Reluctantly, the disciples stepped back, though none of them went far.

The night passed slowly. The elders and healers worked tirelessly to stabilize Chung Myung’s condition, but the amulet resisted every attempt to remove it. Its dark energy pulsed faintly, a constant reminder of its hold over him.

By the time morning came, the disciples had returned to the infirmary, unable to stay away. They sat in silence, watching over Chung Myung as his chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths.

“He hasn’t moved all night,” Jo Gul whispered. “What if…”

“Don’t say it,” Baek Cheon snapped, his tone sharper than intended.

Jo Gul fell silent, his gaze dropping to the floor.

It was midday when everything changed.

Chung Myung’s eyes snapped open, blank and colorless as they stared at the ceiling. His body tensed, and for a moment, he lay completely still.

The disciples froze, their breaths catching in their throats.

“Chung Myung?” Baek Cheon said cautiously, stepping closer.

Chung Myung sat up abruptly, his movements unnaturally stiff and deliberate. His head turned slowly, his dull gaze sweeping over the room before settling on Baek Cheon.

“Chung Myung, it’s us,” Yoon Jong said, his voice shaky. “You’re safe now. You’re home.”

But Chung Myung didn’t respond. Instead, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, his posture rigid.

“Chung Myung, stop!” Baek Cheon said, reaching out to grab his arm.

Chung Myung turned his head toward him, and for a brief moment, there was a flicker of something in his eyes—recognition, perhaps, or resistance. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared.

He pulled his arm free with alarming ease and began walking toward the door.

“Where are you going?” Jo Gul shouted, moving to block his path.

Chung Myung stopped, his blank eyes locking onto Jo Gul.

“Stand aside,” he said, his voice flat and emotionless.

Jo Gul froze, his heart sinking. That’s not him. That’s not Chung Myung.

“Chung Myung,” Yu Iseol said softly, stepping forward. “It’s us. Come back.”

For a moment, it seemed like her words reached him. His body wavered, his hands trembling slightly. But then the amulet pulsed faintly, and he straightened, his expression hardening.

“Stand aside,” he repeated, his tone like ice.

The disciples exchanged panicked glances.

Hyun Jong stepped forward, his voice calm but firm. “Chung Myung. Stop.”

Chung Myung froze, his head tilting slightly as if listening. But the amulet pulsed again, and he took another step forward.

“Restrain him,” Hyun Jong said quietly, though his voice carried the weight of command.

Baek Cheon and Yoon Jong moved instantly, their hands gripping Chung Myung’s arms as they tried to hold him back.

Chung Myung didn’t struggle, but his strength was frightening. With a single twist, he freed himself, his movements almost mechanical.

“What’s wrong with him?” Jo Gul shouted, panic creeping into his voice.

“I don’t know,” Baek Cheon muttered through gritted teeth. “But we’re not letting him leave.”

Chung Myung turned toward them again, his blank eyes narrowing slightly. For the first time, his wooden sword shifted in its sheath, his hand moving toward it.

“Stand aside,” he said once more, his voice eerily calm.

Hyun Jong stepped forward again, his presence filling the room. “Chung Myung,” he said, his tone carrying both authority and sorrow. “If you can hear me, fight it. Come back to us.”

For a brief, flickering moment, something shifted in Chung Myung’s expression. His hand trembled, hovering over his sword, but he didn’t draw it.

The disciples held their breath, hope and fear warring in their hearts.

Chung Myung… fight it, Baek Cheon thought desperately. Come back.

 

The night stretched endlessly in Chung Myung’s fractured mind. Each failed attempt to leave Mount Hua brought him closer to the edge of collapse, but the amulet’s grip on his will left him no choice. He moved as if in a waking nightmare, his body heavy with exhaustion and pain, yet driven by a compulsion he couldn’t ignore.

He wasn’t blind to the concern in his friends’ eyes. He saw their desperation, heard their pleas. Baek Cheon’s frustration, Jo Gul’s anger, Yoon Jong’s quiet determination, and Yu Iseol’s calm persistence—they cut through the fog in his mind like faint echoes.

I can’t stop… I have to go back…

The amulet pulsed again, sending a wave of cold energy through his chest. His knees buckled slightly, but he straightened with a shudder, his body trembling under the strain. His hands reached for the window, his feet moving without his consent.

No… I don’t want this… Stop…

But the moment he tried to resist, the amulet tightened its grip, silencing his thoughts like a cage snapping shut.

As dawn broke, the night finally ended, but the disciples were left drained and on edge. They had spent every moment catching Chung Myung in his attempts to leave—stopping him from climbing out the window, dragging him back when he tried to slip past them, and standing guard when his blank eyes darted to every possible exit.

Baek Cheon sat at the edge of the room, his head in his hands. “This can’t keep happening. If we take our eyes off him for even a second…”

Jo Gul leaned heavily against the wall, his face pale. “What are we supposed to do? Tie him to the bed? He’s stronger than all of us combined, even like this!”

Yoon Jong rubbed his temples. “I don’t think we can hold him back forever. Whatever that amulet’s doing to him, it’s only getting worse.”

Yu Iseol stood by the window, her expression unreadable. “He’s trying to leave… because he has to.”

Baek Cheon looked up sharply. “What do you mean?”

Before Yu Iseol could respond, the door slid open, and Hyun Jong stepped inside. The Sect Leader’s calm yet commanding presence silenced the room instantly.

“Elder Hyun Young and I have found something,” Hyun Jong said, holding up an old, weathered book. His eyes swept over the exhausted disciples before settling on Chung Myung, who sat slumped on the bed, his head bowed.

“What is it?” Baek Cheon asked, rising to his feet.

Hyun Jong stepped forward, opening the book to a marked page. “This book contains information about the amulet.”

Jo Gul perked up, hope flickering in his tired eyes. “You mean there’s a way to get it off?”

Hyun Jong nodded gravely. “Yes. But it won’t be easy.”

The disciples crowded around as he continued. “The amulet is designed to subdue its wearer, binding their will to that of the first person they see after putting it on. It suppresses their autonomy, leaving them unable to disobey their controller’s commands.”

Baek Cheon’s eyes widened. “The first person they see? You mean…”

Hyun Jong closed the book, his expression darkening. “In Chung Myung’s case, it would be the individuals who enslaved him. The ones who used him.”

“The con artists,” Yoon Jong muttered, his voice filled with anger. “They’re the ones controlling him.”

Jo Gul’s fists clenched. “So he’s been trying to leave because… because he’s still their slave?”

Hyun Jong nodded. “The amulet compels him to return to them, even against his own will. Until they release him by removing the amulet themselves, the bond cannot be broken.”

The room fell silent as the weight of the revelation settled over them.

Baek Cheon’s voice broke the stillness. “Then we have to find them. Track them down and force them to release him.”

“It won’t be simple,” Hyun Jong said. “But it’s the only way.”

As the disciples exchanged determined glances, a faint sound drew their attention.

The door slid open slightly, and when they turned back to look at the bed, Chung Myung was gone.

“Wait—what?!” Jo Gul shouted, rushing to the door. “He was right there!”

Baek Cheon spun around, his heart racing. “He’s heading for the gates. Move!”

Chung Myung stumbled through the early morning mist, his legs barely supporting him as he made his way toward the sect gates. His body screamed in protest, every step sending waves of pain through his poisoned veins.

I have to go back… I have to go back…

The mantra repeated endlessly in his mind, drowning out every other thought. The gates loomed ahead, the path clear and unguarded in the early hours.

But as he reached out toward freedom, a massive figure stepped into his path.

“Where do you think you’re going, brat?”

Chung Myung’s blank eyes flicked upward to meet the sharp gaze of Hyun Young, the burly elder who stood blocking the gate. Behind him, Elder Hyun Sang appeared, his calm yet imposing presence reinforcing the barricade.

Chung Myung tried to push past them, his movements sluggish but insistent.

Hyun Young’s large hand clamped down on his shoulder, holding him in place effortlessly. “You’re not going anywhere, kid. Not in this condition.”

“Chung Myung,” Hyun Sang said softly, his voice gentle yet firm. “Come back inside. We can help you.”

For a moment, Chung Myung faltered. His body sagged slightly, his knees trembling under Hyun Young’s grip.

I don’t want this… I want to stay… but I can’t…

The amulet pulsed again, and he straightened, his body stiffening as he tried once more to move forward.

Hyun Young’s grip tightened. “Stop fighting us. You’re not leaving, no matter what that thing is making you do.”

The disciples arrived moments later, their breathless urgency filling the air as they surrounded him.

“Chung Myung!” Baek Cheon shouted, stepping forward. “You’re not going anywhere. Do you hear me? We’re not letting you leave!”

Chung Myung didn’t respond. His blank eyes flicked toward Baek Cheon for a moment before shifting back to the gate.

Jo Gul stepped in front of him, his voice trembling with frustration and desperation. “We know now! We understand! Now we can help you, just… just please work with us here.”

Chung Myung coughed again, blood dripping onto the stone path. His body swayed, but the compulsion driving him forward refused to let him collapse.

“Stop him!” Yoon Jong said, grabbing one of his arms as the others moved to restrain him.

Chung Myung didn’t resist this time, his body too weak to fight back. But his eyes, blank and colorless, remained fixed on Jo Gul.

As the disciples dragged him back toward the infirmary, Hyun Jong’s voice echoed in their minds.

We will not give up. Not on him.

 

The sun had barely risen over Mount Hua when the disciples began their preparations. The infirmary was abuzz with movement as Baek Cheon barked orders, his voice sharp and steady despite the tension hanging in the air.

“Jo Gul, pack extra supplies. We don’t know how long this will take,” he said, strapping his sword to his side.

Jo Gul, who was half-asleep while stuffing his satchel, grumbled, “If I have to carry all this, you’d better not complain when I start whining halfway through.”

Baek Cheon shot him a glare. “You’ll whine anyway. Just make sure you’re ready.”

Yoon Jong was helping Yu Iseol check the travel rations, his normally calm face lined with worry. “Are we really bringing him?” he asked quietly, glancing toward the corner of the room where Chung Myung sat.

Yu Iseol didn’t respond immediately, her sharp gaze focused on the task at hand. Finally, she said, “We have to.”

“Do we?” Yoon Jong asked, his voice tinged with frustration. “He’s barely hanging on as it is.”

Her gaze flicked to him, cool and steady. “If we leave him here, he’ll find a way to escape. And we need him to find them.”

Yoon Jong sighed, rubbing his temples. “I know. It just feels…” He trailed off, his eyes drifting to Chung Myung again.

The once-vibrant disciple of Mount Hua now sat motionless on a low bench, his posture stiff and unnatural. He wore his usual sect attire, but his straw hat cast a shadow over his face, hiding most of his blank, colorless eyes. His hair, neatly tied into a ponytail by Baek Cheon earlier that morning, only emphasized how unnervingly quiet he had become.

Baek Cheon, as he tied his own travel pack, glanced at Chung Myung and sighed heavily. I hate this. I hate seeing him like this.

“Come on, Chung Myung,” Baek Cheon muttered as he approached. “Let’s fix this mess so you can go back to annoying us with your endless chatter.”

Baek Cheon had tied Chung Myung’s hair earlier that morning, a task that had been both infuriating and strangely poignant.

“Hold still,” he had grumbled, his fingers awkwardly working through the knots.

Chung Myung didn’t move, his body as still as a statue.

“This is ridiculous,” Jo Gul had said, leaning against the wall and smirking. “You’re treating him like a doll.”

“Do you want to do it?” Baek Cheon snapped, his fingers tangling in the hair.

“Not a chance. You’re doing great, senior,” Jo Gul had said, thoroughly unhelpful.

When Baek Cheon finally finished, he stepped back and inspected his work. The ponytail was neat, if not perfect, and the simple style somehow emphasized the unnatural pallor of Chung Myung’s face.

Jo Gul, of course, couldn’t resist. “You should take up hairstyling, senior. Maybe that’s your true calling.”

Baek Cheon had thrown a comb at him.

As they left Mount Hua, the disciples walked in silence, their focus split between the road ahead and the figure they were escorting.

Chung Myung followed without resistance, his steps eerily precise and deliberate. The black tendrils from the amulet had spread across his chest and arms, now visible on his wrists and barely grazing the edge of his bottom lip. The sight was unsettling, a constant reminder of how little time they had left.

Yoon Jong glanced at him, his throat tightening. That’s not him. That’s not the Chung Myung I know.

The silence stretched on, and Jo Gul couldn’t take it anymore. “You know,” he said, trying to inject some levity, “I never thought I’d say this, but I actually miss him yelling at us.”

Baek Cheon raised an eyebrow. “Really? You miss him calling you useless every other sentence?”

Jo Gul shrugged. “At least it meant he was alive. This… this is worse.”

Yoon Jong sighed. “I miss his terrible jokes. And the way he’d randomly pick fights with people just to prove a point.”

Yu Iseol’s voice cut through the conversation, quiet but firm. “I miss his voice.”

The group fell silent again, the weight of her words hanging in the air.

As the journey stretched into the afternoon, it became clear that tending to Chung Myung would be a constant struggle.

They stopped for a short break by a river, and Yoon Jong immediately noticed that Chung Myung’s hands were trembling.

“Sit down,” Yoon Jong said, motioning to a rock.

Chung Myung didn’t respond, standing stiffly as his blank gaze remained fixed on the horizon.

“Sit,” Yoon Jong repeated, stepping in front of him.

When Chung Myung still didn’t move, Jo Gul groaned and grabbed him by the shoulders, forcing him to sit. “There. Happy?”

“Thank you for your compassion,” Baek Cheon muttered sarcastically.

Jo Gul rolled his eyes. “He doesn’t exactly give us much to work with.”

Chung Myung coughed suddenly, the sound wet and ragged. The black tendrils pulsed faintly, and he shuddered, his body sagging slightly.

Baek Cheon knelt in front of him, gripping his shoulders. “Chung Myung. Can you hear me? Are you in pain?”

Chung Myung’s lips moved faintly, but no sound came out. His hands twitched, and his gaze shifted slightly, almost as if he was trying to resist.

Jo Gul sighed, sitting on a nearby rock. “We’re treating him like a compass, but he’s more like a broken one. What if we’re going the wrong way?”

“We’re not,” Yu Iseol said firmly, her gaze fixed on Chung Myung. “He’s leading us. Even if he doesn’t know it.”

That night, as they set up camp, Jo Gul poked at the fire with a stick, muttering to himself.

“You know, he’d normally be yelling at us right now. ‘Why are you so slow?’ ‘Why can’t you set up camp faster?’ ‘What kind of disciples are you?’”

Baek Cheon snorted despite himself. “He’d probably call you lazy for sitting there.”

“And you a perfectionist,” Jo Gul added.

“And Yoon Jong boring,” Baek Cheon said.

Jo Gul laughed softly, but the sound quickly faded. “I want him to call me lazy again.”

Yoon Jong, sitting across from him, nodded silently.

As the fire crackled and the night deepened, the disciples glanced at the figure sitting motionless near the edge of the camp. The straw hat hid most of his face, but the tendrils creeping across his skin were stark in the firelight.

 

The group trudged through a narrow, winding forest path under the dim afternoon light. The air was humid, the sound of rustling leaves blending with the crunch of their boots on the dirt road.

Chung Myung followed mechanically, his steps unnaturally deliberate as always, his straw hat tilted to shield his lifeless eyes. The black tendrils crawling up his neck and grazing his lips looked worse now in the sunlight, as if the amulet were spreading its poison faster with every passing moment.

Baek Cheon glanced back at him for what felt like the hundredth time. How much longer can his body take this?

Jo Gul walked beside him, trying to lighten the mood in vain. “I know this trip is awful, but did anyone expect me to be the one doing all the talking? I mean, come on. We’ve hit rock bottom if I’m the one filling the silence.”

“No one’s asking you to,” Baek Cheon muttered, though his voice lacked its usual sharpness.

Jo Gul sighed, scratching the back of his head. “I don’t know, I just… I keep thinking about him, you know? He’d be making some ridiculous comment about how slow we’re walking or how the trees look like idiots or something.”

Yoon Jong, walking beside Yu Iseol, shook his head. “He’d probably have insulted Jo Gul at least three times by now.”

“At least three,” Yu Iseol murmured, her tone flat but firm.

For a moment, they all shared a faint smile, but it vanished quickly when they heard a strange, wet cough behind them.

Baek Cheon turned sharply, his heart dropping.

Chung Myung’s legs were shaking. His body swayed unsteadily, his straw hat tilting forward, barely clinging to his head.

“Chung Myung?” Baek Cheon called, his voice tight with alarm.

The others froze, turning to see him collapse to his knees. His wooden sword fell from his back, landing in the dirt with a dull thud.

“Chung Myung!” Jo Gul shouted, rushing to his side.

Before anyone could reach him, a violent cough wracked his body, and a horrifying amount of blood spilled from his mouth, staining the ground beneath him.

Baek Cheon’s breath caught in his throat as he dropped to his knees beside him. “He’s bleeding—he’s bleeding too much!”

“Chung Myung, stop!” Yoon Jong said desperately, gripping his shoulders to steady him.

Chung Myung coughed again, blood dripping from his lips as his body convulsed. His trembling hands clawed at the ground as if he were trying to pull himself forward, but his legs refused to move.

“Hold him still!” Baek Cheon ordered, his voice trembling.

Jo Gul grabbed Chung Myung’s arms, but the strength in his grip shocked him. Even in his broken state, Chung Myung was still frighteningly powerful.

“Chung Myung, stop!” Jo Gul pleaded.

Suddenly, Chung Myung’s head snapped up. His blank, colorless eyes were no longer lifeless—they burned with fury and hatred.

“Them,” he growled, his voice guttural and low.

The disciples froze.

“They did this to me,” he hissed, his lips curling into a terrifying snarl. Blood dripped down his chin, but he didn’t seem to notice. “Those… damned… con artists. Hwi and Dumok…”

Baek Cheon’s eyes widened in shock. “He’s awake! He—”

Before he could finish, Chung Myung lurched forward, gripping Baek Cheon’s collar with bloodied hands.

“I’ll kill them,” he spat, his voice trembling with rage. “I’ll tear them apart!”

“Chung Myung!” Yoon Jong shouted, trying to pull him back.

For a fleeting moment, his fury felt almost reassuring—a glimpse of the Chung Myung they knew. But it was short-lived.

The amulet pulsed faintly, its dark energy creeping across his skin. His grip on Baek Cheon slackened, and his eyes glazed over once more.

“No, no, no!” Jo Gul cried, shaking him. “Chung Myung, wake up! Stay with us!”

Chung Myung collapsed forward, his head slumping against Baek Cheon’s chest. His body went limp, though his breathing was still shallow and labored.

“Damn it!” Baek Cheon shouted, cradling him carefully. “He was awake for a second. He’s still in there!”

Yoon Jong ran a hand through his hair, his face pale. “What do we do now? He’s getting worse by the second!”

Jo Gul’s voice broke. “Why couldn’t he stay awake? Why couldn’t he… just…”

Yu Iseol knelt beside Chung Myung, her hand hovering over his chest where the tendrils were darkest. “The amulet is holding him back. Even if he fights, it pulls him under again.”

Baek Cheon clenched his teeth, his knuckles white as he gripped the bloodstained fabric of Chung Myung’s robes. “Then we don’t stop. We find those bastards, and we make them release him.”

His voice shook with a mixture of rage and desperation.

Jo Gul wiped at his eyes angrily. “They’re dead. They don’t even know it yet, but they’re dead.”

Yu Iseol’s calm voice cut through their anger. “We need to move. Now.”

Baek Cheon nodded, lifting Chung Myung carefully. “Were going to need to start doing Things on our own, we need to stop relying on him all the time.”

Yoon Jong glanced at the blood then at Chung Myung. “I guess we’ll need to start asking around.”

As they resumed their journey, the weight of Chung Myung’s condition hung over them like a storm cloud. The image of his bloodied snarl burned in their minds, his curse against the con artists a chilling reminder of how far he had fallen—and how desperately they needed to save him.

The group trudged down the dirt road, their exhaustion evident in their slow, heavy steps. The weight of Chung Myung, both literal and figurative, was taking its toll on all of them. He remained unconscious, his body limp as Baek Cheon carried him on his back.

Jo Gul, walking slightly ahead, groaned. “We can’t keep carrying him like this. He’s heavier than he looks! Does all his arrogance weigh extra?”

Yoon Jong shot him a sharp look. “He’s unconscious, Jo Gul. Have some respect.”

“I am being respectful,” Jo Gul retorted, glaring over his shoulder. “I didn’t drop him, did I?”

Baek Cheon sighed heavily, adjusting Chung Myung’s weight on his back. “Enough. We need a better solution. We can’t keep going like this.”

Yu Iseol, ever observant, gestured down the road. “There’s someone ahead. They have a carriage.”

The man with the carriage was a wiry, middle-aged traveler, his face weathered by years of journeying. He sat atop the modest wagon, chewing on a piece of straw as he eyed the group approaching him.

Baek Cheon stepped forward, trying to keep his tone calm and polite. “Excuse me, sir. We’re in need of transportation. Would you be willing to sell your carriage to us?”

The man raised an eyebrow, glancing at Chung Myung slumped on Baek Cheon’s back. “Sell my carriage? What are you planning to do with it?”

“We need to let our… companion rest,” Yoon Jong explained, his voice steady. “He’s not well, and carrying him isn’t sustainable.”

The man squinted, clearly unconvinced. “That’s a mighty strange story. You’re not bandits, are you?”

Jo Gul rolled his eyes. “Do we look like bandits?”

The man gave Jo Gul an appraising look. “You’re carrying swords.”

“That’s because we’re martial artists, not bandits!” Jo Gul said indignantly.

Baek Cheon raised a hand to silence him before the situation escalated. “We’re willing to pay for the carriage. How much would you ask for it?”

The man rubbed his chin, eyeing the group thoughtfully. “Five silver pieces.”

Jo Gul’s jaw dropped. “Five?! For this rickety old thing?”

The man glared. “It’s not rickety! It’ll get you where you’re going, won’t it?”

“Four silver,” Yoon Jong said quickly, stepping between Jo Gul and the man before an argument could break out.

“Four and a half,” the man countered.

“Done,” Baek Cheon said before anyone else could object. He reached into their travel funds and handed over the silver.

A couple of hours later, the group reached a small village nestled at the base of a rocky hillside. The village was modest, with narrow streets and a handful of inns and shops. The disciples parked the carriage near the outskirts, ensuring Chung Myung was carefully laid out inside.

“He should be able to rest now,” Yoon Jong said, glancing at Chung Myung’s pale face. “At least for a while.”

Jo Gul stretched, groaning. “Finally. My legs were about to give out.”

Baek Cheon shook his head. “We’re not done yet. We need to ask for directions. Someone here might know something about the con artists.”

They left the carriage in a shaded area behind one of the inns and stepped inside. The inn was bustling with villagers and travelers, the air thick with the smell of food and chatter.

 

Baek Cheon approached the innkeeper, a burly man with a thick beard, and bowed politely. “Excuse me, sir. We’re travelers looking for some information.”

The innkeeper, busy wiping down the counter, glanced up with a raised brow. “What kind of information?”

“We’re looking for two men,” Baek Cheon explained. “One is skinny and a bit dim-witted, the other is chubby and clever. They’ve been traveling together. Have you seen anyone matching that description?”

The innkeeper paused, his hand stilling on the cloth. His eyes narrowed slightly. “Can’t say for sure. Lots of people come through here. Why are you looking for them?”

“They…” Baek Cheon hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “They’ve wronged someone close to us. We’re trying to set things right.”

The innkeeper grunted, clearly skeptical. “I don’t want any trouble in my inn.”

“We’re not here to cause trouble,” Yoon Jong said, stepping forward. “We just need to know if they’ve been through here.”

Before the innkeeper could respond, a loud voice cut through the room. “Hey, what’s all the fuss about over there?”

The disciples turned to see a group of rough-looking men seated at a nearby table. One of them, a broad-shouldered man with a scar across his cheek, was glaring at them.

“Nothing that concerns you,” Baek Cheon said evenly, his tone polite but firm.

The scarred man stood, his companions following suit. “You’re asking questions in the wrong place, friend. People around here don’t like strangers poking their noses where they don’t belong.”

Jo Gul sighed loudly, turning to Baek Cheon. “Why does every village have people like this? Is there some sort of recruitment office for troublemakers?”

The scarred man’s face darkened. “You got a smart mouth, don’t you?”

Jo Gul smirked. “Smarter than yours, clearly.”

The man growled, taking a step forward, but Baek Cheon raised a hand. “We don’t want any trouble. We’re just passing through.”

“Then keep passing,” the scarred man said, crossing his arms.

Yoon Jong, sensing the rising tension, tugged on Baek Cheon’s sleeve. “Let’s go. We’re not getting anywhere with them.”

Baek Cheon hesitated, but he nodded. “Fine. Let’s check somewhere else.”

The disciples turned to leave, but as they reached the door, the scarred man called out mockingly, “You’d better keep walking, or you might not make it out of this village in one piece.”

Jo Gul paused, turning his head slightly. “Should we?” he muttered to Baek Cheon, his hand twitching near the hilt of his sword.

Baek Cheon glared at him. “No.”

Jo Gul groaned. “Spoilsport.”

As they returned to the carriage, Baek Cheon’s frustration was palpable. “We’re wasting time. We need to find someone who actually knows something.”

Yoon Jong nodded. “We’ll try another inn. Maybe someone else will have seen them.”

Jo Gul climbed into the back of the carriage and sat beside Chung Myung, who remained motionless under his straw hat. “He’s still out cold,” Jo Gul muttered. “That’s… probably for the best.”

Baek Cheon glanced over his shoulder. “He needs to rest. We’ll let him sleep while we ask around.”

The group began discussing their next steps, but as their voices grew quieter, they failed to notice the faintest shift in Chung Myung’s posture.

Inside the carriage, Chung Myung’s fingers twitched. His dull, colorless eyes opened slowly, staring blankly at the wooden planks of the carriage roof. His head turned slightly, the straw hat casting a shadow over his face.

I have to go…

The disciples returned to the carriage nearly an hour later, their expressions grim.

“Another dead end,” Yoon Jong muttered, running a hand through his hair.

Baek Cheon climbed into the driver’s seat. “We’ll keep looking. Someone here must have seen them.”

Jo Gul leaned into the carriage. “Hey, Sword Idiot, you’re not missing anything exciting.”

There was no response.

Which is normal Chung Myung is sleeping but what really had Jo Gul’s blood run cold was the fact that he couldn’t sense his qi.

Chung Myung’s qi wasn’t there.

“Chung Myung!?” Jo Gul called, Sprinting into the carriage.

He climbed into the back of the carriage and froze.

“He’s gone.” He muttered before dashing to the front of the carriage, where Beak Cheon was.

“Guys, He’s gone!!” Jo Gul shouted, loud enough for all the disciples to hear.

“What?!” Baek Cheon shouted, spinning around.

Yoon Jong and Yu Iseol rushed to the back of the carriage, their eyes widening at the empty space where Chung Myung had been.

“He was right here!” Yoon Jong said, his voice panicked. “I swear, he was right here!”

Baek Cheon’s face darkened, his voice cold. “We took our eyes off him for one second.”

“He couldn’t have gone far,” Yoon Jong said, already scanning the area.

Yu Iseol pointed toward the edge of the village. “That way. His footprints.”

The group immediately took off in the direction she indicated abandoning the wagon, their hearts pounding.

Baek Cheon’s mind raced. If we find the con artists we find him, We can’t lose him. Not now. It feels like we’ve come so close, but at the same time back from where we started.

As Beak Cheon’s thoughts ran wild, about all the things he could have done differently.

They then reached the outskirts of the village, the footprints faded, leaving no trace of where Chung Myung had gone.

“He’s gone,” Yoon Jong said quietly, his voice heavy with disbelief.

Jo Gul clenched his fists, his jaw tightening. “How?! He could barely move before! How did he vanish like this?”

Baek Cheon stared into the distance, his eyes filled with frustration and guilt. “We’ll find him,” he said firmly. “I swear it, on this headband”

He says as he points with his thumb at the headband rapped around his forehead.

Which ended up deep down, sparking hope into the disciples hearts.

 

Chung Myung wandered aimlessly through the outskirts of the village, his straw hat tilted low over his face. His movements were stiff and deliberate, as if he were being dragged forward by invisible strings. The black tendrils from the amulet pulsed faintly beneath his robes, the corruption creeping up to his bottom lip and spreading deeper into his veins.

The world around him felt distant, muffled, like a dream he couldn’t wake from. His legs moved without his consent, his body pulling him forward even as his mind begged for rest.

Why am I still moving? Where am I going?

The amulet’s dark compulsion whispered in the back of his mind, drowning out every other thought. His feet led him down a narrow dirt road, past fields and scattered homes, until he reached the edge of a forest.

And then, as if on cue, he saw them.
Hwi and Dumok sat by a fire in a small clearing, their modest camp hidden beneath the shade of towering trees. Hwi was fidgeting with a map, his face lined with frustration, while Dumok leaned back against a tree, chewing on a piece of dried meat.

“This is all your fault, you know,” Hwi muttered, glaring at the map.

“My fault?” Dumok snorted. “You’re the one who said staying in this region was a good idea. ‘Lots of rich folks to scam,’ you said.”

“And you agreed!” Hwi shot back, tossing the map aside. “Now we’re broke, on the run, and Sword Guy’s not around to do the heavy lifting.”

Dumok waved him off. “He probably found someone else to boss him around. He’s like a stray dog—whoever feeds him gets his loyalty.”

“Yeah, well, we could’ve used that dog right about now,” Hwi grumbled, rubbing his temples.

“I’ll figure something out,” Dumok said lazily, taking another bite of his meat.

Before Hwi could retort, they both froze at the sound of faint footsteps approaching the camp.

Hwi turned sharply, his hand reaching for the knife at his belt. “Who’s there?”

The figure that emerged from the trees made both men freeze.

“What the—?” Dumok’s eyes widened. “Sword Guy?!”

Hwi’s jaw dropped as he scrambled to his feet. “How the hell did you find us?!”

Chung Myung stepped into the clearing, his wooden sword strapped to his back, his straw hat casting a shadow over his blank, colorless eyes. He stopped a few feet away from the fire, his body unnaturally still.

Dumok stared at him, his face pale. “Is he… okay? He looks worse than before.”

Hwi stepped closer, his expression a mix of confusion and panic. “What are you doing here? How did you even find us?”

Chung Myung didn’t respond. He stood silently, his hands hanging limply at his sides.

Dumok leaned toward Hwi, his voice low. “I told you that amulet was weird. What if it’s, like, cursed or something?”

“You think?” Hwi hissed, his eyes darting to Chung Myung. “Look at him! He’s like a ghost!”

“What do we do?” Dumok asked, his tone uneasy.

“I don’t know!” Hwi snapped, running a hand through his hair. “He’s not supposed to be here!”

“Okay, okay,” Dumok said, trying to calm him down. “Let’s think. Maybe… maybe we pretend everything’s normal? Act like we’re happy to see him?”

Hwi shot him a look. “Happy to see him? Have you seen his face? He looks like he wants to kill us!”

“Hey, he hasn’t drawn his sword yet,” Dumok pointed out. “That’s a good sign, right?”

Hwi groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This is a disaster.”

“Relax,” Dumok said, standing and raising his hands in a mock gesture of welcome. “Sword Guy! Long time no see! You, uh, look great. Really… strong.”

Chung Myung didn’t react. His dull eyes flicked between the two men, his body remaining eerily still.

Hwi and Dumok exchanged nervous glances.

“He’s just… standing there,” Hwi whispered. “Why is he just standing there?”

“Maybe he’s waiting for orders?” Dumok suggested.

“Orders?” Hwi snapped. “What are we supposed to tell him? Go fight a bear?”

“I don’t know!” Dumok said, throwing up his hands. “You’re the one who’s supposed to be the planner!”

As the two argued, Chung Myung’s body swayed slightly, his breathing shallow and uneven. The black tendrils from the amulet pulsed faintly, sending another wave of cold energy through his chest.

Hwi noticed the motion and froze. “Hey… you don’t think he’s… angry at us, do you?”

Dumok swallowed hard. “Well, he doesn’t look happy, that’s for sure.”

Chung Myung’s fingers twitched faintly, and for the first time, his lips parted as if to speak.

Both men stiffened, their eyes wide.

“Is he about to say something?” Hwi whispered.

“I don’t know,” Dumok whispered back. “But if it’s a curse, I’m running.”

They waited, holding their breath, but no words came. Chung Myung remained silent, his blank eyes fixed on them as if waiting for their next move.

Hwi wiped his forehead nervously. “This is bad.”

“Really bad,” Dumok agreed.

For once, they were in perfect agreement. And neither of them had any idea what to do next.

Hwi and Dumok stood frozen, staring at the silent, unmoving figure before them. The fire crackled between them, but even its warmth couldn’t shake the growing dread crawling up their spines.

Dumok coughed awkwardly. “Sooo… uh… welcome back?”

No response.

Hwi took a careful step forward, waving a hand in front of Chung Myung’s face. “Hey… Sword Guy? You in there?”

Chung Myung’s eyes twitched slightly, but his expression remained blank. His breathing was slow and uneven, his body swaying faintly like a puppet barely holding itself together.

Dumok elbowed Hwi. “Say something else! Maybe he just needs a little encouragement.”

Hwi shot him a glare. “Encouragement?! What do you want me to say? ‘Good job wandering the wilderness half-dead to come find us!’”

Dumok shrugged. “It’s better than standing here like idiots.”

Hwi groaned, rubbing his face. “Okay, okay.” He turned back to Chung Myung, forcing a grin. “Listen, buddy. We weren’t exactly expecting you, but—uh—we’re glad you made it! You’re looking…” He hesitated, eyeing the dark tendrils crawling up Chung Myung’s neck. “…uh, alive?”

Chung Myung didn’t react. His gaze remained fixed on them, but there was something unsettling in the way his fingers twitched at his sides, as if he were resisting some unseen force.

Hwi’s forced grin faltered. He lowered his voice. “Dumok… does he look like he’s… waiting for something?”

Dumok stiffened. “Like… an order?”

Both men slowly turned to look at each other, realization dawning at the same time.

“Oh, no,” Hwi whispered.

“Oh, yes,” Dumok groaned.

The amulet. It had bound Chung Myung’s will to them, hadn’t it? And now, without orders, he was just standing there, trapped between commands and his own suppressed thoughts.

Hwi took a step back. “Okay, first of all—I never wanted this. I never agreed to be in charge of a human weapon!”

“Well, you are,” Dumok said, crossing his arms. “We both are.”

Hwi looked at Chung Myung again, noting the way his body trembled slightly, the way his fingers twitched like they were trying to move against his own will. His lips parted slightly, as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t.

Guilt twisted in Hwi’s chest.

“This is wrong,” he muttered.

Dumok sighed. “Yeah, no kidding.”

“So what do we do?”

Dumok rubbed his chin. “We could… let him rest?”

Hwi scoffed. “Rest? Are you serious? We just found out we accidentally enslaved a legendary swordsman and you think the solution is a nap?!”

“Well, what else are we supposed to do?!” Dumok snapped.

“We have to—” Hwi stopped, swallowing hard. “…We have to let him go.”
The fire crackled softly in the small clearing, casting flickering shadows over the three figures seated around it. Chung Myung sat rigidly on a log, his blank, lifeless eyes staring straight ahead. Hwi sat a few feet away, his arms resting on his knees, his expression unreadable. Dumok, meanwhile, leaned back against a tree, chewing idly on a piece of dried meat.

The tension between them was thick, a silent battle waged in stolen glances and hesitant breaths.

Hwi exhaled slowly, rubbing his face with both hands. “We can’t keep him like this, Dumok.”

Dumok didn’t react immediately. He took another slow chew of his meat, swallowed, and finally turned his gaze toward Hwi.

“We let him go,” Hwi said, his voice firm. “We take the amulet off, free him, and—”

“And what?” Dumok interrupted, raising an eyebrow. “Let him kill us?”

Hwi’s jaw clenched. “Maybe he should kill us.”

Dumok snorted. “That’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever said.”

“No, the stupidest thing I’ve ever done was enslave a kid.”

Dumok waved a hand dismissively. “He’s not a kid, Hwi. He’s a monster with a sword. A monster that kept us alive, I might add.”

Hwi stood suddenly, his hands balling into fists. “You don’t get it, do you? Look at him! He’s not some weapon for us to use! He’s—” He hesitated, glancing at Chung Myung. The quiet, lifeless disciple sat unmoving, his ponytail swaying slightly in the wind, his breathing slow and even.

“…He’s just a kid,” Hwi finished, his voice breaking.

Dumok scoffed. “A kid? You think a kid could do half the things he’s done? You think a kid could take out ten men with a wooden sword?”

“That doesn’t mean he deserves this.”

Dumok narrowed his eyes. “You’re getting soft, Hwi.”

“Maybe I am,” Hwi admitted, his voice quiet. “But I’m not wrong.”

For a long moment, Dumok was silent, his gaze locked onto the flames.

Finally, he let out a slow, thoughtful hum. “…I don’t need you anymore, Hwi.”

Hwi frowned. “What?”

Dumok pushed off the tree, stretching his arms lazily. “You want to let him go. I don’t. That means one of us is a problem.”

Hwi’s stomach twisted. “…Dumok.”

Dumok smirked. “Sword Guy.”

Chung Myung’s head lifted slightly at the sound of his given command title.

Dumok’s smirk widened.

“Kill Hwi.”

For a brief moment, there was no reaction. Then, in an instant, Chung Myung moved.

His body jerked upright like a marionette suddenly given strings, his wooden sword snapping into his grip with terrifying precision. His colorless eyes locked onto Hwi, and for the first time since arriving, he stood with purpose.

Hwi’s blood ran cold.

“Wait—”

Chung Myung lunged.

Hwi barely had time to throw himself backward, scrambling away as the wooden sword cut through the air just inches from his throat. The force of the swing sent a sharp gust of wind past his face, and even though it was just wood, he knew—it would have killed him instantly.

“Dumok, STOP!” Hwi shouted, his voice raw with panic.

Dumok didn’t respond. He only watched, arms crossed, as Chung Myung advanced.

Hwi stumbled to his feet, his pulse thundering in his ears. “Chung Myung! Stop! You don’t want to do this!”

But there was no recognition in those dull eyes. No hesitation. No mercy.

Just obedience.

Hwi gritted his teeth. I made a mistake. I made the worst mistake of my life.

And now it was trying to kill him.

 

For the first time in a while Dumok fell asleep alone that night.

It was usually always the duo conning people out of their money to make a living. And now, things are different for Dumok. There was still a duo except one of them has a life sucking amulet around his neck, and the other has his best friends life weighing heavy on his shoulders.

 

Hyun Jong sat in his study, rubbing his temples as he read over the old book once more. His brow furrowed as he traced the delicate ink of the ancient text, trying to ensure he hadn’t missed anything. The amulet’s origins, its function, the way it bound its wearer’s will—all of it had been documented centuries ago by a scholar who had studied cursed artifacts.

He sighed, closing the book for a moment. Baek Cheon and the others should be on their way by now. The journey would be long and arduous, but if anyone could bring Chung Myung back, it was them.

Still, something gnawed at him, a faint unease that refused to fade.

He reopened the book, flipping back through the brittle pages, scanning the sections he had already read. And then—

His eyes widened.

His heart nearly stopped.

There, in fine script, was a passage he had skimmed over before:

“If the controller of the wearer perishes, the connection between them is severed, and the amulet’s influence becomes irreversible. The wearer will remain bound to their final command, with no hope of release.”

Hyun Jong slowly placed the book on his desk, staring at the words as they sank in.

If the person who controls Chung Myung dies… then it’s over?

His fingers tightened on the table, his mind racing. No way to reverse it. No way to bring him back. He’ll be lost forever.

A heavy silence settled over the room.

Then, just as the weight of it started pressing down on him, another thought flickered through his mind.

Wait.

Chung Myung hadn’t just seen one person when he first put on the amulet.

He had seen two.

Hyun Jong exhaled slowly, leaning back in his chair. “So there are two controllers in this case…”

His fingers loosened slightly, the tension in his shoulders easing.

That changes things.

If one of the controllers died, the bond would be severed—but not entirely. The second controller would still have a hold over Chung Myung. That meant there was still a way to save him.

He let out a small chuckle and shook his head. “I suppose I worried for nothing.”

His disciples would handle this.

Everything would be fine.

Satisfied, Hyun Jong closed the book and returned to his tea, never realizing how close he had come to an absolute catastrophe.

Chapter Text

Dumok sat hunched over near the fire, gripping his head with both hands, his fingers digging into his scalp as if he could physically claw the memories out. The forest around him was silent, save for the crackling of the flames and the rhythmic sound of a wooden sword cutting through the air.

Shhk. Shhk.

Chung Myung moved with mechanical precision, swinging his sword again and again, his body obeying an endless, unseen command. His feet dragged against the dirt, his arms trembled slightly from exhaustion, but his blank, colorless eyes remained fixed on nothing.

Dumok barely looked at him anymore.

He was too busy seeing Hwi.

Everywhere.

Every time he closed his eyes.

When he turned his head, he swore he could see the idiot grinning at him from behind a tree, arms crossed like he always had that smug expression on his face.

When he glanced down at the flames, he thought he saw Hwi’s reflection flicker across the fire, his mouth twisted in that disappointed look.

Even now, as he squeezed his eyes shut, he could hear him.

“We should let him go.”

“He’s just a kid.”

“You don’t get it, do you?”

Dumok’s breath came short and ragged. He jolted to his feet, spinning wildly toward the empty forest. “You’re dead, you hear me?! You’re DEAD!”

Silence.

His hands shook. He turned to Chung Myung, who hadn’t stopped swinging his sword.

Shhk. Shhk.

Dumok’s face twisted, something dark and furious bubbling up inside him. “Faster,” he growled.

Chung Myung obeyed without hesitation. His motions quickened, his wooden sword cutting through the air like a machine given purpose.

Shhk. Shhk. Shhk.

It wasn’t enough.

“FASTER!” Dumok roared.

Chung Myung’s body jerked, his swings becoming erratic, his arms trembling harder. Sweat dripped from his forehead, soaking into his robes, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop.

Dumok breathed heavily, his hands clenched into fists. He swallowed thickly, his throat dry. “You… you should be grateful,” he muttered, half to himself, half to Chung Myung. “If it weren’t for me, you’d have nothing. No purpose. No orders.”

Chung Myung’s breathing was shallow, ragged, but he still didn’t stop moving.

Shhk. Shhk. Shhk.

Dumok’s vision blurred, and for a brief second, he swore the boy’s shadow looked just like Hwi’s.

His stomach churned.

His hands clenched tighter.

“You want to leave?” Dumok spat, stepping closer. “You want to run away like that coward did? You think I don’t know? You’re just waiting for a chance, aren’t you?”

No response.

Dumok’s voice cracked, his tone tipping into something unstable. “Well, too bad! You belong to me! You hear me? ME!”

Chung Myung swayed on his feet, his wooden sword dragging against the ground as his strength faltered. His legs buckled slightly, but the amulet pulsed, forcing him to keep moving.

Dumok’s breathing hitched.

The shadows flickered again.

For a split second, the firelight warped, and Hwi was there, grinning, arms crossed, shaking his head.

That disappointed look.

Dumok let out a strangled yell, grabbing the nearest object—his metal cup—and hurling it into the trees. The clang echoed in the quiet night, but the hallucination of Hwi was already gone.

His body trembled. He ran a hand over his face, trying to steady his breath.

Then, slowly, he turned back to Chung Myung.

The boy was still standing. Barely.

Dumok forced a grin. It felt wrong on his face, stretched too tight. “You’re all I have left, Sword Guy,” he muttered, his voice uneven. “So keep moving.”

Chung Myung obeyed.

Because that’s all he could do.

Dumok’s newfound sense of power swelled inside him like an uncontrollable storm. For years, he had been nothing but a con artist, a man who had to scam, trick, and grovel his way through life. But now?

Now, people feared him.

Or rather, they feared the thing standing behind him.

He strolled through the market streets of a new town, shoulders squared, chin held high, reveling in the way merchants hesitated when he passed by. He had never been able to afford this kind of presence before, but with Sword Guy behind him, moving like a shadow, no one dared look at him the wrong way.

And if they did?

Well, he had a simple solution for that.
The first time it happened was almost by accident.

A man—a burly mercenary—had bumped into Dumok while walking through a crowded street. Normally, Dumok would’ve stepped aside, muttered an apology, and slinked away before the other guy could pick a fight.

But not this time.

Dumok turned, puffing out his chest. “Hey! Watch where you’re going!”

The mercenary barely spared him a glance. “Then move out of the way next time,” he grunted.

Dumok sneered. “Oh? Big guy like you thinks he can just push people around?”

The mercenary scoffed. “What are you gonna do about it?”

Dumok grinned. “I don’t have to do anything.” He turned his head slightly. “Sword Guy.”

A sharp whisper of movement.

Before the mercenary could react, a wooden sword slammed into his gut with enough force to lift him off his feet. He crashed into a nearby cart, sending vegetables flying.

The entire street fell silent.

Dumok’s grin widened as he stepped forward, looking down at the groaning man. “Oh dear. Did that hurt?” He crouched beside him, lowering his voice. “Maybe next time, you’ll learn some manners.”

The mercenary coughed, barely able to speak.

Dumok clapped his hands, standing up. “Alright, folks! Let this be a lesson: don’t mess with me.”

People quickly scattered, whispering to themselves, casting terrified glances at the silent swordsman behind Dumok.

Dumok looked at Chung Myung. The boy stood as still as ever, his dull, colorless eyes locked forward, waiting.

Waiting for the next command.

Dumok smirked. “C’mon, Sword Guy. We’re just getting started.”
And so it continued.

Every time someone so much as looked at Dumok the wrong way, he turned it into an excuse to remind the world of his power.

A merchant didn’t give him the price he wanted? Sword Guy.

A drunkard bumped into him at the tavern? Sword Guy.

Even when he had no reason to pick a fight, he made one up, just for the thrill of watching people cower before him.

He wasn’t just a con artist anymore.

He owned this town.
One afternoon, Dumok tossed a small axe at Chung Myung’s feet, sneering. “Go gather some firewood. You’re useless just standing there.”

Chung Myung bent down, picked up the axe, and walked toward the woods without a word.

Dumok didn’t even watch him leave.

Why would he? It wasn’t like the kid was going anywhere.
Chung Myung moved through the forest like a shadow, his straw hat tilted downward, his wooden sword strapped to his back. The black tendrils from the amulet had spread even further, curling along his wrists and creeping toward his lips. His body trembled slightly with every step, but still, he moved.

Still, he obeyed.

He found a clearing and began chopping. Slow, methodical strikes.

He didn’t notice the boy watching him.

Not at first.
The boy had been watching him for some time now, peeking from behind a tree, his small fingers gripping the bark.

He was young—perhaps eight or nine—his round face filled with curiosity rather than fear. His clothes were patched and worn, his hair messy, and his eyes bright with wonder.

He didn’t know why, but something about this quiet, sickly-looking swordsman fascinated him.

Finally, after gathering his courage, he stepped forward.

“Hey.”

Chung Myung didn’t react.

The boy frowned. “Are you ignoring me?”

Silence.

The boy huffed and took another step closer. “You don’t talk much, huh?”

Still, no response.

The boy squinted at him. “Are you sick?”

This time, there was the faintest pause in Chung Myung’s movements. A hesitation so brief that most people wouldn’t have noticed. But the boy did.

A grin spread across his face. “You are sick, huh?”

Chung Myung lifted another piece of wood, raising the axe.

The boy rocked on his heels. “You look kinda scary. But not, like… really scary. More like a sad scary.”

The axe came down with a sharp thunk.

The boy tilted his head. “Are you a samurai?”

Silence.

“I bet you are,” the boy decided. “I bet you used to be really strong, but then some bad guys did something to you, and now you’re all quiet and weird.”

Chung Myung bent down to pick up another piece of wood.

The boy leaned in closer, completely ignoring the obvious danger of standing near someone who could probably kill him in an instant.

“Wanna know my name?”

No response.

The boy grinned. “It’s Fink.”

Chung Myung’s fingers twitched slightly around the axe handle.

Fink took this as encouragement and sat cross-legged on a log nearby. “I don’t really have a last name. Or maybe I do, and I just forgot it. My mom always told me I was a bit forgetful.”

Silence.

Fink kicked his feet idly. “You’re not much of a talker, huh?”

Nothing.

Fink smirked. “That’s okay. I can talk enough for both of us.”

Chung Myung’s dull eyes flickered for the faintest second.

Fink beamed.

“See? You do listen.”

Fink sat cross-legged on the log, swinging his legs back and forth as he watched Chung Myung work. The guy was silent, barely even blinking, but Fink wasn’t bothered. He liked to talk, and having someone who wouldn’t interrupt was kind of nice.

“So, lemme guess,” Fink said, resting his chin on his hand. “You took a vow of silence. Swore never to speak again after your master was betrayed and slain by his own disciples, huh?”

Chung Myung didn’t react.

Fink nodded sagely, pretending to be deeply impressed. “Yep, I knew it. Either that, or you just really hate small talk.”

He watched as Chung Myung lifted another piece of wood, raising the axe high above his head.

The axe came down with a sharp crack, splitting the log cleanly in two.

Fink grinned. “Bet you could chop a guy in half just as easy, huh?”

Chung Myung didn’t react.

Fink tapped his fingers against his knee. “You ever hear the one about the bandit and the donkey? So this bandit, right—he steals a donkey, but the donkey’s actually cursed and—”

Another crack rang out as Chung Myung split another log. This time, half of the wood shot into the air, flipping end over end—

—right toward Fink’s face.

“OH—”

Fink barely had time to blink before Chung Myung moved.

A blur of motion.

A sudden snap in the air.

Before the wood could collide with Fink’s nose, Chung Myung’s hand shot out, snatching it just inches away from his face.

Fink sat frozen, his heart hammering in his chest, staring at the chunk of wood hovering dangerously close to his forehead.

His wide eyes slowly moved up, finally seeing Chung Myung’s face properly for the first time.

And that’s when it hit him.

The dull, colorless eyes. The inky black tendrils crawling up his neck, barely brushing against his lips. The sword at his back. The sheer, terrifying speed of his movements.

Fink’s breath caught.

“…No way.”

Chung Myung lowered the wood, stepping back to continue chopping.

But Fink wasn’t moving.

His small hands clenched into fists, his whole body trembling—not with fear, but with barely contained excitement.

“You’re him,” he whispered.

No response.

“You’re him!” he repeated, louder this time, his voice filled with awe. “The swordsman with the black poison creeping toward his face! The one from the stories! The one protecting the pig!”

Chung Myung’s axe came down again, ignoring him.

Fink practically vibrated with excitement, scrambling to his feet. “I knew you looked familiar! The silent, legendary warrior, doomed to wander, fighting off evil with nothing but a wooden sword—just like the rumors said!”

He circled around Chung Myung, taking in every detail. “But… wait…”

His brows furrowed as he scanned the empty clearing, eyes darting left and right.

“…Where’s the pig?”

Chung Myung finally paused, the faintest twitch of his brow hinting at some buried irritation.

Fink looked genuinely puzzled. “All the stories say you’re always protecting some big, dumb pig, but I don’t see a pig anywhere…” His face brightened suddenly. “Oh! Did he finally learn to protect himself? Did he go on his own journey? Or—”

Fink gasped dramatically. “Or did the pig betray you?!”

Chung Myung exhaled slowly, lifting another log.

Fink stared at him, his mind racing. “No, wait. You’re the one who looks cursed, so… are you the pig?”

The axe slammed into the log with enough force to crack the earth beneath it

“You know, I thought you’d be taller,” Fink continued. “Don’t get me wrong, you look cool and all, but from the stories, I thought you’d be, like, seven feet tall and breathing fire or something.”
Chung Myung finished chopping the last log, straightened, and, without hesitation, turned to leave. The setting sun cast long shadows through the trees, his silent figure cutting through the dimming light like a phantom.

Fink, who had been sitting cross-legged on a stump, watching with the kind of enthusiasm only a child could muster, immediately scrambled to his feet.

“Hey! Wait up!”

Chung Myung didn’t stop.

Fink jogged after him, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his ragged trousers. “So, uh, where are we going?”

Silence.

Fink grinned. “Nice. I like a good mystery.”
When they arrived at the camp, Dumok was sitting near the fire, absently flipping a silver coin between his fingers. He looked up when he saw Chung Myung approaching, but his expression immediately soured when he noticed Fink trailing behind.

“…What the hell is that?”

Fink put a hand to his chest, gasping in mock offense. “Excuse me, sir, but I am a child.”

Dumok’s face scrunched up in disgust. “Why is there a child here?”

Fink crossed his arms. “Why is there a greasy old man here?”

Dumok blinked. “Greasy?”

“I call it like I see it.”

Chung Myung continued forward, placing the gathered firewood near the camp. He ignored the argument already brewing behind him.

Dumok exhaled through his nose, pinching the bridge of it between his fingers. “Great. Just great. As if I didn’t have enough problems, now I have some stray kid showing up.” He shot a glare at Chung Myung. “Why’d you bring him here?”

“He didn’t,” Fink said, plopping down onto a log. “I followed him. Duh.”

Dumok scowled. “And why would you do that?”

Fink beamed. “Because he’s awesome.”

Dumok stared at him. Then, slowly, his eye twitched. “Kid. That thing,” he jabbed a finger toward Chung Myung, “is not awesome. It’s a tool. A weapon. A thing I own.”

Fink’s expression darkened. “Well, that was a stupid thing to say.”

Dumok raised an eyebrow. “Oh? And why’s that?”

“Because,” Fink said, swinging his legs casually, “you don’t own him. He doesn’t belong to you. You’re just borrowing him. And someday, someone’s gonna take him back.”

Dumok stiffened. For a split second, the fire crackled louder, the air between them shifting ever so slightly.

Why did that just sound exactly like something Hwi would say?

His jaw clenched. Tch. Maybe it was just the brat’s carefree way of talking. Maybe it was the fact that he was young and naive, just like Hwi had been back when they first started scamming people together.

Either way, he didn’t like it.

“Listen, kid,” Dumok said, forcing his usual grin back onto his face. “I don’t know what you think you know, but this is how things are. Sword Guy does what I say. End of story.”

Fink tilted his head. “Sword Guy?”

Dumok rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I don’t know his name. So what?”

Fink’s mouth fell open. “Wait, you don’t know his name either?!”

Dumok threw up his hands. “Obviously!” He turned to Chung Myung, who had been sitting near the fire, as still and silent as ever. “Hey, Sword Guy. Come on, tell us your name. You have to have one.”

Chung Myung didn’t even blink.

Dumok groaned. “Come on, come on. Say something. Anything.”

Silence.

Dumok smacked his forehead. “This is infuriating.”

Fink giggled. “Wow. You’ve been dragging him around all this time and never even bothered to ask?”

Dumok shot him a glare. “I did ask! He just never answered!”

Fink hummed, turning to Chung Myung. “Hey. Samurai guy. What’s your name?”

Nothing.

Fink nodded, completely unbothered. “Fair enough.”

Dumok groaned, rubbing his temples. “Great. Now there’s two of them.”

Fink smirked. “You’re losing control of your little empire, huh?”

Dumok scoffed. “Tch. Hardly. I don’t need his name.” He turned back to Chung Myung, tilting his head. “But, man… it really does bug me.”

Fink tapped his chin. “Wanna just give him one?”

Dumok blinked. “Huh?”

“You know,” Fink said, shrugging. “Like, if we don’t know his real name, we should just pick one. Like…” He squinted at Chung Myung. “…pig-phobic.”

Dumok snorted. “pig-phobic?”

“He hates pigs.”

Dumok eyed Chung Myung. “…I feel like I’m missing something here.”

Fink grinned. “You come up with something, then.”

Dumok huffed. “Nah, forget it. It won’t matter anyway.” He leaned back, stretching his arms over his head. “He’s Sword Guy. That’s all he needs to be.”

Fink watched Dumok carefully, still swinging his legs. “Y’know… for someone who acts like he owns him, you sure do want to know his name pretty bad.”

Dumok’s grin twitched. “Shut up, kid.”

Fink just smiled wider. “Nah.”

The air in the cramped inn room was thick with frustration. The Mount Hua disciples sat in various states of exhaustion, each one pouring over their own methods of trying to find Chung Myung, but nothing—nothing—was giving them a lead.

Baek Cheon sat at the small wooden table in the center of the room, his fingers steepled in front of him, his brows furrowed in deep thought. He had gone over everything they knew at least a dozen times, but the problem was simple: Chung Myung had vanished into thin air.

“We should be closer by now,” he muttered. “We’ve searched every road he could’ve taken, asked every merchant, every traveler, every innkeeper.” His jaw tightened. “How is it that not a single person has seen him?”

Yoon Jong leaned against the window frame, arms crossed tightly. His usual calm was thinning by the second. “He’s not exactly an easy person to miss. Even when he’s trying to be discreet, he stands out.”

Jo Gul sat on the floor, his back against the wall, his head tipped back as he let out a long groan. “I hate this. I’d rather be doing drills in the freezing cold than sitting around getting nowhere.”

Yu Iseol sat on the edge of the bed, sharpening her sword with slow, methodical movements. The rhythmic shhk shhk of the whetstone against metal was the only consistent sound in the room.

Baek Cheon exhaled heavily and looked at Yoon Jong. “What’s the situation on the search parties?”

“We split up earlier to cover more ground,” Yoon Jong said. “I checked the southern roads, Jo Gul talked to travelers near the marketplace, and Yu Iseol questioned people near the outskirts.”

“And?”

Jo Gul threw his hands up. “Nothing! Some people have heard of a wandering swordsman, but every time we follow up, it’s a dead end. Too many fighters travel through these parts. No one even knows if the rumors are about him.”

Baek Cheon drummed his fingers against the table, his frustration barely contained. “We’re missing something.”

Yu Iseol finally spoke, her voice quiet but firm. “He’s not moving on his own.”

The others turned to her.

“What do you mean?” Jo Gul asked, sitting up.

Yu Iseol continued sharpening her sword. “If he was alone, he would’ve left some trace. Mount Hua techniques are too distinct. Someone would have recognized him.” She paused. “That means he’s not traveling by his own will.”

Baek Cheon nodded slowly. “We suspected as much, but that just means someone else is keeping him hidden.”

“And if that’s the case,” Yoon Jong said grimly, “we’re not just searching for him. We’re searching for whoever took him.”

Silence settled over the group.

Jo Gul exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples. “So what do we do? Keep chasing rumors? We’ve been at this for days, and we’re no closer than we were before.”

Baek Cheon closed his eyes for a moment, gathering his thoughts. Then, he stood.

“We need to change our approach.” His voice was steady, but there was a new intensity to it. “We’ve been asking the wrong questions. Instead of asking about a swordsman, we ask about his captors. We find them, we find Chung Myung.”

Yoon Jong’s eyes sharpened. “And how do we track them down?”

Baek Cheon turned to Jo Gul. “You said there were rumors of a wandering swordsman, right?”

Jo Gul nodded. “Yeah, but they lead nowhere.”

“That’s because we’ve been following rumors of Chung Myung.” Baek Cheon crossed his arms. “We need to follow rumors of the people using him, which was a tall skinny man, and a pig-like short man.”

Jo Gul nodded slightly, “That’s a pretty accurate depiction.” He answers sarcastically

Yoon Jong pushed off the wall, realization dawning on him. “we should be looking for fights. Not just any fights—unusual ones. Fights where someone was clearly outmatched. Fights where an opponent never stood a chance.”

Jo Gul grinned. “Now that sounds like Chung Myung.”

Baek Cheon smirked slightly. “Then let’s start there.”

Baek Cheon was drowning in his thoughts, the weight of his duty to his younger disciple pressing down on him. He was supposed to protect Chung Myung, the younger disciple. to keep him safe—but more often than not, it was Chung Myung who shielded him, and kept him safe from the real world, who carried the burden he should have borne. Shame burned deep in his chest. Even now, when it should be his turn to stand strong, yet Chung Myung was still standing much taller. the one holding everything together. It was almost unbearable.

Memories of the last time he saw Chung Myung surfaced like ghosts, haunting him. He had left—worn, battered—to chase down those two con artists whom are hiding in the shadows. And now, it was their turn to find him, to end this once and for all. But how could Baek Cheon call himself a disciple of Mount Hua? How could he even dare to claim he was the blessed dragons disciple when he was struggling this much—when he was still the one having his hand held every step of the way?

His frustration wasn’t gone, and the other deciples felt the same way. but for the first time in days, they had a direction.

And nothing was going to stop them from following it.

 

Fink sat by the fire, arms crossed, watching Sword Guy with an intensity that was starting to bother even himself.

There was something wrong with him.

He couldn’t explain it—not in words, at least. But from the moment he saw the way he moved, the way his body swayed slightly with exhaustion but never collapsed, the way his dull eyes never seemed to focus on anything at all—Fink knew.

He was sick.

Somehow.

And yet, he kept moving. Kept fighting. Kept listening to that greasy, overstuffed con artist like some kind of trained dog.

Fink didn’t like it.

And he hated that he couldn’t figure out why.

Dumok, of course, didn’t care. He was too busy counting coins, tossing one in the air and catching it like he had something better to do.

Fink eyed him warily. He didn’t like Dumok much either. There was something off about him—something different from other lowlife scoundrels he had met before.

Dumok thought he was important. That much was obvious. The way he carried himself, the way he sneered at people, the way he barked orders and expected them to be followed.

And worse?

They were followed.

At least by him.

Fink’s gaze flickered back to Sword Guy.

He had to know.

Fink glanced between them, waiting for a moment when Dumok wasn’t paying attention. When he was sure the con artist was too busy counting his stolen coins, he scooted a little closer to Sword Guy.

Then, cautiously, he whispered, “Hey.”

No response.

Fink had expected that.

“…Can you hear me?”

Nothing.

Fink licked his lips. “Do you… have to do what he says?”

Still nothing.

But this time, he saw it.

The faintest twitch in his fingers.

It was small. Almost unnoticeable.

But it was there.

Fink swallowed. His heart started beating faster.

“Do you want to?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Nothing. No movement, no flicker of emotion.

Fink sighed, dragging a hand through his messy hair.

Idiot. What were you expecting? That he’d suddenly snap out of it and go, ‘Wow, kid! Thanks for asking! I actually hate this guy!’?*

No. That would be too easy.

Still, something gnawed at the back of his mind.

He leaned forward slightly, resting his chin on his hands, watching Sword Guy even closer. His gaze drifted to his neck, to the strange, dark amulet resting against his skin.

It pulsed faintly.

Like a slow heartbeat.

Fink frowned. He had noticed it before, but for some reason, now it bothered him.

It glowed every time Dumok gave an order.

It spread further up his neck every time Sword Guy did something exhausting.

Fink didn’t understand much about martial artists, but he knew one thing:

This wasn’t normal.

Not the way his hands twitched. Not the way his body barely seemed able to keep up with itself.

Not the way his breathing always sounded just a little off.

Fink frowned, chewing his lip. He hated puzzles. Especially ones that involved people.

But this one?

This one felt important.

Dumok flipped a silver coin between his fingers, glancing toward the silent swordsman standing near the fire. He stretched lazily, a satisfied smirk creeping onto his face.

“Hey, Sword Guy.”

Chung Myung’s dull eyes lifted slightly, but he didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. The moment Dumok spoke, he was already listening.

Dumok’s smirk widened. “Go fetch some water.”

Chung Myung moved immediately, stepping forward without hesitation.

Fink, who had been watching from the side, sat up straight. “Are you serious?”

Dumok raised an eyebrow. “What?”

Fink scowled. “Water? You’re making him fetch water for you? Like a servant?”

Dumok’s smirk didn’t waver. “And?”

“And that’s stupid!” Fink snapped, throwing his hands in the air. “You’ve got this amazing, legendary swordsman under your control, and you’re using him to—what? Run errands? What’s next, gonna make him wash your socks?”

Dumok snorted. “Relax, brat. He doesn’t care.”

Fink turned to Sword Guy, his arms still crossed tightly. “You care, don’t you?”

Chung Myung said nothing. His expression didn’t change. His feet kept moving.

Fink huffed. “I hate this.”

Dumok smirked. “Then don’t follow him.”

Fink stuck his tongue out. “I will, actually. Not because you told me not to, but because I want to.”

Dumok rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Run along, kid.”

Fink hurried after Sword Guy, who was already disappearing into the trees, moving with that eerie, silent efficiency.
The walk to the well was long, but that didn’t stop Fink from filling the silence with his usual stream of chatter.

“…And then the guy had the nerve to say I couldn’t read!” he was saying, kicking a rock down the dirt path. “I can read! I just choose not to! Big difference!”

Chung Myung didn’t react.

Fink sighed dramatically. “You’re so lucky you don’t have to deal with idiots like that.” He paused. “Well. Except him.”

They arrived at the well, and Chung Myung set down the wooden buckets before slowly reaching for the rope.

Fink plopped down on the edge of the well, watching with mild interest. “You take your time with everything, huh?”

Chung Myung pulled the rope, lowering the bucket down. Slowly.

Fink rocked on his heels. “I mean, it’s fine, I guess. You’re sick and all.”

No response.

Fink frowned, watching the way Sword Guy’s fingers trembled slightly as he pulled the bucket back up.

It was subtle, but he saw it.

He’s tired.

Fink’s stomach twisted slightly. He knew something was wrong with him. He had felt it from the start.

And yet, here he was, hauling water for some greasy con artist.

Fink hopped down from the well. “Here, I’ll help—”

Chung Myung had already filled the first bucket. He reached for the second. Slowly.

Fink crossed his arms. “You know, I’d do this for you if you just asked.”

No response.

“…Right. Of course. You don’t talk.”

The second bucket filled, and Chung Myung stood, lifting both with ease despite his trembling hands.

Fink hurried to follow. “Alright, let’s get this over with. I can only stand being around that guy for so long.”

They started back down the dirt path, heading toward camp.

Fink kicked another rock. “You ever think about running away?”

Chung Myung walked in silence.

Fink huffed. “Yeah, yeah. Quiet brooding, I get it.”

The sun was lower now, casting long shadows through the trees.

Fink rubbed his nose absentmindedly. “You’re weird, you know that? Not just because you don’t talk. There’s something else about you.”

The sound of their footsteps filled the quiet.

And then, just as they reached the halfway point back to camp—

It happened.

The air shifted.

A sharp, chilling stillness.

Fink stopped mid-step.

“…Hey,” he said, suddenly uneasy. “Did you feel that?”

Chung Myung’s grip on the water buckets tightened slightly.

His dull, lifeless eyes flickered—just for a second.

Then—

The forest erupted.

The forest exploded into motion.

Figures emerged from the trees, their movements sharp and practiced. A gang of at least a dozen men, their clothes tattered but their weapons gleaming. Their leader—a tall, wiry man with a jagged scar running from his temple to his jaw—stepped forward, a cruel smirk twisting his face.

“Well, well,” he drawled, flipping a dagger in his hand. “Looks like we finally found him.”

Fink’s stomach dropped.

Oh, no.

The bandits’ eyes weren’t on him.

They were locked onto Sword Guy.

“You’ve been making quite a name for yourself, haven’t you?” the leader continued, his smirk widening. “The wandering swordsman with the wooden blade. The one who fights without speaking, without hesitation.” He tilted his head. “Didn’t expect to find you carrying water, though. Not exactly fitting for a legend.”

Fink looked up at Sword Guy, expecting some kind of reaction. But—as always—there was nothing.

Just that same, empty gaze.

That silence.

One of the bandits sneered, stepping forward. “What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?”

The leader chuckled. “Nah, it’s just how he is. Doesn’t talk. Only fights.” His eyes darkened. “So let’s give him a fight.”

Fink swallowed hard. “Okay, uh—listen, gentlemen, let’s all calm down—”

The bandit nearest to them lunged.

Fink flinched—

And then it was over.

There was a blur of movement—so fast that Fink barely saw it. A sharp crack rang out as wood collided with flesh, and before he could process what had happened, the bandit was gone, sent crashing into a tree with a sickening thud.

Fink stared, wide-eyed.

“…Whoa.”

The leader’s smirk twitched. “So he’s as quick as they say.”

The rest of the bandits hesitated for only a moment before charging in, weapons drawn.

But Sword Guy didn’t flinch.

Didn’t even move until the last second.

Then—

He struck.

Buckets still in hand, one tucked under his arm, he moved.

A wooden sword cut through the air like a blade of steel. The first attacker crumpled instantly. The second barely managed to raise his sword before being sent flying. The third was knocked off his feet before he even knew what hit him.

Fink couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

He’s holding two full buckets of water.

He’s taking down grown men while carrying water.

A bandit leapt at him from behind—only for Sword Guy to shift, twisting his body slightly so that the attacker missed completely. The poor idiot ended up tripping over a tree root and knocking himself out.

Fink gawked.

He’s not even trying.

Another two came at once.

Another two bandits rushed in at the same time, their blades gleaming in the dim forest light.

Chung Myung shifted his weight, pivoting slightly—just enough to let one bandit’s sword miss by a hair. Then, with one fluid motion, he swung his wooden sword, catching the first attacker in the ribs. There was a sharp crack, and the man was gone, sent flying back into the trees.

The second one hesitated.

Big mistake.

Chung Myung didn’t waste a second.

He moved, ducking low while still balancing the water buckets, then brought his sword up in a sharp, brutal strike to the man’s chin. The force lifted him off his feet, his body flipping backward before he crashed to the ground, motionless.

Fink stood frozen, jaw completely unhinged.

“…Oh,” he breathed, eyes shining. “That was awesome.”

The remaining bandits faltered, eyeing their fallen comrades with visible unease.

“Damn it, he’s too fast!” one of them growled, gripping his sword tighter.

The leader, however, didn’t seem deterred. His smirk had vanished, replaced with cold calculation. He spun his dagger in his fingers, stepping forward.

“All the rumors said the same thing,” he muttered. “The kid fights like a demon. Barely even breathes between strikes.” He tilted his head. “But even demons have limits.”

Fink frowned.

That… That didn’t sound good.

The leader’s eyes flicked to the amulet around Sword Guy’s neck. He sneered. “And you have something eating away at you, don’t you?”

Fink’s stomach twisted.

Before he could say anything, the leader lunged.

Faster than the others. Sharper.

Chung Myung reacted instantly, shifting his stance to block—

And then—

The amulet pulsed.

Bright light erupted from the dark stone, sending a sharp, jarring shock through Sword Guy’s body. His movement stuttered, just for a moment.

And that was all the bandit leader needed.

His dagger slashed through the air—

Blood splattered across the dirt.

Fink’s breath hitched.

Chung Myung didn’t fall.

Didn’t even flinch.

He moved through the pain, pivoting at the last second to strike.

The bandit leader barely managed to dodge, stumbling back just as the wooden sword came crashing down. The impact sent up a burst of dust, but when it cleared, the man was already retreating.

“Tch.” The leader’s eyes narrowed. “Not worth it.”

And just like that, he was gone.

The moment he disappeared, the amulet pulsed again—harder this time.

Chung Myung’s body jerked.

The black tendrils surged, spreading across his jaw, his eye—

And then the coughing started.

Fink whipped his head around. “Hey—?”

A sharp, wet sound filled the air.

Chung Myung doubled over, hacking violently. Blood splattered onto the dirt, more than before. Too much.

Fink felt his stomach drop.

He rushed forward without thinking. “Hey, hey! What’s happening?!”

Chung Myung barely heard him. His body shook as he fell to his knees, fingers digging into the dirt.

Fink panicked. “Okay—Okay, just—breathe, alright?! Stop—Stop doing that!”

More blood.

Too much blood.

Fink’s hands hovered uselessly, his heart racing. He had no idea what to do. No idea what was happening.

But he knew one thing for sure—

This was bad.

Chapter Text

Fink’s heart pounded in his chest as he stared at the blood staining the dirt. It wasn’t just a little—it was too much. His stomach twisted, panic rising like a cold wave in his gut.

“Sword Guy?” His voice cracked as he took a shaky step closer. “Hey—hey! What’s wrong with you?”

Chung Myung didn’t answer. His body trembled violently, his hands digging into the ground as another brutal, wet cough ripped through him. Thick drops of blood fell from his lips, splattering against the earth in dark, vivid streaks.

Fink swallowed hard, his throat tight. This isn’t normal. This isn’t just being sick.

His eyes darted to the amulet around Sword Guy’s neck. It pulsed with an eerie, faint light—darker, heavier than before. The black tendrils crawling from the amulet surged again, creeping further across his face. His right eye—what had once been white—was now completely black, empty and cold, like a void swallowing everything.

Fink’s breath hitched. What… What is this thing doing to him?

Another cough wracked through Chung Myung’s body, more blood spilling onto the ground. His shoulders shook, his entire frame looking like it might collapse at any moment—but he stayed upright, like something was forcing him to move.

Fink felt a chill crawl up his spine. He had seen people in bad shape before—he’d grown up around the sick and desperate—but this was different. This was wrong.

And worse?

If Dumok sees him like this…

Fink clenched his fists. He could already picture the way Dumok would smirk if he realized how weak Sword Guy was becoming. The man treated him like some unbreakable tool—like a thing to be used. If he knew whatever was happening was getting worse…

No. No way.

Without thinking, Fink darted forward and grabbed Chung Myung’s shoulder, shaking him lightly. “Hey! Hey, come on—snap out of it!”

Nothing.

“Sword Guy!” His voice trembled, frustration and fear crashing together in his chest. “You’re freaking me out, okay? Say something!”

Still nothing.

His body swayed slightly, his breath ragged and uneven.

Fink’s heart pounded louder. He had no idea what to do—no idea how to help.

“Okay, okay, okay—think, Fink. Think!”

Fink didn’t think. He just ran.

Branches slapped against his face as he tore through the forest, tripping over every root and uneven patch of dirt in his path. He had no sense of direction, no plan—just the image of Sword Guy doubled over in pain, bleeding out and gasping for air, burned into his mind.

“Dumok! DUMOK!”

Back at camp, Dumok was lounging against a tree stump, halfway through eating what looked suspiciously like a loaf of bread stolen from a tavern kitchen. He blinked as Fink came bursting through the brush like a deranged squirrel.

“Whoa, whoa! Slow down, kid! What, you finally tripped over your ego?”

Fink skidded to a stop, panting. “It’s—It’s Sword Guy! He—he’s—it’s BAD!”

Dumok squinted. “You gotta be more specific. Did he drop the water or—?”

“He’s DYING!”

Dumok’s half-eaten bread hit the dirt.

“What?!”

“He collapsed! He was coughing up enough blood to paint a barn! The black stuff’s all over his face, and—and his eye looks like it belongs to a demon!”

Dumok stumbled to his feet, eyes wide, panic seeping into his voice. “Where?! Where is he?!”

Fink grabbed his sleeve, tugging. “This way! Hurry!”

They sprinted through the forest, dodging trees and fallen logs, neither saying anything. The only sounds were Fink’s rapid breaths and Dumok’s increasingly wheezy gasps.

“I knew it!” Dumok wheezed between strides. “I knew that amulet was cursed! Hwi said—well—he said it looked cursed, but I didn’t think it would actually—GAAH!”

He tripped, landed flat on his face, then popped back up like it didn’t happen. “Still alive! Go!”

Fink didn’t even blink. “You run like a dad trying to catch a chicken.”

“Shut up, you’re the chicken!”

Meanwhile, not far from the province, Baek Cheon sat in the corner of an inn room with a map spread across his lap, eyes narrowed in concentration.

“No unusual sword fights. No reports of masked warriors or wooden blades. No rumors about any disciples fitting Chung Myung’s description.” He exhaled sharply. “How are we not finding anything?”

Jo Gul was lying across the bed upside-down, legs against the headboard. “Maybe he grew wings and flew away.”

Yoon Jong didn’t even look up. “He’d still manage to complain mid-flight.”

Yu Iseol glanced out the window. “We’re looking in the wrong places.”

Baek Cheon rubbed his temples. “We’ve searched taverns, merchants, markets, townspeople. If he was even near any of those places, someone would’ve said something.”

Then he paused. A flicker of thought passed behind his eyes.

“…Unless he wasn’t traveling alone.”

Back in the woods, Dumok and Fink burst into the clearing, hearts pounding.

“Alright, kid—where is he?” Dumok gasped.

Fink pointed to the center of the clearing. “Right there! He was right—”

They both froze.

There was no one there.

Only the two wooden buckets, tipped over on their sides. Water pooled in the dirt, soaking into the forest floor.

Fink’s eyes went wide. “No. No.”

Dumok staggered forward. “Where the hell did he go?! You said he couldn’t stand!”

“He couldn’t!” Fink yelped. “He was coughing blood like a dying grandma!”

Dumok spun in a circle, frantically searching the trees. “Did he crawl away? Was he taken? Did you see anything?”

“I dunno!” Fink snapped, grabbing fistfuls of his own hair. “Do I look like a tracker to you? I’m eight!”

“I dunno! Some eight-year-olds are freaky!”

They both stood in the clearing, staring at the empty spot where Sword Guy had fallen.

Fink kicked a bucket. “What, did he evaporate?!”

Dumok dropped to his knees, holding his head. “Okay… okay, okay. Maybe he just—maybe he just walked it off. Right?”

Fink stared at him. “After coughing out a lung?!”

“…Maybe two.”

Fink groaned. “This is bad. This is really bad.”

Dumok looked down at the black-stained puddle where the water had mixed with blood. “If he’s moving like that, in that condition…”

Fink turned to him, eyes narrowing. “You think he’s looking for someone?”

Dumok was quiet for a long second. Then, softly: “Or something.”

They didn’t say anything else for a while.

The sun dipped lower, and the shadows in the trees stretched longer.

Fink finally crossed his arms. “So what do we do now?”

Dumok stood, brushing himself off. “We find him.”

Fink raised an eyebrow. “You sure you don’t mean lose him again?”

“Kid,” Dumok muttered, staring into the woods, “if that cursed freak dies before I figure out what’s wrong with him, I’m gonna be haunted by Hwi’s smug ghost forever.”

Fink blinked. “…Okay that was weirdly honest.”

Dumok sighed. “Shut up and help me find the sword guy.”

Fink smirked. “Now that’s the spirit.”

And they vanished into the trees once more.

Somewhere deeper in the forest, the legendary “sword guy” moved alone—silent, bleeding, and getting further away with every passing step.
Chung Myung walked.

The forest blurred around him. Not in the poetic sense—not trees rushing by, not time slipping through his fingers like a stream. No. It literally blurred. The edges of everything were smudged, fuzzy, flickering between sharp clarity and complete darkness.

Step. Drag. Step.

The buckets were gone. He had no memory of setting them down, only that his hands no longer carried them. That part of his body felt… detached. Like it had been discarded without his permission.

His legs moved with the slow stubbornness of something broken but unwilling to fall. He didn’t know how long it had been. Minutes? Hours?

His thoughts were fragmented, echoing in a mind that was no longer fully his.

Where am I…?
What was I doing…?
Water…? Firewood…? Bandits…

That one stuck.

Bandits.

He remembered the fight. The blood—too much of it. His body weakening. His chest burning. The amulet…

The amulet.

Like a heavy stone hung around his soul. The pulsing from it had become constant now, a dull throb in the back of his neck and all the way down his spine. Each beat spread the black further across his face, deeper into his veins.

He tried to resist.

Tried to pull himself out of the haze, to speak, to move differently, to do anything that wasn’t what they wanted.

But it was like shouting underwater.

In that watery, muted space of his mind, there was him. A small piece. Tired. Awake. Angry.

How long… has it been like this?

He couldn’t remember.

Sometimes he dreamed while walking. That was the worst part. Dreams of Mount Hua.

Of Senior Brothers laughing.

Of his master scolding him gently while pretending to be stern.

Of Yu Iseol silently passing him tea, not looking directly at him.

Of Baek Cheon with his arms crossed, lecturing him again about discipline.

Of Jo Gul yelling, “You’re impossible!” with more affection than irritation.

Of Yoon Jong staying quiet, watching him with eyes that understood.

Of Hyun Jong…

Sect Leader…

He saw their faces. Not as they were now—but as they had been. In his first life.

Back when he had still been human.

No.

I’m still human.

I… am Chung Myung.

His foot caught on a root. He stumbled, falling to one knee.

The jolt shook something loose inside him. He blinked hard.

Trees. Moonlight. The wind, cool on his skin. His fingers dug into the dirt.

He took a breath.

And for a split second—just a flicker—his eyes cleared.

Who—am I… fighting for?

The amulet flared.

Agony.

His body seized. His eye—his good eye—flashed black, and he let out a strangled gasp.

Blood rose again in his throat. He coughed, spat, hands trembling as crimson droplets hit the leaves below.

I have to…

His vision darkened again, the forest warping.

Don’t forget.

Don’t forget who you are.

But the haze returned, wrapping itself around his mind like a shroud.

His legs rose again, against his will.

He kept walking.

Not toward safety.

Not toward camp.

But somewhere else.

Farther.

Deeper.

Wherever the pull told him to go.
Chung Myung crouched high above the forest path, perched on the thick limb of an ancient pine. The breeze moved through his ragged robes, his straw hat low over his face, hiding everything but the faint glint of one blackened eye.

He swayed slightly, barely holding his balance. His breathing was shallow, strained. The black tendrils from the amulet wrapped around his neck like a living noose, and now covered nearly half his face.

The amulet pulsed.

He didn’t know why he was there.

He just was.

Somewhere deep inside, something had whispered:

Wait.

So he did.

And then—

The voices came.

“–I’m telling you, we’re close!”

“You’re always telling us that.”

“Can we please not start again?”

“Shut up! Someone check the map!”

He heard them before he saw them. That arguing. That oddly specific brand of exhausted frustration that could only belong to—

Mount Hua disciples.

Chung Myung’s head tilted ever so slightly.

Then, the brush parted, and four familiar figures emerged from the undergrowth below the tree.

Baek Cheon, striding ahead like a commander on the verge of snapping.
Yoon Jong, hunched over a ragged map and muttering.
Jo Gul, dramatically fanning himself with a fern leaf.
Yu Iseol, silent, focused, scanning every shadow.

Chung Myung stared blankly.

A name itched at the edge of his mind.

…Baek… Cheon…

His eye twitched.

The amulet pulsed—hard.

Pain.

A wave of nausea crashed over him. He swayed—

—and fell.

Baek Cheon had exactly one second to process the shadow falling from the sky.

“What the—”

WHUMP.

Chung Myung landed squarely on top of him.

Baek Cheon screamed.

“AUGH! A DEMON! A TREE DEMON!”

Jo Gul yelped and dove behind Yoon Jong.

Yoon Jong blinked. “Wait, that silhouette—”

Baek Cheon flailed as he tried to throw the body off. “GET IT OFF! IT’S POSSESSED! IT’S—wait—wait—*what—*is this—”

“…Chung Myung?” Yoon Jong’s eyes widened.

Yu Iseol was already kneeling beside them, her hand gently pulling the straw hat back.

The moment it came off, a sharp silence fell over the group.

His face was pale. Sweating. Dotted with dried blood. And worst of all—the black. Crawling up his neck and cheek like it had grown roots.

Baek Cheon sat frozen beneath him, voice small now. “…Oh no.”

Chung Myung’s body was limp against him. His eyes fluttered open slightly, glazed and colorless. He blinked once. Slowly.

“Is that really him?” Jo Gul asked. “Because I’ve seen rotting driftwood that looked healthier.”

“Definitely him,” Yoon Jong said grimly.

Chung Myung coughed—low, wet, awful. A drop of blood ran from the corner of his mouth.

Yu Iseol caught it with a cloth before it could hit his robes. “We need to get him treated. Now.”

Baek Cheon gently sat up, easing Chung Myung into his lap. “Chung Myung… hey. Can you hear me?”

Nothing.

Yoon Jong knelt beside him. “He’s not even trying to speak.”

“Does he even recognize us?” Jo Gul asked. “Or is he in full tree-demon mode?”

“Shut up, Jo Gul,” Baek Cheon snapped. He looked back at Chung Myung, gently shaking his shoulder. “Who did this to you?”

Chung Myung blinked again.

His lips parted slightly.

They leaned in—
Hopeful.
Desperate.

“…water…”

Baek Cheon nodded quickly. “Water, yes, anything—”

“…I dropped the buckets…”

Then he passed out.

Silence.

Jo Gul blinked. “Well. That was… wildly unhelpful.”

Baek Cheon picked him up, holding him bridal-style now. “We’re getting him to the nearest town.”

Yu Iseol kept pace, eyes still locked on the amulet. “We need to know who’s controlling him. He didn’t escape. He was sent.”

Yoon Jong narrowed his eyes. “And that means someone still has a leash on him.”

Jo Gul crossed his arms. “Good. Because I’ve been waiting to punch someone for about three days.”

And with that, they turned and disappeared into the woods again—carrying their collapsed “sword guy,” now found… but not yet saved.

Chapter Text

Chung Myung lay on a rough inn bed that creaked every time someone breathed near it, let alone when Jo Gul sat on the edge and nearly snapped the whole frame.

“He looks worse up close,” Jo Gul muttered, poking at Chung Myung’s arm like it might fall off. “I mean, I thought he looked like death when he arrived at Mount Hua, but now? This is the deluxe version.”

“Stop touching him,” Baek Cheon snapped, pacing the room like a tiger in a robe.

“I’m just checking for signs of life!”

“His chest is moving!”

Jo Gul shrugged. “Could be just the amulet pulsing. You know—like creepy cursed breathing?”

Across the room, Yu Iseol sat beside the bed, her hand resting gently near Chung Myung’s shoulder but never quite touching. Her gaze remained locked on the black tendrils creeping along his neck and cheek, now reaching the corner of his eye.

Yoon Jong, ever the rational one, stood at the door, flipping through the tattered notebook they had found back at Mount Hua.

“Everything points back to the controller,” he said quietly. “The amulet won’t break. It won’t respond to spiritual energy. The only way to sever the bond is—”

“The controller releasing him,” Baek Cheon finished, voice grim.

Yoon Jong nodded. “And we still don’t know who it is.”

Jo Gul let out a long sigh. “Great. So we found him. He’s a leaking, barely-functioning sword zombie, and the one thing keeping him that way is out there somewhere sipping wine and getting foot massages.”

Chung Myung stirred slightly at that, a quiet groan leaving his throat.

Everyone immediately leaned in.

“Chung Myung?” Baek Cheon asked, voice softening.

Chung Myung’s eyes opened, just a sliver—colorless, fogged, but flickering with something. Recognition? Confusion?

He looked around at them slowly.

Then whispered: “…Pig.”

Jo Gul recoiled. “Wha—what? Did he just call one of us a pig?”

“I think that was meant for someone else,” Yoon Jong murmured, confused.

Chung Myung frowned faintly, his expression oddly pained. “Where… where is he…?”

Baek Cheon leaned closer. “Where is who? Who did this to you? Who’s controlling you?”

Chung Myung blinked slowly. Then his lips moved again.

“…the fat one…”

Jo Gul’s eyes went wide. “There’s two of them!”

Chung Myung tried to lift a hand but couldn’t. His fingers twitched, barely able to curl.

Yu Iseol leaned closer, still calm as ever. “What’s his name, Chung Myung?”

A pause.

Then—

“…Du…” he rasped.

“…mok…”

The name fell from his lips like a curse. His whole body tensed, as if the very act of saying it was enough to trigger the amulet’s wrath. The dark lines pulsed again, almost angrily, and he coughed—more blood.

“Hey!” Baek Cheon caught him, supporting his head. “Don’t talk anymore. You’ve told us enough.”

Yoon Jong stared at the blood-stained cloth in Baek Cheon’s hand. “We’ve got a name.”

“Then we have a direction,” Yu Iseol said quietly.

Jo Gul crossed his arms, eyes narrowing. “Good. Because when I find this Dumok guy, I’m personally introducing him to Chung Myung’s sword—after I throw him off a cliff.”

Baek Cheon stood up slowly. “We move tomorrow. We rest tonight.”

Yoon Jong nodded, still reading. “I’ll search the local records. Dumok’s not exactly a common name. Maybe we’ll find something.”

Yu Iseol silently wiped Chung Myung’s forehead with a damp cloth.

Jo Gul grumbled as he sat beside the bed again. “I still think he called me the pig.”

“No,” Baek Cheon said, looking down at their fallen brother. “He just wanted to protect one.”

And outside, far in the distance, a con artist with a growing conscience was starting to realize his greatest mistake might soon return to haunt him.

It was a rotation now—part rescue mission, part babysitting duty. The disciples of Mount Hua had settled into a tense, exhausting rhythm in the tiny room at the edge of the inn.

Each day, one of them would go out to scout for this “Dumok,” following rumors, asking questions, tracking fights that ended too quickly or towns that had seen a silent swordsman with dead eyes.

Each day, the rest stayed behind to care for Chung Myung.

Which, as it turned out, was more difficult than fighting ten bandits at once.

On the fourth morning, Yoon Jong left early to cover the western half of town, sleeves rolled up, his face serious, eyes sharp.

That left Baek Cheon, Jo Gul, and Yu Iseol in the inn room with the world’s most uncooperative patient.

“He hasn’t eaten,” Baek Cheon muttered, kneeling beside the bed with a bowl of rice porridge that had gone lukewarm. “Again.”

“He hasn’t woken up,” Yu Iseol corrected, calm but pointed, adjusting the damp cloth on Chung Myung’s brow.

Jo Gul leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “Honestly, I’m starting to think he’s doing this on purpose.”

Baek Cheon turned. “He’s half-dead.”

“Yeah, and still fighting us on everything,” Jo Gul muttered. “He’s Chung Myung. What do you expect?”

As if on cue, Chung Myung stirred.

Yu Iseol immediately leaned forward. “He’s waking up.”

Baek Cheon set the bowl down and sat up. “Chung Myung?”

Chung Myung’s eyes fluttered open—just barely. That familiar, glassy haze lingered in them, but they focused enough to register the faces around him.

“Hey,” Baek Cheon said gently. “You need to eat. Just a few bites.”

Chung Myung stared at him. Then, very slowly, began to sit up.

Baek Cheon looked hopeful—

Until Chung Myung kicked off the blanket and made a break for the window.

“NOPE!”

Jo Gul dove, grabbing his leg. Baek Cheon caught his arm. Yu Iseol moved to block the window like a ghost.

“Are you KIDDING me?!” Jo Gul yelled. “You couldn’t even stand a second ago!”

“He still hates being looked after,” Baek Cheon groaned, wrestling with the surprisingly squirmy body of their half-conscious brother. “Even under a curse, he’s the same—medical care is his natural enemy.”

Chung Myung’s entire upper body was off the bed before Yu Iseol pressed two fingers against a point on his shoulder—he slumped instantly, barely conscious again.

Jo Gul collapsed next to him. “This is exhausting.”

Baek Cheon rubbed his forehead. “That’s the fourth time today. And it’s barely past noon.”

“I don’t think he even knows what he’s doing,” Yu Iseol said, gently fixing his robes. “It’s instinct. He wakes up and tries to run. Probably thinks he has orders.”

Jo Gul sat up, panting. “Then we need more ropes.”

“You’re not serious,” Baek Cheon muttered.

“I’m dead serious,” Jo Gul said. “I say we tie him down like a wild beast and post a guard with a broom!”

“He broke the last rope,” Yu Iseol reminded them.

Baek Cheon stood, brushing dust off his knees. “Fine. We’ll reinforce it. Use the strongest cord we have. And keep the window shut.”

“I’ll guard the window,” Jo Gul said solemnly. “I’ll give my life to protect this stupid, angry… unconscious gremlin.”

They got to work.

Stronger ropes. Damp cloths. Medicine—again.

And the whole time, Chung Myung lay motionless, twitching now and then, his breathing shallow, black tendrils still creeping ever so slowly.

They kept working, silently agreeing that they’d rather tie down their brother and listen to him scream later than let him vanish again into the woods with blood in his mouth and madness in his eyes.

Baek Cheon looked at him and muttered, “I swear, the day he wakes up and calls me a nag, I’m going to cry with joy.”

Yu Iseol said nothing, but for the first time in days, the corners of her mouth almost turned upward.

The ropes creaked.

Baek Cheon, sitting at the foot of the bed and cross-referencing every known town in the area with any report of sword-related disturbances, froze mid-page turn.

Creaaaak.

He glanced up.

“…Please tell me that was the bedframe.”

Yu Iseol, seated nearby with a new batch of prepared medicine, didn’t even blink. “No. He’s testing the knots again.”

Jo Gul, currently perched at the window, gripping a broom like it was a guandao, squinted. “I told you guys. He’s just biding his time. He’s playing dead. Look at him.”

They all looked. Chung Myung lay still, tied down to the bed like a restless god under temple offerings. His chest rose and fell slowly, but one leg was ever so slightly tensed beneath the blanket.

“You think he’s got a hidden dagger or something?” Jo Gul whispered.

“He doesn’t need one,” Baek Cheon replied darkly. “His bones are probably sharper than our swords.”

Yu Iseol, as always, said nothing. But she gently tapped a pressure point on his wrist, momentarily paralyzing his arm again before tucking the blanket back over his shoulder.

Baek Cheon leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at him with exhausted eyes. “Why can’t you ever make anything easy, Chung Myung?”

Chung Myung, for his part, gave no answer. His eyes were half-lidded, dull, but not quite asleep. That blank, glazed look had returned—familiar now in its eeriness. Still poisoned. Still bound. Still lost.

And still very much trying to escape.

Jo Gul shook his head, slumping against the windowsill. “I mean, even tied down, unconscious, and bleeding black fog, he’s still trying to ditch us. I’d almost respect it if I didn’t want to throw him out the window.”

Baek Cheon didn’t respond immediately. His brow furrowed as he leaned forward again, staring at the cursed amulet pressed against his junior’s chest.

The black veins had slowed, for now. The pulse of the curse was dull. But they all knew it wasn’t gone—only waiting.

“This can’t go on much longer,” he said finally. “His body’s barely holding up. And if he wakes up just once in the middle of the night and we’re not watching him…” He didn’t finish the thought.

Jo Gul made a face. “He’ll vanish like a murderous fog goblin again, yeah. Got it.”

Yoon Jong returned right then, pushing open the door, his face pale with fatigue.

“Nothing on Dumok. No sightings. No one’s even heard the name.”

Baek Cheon stood. “Nothing? Anywhere?”

“Unless he’s started using a fake name,” Yoon Jong muttered, sinking into the chair by the desk, “or he just vanished into thin air, yeah. Nothing.”

There was a long silence.

Then a sudden—snap.

Everyone turned to the bed.

One of the ropes had snapped.

Just one.

But that was enough.

“HE’S ESCAPING AGAIN!” Jo Gul shouted, diving across the room with the broom like it was wartime.

Yu Iseol moved faster, hand darting to a nerve point—thwack.

Chung Myung twitched and stilled again.

Baek Cheon sighed, rubbing his face. “He’s going to kill us all from bed.”

Jo Gul huffed. “Forget the sword. His personality is the real weapon.”

Yoon Jong opened the book again, flipping back to the amulet entry. “Then we better hurry and find Dumok. Because at this rate, the ropes won’t hold tomorrow.”

Yu Iseol, adjusting the cloth on Chung Myung’s forehead, whispered almost too quietly to hear:

“…He won’t last that long.”

The morning sun had just begun to warm the misty village streets, but Jo Gul was already marching through them with single-minded determination and a very pronounced scowl.

He had one mission today: Find Dumok.

Dumok, the fat coward. Dumok, the con artist. Dumok, the guy who somehow got Chung Myung to obey him like a dog on a leash.

And when Jo Gul found him?

Well.

Let’s just say the sword might not be used for defense that day.

He turned into a side alley near the village’s lower market, where shady types and peddlers usually lingered. He had questioned at least three suspicious-looking men, two goats, and a woman who tried to sell him socks with holes in them.

No one knew Dumok.

Or at least, no one admitted to it.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Maybe he did vanish into thin air. Just turned into grease vapor and floated away.”

Then—

Smack.

He collided with someone small and fast.

Jo Gul staggered back, already grabbing for his sword. “Watch it, brat—!”

The kid he’d hit bounced back like a rubber ball, dusting himself off with zero shame or apology.

He had wild hair, a patched-up shirt, and the biggest, roundest eyes Jo Gul had ever seen. And those eyes lit up as soon as they locked on him.

“Wait—you!” the boy gasped.

Jo Gul blinked. “…Me?”

“Have you seen a silent samurai?!” the kid blurted.

Jo Gul recoiled slightly. “A what now?”

But at that same moment, Fink blurted out another question “Have you seen a pig named Dumok?”

Jo gul froze.

Staring at each other.

Jo gul eyes went even wider. “Pig like Dumok?”

Jo Gul’s stomach dropped.

Because the moment those words left the kid’s mouth—he heard it. Clear as day. In his head.
Chung Myung’s voice, weak, cracked, laced with poison and defiance.

“…the fat one… the pig… Dumok…”

His hand tightened into a fist.

“You’ve seen them,” Jo Gul said slowly, eyes narrowing. “You know who I’m talking about.”

Fink stepped back slightly, watching him carefully. “You looking for them too?”

“I’m looking for both,” Jo Gul said. “Well—mostly the fat one. You… who are you?”

“Fink,” he said, puffing his chest proudly. “And I’m looking for both of them too.”

Jo Gul raised a brow. “You’re looking for Sword Guy too?”

Fink nodded, crossing his arms. “I’ve been following his trail for a while. He’s not hard to find. You just follow the destruction and the buckets.”

Jo Gul stared. “Buckets?”

“Long story.”

“Tell it while walking,” Jo Gul said, already grabbing the boy’s arm and marching back toward the inn. “You’re about to meet some very tired, very cranky people who have a lot of questions.”

The room was dim, lit only by the muted sunlight seeping through the shuttered window. The air was heavy with the sharp scent of medicine and damp cloth. Time passed in long, breath-held silences, broken only by the occasional creak of the rope-strained bed or the shallow, unsteady breathing of the boy lying on it.

Baek Cheon sat at the edge of the bed, one hand cradling a bowl of rice porridge. Steam no longer rose from it—it had cooled hours ago—but that didn’t matter. They’d reheat it if they had to. Again. And again.

He hadn’t slept. None of them had, really.

Yoon Jong stood beside the bed, crouched over Chung Myung with a steady grip on both arms. Not aggressively, not forcefully—just enough to stop him if his instincts flared again. The bruises on his forearms were proof that even a nearly-dead Chung Myung still fought like a possessed tiger.

“He’s waking again,” Yu Iseol said softly from across the room, where she was carefully mixing a new dose of powdered medicine into warm tea. “His breathing’s shifting.”

Baek Cheon glanced at Chung Myung’s face. The younger disciple’s eyelids fluttered weakly, his lips twitching as if fighting through a dream—or a command.

“Here we go again,” Yoon Jong muttered, adjusting his stance. “Third time today.”

Baek Cheon leaned forward, placing the bowl beside him as he braced Chung Myung’s shoulders with care. “If he tries to leap out that window again, I’m sealing him in with bricks.”

“He can’t even stand,” Yoon Jong said. “That’s the worst part. He keeps trying to leave like he’s not a single wheeze away from collapsing.”

Yu Iseol approached silently with the tea, setting it near the bed. “That amulet’s pulling on him. If we weren’t holding him, he’d crawl if he had to.”

Baek Cheon nodded grimly. “We’ll just hold him, then.”

Chung Myung’s eyes opened, barely more than slits. There was no recognition in them—only haze and the faint glint of resistance buried somewhere deep inside.

Baek Cheon picked up the spoon. “Chung Myung,” he said gently. “It’s me. Baek Cheon. Just eat a little, alright? I know you hate this, but we’re not doing this for fun.”

Yoon Jong tightened his grip slightly as Chung Myung’s arms tensed, as if even hearing that voice sparked some instinct to bolt.

“I’m not going to lecture you,” Baek Cheon murmured. “Not this time. Just… eat, and then rest. We’ll handle the rest.”

He raised the spoon to Chung Myung’s lips.

Chung Myung turned his head, weakly resisting. His lips stayed closed.

“He’s resisting out of habit,” Yoon Jong grunted. “This is a man who once fought a master while chewing rice.”

Baek Cheon chuckled faintly, not looking away. “I remember. He yelled about my footwork mid-battle, with food still in his mouth.”

Yu Iseol reached over and gently pressed a point below Chung Myung’s jaw. His lips parted with a twitch.

Baek Cheon seized the chance and slipped the spoon in.

A swallow. Barely.

But a victory nonetheless.

“One bite down,” Baek Cheon muttered. “Only a thousand more.”

Yoon Jong smirked. “Do we get promoted for this?”

“If I ever become sect leader,” Baek Cheon muttered, bringing up another spoonful, “I’m making ‘Chung Myung Feeder’ an official rank.”

Yu Iseol remained quiet, gently dabbing sweat from Chung Myung’s forehead as she handed the cup of medicine to Baek Cheon.

Chung Myung’s body twitched again—his fingers clawed weakly at the blanket. His breathing hitched.

“He’s going to try again,” Yoon Jong warned.

Baek Cheon nodded, keeping his tone even. “Let him try. We’re not letting go.”

Chung Myung stirred, but his body was far too weak. His eye—still half-darkened by the creeping tendrils—fluttered shut again after one last twitch of resistance.

Baek Cheon sighed, placing the spoon down. “That’s enough for now.”

Yu Iseol carefully placed a fresh cloth over his brow. “He lasted longer this time.”

“That’s not comforting,” Yoon Jong said flatly.

Baek Cheon stared at his junior brother’s face for a long moment. He was pale. Hollow. Tethered to life by little more than spite and discipline.

But there was still a flicker in him.

A stubborn, quiet flicker.

Hang on, Chung Myung, he thought. We’re closer now.

Jo Gul will be back soon. Hopefully with answers. Hopefully with a name and a direction.

Because if not—Baek Cheon wasn’t sure how many more times they’d be able to hold their brother back from walking into death’s arms.
The light in the inn dimmed as afternoon passed into early evening. The steady creak of footsteps upstairs, the low murmur of passing travelers downstairs—it all blurred into background noise for the disciples of Mount Hua.

Chung Myung had dozed off again, his breath shallow but steady. The ropes had been slightly loosened at the wrists and ankles, but not enough to allow escape. They’d learned that lesson the hard way.

Baek Cheon sat slouched beside the bed, exhaustion carving deep lines into his face. His robes were wrinkled, one sleeve stained from the spilled medicine earlier. His hand rested on the edge of the bed, not quite touching Chung Myung’s, but close enough to catch him if he twitched again.

Across the room, Yu Iseol was quietly refilling the hot water basin, steam rising as she poured it. She hadn’t said much all day, but her movements never slowed. Every hour, fresh cloth. Every few hours, reheat the porridge. Not because anyone told her to—but because someone had to.

Yoon Jong stood at the shuttered window, watching the street below. His arms were crossed, but his fingers tapped against his elbow rhythmically—something between nervous energy and quiet frustration.

“We’re losing time,” he said softly.

Baek Cheon didn’t move. “I know.”

“He’s getting worse.”

“I know.”

“We can’t just sit here forever hoping Jo Gul finds something.”

Baek Cheon exhaled slowly through his nose. “If it were anyone else, I’d agree. But Jo Gul knows how to get into places we don’t. He knows how to listen between words.”

Yoon Jong turned, watching his senior. “You’re stalling.”

Baek Cheon finally looked up at him. “No. I’m hoping.”

Yoon Jong opened his mouth to reply—

The door banged open downstairs.

Footsteps. Rapid. Urgent.

Then a voice. Loud. Familiar.

“*GUYS?! GUYS! I FOUND—well—I found something!”

Baek Cheon stood up so fast his chair scraped backward.

The door to the room burst open, and there was Jo Gul, winded and flushed, practically dragging in a small, ragged child behind him. The kid looked utterly unfazed, chewing something suspiciously bread-like with one hand and pointing around with the other.

“Okay, wow,” Fink said, mouth full. “So this is where you’re keeping Sword Guy? Cozy.”

Baek Cheon stepped forward, eyes narrowing. “Who is this?”

Jo Gul held up both hands like he was presenting treasure. “This—is Fink. Fink has seen both Dumok and Chung Myung.”

Yu Iseol stood from the floor with unsettling silence. “You saw them together?”

“Lived with them,” Fink said proudly, like that was something normal. “I was kind of the third member of the team. You know—Con Man, Cursed Samurai, and Me.”

Jo Gul nodded quickly. “He said the phrase ‘pig named Dumok.’ The exact same thing Chung Myung said to us.”

Baek Cheon stared at Fink. “You know Dumok?”

“Oh yeah,” Fink said, now wandering over to look at Chung Myung. “Big guy. Smelled weird. Bossy. Gave orders like he was trying to win a yelling contest.”

His casual voice faltered when he saw Chung Myung up close.

“…Oh.” He knelt beside the bed. “He looks worse than I thought.”

No one said anything for a beat.

Fink looked up. “You’re… his friends?”

Baek Cheon stepped closer, his voice low. “His family.”

Fink blinked, then looked back down at the limp, sweat-soaked figure on the bed. He nodded slowly. “Okay.” Then he turned around, pointing at himself with his thumb. “Then you’re gonna want everything I know. And, uh, some bread if you have it.”

Jo Gul slumped onto the floor. “He ate my emergency bun on the way here.”

Fink grinned. “Worth it.”

Yoon Jong stepped forward, deadly serious. “Start from the beginning.”

Fink nodded again. “Okay. But I have to warn you—some of it involves a bucket, a swordfight, and a very traumatic dinner.”

Baek Cheon exhaled through his nose. He looked down at Chung Myung again. The cursed boy still hadn’t moved.

But now, finally, they had something.

A lead.

A name.

And a kid who might just help them pull their brother back from the edge.
Fink sat cross-legged on the floor, scarfing down the still-warm bowl of rice that Yu Iseol wordlessly placed in front of him. They had only half-listened to his rambling up until now, too occupied with watching Chung Myung’s labored breathing. But now… now that they had a lead—now that they had him—everyone’s attention was sharp.

“So,” Jo Gul said, arms crossed, crouched beside him. “Start talking.”

Baek Cheon remained standing near the bed, arms folded tight, while Yoon Jong settled at the desk with a charcoal stick and parchment, ready to jot down anything useful. Yu Iseol stood silently in the corner, eyes flicking between Fink and Chung Myung, who lay still and feverish on the bed.

Fink took another big bite, nodded, then launched in without warning.

“Okay, so I met Sword Guy—that’s what I called him, because y’know, never said his name, not once—when I was hanging around this town, right? He was chopping wood, and I almost got my face split in two by a flying log.”

Jo Gul blinked. “Sounds right.”

“And he caught it!” Fink beamed, pantomiming it with wild hands. “Like this close to my nose! Didn’t even blink! So, naturally, I started following him.”

Yoon Jong squinted. “Why?”

“Because he was cool!” Fink said, offended they’d even ask. “But then I met Dumok. Big guy. Ugly laugh. Smelled like bad soup and sweat. Treated Sword Guy like a servant! Made him do everything. Haul water. Fight people. Get money. Sleep in a stable.”

Baek Cheon’s expression darkened with every word.

“He was coughing so much,” Fink added, softer now. “He was sick. But Dumok just kept making him do more. Fighting other sword guys. Sometimes just standing in front of him and saying stuff like, ‘Go punch that guy.’ And Sword Guy would do it.”

Yoon Jong looked up from his notes. “Did he ever resist?”

Fink shook his head. “Not really. But sometimes… when Dumok wasn’t looking, he’d hesitate. Like something was eating him from the inside.” He pointed at the black marks on Chung Myung’s face. “Those were already spreading by the time I met him. He looked haunted.”

Jo Gul growled, fist clenched. “I’m going to break Dumok’s legs.”

Fink nodded enthusiastically. “That’s the spirit!”

Baek Cheon narrowed his eyes. “Did Dumok ever say anything? About where he came from? How he found the amulet?”

“Nope. He was always real shady about it. Just said Sword Guy ‘fell into his lap.’ But the worst part was…” Fink’s voice dropped. “He said he owned him. Like—he really believed it.”

There was silence in the room now, heavy and bitter.

Then Fink looked over at the bed again.

“…Is he gonna be okay?”

Baek Cheon didn’t answer right away.

“He’s still fighting,” Yu Iseol said instead, her voice quiet.

Fink tilted his head. “By the way… do you guys, like… know his real name? Or do you call him ‘Sword Guy’ too?”

Baek Cheon blinked, then let out a small breath. “His name is Chung Myung.”

Fink’s jaw dropped.

“Wait—waitwaitwait, Chung Myung?!” he shouted, practically falling over himself. “THE Chung Myung?! The DIVINE DRAGON of Mount Hua?! The guy who beat the Wudang elder with one finger and insulted his shoes while doing it?!”

Jo Gul looked up. “Yes.”

Yoon Jong added without looking, “He also once made me redo our entire courtyard stone arrangement because he said the feng shui offended his sword aura.”

Yu Iseol nodded solemnly.

Fink looked at them all like they were mythical beings. Then he turned to Chung Myung, pale and twitching on the bed.

“That’s him?” he whispered, eyes wide. “That’s the guy I’ve been nagging for days?! I called him ‘Mopey!’ I offered to rename him!”

Jo Gul grinned. “He probably heard it all, too. He remembers everything. You’re so doomed.”

Fink collapsed dramatically to the floor. “I’m dead. He’s gonna turn me into kindling the moment he wakes up.”

Baek Cheon, despite himself, gave a short huff of amusement. “If he wakes up angry, we’ll protect you.”

Fink perked up. “Really?”

Baek Cheon looked him dead in the eyes.

“No.”

Jo Gul burst out laughing. Even Yoon Jong cracked a grin.

And for the first time in days, the room didn’t feel so hopeless.

But the mood shifted again as Baek Cheon looked back at Chung Myung’s sleeping form—those black tendrils still pulsing faintly on his face.

They had the story.

They had the name.

Now they needed to find Dumok.

Before it was too late.
The sun was just rising as the group quietly prepared to leave the inn, the air cool and heavy with morning dew. Villagers moved past them without much notice—just another group of martial artists, off to settle some squabble or chase some rumor. No one looked twice at the limp figure being carefully lifted onto a small wooden wagon lined with blankets.

Chung Myung didn’t stir as Baek Cheon wrapped a light cloak around him, carefully hiding the blackened tendrils on his skin. His body was too still, too silent. He wasn’t bound anymore—there was no need. The curse had weakened him more than ropes ever could.

“Easy,” Baek Cheon said as he and Yoon Jong lifted him in tandem, careful to keep his body level.

“Got him,” Yoon Jong grunted, sweat already forming on his brow. “Gods, he’s lighter than before. He’s barely holding weight.”

“That’s not good, right?” Fink asked from the other side of the wagon, already perched in the back beside a tightly bundled medical kit and three extra pillows he’d insisted were “for face comfort.”

“No,” Yu Iseol said plainly. “Not good.”

Jo Gul was at the reins of the horse, already looking irritated. “Anyone ever drive a wagon before?”

Yoon Jong climbed into the front beside him. “We’ve fought bandits and survived three near-death sect wars. I think we can handle a wagon.”

“You say that now.” Jo Gul flicked the reins. “Hya!”

The wagon lurched forward with a groan, the wheels creaking beneath its weight.

Baek Cheon and Yu Iseol walked beside the cart on foot, one on each side, eyes locked on Chung Myung. Fink sat crisscross, close to Chung Myung’s shoulder, watching him with a mix of worry and awe.

“…Do we know where we’re going?” Fink finally asked, as the cart wobbled down the dirt road.

Jo Gul replied, “Anywhere Dumok might crawl off to. Markets, inns, shady alleys. With your memory of his face and our fists, we’ll find him.”

“Also, you should know,” Yoon Jong added, “the moment we do, Baek Cheon’s probably going to break every bone in his body.”

“I’d pay to see it,” Fink muttered.

But not five minutes into the ride, it happened.

A small bump in the path. The wheel hit a shallow dip.

Chung Myung twitched.

Then he groaned.

Fink straightened immediately. “Hey—he moved! He’s waking up!”

But it wasn’t that kind of movement.

His body curled slightly. His hands shook. A sharp gasp escaped his lips, followed by a painful cough that brought red flecks to his mouth. The wagon jerked again, just slightly—but it was enough to make him spasm.

“Stop the wagon!” Baek Cheon barked.

Jo Gul yanked the reins. The wagon came to a halt.

Baek Cheon was already in the back, kneeling beside him. “He’s in pain. Too much movement.”

“Of course he is,” Yoon Jong muttered, hopping down. “We’re dragging a man halfway dead across terrain that would bruise a sack of rice.”

Yu Iseol was beside him in an instant, checking his pulse and breathing. “His body’s too weak for long travel. The amulet might be reacting to the motion.”

“So what do we do?” Jo Gul called. “We can’t carry him all the way across the region!”

“We slow down,” Baek Cheon said firmly, adjusting the blanket over Chung Myung’s legs. “We stop every hour, even if we have to move at a crawl. We’re not letting this wagon rattle him to death.”

Jo Gul looked at the sky and sighed. “At this rate we’ll arrive next spring.”

Fink shrugged. “You could always carry him.”

Baek Cheon looked like he was considering it.

“Don’t encourage him,” Yoon Jong muttered.

The horses snorted as the group regrouped. They moved slower now—deliberate. Every bump was a cause for concern, every dip in the road another reason to halt and check. They worked in sync: one monitoring the path, another tending to the boy in the back.

It was the slowest, most frustrating journey any of them had ever taken.

And none of them dared complain.

Because they all knew—if this was what it took to bring Chung Myung back, they would walk every step to the edge of the world.
The fire crackled softly in the dark, a modest flame sputtering to life at the center of their small clearing. The moon hung low above the treetops, casting long shadows over the trees like draped veils. The night was cold, and the air had the damp bite of approaching rain, but they were used to worse.

The disciples of Mount Hua sat in a loose ring around the fire, cloaks pulled close, weapons nearby but untouched. Beside them, wrapped in thick layers of blanket, Chung Myung lay on a bedroll only a few feet from the fire. Yu Iseol had spent the last hour adjusting the padding beneath him, quietly checking his temperature. He hadn’t woken in hours.

Jo Gul rubbed his hands together, trying to warm his fingers. “We’ve been riding all day and Dumok’s still nowhere. I was hoping we’d have at least found a tavern full of angry ex-victims by now.”

Yoon Jong sat across from him, shoulders sagging. “If he caught wind that we were looking, he’s probably in hiding. He knows someone would’ve seen that kid,” he nodded toward Fink, who was already curled up in a blanket by a tree, dozing lightly. “Or that he’d lose control of Chung Myung if we got too close.”

They sat quietly for a moment, listening to the wood crackle.

Then Jo Gul leaned back with a small, tired laugh. “You know what he’d say right now?”

Yoon Jong smirked faintly. “’Why are you idiots sitting when you could be training your pathetic excuse for sword forms?’”

Jo Gul deepened his voice with a bad impersonation: “‘Oh, good, Jo Gul. Perfect posture for a corpse.’”

Baek Cheon chuckled softly from where he sat closest to Chung Myung, tending the pot hanging over the fire. “And then he’d make us do horse stance until someone passed out.”

Yu Iseol gave the faintest nod. “…Even in weather like this.”

Jo Gul smiled briefly, then looked toward the still figure bundled in blankets.

The smile faded.

Baek Cheon didn’t look away from him. He’d been watching the rise and fall of Chung Myung’s chest all evening. There was something… off.

Before, even when cursed and half-dead, there had been strength in him. Movement. Struggle. That same defiance that refused to let them help.

But now—

He wasn’t trying to escape.

And that silence—
That stillness—
Was somehow more terrifying.

Baek Cheon reached out carefully, touching the edge of the blanket. “…He’s not trying to run.”

Jo Gul frowned. “You’re right. He hasn’t tried to move since we stopped.”

Yoon Jong’s brow furrowed. “He always tries, even if it’s a twitch or a glare.”

Yu Iseol checked his pulse again. It was slow. Unsteady.

Baek Cheon whispered, “His mind wants to leave. But his body can’t anymore.”

For a few moments, no one spoke.

Then—his fingers twitched.

Baek Cheon leaned in immediately. “Chung Myung?”

The boy’s eyes opened slowly, unfocused. They scanned the flickering firelight… then the faces around him.

His breathing hitched.

But he didn’t move to run. Not even a flinch of resistance.

There was only one instinct left in his body.

Endure.

Baek Cheon’s throat tightened, but he composed himself quickly. “He’s awake. Get the food.”

Yu Iseol was already passing over the bowl of cooled rice porridge, the texture soft enough to slide down without effort. Baek Cheon positioned himself beside Chung Myung and gently sat him up against his own shoulder.

Chung Myung’s limbs dangled with no strength. His head lolled slightly before Baek Cheon adjusted him with practiced care.

He brought the spoon to his lips. “Come on. Just a little.”

Chung Myung clenched his jaw.

Baek Cheon sighed. “You’re still resisting.”

But this time, it wasn’t defiant. There was no spark in his eyes. No glare. No insult forming behind a locked jaw. Just the weary, instinctive tightening of someone too far gone to tell if he’s being hurt or helped.

Baek Cheon whispered, “It’s okay. Just eat. That’s all.”

And this time… slowly, weakly, he did.

No one had to hold him down.

No pressure points.

No rope.

Just a few spoonfuls, trembled down with long pauses in between. His breathing hitched after each one, and his eyes closed again between swallows—but he ate.

It wasn’t victory.

But it was something.

Yoon Jong kept the fire burning steady. Jo Gul stood watch with his blade unsheathed, pacing lightly. Yu Iseol crushed herbs at the base of a stone, preparing medicine for the next time his fever spiked.

And Baek Cheon remained still, letting Chung Myung lean against him like a little brother who had finally run out of strength to be difficult.

He murmured under his breath, “Don’t you dare give up now.”

“Not after everything.”
The fire crackled softly in the silence.

Chung Myung had drifted back to sleep, slumped against Baek Cheon’s side like a limp doll, breath shallow, brow damp with sweat. His skin was pale, waxy in the firelight, but the soft rise and fall of his chest gave the others a reason—just enough—to keep going.

Baek Cheon didn’t move.

He sat there, back straight, supporting Chung Myung’s full weight with his arm wrapped around his shoulder. It was the kind of silence that demanded reverence. No one wanted to break it.

Until Jo Gul finally whispered, “Is it weird that I sort of miss him insulting my family line?”

Yoon Jong, seated across the fire with a steaming cup of tea in hand, gave a quiet, tired smile. “He once said my footwork was so bad he considered disowning me despite not being related.”

“Mine was worse,” Jo Gul muttered. “He made me redo the same sword stance for two days straight. Said my knees offended the heavens.”

Yu Iseol didn’t speak. She was applying salve to the places where Chung Myung’s skin had started to bruise beneath the curse’s dark tendrils. Her movements were gentle, but her eyes were sharp and focused.

Baek Cheon finally exhaled, his voice barely audible. “He said once that being strong doesn’t mean beating people. It means dragging idiots like us to the top whether we like it or not.”

Yoon Jong huffed a quiet laugh. “Sounds like him.”

Fink, now fully awake and curled up in a blanket beside a log, blinked over at them. “You guys… you really care about him, huh?”

The three disciples looked at each other.

It wasn’t something they needed to say aloud.

Jo Gul just nodded. “He’s our brother.”

“More than that,” Yoon Jong added. “He’s… Mount Hua itself. He makes us crazy, drives us into the dirt, calls us names I’m not sure are legal in polite society—but when he’s with us, we grow. All of us.”

Fink looked down at his hands, then toward Chung Myung. “He never said a word. Not once. And he still…” He paused, furrowing his brows. “He still looked like someone you wanted to follow.”

Yu Iseol adjusted the blanket over Chung Myung’s legs. “That’s what he does. Even when he’s breaking.”

Another breeze passed through the clearing. The fire hissed slightly.

Then Chung Myung stirred again.

Baek Cheon straightened, bracing him gently. “You awake?”

The boy didn’t open his eyes—but his fingers twitched, curling ever so faintly around the edge of Baek Cheon’s robe.

Jo Gul leaned in. “Is he—?”

“He’s listening,” Yu Iseol said, eyes flicking to the small movement. “Barely. But he hears us.”

Baek Cheon looked down at him. “Then hear this, junior brother.” His voice was quiet but firm. “You don’t get to leave us. Not like this. Not with some cursed rock stuck to your neck and a conman halfway across the region thinking he owns you.”

“We’re bringing you home,” Yoon Jong added. “Not just your body. You. The loud, stubborn, impossible you.”

Jo Gul nodded solemnly. “The one who called me ‘useless with decent hair.’ I still think about that insult at night.”

Chung Myung didn’t react.

But his fingers tightened again.

Barely. A twitch.

It was enough.

Baek Cheon leaned back, adjusting the blanket again, keeping his arm around him. “Get some rest. Tomorrow, we start again.”

Yoon Jong stoked the fire one last time, adding a thick log that hissed and snapped.

Fink had curled back up, mumbling, “If he wakes up swinging, I want credit for sticking around.”

“Noted,” Baek Cheon said with a small smile.

And under the cover of stars, with the fire at their center and hope slowly returning to their hearts, the disciples of Mount Hua took shifts through the night.

Watching over their brother.

Waiting for him to come back.
The wagon wheels creaked steadily over the packed dirt road, rolling ever forward beneath the wan morning sun. The journey had resumed with quiet determination, each of the disciples assuming their roles like moving pieces in a weathered machine.

Jo Gul held the reins again, slightly more confident than the day before, though every rock or bump still made him flinch. Yoon Jong walked beside the left wheel, periodically stepping ahead to stop passersby with the same question:

“Have you seen a man named Dumok? Heavyset, loud, missing a moral compass?”

Over and over, the answer was the same—blank stares, polite confusion, shaking heads. One man did say he knew a ‘Dunok,’ but it turned out to be a goat.

Yu Iseol walked on the right side, eyes constantly scanning the roadside and treetops with that same sharp, silent intensity. Every once in a while, she’d glance back into the wagon.

Where Baek Cheon sat now.

He hadn’t meant to sit at first. He had told himself he’d walk, stay alert. But his legs ached more than he liked to admit, and the uneven terrain was jarring his already frayed nerves.

So now, he was sitting—right beside Chung Myung.

The boy hadn’t woken since the night before, when he’d grasped Baek Cheon’s robe with fingers like brittle twigs. His breathing was slow again, chest barely rising beneath the layers of blankets. The color hadn’t returned to his face. The black veins—those cursed, hateful marks—still pulsed faintly along his neck and cheek.

Baek Cheon shifted slightly, brushing back Chung Myung’s hair from his forehead. It was damp with sweat, his skin clammy.

The cart hit a small bump, and Chung Myung groaned weakly.

Baek Cheon tensed. “Easy, easy…”

Another bump. Another pained breath.

Baek Cheon leaned forward, adjusting the folded cloth beneath his head, murmuring softly, “I know. I know. I hate it too.”

He glanced up. “Jo Gul—slow down.”

“This is slow!” Jo Gul snapped. “I’m practically letting the horses walk themselves!”

Baek Cheon sighed and looked back down, brushing Chung Myung’s sleeve straight.

Then—

Chung Myung twitched violently. His body jerked, twisting halfway onto his side.

Baek Cheon sat up. “Chung Myung—?”

The boy’s eyes opened wide, but there was nothing in them. No focus, no light. Just blank haze.

Then came the cough.

One. Wet. Guttural.

Then another.

And then a violent burst—blood sprayed across the blanket and splattered Baek Cheon’s robe.

“STOP THE WAGON!” Baek Cheon bellowed.

Jo Gul pulled the reins hard. “Whoa! Whoa!”

The wagon screeched to a halt.

Yoon Jong was at the back in seconds, already climbing in. “What happened?!”

Yu Iseol followed without a word, kneeling beside Baek Cheon, who was holding Chung Myung upright now, trying to keep his airway clear.

“He’s burning up,” Baek Cheon hissed. “His lungs—he’s coughing blood again. A lot.”

Yoon Jong’s face was pale as he reached for a clean cloth. “Was it the movement? The wagon?”

“Maybe. Maybe it’s just getting worse.” Baek Cheon pressed the cloth to Chung Myung’s mouth, watching it darken with fresh red. “It’s deeper now. Internal.”

Yu Iseol placed two fingers at the pulse on his neck, her expression unreadable—but her silence said enough.

Jo Gul had jumped down and now stood beside the wagon, peering in with wide eyes. “Should we stop for the day? He can’t—he can’t keep traveling like this.”

Baek Cheon clenched his jaw. “We don’t have time to stop. The longer he stays like this, the worse it gets.”

Fink stood a short distance away, his blanket wrapped around him, worry written all over his face. “We have to find Dumok soon… don’t we?”

No one answered.

Because they all knew the truth.

If they didn’t find him soon—
If that cursed amulet wasn’t removed—
There wouldn’t be anything left of Chung Myung to save.
The wagon rattled softly down the dirt road, slower than ever, the wheels dragging through shallow grooves carved by days of travel and desperation. The sun now hung low in the west, casting long, golden shadows across the open plains they crossed.

Jo Gul sat alone at the front, reins in hand, jaw clenched, eyes flicking between the winding path ahead and the occasional glance over his shoulder. Every bump in the road made him wince, every jostle a fresh jab of guilt.

Behind him, the wagon had turned into a mobile infirmary.

Yoon Jong was kneeling by Chung Myung’s side, dabbing his lips with a damp cloth, cleaning the dried blood that hadn’t yet been washed away. His other hand kept checking the pulse—still faint, still irregular, but there.

Baek Cheon was at Chung Myung’s other side, quietly adjusting the pillow beneath his head, brushing hair from his forehead. He hadn’t spoken in a while. His whole focus was watching, waiting, listening.

Yu Iseol sat cross-legged at the foot of the bedroll, sorting through herbs and medicines with clinical precision. Even the occasional bumps in the wagon didn’t disrupt her movements.

Fink hovered near the corner, hugging a pillow and staying out of the way—but his eyes were sharp, flicking between each person, especially Chung Myung.

The air was heavy.

And then—

“…nnn…”

Everyone froze.

Yoon Jong immediately leaned closer. “Wait—what?”

“Did you hear that?” Baek Cheon asked, breath tight.

Chung Myung’s eyelids fluttered. His lips parted again, dry and pale. His voice was barely more than breath:

“…ka…”

Yoon Jong’s heart thudded in his chest. “Chung Myung?”

The boy stirred slightly, but didn’t move beyond a small twitch in his fingers. His mouth opened one more time:

“…ka…ru…r…”

Then he slumped.

Out cold again.

For a long moment, no one said anything.

Jo Gul shouted from the front, “Did he say something?!”

Yoon Jong blinked, leaning back. “I… I think so?”

Baek Cheon’s brow was furrowed. “He spoke.”

Yu Iseol was already reaching for a scroll, jotting down what they’d heard with calm urgency. “‘Ka…ru…r?’ That’s what it sounded like?”

“Half a word,” Yoon Jong muttered. “Not even that. A syllable, maybe two.”

Baek Cheon rubbed his temple. “What does it mean? Is it a name? A place?”

“Could be the start of something,” Fink offered, sitting up straighter. “What if he was trying to say ‘Karun’? Or ‘Karam’? Some kind of code?”

Jo Gul called back again, “Someone please tell me what’s going on back there before I lose my mind.”

“He spoke,” Baek Cheon answered, still staring down at Chung Myung’s face. “Just barely. But he said something.”

Jo Gul let out a sharp breath of hope. “So he’s still in there.”

Yu Iseol looked up from the scroll. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s part of the curse. The brain releasing fragments.”

“No.” Baek Cheon’s voice was steady now. “That wasn’t random. It meant something. He was trying to tell us.”

Fink tilted his head. “But tell us what? Who to find? Where he’s being called to?”

Yoon Jong shook his head. “We don’t have enough. It could be anything. And trying to guess could just waste more time.”

Frustration began to creep in like a chill.

One word. One sound. Not enough to help, but just enough to remind them that Chung Myung was still in there—suffering, thinking, fighting.

And they couldn’t understand him.

Baek Cheon sat back slowly, eyes never leaving his junior brother’s face.

“We’ll figure it out,” he said quietly. “Whatever he meant… we’ll figure it out.”

They had to.

Because now, more than ever, they knew—
Chung Myung was trying to come back.
The wagon rolled quietly over the uneven road, its creaks now familiar, the tired rhythm of wood and wheel lulling the group into a tenuous state of focus. Inside, the disciples worked in near silence, their actions practiced—someone always adjusting the blankets, someone preparing a tonic, someone holding a damp cloth to Chung Myung’s brow.

It was late afternoon now. The sun had begun its slow descent, and the light filtered through the treetops in narrow golden bars. The air was still.

Too still.

Yu Iseol’s hand paused mid-movement. Her eyes flicked toward the tree line.

Baek Cheon’s posture stiffened a moment later.

And then—

Rustle.

The horses jolted.

A sharp snort, a sudden clatter of hooves against stone, and the wagon lurched to the right. The interior rocked violently.

Chung Myung let out a sharp, choked gasp—his eyes flying open in silent agony.

Baek Cheon immediately grabbed his arm. “Chung Myung?!”

“Don’t move him!” Yoon Jong shouted. “Don’t touch him!”

But it was too late.

Chung Myung’s body buckled inward, and then the coughing started. Violent, raw, deep from the chest.

Blood splattered across his blanket.

“Stop the wagon!” Yu Iseol snapped, already reaching for the medicine bag. “Stop it!”

Jo Gul yanked the reins hard, bringing the wagon to a skidding halt.

“Easy, easy, whoa—Whoa!” he barked, trying to soothe the panicked horses as they pawed and fidgeted in place. “It’s alright, it’s alright!”

Chung Myung was writhing now, every motion setting off fresh waves of pain. His lips were stained red, his breathing ragged and shallow.

Baek Cheon froze, hand hovering just above him. “I—I don’t know what to do. If I move him, it’ll get worse—if I don’t, he might stop breathing—”

“Don’t panic!” Yoon Jong barked, though his voice cracked as he leaned in with trembling hands, trying to tilt Chung Myung’s head enough to clear his airway. “Just stabilize him—we need to keep him still!”

Yu Iseol poured a bitter, dark mixture into a cloth and pressed it under Chung Myung’s nose. “Sedative,” she muttered. “He needs to go unconscious again or his lungs will give out.”

Fink was in the corner of the wagon, eyes wide, knees to his chest, watching the scene unfold with growing horror.

Jo Gul finally got the horses calm enough to stay in place. He turned, took one step toward the back of the wagon—then froze.

There it was again.

Rustling.

But now it was closer. Louder. Not one or two—multiple figures.

He stepped toward the brush, hand moving to his sword hilt.

Then he saw them.

Half a dozen rough-looking men slinking through the trees, some holding short swords, others clubs. One had a bow slung over his shoulder.

Bandits.

Of course.

Jo Gul turned slowly, face stony. “Baek Cheon.”

“What?” Baek Cheon didn’t look up—he was too busy holding Chung Myung’s shoulders down, trying not to cry as another blood-spattered cough shook the boy’s frame.

“We’ve got company.”

Baek Cheon’s head snapped up.

Jo Gul continued, stepping closer to the brush. “Bandits. Six, maybe more. Watching us. And they’ve got that look.”

Baek Cheon was out of the wagon in an instant.

Yoon Jong grabbed his sleeve. “Don’t pick a fight. We can’t. Not with Chung Myung like this.”

“I know,” Baek Cheon growled. “But if they pick one anyway, I’m not holding back.”

They moved slowly toward the edge of the clearing where Jo Gul now stood, sword unsheathed.

The bandits stepped into full view—scruffy, smirking, confident in numbers. One of them, missing two front teeth and with a nasty scar across his brow, stepped forward and grinned.

“Nice little cart you’ve got there. Looks heavy.”

Jo Gul narrowed his eyes. “It’s not.”

Another bandit chuckled. “What’ve you got inside? Supplies? Coin? Or just that poor soul choking on his own blood?”

Baek Cheon’s hand tightened around his sword.

“Listen,” he said through clenched teeth, “we don’t want a fight. We don’t have anything worth stealing. Just walk away.”

Scarface gave a mocking whistle. “You sound like you don’t want a fight. But your hands say different.”

Jo Gul stepped forward, tone low and dangerous. “Don’t push your luck.”

Another bandit stepped forward, sword drawn lazily. “What if we already are?”

The standoff held for a breath. Then another.

Back in the wagon, another rasping cough ripped through Chung Myung’s chest.

Yu Iseol, never looking up, murmured, “We can’t afford a battle. If one of them so much as hits the cart…”

Baek Cheon’s knuckles whitened.

Yoon Jong reached for his sword. “So what do we do?”

Jo Gul exhaled slowly, his voice dark and cold.

“We hold the line.”

. The bandits fanned out in a loose semicircle around the wagon, stepping lightly over the brush as they drew closer. Their smirks were casual, almost bored—like they had done this a hundred times before, and never once found a reason to hurry.

Scarface, the one with the tooth gap, waved a hand lazily. “Alright, boys. No need to rush. Let’s see what these noble sword-pokers are hauling. Maybe dried goods. Maybe medicine. Maybe…”

He paused, his eyes drifting to the open flap at the back of the wagon. He squinted.

And then his smile faltered.

Inside, Chung Myung lay motionless beneath the blankets, his chest barely rising. His color was worse now, almost gray in the firelight, and the black tendrils creeping up his neck pulsed faintly with each labored breath. A faint trail of dried blood streaked the corner of his mouth.

“…Damn,” one of the younger bandits muttered, craning his neck for a better look. “That’s a kid.”

Scarface clicked his tongue. “Barely. Looks half-dead.”

Another spoke up. “Should we even be robbing people like this? They’ve got their hands full. Look at that poor kid.”

“Yeah,” someone else said. “Don’t feel right.”

Jo Gul, sword still raised, sneered. “So you do have some shame tucked under all that stupidity.”

Scarface chuckled dryly, regaining his swagger. “Aw, we’re not monsters. But pity doesn’t pay.”

Then his eyes narrowed on Baek Cheon.

“Wait… your robes.” He squinted. “Mount Hua?”

Yoon Jong stiffened.

Scarface’s smile returned. “Heh. You’re from Mount Hua, aren’t you?”

Another bandit perked up. “I heard they’ve been rising fast lately. Cleaning up sect tournaments. Getting attention.”

A third nodded. “Word is they’ve got the Divine Dragon in their ranks.”

Scarface tilted his head toward the wagon. “Could that be him? The sick one?”

The air shifted.

Jo Gul’s grip on his sword hilt tightened until his knuckles turned white.

Baek Cheon’s jaw clenched. He didn’t say a word.

Scarface grinned, toothless and greedy. “You know, a famous disciple from a sect like Mount Hua…? He might be worth something. I bet the right people would pay a lot for a live one. Even half-dead.”

Baek Cheon’s sword was out before the sentence finished.

He lunged with a burst of speed that left a trail of dust behind him, blade slicing through the space between him and the nearest bandit.

“DON’T—”

Yoon Jong grabbed his shoulder mid-strike and yanked him back. “No! Not here—not near the cart!”

The bandit narrowly avoided being bisected. He tumbled backward, eyes wide.

Jo Gul had already dashed to the left, intercepting two of the bandits who’d begun to move closer. His blade rang out, a clean arc stopping just inches from one of their chests. “Don’t touch the wagon,” he growled. “Try me.”

Yu Iseol remained near the rear wheel of the cart, sword drawn but low, her back to the wood, watching the angles. Her eyes didn’t leave the bandits, but she was listening—listening for the slightest creak from the wagon behind her.

The moment it shifted, she’d intervene.

Inside the wagon, Chung Myung groaned faintly, stirred by the movement and noise. The disciples froze for just half a second, enough time to glance back, hearts clenched.

The wagon didn’t rock.

He didn’t cough.

Not yet.

Yoon Jong stepped forward, still gripping Baek Cheon’s shoulder, his voice like iron wrapped in silk. “You have exactly five seconds to turn around and vanish into the woods. Because if any one of you so much as brushes against that cart, we will not hold back.”

Scarface glanced at the others, uncertain now. The younger bandits had already started backing off.

Baek Cheon shrugged Yoon Jong’s hand away and pointed his blade at Scarface’s chest. “Try and sell him. Go on. I dare you.”

Scarface hesitated—then gave a shaky laugh. “Alright, alright. No need to get dramatic. Was just a joke, yeah?”

Yoon Jong didn’t blink. “Five.”

Jo Gul advanced a step. “Four.”

Scarface cursed under his breath. “Tch. Fine.” He turned with a sneer and waved his gang back. “Not worth the blood.”

The bandits slunk off into the woods, murmuring to each other, fading into the brush like rats disappearing back into the walls.

The moment they were gone, Baek Cheon sheathed his sword with a shaking hand.

He turned back to the wagon.

Chung Myung had stirred, but only slightly—his brow was creased, his breath shallow, but the attack hadn’t tipped him into another fit.

Not yet.

Baek Cheon exhaled, sweat clinging to his back. “We can’t do that again.”

“No,” Yoon Jong agreed, his voice low. “Next time, they might not talk first.”

Yu Iseol stepped onto the wagon to check the blankets. “He didn’t worsen.”

Jo Gul climbed up from the other side. “But that was too close.”

Baek Cheon looked down at the faint, flickering boy in their care.

Night fell like a slow breath over the clearing, the dark weaving between the trees with heavy silence. The wind was calm, but the air had cooled into that sharp chill that crept into the joints and fingertips. A fire had already been made—low and steady, its light flickering against the grass and brush around it.

They had chosen the most protected space off the road, half-ringed by trees and soft earth. Bedrolls had been unfurled, supplies unpacked, and duties divided with that familiar, wordless rhythm that only long years of training together could produce.

Jo Gul and Yoon Jong were off setting up a perimeter, each planting thin wooden ward markers around the camp. Fink, the ever-eager assistant, was dragging blankets back and forth with great ceremony, managing to trip over every tree root in the area.

And Baek Cheon—

Baek Cheon stood at the edge of the wagon, arms stiff at his sides, staring down at Chung Myung’s unmoving body.

“Alright,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone. “Let’s get you to the fire.”

He reached down and carefully slid his arms beneath Chung Myung’s back and knees, lifting him slowly.

Or trying to.

The moment Chung Myung’s weight shifted—barely more than a feather—his body twitched, and an awful sound escaped his throat. A breathless, strangled gasp, followed by a faint cough that made Baek Cheon’s blood run cold.

He froze instantly.

“…Dammit.”

Yu Iseol, already standing nearby, moved to his side. “You can’t do it alone.”

Baek Cheon looked at her, jaw clenched. “He’s just—so light. But the moment I move him, it feels like I’m breaking him.”

He gritted his teeth and tried again, slower this time, easing one arm behind Chung Myung’s shoulders and the other beneath his knees. His own arms were strong—he was no stranger to carrying wounded brothers through rough terrain.

But this…

This wasn’t weight.

It was fragility.

Chung Myung’s body felt like glass wrapped in cloth. His bones barely held their shape, and his skin was too hot in some places, ice-cold in others.

Even the smallest shift made him tremble, his breath catching like it had to fight its way out of him.

Yu Iseol moved to support the lower half of his frame. “On three.”

Baek Cheon nodded. “One. Two…”

Together, they lifted.

Every inch felt like miles.

Every step was a prayer.

And even then, Chung Myung let out a soft, pained grunt—barely a sound, but enough to make both senior disciples stop.

Baek Cheon crouched and gently placed him down a groan escaping Chung Myungs lips before he quoted again. Yu iseol placed a blanket over him and Beak Cheon tucked him in.

Baek Cheon sat back with a long, tense exhale. His brow glistened with sweat, though he hadn’t taken more than six steps.

“His body…” he said quietly. “It’s not just the curse. It’s everything. Malnourishment. Exhaustion. He’s—he’s falling apart.”

Yu Iseol placed a fresh cloth across his forehead. “He’s lasted longer than most would.”

“But for how much longer?”

Baek Cheon didn’t expect an answer. He just stared at the face in front of him—Chung Myung, the youngest. The strongest. The most maddening person he had ever known.

And now, he looked like he could be blown away with the wrong gust of wind.

Yoon Jong returned just in time to hear the silence settle. He crouched beside the fire, wordlessly setting down a kettle of hot water.

“Perimeter’s set,” he said softly.

“Any movement?”

“None.” He glanced at Chung Myung. “How was the transfer?”

Baek Cheon ran a hand through his hair, visibly shaken. “It… shouldn’t have been that hard.”

Jo Gul stepped into the light from the trees, dusting off his hands. “You’re literally the strongest of us.”

Baek Cheon looked at him. “Exactly.”

The fire popped gently. No one said anything more.

They just watched as their junior brother—once untouchable, unstoppable—curled faintly in his sleep, breathing just shallow enough to make them lean closer each time.

And they stayed like that through the night, silent guardians around the fire.

Waiting. Watching. Hoping.

Chapter Text

The fire burned low as the sky shifted into a pale, gray-blue—dawn creeping along the edges of the dark. The camp was quiet. Too quiet. Not the peaceful kind. The kind that settled in your bones like a warning.

Chung Myung hadn’t stirred all night.

He lay curled on the thick stack of blankets, face pale beneath the glow of the dying fire, his breath shallow and uneven. His body was still. Too still. And no one was saying it aloud, but the tension in the air told it all.

Baek Cheon sat nearby, unmoving, knees drawn up, arms resting on them, eyes trained on the boy like a sentry afraid to blink. Yu Iseol was brewing tea again—her third batch—with the quiet, desperate rhythm of someone pretending the repetition made a difference.

Jo Gul paced near the perimeter. “He hasn’t even flinched today. Not once. Not when I dropped that pot, not when Fink tripped and screamed into the dirt, nothing.”

Yoon Jong was seated cross-legged, brows furrowed in thought. “Back in the inn, when we found Fink… he woke up almost daily, even if just for a minute. Then it was once a day. Then every few days. Now…” He trailed off.

Everyone knew the pattern.

“Now it’s been too long,” Baek Cheon muttered.

Jo Gul exhaled and rubbed his face. “He’s slipping.”

“No,” Baek Cheon snapped, sharper than intended. Then, quieter, “He’s fighting. We just—we have to hold on a little longer.”

Fink, curled in his blanket, looked up from his half-eaten biscuit. “…He doesn’t have much left to fight with.”

A bitter silence followed.

Then—

A pulse.

Subtle, but sharp. The amulet at Chung Myung’s neck, dull and cold for the last day, suddenly let out a slow, dark glow—like embers reigniting under ash. It pulsed once. Then again.

And then—

The tendrils moved.

Like ink spilled across a page, the blackness surged from the amulet up the side of Chung Myung’s neck and jaw, crawling over his cheek, inching dangerously toward his right eye.

“He’s reacting!” Yu Iseol was the first to move, dropping the tea and rushing to his side.

Chung Myung’s body convulsed. His hands snapped up weakly to claw at the amulet, fingers barely coordinated, scratching at his own throat like something was burning inside.

“Chung Myung—!” Baek Cheon was at his side, hands out—but hesitant. Too afraid to touch, to risk making it worse.

Jo Gul stumbled to the other side. “What do we do?! We can’t touch him!”

“He’s burning up!” Yoon Jong shouted, feeling the wave of heat radiating from him.

Chung Myung let out a strangled sound—part gasp, part groan—his fingers curling tightly into the blanket, nails digging in as if anchoring himself to the earth.

He writhed once more, then suddenly stilled. His chest rose.

Then again. And again.

Slower.

Controlled.

He was calming down.

Baek Cheon hovered beside him, breath caught in his throat. “Chung Myung…?”

The boy’s eyes fluttered open.

Just a crack.

Enough.

Then—

“…sa…”

His voice was like a whisper from behind a mountain. Dry. Fragile. Splintered.

Jo Gul leaned in. “Did he say—?”

“…sa…k…r…”

Chung Myung winced hard, a pulse of pain seizing through his limbs.

The disciples leaned in, breath held.

Yu Iseol was already writing. “Same as before. Fragments. ‘Ka… ru…’ and now ‘sa… kr…’”

“It’s a word,” Yoon Jong muttered. “It’s gotta be a word—he’s been trying to say something this whole time!”

Baek Cheon’s heart hammered. “Chung Myung. Say it again. Come on. You’re almost there. Just say it.”

But the boy’s body was trembling again, and his mouth opened—

“EVERYONE SHUT UP!” Fink suddenly screamed, standing up with his blanket tangled around his leg.

Silence crashed over the camp like a wave.

Everyone froze.

Chung Myung’s lips moved once more. Weak. Shaky.

“…Sarak…”

And then his eyes rolled back, and he slumped into the blankets.

The fire popped. A bird called faintly in the distance.

Yoon Jong’s voice came barely above a whisper.

“…What the hell is Sarak?”

Baek Cheon stared at the boy in his arms, heart racing, dread twisting inside him.

He didn’t know.

But whatever Sarak was—

It was the key.

The fire crackled softly under the weight of a heavy silence. The scent of simmering soup filled the air—simple broth, seasoned with wild herbs and a few vegetables Jo Gul had foraged earlier. It was nothing special, but it was warm, and more importantly, it was something Chung Myung might be able to keep down.

If he ever woke up again.

Baek Cheon sat beside him, legs crossed, arms resting on his knees, eyes fixed on Chung Myung’s still form. He hadn’t moved since whispering that cursed word—Sarak—before slipping right back into that same unresponsive, fever-slick daze.

His breathing was slow again. Too slow.

Baek Cheon had spent the last hour trying not to overreact, reminding himself that this was just another dip in a long wave. But the worry had been gnawing at him like a starving animal.

He should’ve stirred by now. That word… it took too much from him.

He leaned forward. Quiet. Calculated.

Then—poke.

Chung Myung didn’t react.

Another—poke—this time to the side of the ribs.

Still nothing.

Baek Cheon frowned and gave one more, slightly firmer—poke.

“Hey. You’ve skipped meals before, but this is excessive.”

From across the fire, Yoon Jong—who had been quietly stirring the soup—whirled around, eyes wide. “Senior Brother! What are you doing?!”

“Trying to wake him up,” Baek Cheon said bluntly, eyes still on Chung Myung. “He hasn’t responded since this morning. Not even a twitch.”

“You just poked the dying guy!”

Baek Cheon didn’t flinch. “Exactly. If he’s really dying, a poke won’t make it worse. If he’s not, he’s just being stubborn—and I know how to deal with that.”

He shifted his position, leaned down, and murmured low and close, “Come on, you little monster. If you’re gonna scare us, at least have the decency to open your eyes and call us idiots.”

Chung Myung remained limp. His brow twitched faintly, but no sound followed.

Yoon Jong quickly placed the ladle aside and moved around the fire to kneel next to them. “You really think you can wake him by annoying him?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Baek Cheon muttered, then leaned in again. “Hey. You’re making Jo Gul try to be useful. That alone is a reason to get up.”

From the other side of the camp, Jo Gul shouted, “I heard that!”

Still no reaction.

Yoon Jong sighed, placing a hand on Chung Myung’s wrist, checking the pulse again. “It’s there. But faint. Even fainter than this morning.”

“Which is exactly why we have to wake him,” Baek Cheon snapped, frustration bleeding through. “If we can get him to drink even a little of the broth, it could help stabilize him. He’s hanging by threads.”

Yoon Jong glanced at the pot, then back at Chung Myung. “Alright. Then we do it together.”

Baek Cheon nodded, then gently tapped at Chung Myung’s cheek. “Wake up. Just a few sips. You’ve got three people fussing over you. Aren’t you embarrassed?”

Still nothing.

Yoon Jong leaned closer, voice quieter. “Chung Myung… we need you to fight. You’re the one who always yells at us when we slack off. Now it’s our turn. So… get up. Just a little.”

A slow breath escaped from the boy’s lips, and both seniors leaned in immediately.

His eyelids twitched.

Then—
Barely—
They opened.

Baek Cheon exhaled, relief flashing across his face.

“That’s it,” he murmured, reaching for the bowl of soup, hand steady. “You’re going to eat now, and you’re going to hate it. But you’re going to live.”

Chung Myung blinked. His lips parted.

A whisper—so soft it could’ve been the wind—

“…idiots…”

But Baek Cheon and Yoon Jong continued what they were doing completely oblivious.

The air was still.

Dawn crept in slowly, casting a pale silver hue across the dewy forest clearing. Birds hadn’t yet begun their chatter. The fire from the night before had died down into soft embers. Everyone remained asleep, breath slow and shallow under thick blankets.

Everyone—except Baek Cheon.

His eyes snapped open all at once, no drowsiness, no haze. Just that tight, suffocating sense of something wrong.

He sat up immediately, his eyes darting toward the bedroll next to the fire—the one layered in extra blankets, stacked with care. The one where Chung Myung had been sleeping.

It was empty.

Baek Cheon froze. His heart skipped.

No…

He glanced around wildly. “Chung Myung?!”

There.

By the wagon.

A crumpled form lay beside the back wheel, partially in the grass and dirt, arms outstretched like he had tried to crawl somewhere—anywhere—and collapsed halfway there. The blanket that had once covered him was tangled around his ankles, soaked with morning dew.

Baek Cheon was on his feet in an instant, sprinting across the short stretch of camp with his breath caught in his throat.

“Chung Myung—!”

He dropped to his knees beside him, hands already reaching.

The boy didn’t move.

Didn’t groan.

Didn’t even flinch.

Baek Cheon turned him over slowly, carefully cradling the small, limp form. “Hey… what are you doing out here?”

Still nothing.

Baek Cheon’s brow furrowed.

No reaction? Not even a twitch?

That wasn’t right. Even in his worst state, Chung Myung would always respond—bite, snark, swat, something.

Trying to keep calm, Baek Cheon hooked one arm under his knees, the other behind his back, and lifted him with practiced care.

And it hit him.

He wasn’t being careful.

He wasn’t needing to be.

The boy’s body didn’t jolt, didn’t seize, didn’t whimper in pain.

Just hung there. Like cloth.

Baek Cheon started walking back to the bedroll, faster now. “Let’s get you back to your bed, yeah? Come on. You’re being dramatic.”

Still no sound.

No breath.

No weight.

He knelt and gently laid him back onto the blankets. Reached for the extra pillow. Adjusted his position. Still—

No. Movement.

Baek Cheon leaned in.

Closer.

His face inches from Chung Myung’s. He held his breath, waiting to feel—

Nothing.

No breath touched his cheek.

The color drained from his face.

No… No. No, no, no—

He pressed two fingers to the side of Chung Myung’s throat, exactly the way Yu Iseol had shown him. He held them there, unmoving, eyes wide.

Still.

Nothing.

“…No pulse…”

His voice broke.

He said it again, louder.

“NO PULSE!”

He turned toward the others, still sleeping. “EVERYONE WAKE UP!! CHUNG MYUNG DOESN’T HAVE A PULSE!!”

There was a rustle in the bushes.

Baek Cheon turned with a start, instincts flaring, heart hammering.

A pig burst from the underbrush—fat, muddy, squealing—and then, impossibly…

It spoke.

“Heh! He’s dead! All your fault, you meat-headed idiot!”

Baek Cheon stood, staggering back, jaw slack.

“What…?”

“You overworked him!” the pig shouted, prancing around. “You’re all the same—oh so noble, oh so righteous. But none of you even knew him. What’s his favorite food? Huh? What does he hate? What scared him when he was younger? You don’t know!”

Baek Cheon’s legs gave out, and he fell to his knees. “No… that’s not—”

The pig marched right up to him, eyes dark, voice venomous. “You’re not even his friend. You just follow him around like some martyr. You don’t even know if his name is real.”

Baek Cheon whispered, “Shut up…”

“Who is he, Baek Cheon?” the pig hissed. “Who is Chung Myung?”

“SHUT UP!!”

Baek Cheon sat bolt upright, chest heaving, drenched in sweat. His hand reached instinctively—desperately—toward the bedroll beside him.

Chung Myung lay there.

Still.

But breathing.

Softly.

Rhythmically.

Baek Cheon dropped his head and let out a shaky breath, pressing a hand to his face. His heart thundered in his ears.

It had been a dream.

A nightmare.

But somehow—something in it still lingered, like a shadow refusing to fade with the dawn.

And even though it hadn’t been real…

It left a question ringing in his head, one that chilled him more than anything the pig had said—

Who is Chung Myung, really?
The early morning mist clung to the trees like a second skin, veiling the world in soft gray as the disciples of Mount Hua began packing up their camp. The fire had been stamped out, the bedrolls tied, and the soup that had sat untouched for hours was now cooling in the grass beside the wagon.

They had a long day ahead. And their pace was only growing slower.

Jo Gul was brushing down the horses, muttering something about how one of them had “judgmental eyes.” Yoon Jong was repacking the medical supplies, his motions precise but clearly distracted. Yu Iseol double-checked the herbs and salves—again.

And Baek Cheon…

Baek Cheon stood quietly beside the pile of blankets where Chung Myung still lay, as if sleeping. Except he wasn’t. His brow was scrunched, jaw tight, the thin sheet tangled around his legs from where he had squirmed in his sleep.

“Alright, little brother,” Baek Cheon muttered, squatting beside him. “Time to move.”

Chung Myung didn’t respond. His eyes were still closed. But the slow, ragged rise and fall of his chest told Baek Cheon all he needed to know—he was still in there. Still breathing. Still fighting.

Baek Cheon took a steadying breath and moved with his usual care—his arms sliding under the smaller boy’s shoulders and knees, lifting him in one smooth, practiced motion. He’d done it every day now, again and again. And every time it got harder.

Not because Chung Myung was heavy.

But because he wasn’t.

Even with muscle under Baek Cheon’s sleeves and strength honed from years of sword work, lifting the boy felt like cradling smoke—so fragile he feared pressing too hard might break something.

And this morning, the moment he shifted him—

Chung Myung groaned.

A deep, raw sound from the bottom of his throat.

Baek Cheon froze. “…Chung Myung?”

The boy’s head lolled to the side. Another groan escaped—this one rougher, like something inside was tearing.

Baek Cheon’s grip tightened, heart racing. “Sorry. Sorry. I know. I know it hurts.”

Yoon Jong turned from the wagon. “Is he waking up?”

“No,” Baek Cheon said quickly. “But he’s… making more noise than usual.”

Yu Iseol was at his side in seconds, fingers brushing over Chung Myung’s jaw, checking his pulse and temperature. “He’s fevered again. And the amulet’s still glowing faintly.”

Another groan came—longer, tighter, laced with a kind of dull agony that Baek Cheon had to grit his teeth to hear.

He could feel the way Chung Myung’s muscles tensed under his arms, how his fingers curled weakly at his sides. There was resistance—not strength, but pain.

Better that than dead, Baek Cheon thought grimly. Better groaning than silent.

“Let’s get him into the wagon,” he said.

Yu Iseol nodded once. “I’ll stabilize his spine as you lower him.”

Jo Gul, watching from the front, said quietly, “If he’s in that much pain, maybe we shouldn’t move him.”

Baek Cheon glanced at him. “If we don’t move him, we don’t find Dumok. If we don’t find Dumok—he dies anyway.”

That silenced the group.

Together, Baek Cheon and Yu Iseol guided Chung Myung into the padded bed inside the wagon, bracing every limb, adjusting every fold of cloth. They placed cushions behind his back and under his knees, made sure his neck was aligned just right.

The moment they laid him flat, another weak moan escaped him, his head twitching to the side.

Baek Cheon brushed the damp hair from his forehead and whispered, “Sorry, junior. But you’re not done yet.”

The wagon creaked as Jo Gul climbed to the front. “We good?”

Baek Cheon nodded once. “Move slow. Even slower than before.”

Jo Gul nodded solemnly and flicked the reins. “Let’s go.”

And as the wagon rolled forward, each bump on the road sent ripples of pain through the boy lying in the back—groaning, twitching, still locked in the grip of a curse that was dragging him inch by inch away from them.

But he was still here.

And that was all Baek Cheon needed to keep going.

The sun had barely reached its peak, and already the day had drained the group to their limits.

The wagon creaked along a narrow country path bordered by sparse trees and dry fields. The trail was uneven, laced with ridges and roots, and every jolt of the wheels struck through the camp like a curse.

In the back of the wagon, Chung Myung writhed under the thin sheets that had been soaked through with sweat for hours now. His head tossed side to side. His breath was rapid, shallow—too fast, too dry. And worst of all, his pain was no longer subtle.

It was visible.

“Slow down more,” Baek Cheon called toward the front.

“We’re already barely moving,” Jo Gul shouted back, reigning the horses to a crawl. “You want me to reverse?!”

“Then stop! Again!” Yoon Jong barked.

Jo Gul growled and pulled the reins hard. The wagon jerked to a halt. One of the wheels made a protesting squeak.

Baek Cheon was already in the back, pressing a cool cloth to Chung Myung’s forehead.

His skin burned beneath the fabric.

“His fever’s worse,” he said tightly. “We need to stop more often. Every half-mile, if we have to.”

“We’ll never reach Dumok like that,” Yoon Jong said.

“Better late than dead,” Baek Cheon snapped.

Yu Iseol was already pulling out the wrapped salves and fresh water. She didn’t say a word, but her hands moved with alarming speed, already uncorking the bottle of feverroot extract.

Fink, sitting nearby chewing a dried apple slice, looked up from the edge of the wagon and asked meekly, “Shouldn’t we find a doctor? Like… a real one?”

That stopped them.

Baek Cheon looked up, eyes narrowing. “You think a village doctor’s going to know what to do about this?”

Yoon Jong added, “They won’t even know what the amulet is. But…” He looked down at Chung Myung’s contorted expression, his fists clenched around the blanket. “He’s getting worse. We should try.”

“Nearby town?” Yu Iseol asked, already rolling up her map scroll.

Jo Gul rubbed the back of his neck. “One a few li west of here, I think. Barely more than a farming village, but maybe we’ll get lucky.”

“Then we ask around,” Baek Cheon said, brushing back a soaked lock of hair from Chung Myung’s forehead. “Split up once we’re there. In and out. Fast.”

They got moving again.

Slowly.

Very slowly.

The wagon crawled forward, then stopped. Crawled again. Then stopped.

Every fifty paces, someone jumped out to brace the wheel or check the back. Sometimes because Chung Myung groaned. Sometimes because he screamed.

Not loudly—never loudly. His voice was too raw for that.

But each strained sound that escaped his throat was like a dagger to the heart.

And when they finally rolled into the outskirts of the next village, a quiet collection of worn buildings nestled beside a wheat field, Baek Cheon didn’t even wait for the wagon to stop fully. He jumped down and ran to the first person he saw.

“Is there a doctor here? A healer? Anything?”

The old man blinked. “Eh? We’ve got a midwife and an herb-woman.”

“Take me to her. Now.”

Jo Gul handed the reins to Fink and bolted off with Baek Cheon, leaving the rest behind with the wagon. Yu Iseol stayed by Chung Myung’s side, cooling his brow again, this time with a cloth that had to be replaced every five minutes.

Then—Chung Myung twitched.

Not just a spasm.

He moved his hand. Slowly. Deliberately.

Yu Iseol’s head snapped to him. “He’s waking.”

Yoon Jong climbed into the back. “Chung Myung?”

His eyelids cracked open, glassy and unfocused, and his lips began to move.

“Water,” Yu Iseol whispered, already holding a ladle to his lips. “Easy…”

He took a sip—barely—and then coughed once, weak and shallow.

Yoon Jong leaned closer. “Can you speak?”

Chung Myung’s mouth opened.

And as always—he didn’t speak in full words.

But this time, there was more.

“…Su…”

Yoon Jong blinked. “Su?”

“…su…rah…k…”

Yu Iseol immediately began writing the syllables.

“…Su…rahk…ma…”

Yoon Jong stared. Then suddenly, his face lit with realization. “Wait. Surakmaeng! That’s—!”

“…valley…”

And then he slumped again, groaning softly.

Baek Cheon returned at that moment, panting from the run. “The herb woman’s coming. She says she has fever treatments, but no promise it’ll—what’s happening?”

Yoon Jong turned to him, breathless. “He spoke. A full phrase.”

Baek Cheon’s eyes went wide. “What did he say?”

“Surakmaeng Valley,” Yu Iseol answered. “It’s a location.”

“That’s where Dumok is,” Yoon Jong said.

Baek Cheon stared down at the boy—shivering, slick with sweat, lips dry and cracked—and clenched his fists.

“Then we know where we’re going next.”

But no one said it aloud—

If they didn’t reach it soon…

They might be carrying a body instead of a brother.

Far from the quiet countryside, nestled in the jagged shadows of the Eastern Black Mountains, the dark halls of the Blood Spirit Sect echoed with whispers.

Lanterns swayed in the cold breeze of their cavern stronghold, casting erratic light across the blood-colored banners and sharpened pikes leaning against stone walls. Figures cloaked in crimson and black robes gathered in circles, their eyes gleaming like jackals.

At the center of it all sat Elder Hwan, a towering figure with sunken cheeks and long, silvered hair tied back in a cord of bone. His eyes were closed as a younger scout knelt before him, voice shaky with the weight of what he was about to say.

“…They say he’s sick.”

Elder Hwan’s eyes opened.

“Who.”

“The Divine Dragon. Chung Myung. He’s… on the move. But barely. Headed for Surakmaeng Valley. Carried in a wagon, guarded by a handful of disciples. He’s… visibly dying.”

The silence that followed was oppressive.

Then, a quiet, gurgling chuckle began to rise from deep in Elder Hwan’s chest.

“Sick…?” he said, the word tasting like wine on his tongue. “The undefeated cub of Mount Hua… sick?”

He stood slowly, the movement alone silencing the chamber.

“All these years, we’ve watched from the shadows. Watched him grow stronger. Watched him ruin sect after sect—cripple our agents in one swing.”

He turned, eyes glowing in the firelight.

“But now, the gods smile.”

He raised his hand. “Send out the Red Talons. All of them.”

Gasps.

“The entire unit, Elder?”

“Yes,” he hissed. “I want the road to Surakmaeng soaked in blood. If the Divine Dragon is wounded… we will end him.”

Back on the other side of the mountains, the wagon creaked along an overgrown path, Chung Myung lying in the back like a wilted flower, unmoving but breathing—barely. The rise and fall of his chest was the only thing keeping Baek Cheon from spiraling again.

They had found the herb woman, just as promised.

She had emerged from her cottage at the edge of the village with sleeves rolled up and skepticism in her eyes. But the moment she pulled back the blanket and saw Chung Myung, her entire demeanor changed.

“Oh… oh heavens,” she whispered, kneeling beside him.

She didn’t ask permission. She immediately began her examination—gentle pressure on the belly, fingers to the neck, opening an eye, checking the dark veins that now stretched all the way up to his cheekbone.

Her face went pale.

“This boy is in extreme danger.”

Baek Cheon leaned in. “We know. Can you help?”

She pressed a palm to his sternum. “He’s severely malnourished. His organs are slowing. The black veins you see? That’s not natural sickness. That’s poison. You need to stop whatever’s causing it—immediately.”

The disciples exchanged glances—but no one mentioned the amulet. No one had the words. Not yet.

She continued, gathering vials and roots from a shelf. “I can give you something to help lower his fever. Maybe even ease the pain. But you’re not healing this out here. This—this thing is beyond herbs. If you keep moving him like this, his body will start shutting down.”

“We can’t stop,” Yu Iseol said, her voice steady. “We’re headed to the source.”

The woman looked up at her, then at the rest of them. “Then pray he lasts long enough to reach it.”

The road to Surakmaeng was cruel.

The mountain winds were harsh. The terrain turned rocky. Every jolt of the wheel was a stab to the gut for those sitting inside. The breaks they were forced to take were more frequent now—every hour, sometimes every half.

Chung Myung groaned more.

Not soft, sleepy moans—but pained, gut-deep sounds. Sounds that made Yoon Jong turn his face away and clench his fists. Sounds that made Jo Gul’s hands tremble on the reins. Sounds that made Baek Cheon press a palm to his brother’s chest every hour just to be sure it was still rising.

Fink didn’t speak anymore.

He just sat quietly next to Chung Myung, wiping sweat from his brow every so often, whispering stories no one else could hear. Silly ones. The kind that made sick people smile.

Chung Myung didn’t smile.

But he twitched, faintly.

And still, the wagon rolled on toward Surakmaeng.

None of them knew yet that an army waited ahead.

Only that time was running out.

And the Divine Dragon’s fire…

Was burning low.

The sky had bled into black.

Stars poked through the misty veil above, but their cold light offered no comfort. The wind that rolled down from the mountain path was biting now, colder than any of them expected for this time of year. Every breath fogged in the air. Every step crunched frost.

And still… the wagon pressed on.

They had reached the outer ridges of the Surakmaeng Valley.

The dirt roads had thinned to thin trails. The trees grew denser. And finally, when the wagon couldn’t pass a rising slope of narrow stone and roots, they stopped.

Just short of their destination.

“We can’t move the wagon over this hill,” Jo Gul muttered, shivering and trying to rub warmth into his fingers. “We walk the rest.”

“Then what about him?” Yoon Jong said, pointing to the back of the cart where Chung Myung lay under layers of cloth, nearly indistinguishable from the bedding.

Baek Cheon’s eyes were already locked on the bundle. “He can’t survive another move.”

“He can’t stay out here either,” Yu Iseol said. “His body’s already ice cold. If we leave him, even for the night, he could freeze before sunrise.”

“So we’re just choosing whether to kill him now or later?” Jo Gul snapped.

“No one’s choosing that,” Baek Cheon growled.

Tension sparked like flint. Everyone’s voices rose—frustration, fear, guilt boiling over into the cold night.

“Carrying him will hurt him more!” Yoon Jong argued. “You saw what happened last time—we barely got him settled!”

“He’s dying either way if we leave him alone!” Jo Gul shot back. “At least by the fire, he’ll be warm!”

“He’s not going to last long enough to be warm if you shake him to pieces!”

Baek Cheon stepped between them, eyes burning, voice iron.

“Enough. We move him. Together.”

No one argued after that.

It took all four of them.

Baek Cheon slid his arms under the boy’s fragile form, every muscle trembling not from the weight, but from the pressure—don’t drop him, don’t shift him, don’t make it worse. Jo Gul and Yoon Jong supported his legs, Yu Iseol guiding his head and neck like she was cradling a bird made of glass.

Each step to the fire was agony.

Not for Chung Myung.

For them.

He didn’t scream this time.

He didn’t move at all.

And in the world behind his eyelids—

There was no fire.

No sky.

No light.

Only red.

A massive serpent, coiled around a void, its eyes like pits of burning coal, hissed and struck again, teeth flashing like daggers. Its scales shimmered like molten metal—rippling with heat, breathing venom into the darkness.

Chung Myung stood alone, barefoot, his sword in hand—but it felt dull. Heavy. Like it belonged to someone else. His limbs were shaking. His body—barely holding together. He was drenched in sweat and black ichor, his robes torn and smoking from burns.

And still—

He fought.

He lunged forward, dodged to the side, slashed at the serpent’s belly only to be knocked backward by its massive tail.

He hit the ground hard—again. How many times now? A hundred? A thousand?

There was no telling how long he had been fighting. Time didn’t exist here. Only the pain. Only the burning. Only the curse.

He couldn’t see his allies. He couldn’t hear them. The world outside was gone.

This was the battlefield of his soul.

And the serpent was the poison wrapped around his heart.

Every time he struck it, it split in two.

Every time he struck harder, it multiplied.

The more he fought, the stronger it became.

His knees hit the ground again. His vision swam.

“Not yet…”

He tried to rise. His hands failed him.

“I’ve fought harder things…”

Blood dripped from his lips.

The serpent reared back, hissing with what sounded like laughter.

Chung Myung gritted his teeth, his blade trembling in his grasp.

He wasn’t dying.

He wasn’t retreating.

He was still fighting.

But he was alone.

And the red serpent loomed above him, again, preparing to strike—

The fire burned low, casting a golden ring of warmth in the center of the clearing as the cold crept in from every direction. The wind whispered through the trees like a warning, brittle and sharp, but none of the disciples paid it any mind—they were focused on one thing only.

Moving Chung Myung.

Again.

Every hand was needed.

Baek Cheon, at the lead as always, had both arms braced around the boy’s limp body, bearing the bulk of the weight. Yoon Jong and Jo Gul supported his legs, steady and cautious, while Yu Iseol guided his neck and head with both hands, her expression unreadable but eyes locked, unblinking.

“Easy…” Baek Cheon muttered through gritted teeth, more to himself than anyone. “Keep his spine straight.”

“He’s lighter than yesterday,” Jo Gul said grimly.

“That’s not a good thing,” Yoon Jong replied.

They reached the side of the fire where a thick nest of blankets and pillows had already been laid out. The spot was shielded from wind by a low rock wall and the wagon itself, angled perfectly to reflect heat inward.

Together, they gently lowered Chung Myung onto the bedding. He didn’t groan this time. Didn’t even twitch.

Baek Cheon didn’t wait.

He reached for the bowl of soup they’d been keeping warm in the fire pit, steam curling off the surface. As he stirred it, he remembered the healer’s words, echoing like a gong in his mind:

“You must feed him. Even if it’s just sips. He’s malnourished. He doesn’t have days left—he has hours.”

He knelt beside the bedroll, dipping the spoon carefully and turning to Chung Myung’s face.

Still unconscious. Still locked in whatever silent hell he’d been trapped in for days.

“Alright, you stubborn mule,” Baek Cheon muttered. “You’ve been poked once already, and it worked. So don’t blame me for this.”

He reached out and gave him a firm—poke—to the side of his ribs.

Nothing.

Another poke, slightly harder.

Yoon Jong’s voice cut in instantly. “Are you poking him again?!”

“It worked last time!”

Yu Iseol sighed. “I’m beginning to think it’s the only thing that gets through to him.”

Baek Cheon muttered, “He deserves it anyway.”

Poke.

This time, Chung Myung flinched.

Barely.

But it was there.

Baek Cheon perked up. “That’s it. Come on. I know you’re in there.”

Yoon Jong leaned over, holding his arms gently to stop any sudden motion. Jo Gul knelt with the cloth and water ready.

Another small flinch.

Then, the faintest sound—like a breath caught between a growl and a sigh.

“…I’m gonna… kill… you…”

Baek Cheon grinned. “There he is.”

They got the spoon to his lips. He sipped—barely—but he did. With Yu Iseol guiding his chin and Yoon Jong holding him steady, they fed him slowly, spoonful by spoonful, until the bowl was half empty.

It wasn’t much.

But it was enough.

For now.

Jo Gul leaned back, sighing with relief. “Alright. He’s fed. Again. Not dying. Again.”

Baek Cheon lowered the bowl and sat beside Chung Myung, finally letting his arms relax. “Still terrifying. Again.”

The tension slowly eased, and soon enough, the group settled near the fire. Blankets over their shoulders, they shared warmth, soup, and soft murmurs of memory.

“You remember when he yelled at me for using the wrong grip on my sword?” Jo Gul asked, grinning.

“You mean every day?” Yoon Jong smirked.

“No,” Jo Gul said. “The wrong grip. Like… the angle was off by two degrees.”

Baek Cheon chuckled. “He said your hands were so clumsy you must’ve been a blacksmith’s failed experiment.”

Even Yu Iseol smiled at that.

They were laughing. Breathing. Alive.

Then—

CRACK.

A thunderous snap above them.

A branch—massive, thick, and dry—snapped clean off from a tree overhead. A gust of wind must have loosened it. It twisted as it fell, the jagged end pointed straight for—

Chung Myung.

It all happened in less than a second.

Yoon Jong was the first to move—instinct over thought—throwing himself over Chung Myung’s body, arms braced around him in a protective cocoon, barely avoiding contact but shielding him from the impact.

Baek Cheon was already halfway up before his blade left the sheath—steel flashing in the firelight.

With a clean, explosive swing—

CRACK!

He split the falling branch in half mid-air.

Jo Gul kicked the halves away before they even hit the ground, sending splinters flying.

The forest fell quiet again.

Only the ragged sound of breathing remained.

Fink, sitting frozen with a biscuit half-raised to his mouth, stared at them all with his jaw slack. “…You people are terrifying.”

The forest fell quiet again, the echo of shattered wood still hanging in the cold night air. Only the crackle of the fire and the soft rustle of leaves remained.

Jo Gul, breathing a little hard, dusted his hands off. “Whew. I got it. That was close.”

He stepped back toward the group, but the force of his kick had sent one of the heavy branch halves thudding loudly into a rock just beside the bedding pile.

THUD!

The impact wasn’t massive, but the sound of it cracked like a whip in the tense silence.

Yoon Jong, already half-crouched and shielding Chung Myung with his body, flinched—hard.

His elbow shifted.

And his arm accidentally knocked into Chung Myung’s shoulder. Not a blow. Not even firm.

But it didn’t matter.

The moment the contact landed, Chung Myung’s body seized.

He gasped—sharp, raw, and wet.

Then came the coughing.

Hard.

Violent.

Blood spattered across the inside of the blanket, then stained the edge of his sleeve as his body convulsed with each breath. The sound of it wasn’t human—it was like a broken bell, echoing with pain and helplessness.

Baek Cheon was at his side instantly. “Yoon Jong!”

“I didn’t mean to—I just—!”

Yu Iseol grabbed the tonic, already opening it with her teeth as she moved to Chung Myung’s side, one hand gently but firmly steadying his head.

Jo Gul’s face paled. “Jesus… that sound…”

Baek Cheon cradled the boy upright, careful not to jostle him more than necessary. “It’s okay. You’re okay. Breathe. Just breathe.”

Chung Myung didn’t respond.

Just coughed.

And coughed.

And coughed—

Until there was no strength left in him, and he slumped back against Baek Cheon’s arm, blood at the corners of his lips, breath shallow again.

Yoon Jong sat beside his junior brother checking for a pulse and apologizing non stop to Chung Myung knowing he probably doesn’t even hear him.

Jo Gul muttered under his breath, “…We have to find Dumok. Now. We’re out of time.”

Baek Cheon didn’t answer.

He just watched the black tendrils crawl a little further up Chung Myung’s neck—past his jaw, brushing the base of his ear now.

The fire crackled behind him. The forest watched in silence.

And the Divine Dragon, even in unconscious agony, still refused to die.

Morning came with a mist-draped hush, the air crisp and damp with dew. The rising sun cast pale rays through the treetops, painting the forest in soft gold. Birds chirped somewhere above, indifferent to the desperate weight being carried beneath them.

They had no time to waste.

Jo Gul, Yoon Jong, Yu Iseol, and Fink were already breaking camp, repacking the wagon, and preparing the horses for the final leg of the journey into Surakmaeng Valley. Every motion was urgent, every glance toward the forest trail tense.

Baek Cheon didn’t wait.

He knelt beside the pile of blankets, cradling Chung Myung’s motionless form with practiced care—gentler now than even the day before.

His arms slid beneath him, lifting slowly, precisely. The boy was light—too light—but Baek Cheon had come to know every delicate shift, every place to avoid touching too hard. By now, his strength no longer felt like a burden—it felt necessary. It had become second nature.

He murmured under his breath as he rose to his feet, “There we go. Just us this morning. Don’t worry, I’ve got you.”

There was no response.

But somehow, even in silence, he felt it.

Even like this… you’re still teaching me, aren’t you?

Not just how to carry someone.

How to move carefully. With intention. How to protect without smothering. How to listen to pain without words. How to act—not with brute force—but with patience.

It had all been in the training.

Even now, Chung Myung was teaching him. Through every twitch. Every shallow breath. Every moment he didn’t give up.

Baek Cheon adjusted his hold and began walking.

The trail was narrow, carved between dense trees and snaking roots, but the worst was yet ahead. The cart waited not far beyond the ridge—but so did the rocks.

When he reached the edge, he saw Jo Gul waiting beside the wagon, brows knit tight.

Jo Gul stepped forward, halting him with a gesture. “Senior Brother. You can’t put him back in.”

Baek Cheon blinked. “Why?”

Jo Gul pointed ahead, past the narrow bend. “Large stones. We scouted ahead—there’s a slope full of broken shale. We can get the wagon through it, but the ride’s going to be brutal. One jolt, even one big dip, and…” His voice trailed off.

Baek Cheon looked down at the boy in his arms, the faint rise and fall of his chest already strained from the short walk.

“…Then we walk,” Baek Cheon said, adjusting his grip.

“Are you sure?” Jo Gul asked, eyebrows lifting.

“No,” Baek Cheon muttered. “But I’m doing it anyway.”

He stepped past the wagon, and the path quickly turned uneven.

Every few feet was a dip or rise, a jutting stone, a hidden root. With each misstep, Chung Myung stirred. A groan. A twitch. A wince so subtle it could be mistaken for the wind.

“Sorry,” Baek Cheon murmured, lowering his voice to a whisper as he navigated over a jut of stone. “I know that hurt. We’re almost through this part.”

Another rock. A sharp incline.

“I’m sorry again.”

A bigger dip.

Chung Myung whimpered—barely—but his fingers weakly gripped the front of Baek Cheon’s robe, curling into the cloth like he knew who was carrying him, like he knew he could hold on.

Baek Cheon nearly stopped walking right there.

He grit his teeth. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you, junior.”

Behind him, soft footsteps approached. Yoon Jong caught up, slightly breathless, and fell into step beside him. “I’ll walk ahead,” he offered. “Warn you about the dips.”

Baek Cheon gave a grateful nod, breath shaking.

Yoon Jong scouted each step like he was guiding a royal procession. “Dip on your left. Step down at an angle. Good. Next one’s jagged—step wide.”

And so it went. Step by step.

Baek Cheon carried their broken swordsman through the forest with Yoon Jong guiding, Jo Gul guarding the rear, and the rest following behind.

Not a single one of them complained. Not about the weight. Not about the time.

Because they weren’t just carrying a person anymore.

They were carrying Mount Hua’s will.

And even if he couldn’t speak—

Chung Myung still clung to them like he refused to let go.

The path narrowed.

The trees had long since thinned into sparse, crooked silhouettes, their bare limbs clawing toward the sky like the fingers of tired monks in prayer. Now it was all stone—cracked, uneven, sharp underfoot. Wind howled through the thin ravine they were passing, echoing off the rocks like distant voices.

Jo Gul muttered from the back of the group, “This doesn’t feel like a path. This feels like a punishment.”

Yoon Jong, ahead with eyes fixed on the ground, responded dryly, “Then keep your complaints internal. Preferably with a gag.”

Jo Gul kicked a pebble. “Just saying. If I break my ankle, I want someone to remember that I called it.”

Ahead of them, Baek Cheon didn’t say a word.

He couldn’t.

Every ounce of his attention was locked on his footing and the fragile weight in his arms. Chung Myung rested against his chest, face pale, sweat-drenched hair sticking to his forehead. His breathing was slow—too slow—but still there. Still holding on.

“Step coming,” Yoon Jong said softly, eyes scanning the path. “Sharp rock on your right. Watch your footing.”

Baek Cheon adjusted, stepping wide.

Chung Myung shifted slightly in his arms with the movement, and a pained groan escaped his lips.

Baek Cheon stopped walking for a moment, closing his eyes, steadying his breath.

“I know,” he murmured. “I know. That one was bad.”

He looked down.

Chung Myung’s face twitched. His hand—barely able to move—curled just enough to catch a bit more of Baek Cheon’s robe. He gripped it like a child clinging to a memory.

That grip was the only thing keeping Baek Cheon’s legs moving.

“He’s burning up again,” Yu Iseol said quietly from behind, keeping pace with them while her eyes constantly checked the color in his lips. “If we stop too long, he’ll worsen. If we move too fast, he’ll worsen.”

Jo Gul sighed. “So we just keep doing the impossible then. Great.”

“Glad you’re finally caught up,” Yoon Jong said.

The path turned again—steeper this time, and even narrower. Only one person could pass at a time. Loose gravel crunched underfoot with every step.

Baek Cheon didn’t ask for help.

But when his knee nearly buckled on a slant of stone, Yoon Jong silently stepped beside him and slipped an arm under his elbow, bracing him without a word.

“Thanks,” Baek Cheon murmured.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Yoon Jong said. “We’ve still got a quarter mile of this hell left.”

They reached a small plateau, just wide enough to stop and breathe. Baek Cheon gently sank to his knees, still holding Chung Myung against him. Yu Iseol immediately moved forward, feeling for his pulse again.

It was still there.

Faint.

Like a candle in a storm.

Fink, who had been quiet for the last hour, finally caught up, huffing as he dragged the smallest of their packs. “How… how much longer is this trail?! I’m gonna lose a tooth from all this bouncing!”

“Don’t say that when we’re carrying a man who’s literally falling apart,” Jo Gul muttered.

Baek Cheon looked up from Chung Myung’s face, his expression unreadable.

“He’s not falling apart,” he said quietly.

“He’s surviving.”

They all paused for a moment in the wind, each feeling the weight of those words. The rocks. The cold. The trail. The breath they were chasing, step by painful step.

Chung Myung was still fighting.
So they would too.
All the way to the end.
The jagged stones finally gave way to softer earth. The brutal, winding rock path behind them seemed to sigh as the wagon creaked down into smoother terrain, sheltered once again by trees and open sky. The change was a blessing.

But it didn’t feel like a victory.

Baek Cheon, face tight with fatigue and sweat, gently lifted Chung Myung back into the wagon. His muscles burned from the long carry, but his arms still moved with care, his every motion slow and measured. The moment the boy touched the bedding, Baek Cheon adjusted the padding, cradling his head, checking his breathing with the practiced rhythm of a man who had learned to measure life by shallow breaths.

Once Chung Myung was settled, Baek Cheon climbed down from the wagon and joined the others at its side. No one rode inside anymore—not because they were unwilling, but because the slightest imbalance, any shift in weight, could rock the fragile form of the boy lying there.

So they walked.

All of them.

Even Fink, trailing behind with a pack half his size.

The group moved in silence, broken only by the occasional gasp or choked groan from the wagon.

Each time, they turned immediately—eyes snapping back, breath held.

“Still breathing,” Yoon Jong would murmur.
“Just a cough,” Jo Gul would confirm.
Yu Iseol never said anything. She just looked.

And Baek Cheon…

He flinched every time.

They stopped for another break hours later beneath a wide tree with thick roots and a patch of shade. The wagon was parked beside the road, horses nibbling the grass. Everyone gathered around the map, discussing which fork in the road would take them toward the eastern slope of Surakmaeng Valley.

“No sign of Dumok,” Jo Gul said. “Everyone I’ve asked just shrugs. It’s like the guy vanished.”

“He’s not the type to stay visible long,” Yoon Jong muttered. “Especially if he knows we’re close.”

Baek Cheon glanced back at the wagon. Chung Myung had been quiet—too quiet. No groans. No twitching.

Yu Iseol was rolling up the map. “We’ll go east. The terrain is—”

“…h-huh…gh…”

A sound.

A wet, terrible sound.

Then another.

“…nngghk—”

Then came the gasp.

Loud. Sharp. Desperate.

“Cough—Khrrkk—!”

They turned as one, running—no hesitation, no words.

“CHUNG MYUNG!” Baek Cheon shouted, vaulting toward the wagon.

But he wasn’t there.

The blankets were askew.

The impression of a body still fresh on the bedding.

But no body.

“He’s gone!” Jo Gul shouted, eyes wild.

“Look around! Look around!” Yoon Jong yelled.

They scanned the road.

Then—

Baek Cheon’s heart plummeted.

Just down the path, walking away with calm, deliberate steps, was a tall man in ornate robes—fine cloth layered and trimmed with soft purple threading. He carried something in his arms.

Someone.

“Chung Myung—!”

Baek Cheon and the others ran to intercept.

“Stop—stop! He’s sick, you can’t carry him like that!”

The man turned his head.

His face was older, lined but dignified. His beard was well-kept. His hair pinned in a traditional topknot with a golden clasp.

“Hyun Tang,” Baek Cheon breathed. “You…?”

Hyun Tang.

Former senior disciple of Mount Hua.

A man long gone.

A man who, at one point, was whispered to be next in line to become the sect leader—until he disappeared from the sect years ago without a word.

And now… he was here, cradling Chung Myung.

Poorly.

Chung Myung’s body dangled awkwardly in his arms, neck tilted, his limbs bouncing slightly with each step. His face was pale, sweat streaming down the sides, mouth slightly open from the coughing fit moments ago.

“Put him down!” Jo Gul shouted, fury rising.

“You’ll kill him carrying him like that,” Yoon Jong added, stepping forward.

But Hyun Tang did not flinch. His voice was calm, almost superior.

“You fools are the ones killing him,” he said. “Dragging a boy this sick through cursed lands, bumping him around in wagons like livestock. He should’ve been brought back to Mount Hua the moment he collapsed.”

“We’re going to Mount Hua,” Baek Cheon growled. “We just had to find—”

“He’s dying,” Hyun Tang snapped, the sudden steel in his voice cutting through. “And not one of you knows what you’re doing. Feeding him tea and prayer like it’ll save his life.”

He looked down at Chung Myung with something halfway between pity and purpose.

“I was born in that sect,” he continued. “I bled for it. I was supposed to lead it. And now I return to find its youngest disciple on death’s door, surrounded by flailing children.”

Jo Gul unsheathed his sword halfway. “Put him down, or I will—”

“Stop!” Baek Cheon’s voice cracked.

Everyone froze.

Hyun Tang’s grip on Chung Myung didn’t falter.

Baek Cheon stepped forward, slowly. His hand moved to Chung Myung’s dangling wrist—fingers trembling, heart thundering.

He wrapped his hand gently around Chung Myung’s forearm.

Hyun Tang didn’t resist, but his posture shifted slightly, defensive.

“We’re not going to fight you,” Baek Cheon said quietly. “Not while he’s in your arms.”

“But you’re not taking him anywhere,” Yu Iseol added, stepping in close.

Baek Cheon’s voice lowered. “We’ve carried him across mountains. Fought off thieves. Dodged death by hours. I know what it means to hold him so he doesn’t break. And with all due respect, senior… you’re not doing it right.”

There was silence.

Hyun Tang looked down at the boy again.

Then… something flickered in his expression.

Doubt.

But he didn’t let go.

Not yet.

Not without a fight of a different kind.

Hyun Tang stood still for a long, drawn breath.

The boy in his arms convulsed again, his body arching weakly as another strained breath rattled through his chest, each one sharper and louder than the last. The wheezing was unmistakable now—a body in panic. The kind of breathing that made even seasoned warriors flinch.

Baek Cheon stepped forward again, his hand still outstretched, palm open—not pleading, but waiting.

“Please,” he said. “He’s not just sick. He’s on the edge.”

Hyun Tang’s jaw twitched. His eyes flicked to the disciples—Jo Gul ready to pounce, Yoon Jong like a taut bowstring, Yu Iseol calm but cold as stone. Even the small boy—Fink—stood watching from behind the wagon, fists balled up in the sleeves of his coat.

The wind rustled his layered silk robes as he stared down at the gasping boy in his arms.

With a long, almost grudging breath, Hyun Tang finally said, “…You don’t deserve him.”

Baek Cheon’s expression didn’t change. “Maybe not. But we’re not letting go.”

Another beat of silence passed. Then Hyun Tang stepped forward and slowly—reluctantly—handed Chung Myung back into Baek Cheon’s waiting arms.

As the weight transferred, Baek Cheon instinctively shifted, positioning a hand behind the boy’s head, the other beneath his legs, already muttering apologies.

Hyun Tang didn’t release immediately. For a heartbeat, both men held the boy between them.

Then Hyun Tang let go.

“Take him,” he said, voice edged with bitterness. “But mark this—if he dies under your care, that will be on your heads. Not mine.”

Baek Cheon met his eyes. “We already know.”

Hyun Tang gave a curt nod, turned sharply, and without another word, strode back to his wagon. His companions followed without question, and soon their fine horses and polished carriage disappeared down the forest path, back the way they had come.

Only when the last glint of silk vanished into the trees did the disciples exhale.

Jo Gul immediately moved to help Baek Cheon lower Chung Myung onto the bedding beside the fire. Yu Iseol was already kneeling with water and herbs, checking his pulse. Yoon Jong shifted aside the blanket, gently straightening his limbs.

“Shh,” Baek Cheon whispered, brushing the soaked hair from Chung Myung’s forehead. “It’s okay. You’re back. You’re safe now.”

But Chung Myung was far from calm.

He writhed slightly, groaning through clenched teeth, fingers clawing faintly at Baek Cheon’s sleeve. His breaths came in fast, wheezing bursts, each one like he was trying to force himself to stay present.

Baek Cheon gritted his teeth. “He’s panicking. His whole body’s tense.”

“I think that man jostled something—his ribs, maybe,” Jo Gul muttered. “Or it’s just the fear. The shock.”

“Both,” Yu Iseol said, holding a small flask to his lips. “This is willow root and licorice—it’ll calm his lungs. If he can swallow it.”

Chung Myung choked on the first sip. Baek Cheon tilted his head carefully, guiding the second. This one went down. Barely.

“There you go. That’s it,” Baek Cheon whispered. “Just breathe. Just… breathe.”

But the boy’s face was scrunched in pain. He whimpered—an ugly, broken sound—and pressed his forehead into Baek Cheon’s chest.

The senior disciple froze.

Then wrapped his arms around him, cradling his back, holding him like something already half-shattered.

“It’s alright,” he murmured. “I’m sorry. I should’ve stopped him sooner. We’ve got you. We’ve got you.”

Jo Gul sank down beside them, eyes tight. “He didn’t even scream. Just… took it.”

Yoon Jong stared at the fire. “He probably couldn’t.”

They sat there for a while, letting the flames crackle and the wind pass around them. Letting the storm die down.

Baek Cheon never let go.

And even through the shaking and pain, Chung Myung’s grip on Baek Cheon’s robe never loosened.

Not even for a second.

Chapter Text

The sun dipped gently behind the cliffs as the wheels of the wagon rolled onto even ground—finally. The uneven, soul-punishing roads of Surakmaeng Valley gave way to a smooth, stone-paved path leading into a modest but lively town nestled at the base of the valley walls.

The clatter of carts, chatter of townsfolk, and smell of simmering stew from street vendors was a welcome change from the constant rustle of wind and brittle branches. For the first time in weeks, the air didn’t feel like it was testing them.

Baek Cheon sat at the back of the wagon, one arm resting on Chung Myung’s head to keep it from bumping against the wood, his eyes locked on the boy’s face.

Peaceful.

That was the only word for it.

Chung Myung’s lips were relaxed, no blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, no breath wheezing painfully in and out of him. His chest rose gently beneath the blanket, his face finally returning to something that resembled the bratty little junior they all knew.

It felt… unreal.

Baek Cheon couldn’t stop watching him. And as he did, his thoughts drifted.

That day in the restaurant.

He remembered it vividly. The clink of dishes, the laughter of his seniors as they celebrated around the table, his own sweat barely dry from months of isolation training. He had returned to Mount Hua his broken down falling mount hua.

He was talking about his success when he heard a burst of laughter from a child across from him.

A ratty kid with wild eyes covering his bottom half of his face using his sleeve and a voice like vinegar.

Then he remembered lying on his back, blinking up at the sky while this small child sat cross-legged in front of him, after bashing Beak Cheons head with a sheathed sword. He sat relaxed and in deep thought like he hadn’t just leveled the second strongest man in the sect.

“Wha… how are you so strong?” Baek Cheon had rasped.

“It’s not that I’m strong, but rather your just weak.” he’d replied looking at him like it was obvious.

Baek Cheon had hated him. For one day.

Then… things started to change.

Training became more brutal, but everyone got better. The juniors rose. The second-rate disciples improved. The sect—once crumbling and forgotten—grew strong again.

Because of him.

Because of this kid.

And when he thought back he finally realized that Chung Myung still always avoided the question you could always say ‘wow your so strong’ and his head would bloat but the moment you said ‘How are you so strong’ and he would avoids the question all together. That thought made his brows furrow.

Baek Cheon blinked back into the present. His hand brushed Chung Myung’s hair away from his face.

“You’ve looked worse,” he muttered softly. “Though not by much.”

The wagon pulled into the center of town.

Yoon Jong didn’t waste a moment. “I’ll find us an inn,” he said, hopping down from the side and already making his way toward a passing vendor.

“Be thorough,” Baek Cheon called after him. “We need space, and somewhere quiet.”

“Already on it!” Yoon Jong waved.

Fink was next. He rolled up his sleeves—still oversized—and tugged on Jo Gul’s arm. “Let’s go look for the pig man.”

“You mean Dumok?”

“Yeah. Pig guy.”

Jo Gul sighed but nodded. “Come on stay close to the others but keep your eyes peeled for him”

Yu Iseol, ever silent, had already vanished down a row of stalls, selecting fresh vegetables, dried meats, and medicinal herbs. Every movement she made was efficient, practiced. She handed exact coin to each vendor, her expression unreadable, though her eyes kept flicking toward the wagon parked down the road.

Baek Cheon stayed behind.

He didn’t move.

He just kept his arm behind Chung Myung’s head, holding him steady, the other adjusting his blanket when it started to slide.

And in that stillness—

Chung Myung breathed.

No gasping. No coughing. Just soft, steady breaths, like the kind someone takes during a lazy afternoon nap.

Baek Cheon smiled, just faintly.

“He’s resting,” he whispered aloud, not to anyone else—but maybe to himself.

And that—after everything—

Felt like winning.

The marketplace bustled with the usual late afternoon rhythm—merchants haggling, children weaving between stalls, the distant clatter of hooves and cart wheels. But none of that mattered to Fink.

He had frozen in place, his eyes wide as saucers.

There, across the plaza, near a crooked dumpling stand and halfway behind a stack of crates—was Dumak.

Same greasy hair. Same round frame stuffed into a faded robe that had once pretended to be expensive. His gait was unmistakable: shoulders slumped, legs waddling in that frantic, sneaky way that screamed, “I’m up to no good.”

Fink didn’t breathe.

He spun on his heel and grabbed Jo Gul’s sleeve like a hawk.

“There! It’s the pig!”

Jo Gul snapped his head in the direction Fink pointed. “…That’s him.”

Without another word, Jo Gul took off like an arrow down the narrow alley, weaving through stalls and confused shoppers. Fink was already in pursuit, but Jo Gul waved him back.

“Go get Baek Cheon! Now!”

Fink didn’t hesitate. He darted down the side street, cutting corners like a feral cat, until he skidded to a halt at the wagon.

“BAEK CHEON!” he yelled. “IT’S HIM! WE FOUND HIM!”

Baek Cheon shot up from where he’d been sitting beside the wagon, his hand still hovering protectively near Chung Myung’s shoulder.

“Where?!”

Fink pointed. “Toward the south stalls! Near the dumplings!”

Baek Cheon turned, voice sharp and immediate. “Yoon Jong! Yu Iseol!* Come on!*”

Without a moment’s delay, all three vanished into the crowd, feet pounding against stone, their robes flaring behind them.

They chased after Dumak’s waddling figure as it turned corners like a frightened boar—squealing and bumping into market stands, tossing a basket of onions and a whole barrel of cabbage as he pushed through.

“Stop running, you coward!” Baek Cheon shouted.

“YOU’RE KIDNAPPERS! I’M THE VICTIM!” Dumak wheezed back, somehow both loud and pitiful.

Meanwhile, back at the wagon—

Jo Gul remained behind, standing beside the cart, catching his breath and keeping a watchful eye on Chung Myung. The boy was still asleep, undisturbed, his breathing deep and steady beneath the thin blanket.

Jo Gul exhaled. “At least he’s still resting…”

Minutes passed.

Then—

Jo Gul’s eyes widened.

Across the square, in the opposite direction of the chase, waddling toward a side alley near the general store… was Dumak.

Again.

“…What the—” Jo Gul blinked. “Then who are they chasing?”

He turned, looking between the sleeping Chung Myung and the fleeing Dumak. His teeth clenched.

“You’ll die if we don’t catch this guy I will be right back… I swear, Chung Myung.”

And with that, Jo Gul bolted, leaving the wagon for the second time, tearing through the crowd in hot pursuit, yelling, “YOU OWE US A DIVINE DRAGON, YOU LARD-FOOTED SCAMMER!”

The wagon rocked slightly in the stillness of the road.

Chung Myung shifted gently in his sleep, unaware. Peaceful.

Until—

Two shadows stretched long across the wagon’s side.

Two figures approached slowly.

One was small and hunched, cloaked in dusty fabric, her gait uneven, her hands gnarled like roots. The other was massive—broad-shouldered, neck like a tree trunk, face half-hidden by a wide-brimmed straw hat and a thick scarf that obscured his jaw.

The smaller figure leaned forward, peering into the wagon.

“Oh… oh my,” she whispered. “Who could be so heartless…”

The tall man said nothing.

He just reached out… and gripped the side of the wagon.

The wind rustled gently through the plaza, tugging at faded prayer flags and stirring the corners of cloth-draped stalls. The wagon sat still, quiet, nestled beside an alley wall where just moments ago laughter and chaos had passed. Now, it was guarded only by the whisper of the breeze… and two strangers.

The old woman leaned in close, her weathered hands curling gently around the wooden side of the wagon, her eyes soft and glossy with sorrow. Her back was slightly hunched, her shawl patchworked with old stitching and herbs bundled in its folds. But her presence was solid—like stone warmed by sunlight.

She looked at the small, still form lying beneath the blankets.

“Oh… my sweet heavens,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “A child. No older than seventeen…”

She reached a trembling hand forward, brushing her fingers carefully across Chung Myung’s brow.

He flinched—just slightly—but it was enough to see it.

The fever. The sweat. The silent agony baked into every unconscious breath.

And then, blood.

A tiny drop bubbled from the corner of his mouth, slipping down his chin and soaking into the cloth.

“Oh, no, no…” she murmured, voice hitching. “Someone left him here? Alone? In this state?”

Behind her, the massive man stepped forward, silent as a mountain in motion.

He towered easily over the wagon—arms like thick beams, wrapped in sturdy cloth, his body built like a blacksmith’s anvil. His eyes, beneath the edge of his straw hat, flickered from the boy to his mother, uncertain.

“…Ma,” he rumbled, his voice low but deep enough to vibrate the wood of the wagon. “What should we do?”

The old woman didn’t answer immediately. She pressed her fingers softly to the side of Chung Myung’s neck, feeling the weak, flickering pulse beneath the surface.

Then she straightened—not fully, but with purpose.

“We take him home,” she said firmly. “Right now.”

“But someone’s bound to come back for him,” the big man said cautiously.

“And if they do, they’ll thank us,” she said without hesitation. “And if they don’t? We save him. That’s all there is to it.”

The man nodded, swallowing hard. “…Yes, Ma.”

He stepped forward and slowly—very slowly—reached down.

But the moment his arms slid beneath Chung Myung’s back and knees, he froze.

His eyes widened in horror.

“…He’s so light.”

The boy didn’t wake—but his body trembled in his arms, and blood immediately welled again at the corner of his mouth. It dripped down the side of his jaw like ink.

The big man flinched.

“Ma, I—if I move him wrong, it’ll tear something inside. I can feel it. He’s… he’s broken.”

The old woman moved closer. “Then hold him better.”

Her tone wasn’t cruel—but it left no room for doubt.

The big man adjusted. He bent lower, supporting the boy’s neck fully, using the crook of his arm instead of his palm. He slid one arm beneath the knees and the other under the shoulders, bracing the weight closer to his chest. It was a hold not born of brute strength—but of care.

Chung Myung whimpered faintly as he was lifted, one hand twitching weakly against the man’s shirt.

“I gotcha,” the big man whispered, almost to himself. “You’re okay. You’re okay, little guy.”

The old woman touched her son’s arm and nodded toward the road.

“My clinic’s just down the hill. We’ll set him up in the backroom. Give him heat, herbs, and rest. Whatever this is—curse, illness, whatever—he’s going to live.”

As they turned toward the road, the big man looked down again at the boy in his arms.

And for a brief moment, Chung Myung’s head tilted toward him, his eyes still closed, but the faintest, faintest smile ghosted across his lips.

They didn’t see the flash of blue robes sprinting toward the square from the west.

They didn’t hear the frantic shouting of a disciple desperate to get back to his wagon.

And they didn’t know—

That the calm before the storm had just ended.

Dumak’s squeals echoed off the alley walls as Yoon Jong and Baek Cheon flanked him, each gripping an arm like they were hauling a sack of potatoes rather than a man who had caused them weeks of chaos.

“Let go of me! This is kidnapping! I know my rights!” Dumak shrieked, feet skidding uselessly along the cobblestones.

“You’re lucky we haven’t tied you to the back of the wagon and let the horses drag you,” Yoon Jong muttered, his patience thinner than thread.

“Do you even know what you’ve done to that boy?” Baek Cheon growled.

“Boy?” Dumak huffed. “Sword Guy?! I gave him a job! A purpose!”

Jo Gul was waiting up ahead, waving them over. “Finally! Took you long enough! I chased him halfway across three districts.”

Baek Cheon narrowed his eyes. “Jo Gul?”

“Yeah?”

“Wait—if you’re here…”

Everyone froze.

Baek Cheon’s expression shifted from anger to dread in the space of a heartbeat.

“…then who’s watching Chung Myung?”

Silence.

Jo Gul blinked. “He was sleeping! I was only gone for a second—”

Baek Cheon turned on his heel.

“RUN!”

Without another word, the disciples sprinted—the kind of sprint born not from battle, but pure panic. Their feet slammed against the cobblestone, cutting through alleyways, knocking over a stack of baskets, a startled chicken squawking in protest as Jo Gul tripped on it mid-run.

They tore through the marketplace, dodging stalls and startled shoppers.

Yoon Jong shoved someone aside, shouting, “Sect emergency!”

Fink, still chewing a skewer of meat he had stolen from a vendor, appeared just in time to be dragged by Jo Gul mid-sprint. “Hey—HEY! What’s happening?!”

They reached the wagon.

Baek Cheon’s chest heaved as his eyes locked on it.

The blankets—rumpled.

The pillow—shifted.

The blood—fresh.

A dark blotch stained the edge of the wooden bed where Chung Myung’s head had been resting. The space was empty. Completely. Terrifyingly.

He was gone.

“No…” Baek Cheon whispered.

Yu Iseol was already checking the wagon, lifting each fold of the blanket with trembling hands.

Yoon Jong stared at the blood, unmoving.

Jo Gul’s mouth opened, then closed. He looked around in every direction, as if Chung Myung might be hiding behind a barrel or taking a casual stroll.

“I—he was—he was sleeping!” Jo Gul shouted. “Peacefully! I only left for a second!”

Baek Cheon turned slowly, eyes wild, breathing fast.

“We lost him. Again.”

“No,” Yoon Jong said, voice sharp. “No—no, we can’t have.”

Yu Iseol finally spoke, her voice steady but quiet. “Someone carried him.”

Baek Cheon clenched his fists. “Then find them. We don’t eat. We don’t sleep. We don’t breathe until we find him.”

His voice cracked.

“We cannot lose him again.”

The streets buzzed around them. Merchants kept selling. Townsfolk kept moving.

But for the disciples of Mount Hua—

Everything had stopped.

And the absence of their brother felt like the sun itself had vanished.

The room smelled of crushed herbs and simmering tonics.

A low fire flickered in a stone hearth nestled in the corner, casting a warm orange glow across the wooden floor. Scrolls and jars lined the walls, each labeled in neat, faded handwriting. Above it all, the soft hum of an old lullaby drifted from the old woman’s lips as she stirred a thick green paste in a clay bowl, her eyes sharp with focus.

Beside the bed, her massive son—broad as a house, hands like shovels—sat dutifully on a low stool, holding a shallow bowl of congee. He brought the spoon to Chung Myung’s lips with an unnatural gentleness, as if afraid even the weight of rice water might be too much.

Chung Myung barely stirred.

His eyes remained closed, face pale and damp, his breaths shallow and quick. Occasionally, his throat twitched, and his lips moved slightly—but no words came.

The large man—Byung—tilted the spoon carefully.

“Come on, kid,” he muttered. “You got a bite left in you, right?”

A breath.

A slow swallow.

The tiniest motion of the jaw.

Byung exhaled like he’d been holding it for hours. “That’s it. There we go.”

From across the room, the old woman wiped her hands on her apron, nodding with a proud little “hmph.”

“Good. He needs food in him before we give him the dose.”

She crossed the room with steady, careful steps, holding a small vial of thick, dark medicine. It shimmered slightly in the firelight—a mixture of herbal poison-drawers, fever root, ghost lotus, and a rare crystal powder used to purify inner qi.

“This should do it,” she said, pressing it into her son’s massive palm. “It took everything I had to make this.”

Byung looked at the vial like it was a relic. “What does it do?”

“It’ll stop the poison from spreading,” she said confidently. “Should stabilize him by morning.”

Byung nodded solemnly. “Let’s get it done.”

He leaned forward and gently lifted Chung Myung’s head with one hand, tilting it just enough. With the other, he tipped the vial to his lips, slowly letting the thick medicine drip down.

Chung Myung’s throat worked sluggishly, swallowing it little by little. His brow furrowed faintly.

The moment the last drop left the vial—

His body jerked.

Hard.

Byung nearly dropped him. “Whoa—!”

Chung Myung’s eyes flew open wide, but they weren’t seeing. They were glassy, unfocused—his mouth opened in a gasp, and he let out a sharp, wheezing cough that splattered blood across the blanket.

“Ma!”

Another violent cough. Blood.

Then another.

He twisted, convulsing like something inside him was boiling. His fingers clawed at the air.

The old woman rushed over, dropping to her knees beside the bed. “No, no, no—this shouldn’t be happening!”

Byung held his shoulders. “He’s burning up!”

The fever came fast—unnaturally fast—his skin turned red, his breathing shallow and fast. Blood now dribbled constantly from his lips, staining the pillow beneath his head.

The old woman grabbed his wrist. “His pulse—it’s flooding. It’s wrong. It’s like something’s pushing the poison further in.”

She scanned his body with trained eyes—neck, chest, jaw, hands—searching for the cause. Then—

Her gaze locked on the amulet.

That dull, black stone around his neck, hanging innocently as it always had.

Except now it glowed faintly.

And the black tendrils along his neck—once dull—began pulsing in time with the glow.

Her eyes widened.

“…It’s the amulet,” she whispered.

Byung blinked. “What?”

“It’s not just poison. That thing—it’s keeping it alive. Feeding it.”

She reached forward instinctively to pull it off—but the moment her fingers touched the cord, Chung Myung gasped again, his body locking up with a pained jolt.

“No—no, we can’t remove it,” she hissed, pulling her hand back.

Her hands trembled as she stared at the boy convulsing on the bed. The best medicine she had crafted in twenty years had done nothing. No—worse. It had triggered something.

She sat back slowly.

In her long life, she had seen hundreds of poison cases. Magical wounds. Internal qi burns. But never something like this.

Never someone so cursed… and yet still alive.

“This boy…” she murmured, voice breaking.

“…what are you?”

The next morning brought only more questions.

While the old woman—Madam Geum—and her son Byung worked tirelessly in their humble home to stabilize Chung Myung, the rest of Mount Hua’s disciples were already combing through the town with renewed desperation.

Baek Cheon led the way, his jaw set tight, eyes scanning every face, every cart, every doorway. The moment the sun rose, he had the others moving—Jo Gul and Fink spreading out toward the northern market, Yoon Jong taking the stables and guard towers, and Yu Iseol moving quietly between alleys and backstreets, eyes sharp as blades.

The trail was cold. Too cold.

But Baek Cheon didn’t give up.

He approached every merchant, every street vendor, every old man sweeping his storefront.

“Did you see a boy—pale, sickly, with black veins on his neck—carried by someone?”

He asked it again and again, until even his voice began to crack with the repetition.

Most shook their heads. A few offered sympathetic smiles.

But then—at the edge of the south quarter—an old man wiping his fruit stand paused at the question.

“…Carried, you said?”

Baek Cheon stepped in close. “Yes. Last night. Small boy. Carried like—like someone was trying not to hurt him.”

The old man nodded slowly. “There was… a pair. I remember now. Covered in cloaks. One was tall—huge—and the other hunched over like a bundle of laundry. I thought they were carrying a sack.”

Baek Cheon’s heart jumped. “Where did they go?”

“They turned down the alley just past the lantern shop,” the man said, pointing with a knobby finger. “Didn’t see where after that.”

Baek Cheon bowed. “Thank you.”

He didn’t wait.

He was already running.

Down the alley, around the corner, past the lantern shop—where the paper ornaments swayed gently in the breeze. He scanned every door, every building, heart hammering in his ears.

But the alley was long, and the trail? Cold.

Too cold.

It led to a dead end.

No footprints. No disturbances. Just an old wall and a pile of crates.

Baek Cheon stood there for a long time, breathing hard.

He pressed his palm to the stone. “No…”

It had felt right. His gut told him they were close. That Chung Myung had passed through here. That he had almost, almost reached him.

But again, the boy had slipped through his fingers.

And the hands that had carried him through mountains and valleys…

…were empty.

Back at the inn, the atmosphere was hollow.

Baek Cheon sat near the window, staring out blankly, barely noticing Jo Gul’s quiet return or Yoon Jong’s frown. Yu Iseol moved silently in the background, preparing hot tea they never drank.

In the corner, Dumak was still tied up—though now with fewer layers of rope, if only because Fink had gotten bored and started building a small model of Chung Myung out of apples.

But Baek Cheon didn’t even glance at them.

He stared down at his hands, flexing his fingers once.

These were the hands that carried him. That kept him warm. That steadied his head when it rolled too far to the side. That poked him awake when nothing else worked.

Now?

They shook.

Just slightly.

Not from exhaustion. Not from fear.

From loss.

“He’s not dead,” Yoon Jong said from across the room, as if reading his mind.

“I know,” Baek Cheon muttered.

“Then we’ll find him.”

Baek Cheon didn’t reply.

Because this was different. Before, Chung Myung had always come back. Even when he disappeared, even when he was half-dead, he always—always—returned to them. With a smirk. A complaint. A demand for food.

But now?

There was silence.

His hands had never felt this empty before.

The clinic smelled of mint, crushed ginger root, and clean cotton.

Simple curtains swayed gently at the entrance, and the carved wooden sign above read only: “Madam Geum’s Remedies.” It was a modest building tucked between a bookshop and an abandoned teahouse, almost invisible from the main road.

Inside, the small front room was filled with the soft clinking of glass jars, the muffled sound of boiling water, and the faint hum of a lullaby coming from a back room. A woman sat behind a neat desk, flipping through a worn ledger with the kind of focus only years of repetition could bring.

She didn’t look up immediately when the bell above the door rang.

But when she did—

Baek Cheon and Yoon Jong were already standing in the entrance, both looking winded but determined, dirt still on their boots from scouring half the town.

“Excuse us,” Baek Cheon said, stepping forward.

The woman raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“We’re looking for someone—he might’ve been brought in recently,” Yoon Jong added. “Young. Pale. Black veins on his neck and arms. Long hair. Deep in fever.”

The woman blinked.

Then nodded slowly, setting the ledger aside. “You’re the second group asking about a boy like that.”

Baek Cheon’s heart jumped. “Then… he’s here?”

“I didn’t say that,” she replied, adjusting her spectacles. “I said someone like that was brought in.”

Yoon Jong leaned forward. “Please. We’re his friends. His family. We’ve been searching for him for days. He’s—”

“I believe you,” she said calmly. “But this clinic is also Madam Geum’s home. She doesn’t let strangers barge in without reason. Especially with patients as critical as this one.”

Baek Cheon’s expression tightened. “We don’t want to barge in. We just… need to see him. Make sure he’s okay.”

“Then prove you know him.”

Both disciples stiffened.

“What?” Yoon Jong asked.

“I’ve been told not to let anyone see the patient unless they can give… context,” the woman said. “A name. A shared memory. Something only someone close would know.”

Baek Cheon opened his mouth, then closed it. For the first time, words seemed to catch in his throat.

The woman tilted her head. “You’re Mount Hua disciples, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Baek Cheon said. “Senior and second-rate disciples.”

“Then tell me something about him,” she said. “About the boy. About his past. Something that proves you know who he is—not just what he looks like.”

There was silence.

Baek Cheon stared at the floor.

What do I say? That he snores when he sleeps upright? That he always complains when Jo Gul eats the last dumpling? That he—

Yoon Jong stepped forward. “He… he always hits us when we do things wrong.”

The woman raised a brow.

“He insults us constantly,” Yoon Jong added, more urgently now. “And he—he always appears out of nowhere when we least want him to. He says things that sound insane, but they’re always right. Always.”

Baek Cheon added, quietly, “He’s… heavy. Not in weight. But when you carry him, it feels like you’re carrying the whole mountain. But you’d still do it a hundred times over.”

The woman studied them for a moment.

Then sighed.

“I believe you believe that,” she said gently. “But Madam Geum has rules. He’s resting now. Healing. And she says no visitors.”

Baek Cheon clenched his fists. “We don’t even get to see him?”

“I’ll tell her you came,” she offered. “If she deems it safe… she might allow it. But I make no promises.”

She turned back to her ledger.

The door clicked softly shut behind them.

Baek Cheon’s jaw was tight. Yoon Jong’s fists were clenched at his sides. The two stood just inside the entryway of Madam Geum’s clinic, staring down the receptionist’s polite but impenetrable expression.

Rejected. Again.

“We should’ve forced our way in,” Yoon Jong muttered under his breath.

“And risk him being moved? Hidden? Hurt?” Baek Cheon shot back, voice low and bitter. “We don’t even know who’s behind that door.”

He turned to leave, the door creaking open as his foot lifted—

“Then don’t bother leaving,” came a voice from behind them.

They both froze.

The air shifted.

Soft footsteps sounded behind the reception counter. And from the back hallway, out stepped a woman with a weathered shawl over her shoulders and a bundle of crushed herbs still in her hand. Her gray hair was tied neatly behind her head, and her expression was both calm and utterly commanding.

Madam Geum.

She stopped a few steps from them, eyes cool and unblinking.

“I heard your speech,” she said.

Baek Cheon turned slowly, posture straightening. “You were listening?”

“I hear everything that matters,” she said, stepping forward.

She studied the two of them—measured them—not by robes or title or the weapon at Baek Cheon’s hip, but something deeper. Whatever she saw made her raise one eyebrow slightly.

“You’ve both been carrying him,” she said, mostly to herself. “I can tell. The guilt’s still fresh on your shoulders.”

Yoon Jong took a tentative step forward. “Please. Is he… is he really here?”

Madam Geum didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she held up her hand.

“I have one question. And your answer will determine whether you ever see him again.”

Baek Cheon stiffened.

“Did you put the amulet on him?”

The question hit like a slap.

Baek Cheon blinked. “What? No!”

Yoon Jong’s eyes widened. “Absolutely not!”

“Because if you did,” she said slowly, “if you were the ones who placed that cursed thing around the neck of a dying child—then I swear on my late husband’s grave, I will have you dragged from this town by your robes and never let you near him again.”

“We’ve been trying to remove it!” Baek Cheon said, hands rising, voice strained. “We’ve watched him suffer from it every day! We’ve begged him to let us help, but it doesn’t work that way!”

Madam Geum’s eyes narrowed. “Explain.”

Baek Cheon did.

He told her everything. From the con artists to the accidental enslavement. The blank eyes, the amulet’s glow, the poison that came and went with every order from the ones he was bound to. The rules they had learned—how only the ones who placed the amulet on him could remove it.

“He’s not ours to fix,” Baek Cheon finished. “But he’s our responsibility. Every breath he takes is because we refused to let him go.”

There was a long pause.

Madam Geum looked down at the dried herbs still in her hands.

Then back up.

“He’s in the back room.”

Baek Cheon’s breath caught.

“You can visit,” she said finally. “But only briefly. He’s stable—barely. The amulet’s weakening, but it still fights back whenever I try to purge the poison. Whatever’s tethered to it, it runs deep.”

She stepped aside.

“But if either of you so much as breathe wrong around him…” she didn’t finish the sentence.

She didn’t have to.

Baek Cheon bowed deeply. “Thank you.”

Yoon Jong followed suit, his voice soft. “Truly. Thank you.”

They stepped past the front room into the hallway, the clinic suddenly impossibly quiet behind them. The scent of herbs thickened, warmer, more pungent.

And as they approached the final room, their steps slowed.

The weight of it all—the days of carrying, running, searching—sank into their bones.

And just ahead, behind a thin sliding door…

He waited.

 

Back inside the private room, Chung Myung lay swaddled in fresh linen. His fever still burned, but it no longer scorched. His breathing, though strained, was more stable.

Byung sat at his side, carefully spooning water mixed with powdered herbs into his mouth, pausing between every swallow to let him breathe.

“You’re hangin’ in there, huh,” he murmured. “Even with that cursed thing around your neck.”

The amulet pulsed once, dark and faint.

But it didn’t flare.

The poison had slowed.

It hadn’t stopped.

But it was struggling.

The door slid open with a faint wooden creak, and the scent of boiled herbs, damp cloth, and quiet recovery washed over them.

Baek Cheon stepped in first, his eyes adjusting to the dim, warm light of the room. The paper windows let in the late-morning sun in soft, golden beams that danced across the blanket-covered bed.

He stopped cold.

Yoon Jong, just behind him, collided into his shoulder with a grunt, but then he, too, froze.

There—lying in the center of the room on a proper bed, propped slightly by folded cushions—was Chung Myung.

He looked… real.

Too real.

After everything—after the weeks of chasing shadows, the backbreaking journey, the nights by the fire watching his chest rise and fall in agony—seeing him now, alive, resting, still here… it made Baek Cheon’s knees weak.

“…It’s him,” Yoon Jong whispered. His voice cracked.

For a breath, there was only joy.

Then—*

A massive shadow leaned over the bed.

The large man—Byung—his hulking form hovering over Chung Myung, hand near his chest.

Baek Cheon’s body moved before his thoughts did. His hand snapped to his sword, and in the same second, Yoon Jong mirrored him.

“Get away from him!” Baek Cheon barked.

Byung flinched, startled, turning with wide eyes and half a spoon of medicinal congee still in his hand.

“I—what? I wasn’t—!”

“Drop whatever’s in your hand and back away from him,” Yoon Jong warned, stepping in, his gaze locked, muscles coiled.

The tension sparked like fire in dry wood.

Then, behind them—“Stop it.”

Madam Geum stepped into the room, voice sharp as cold steel. “Put those swords down. Now.”

Baek Cheon turned, breathing hard, fists clenched.

“He was leaning over him. We thought—”

“He was feeding him,” she snapped. “Because his fever keeps him too weak to even lift a spoon.”

Byung, still looking bewildered but calm, gently lowered the spoon into the bowl on the table and raised his hands. “I was just helping, I swear.”

Baek Cheon blinked.

He looked again.

Byung was sitting beside the bed with a folded cloth on his knee, a fresh towel hanging nearby, and a basin of cooled tea-infused water.

And there was Chung Myung, mouth parted in shallow breaths, a faint flush of heat on his cheeks—but no violent shaking, no blood on his lips, no horrifying gasps.

Just… a fever. A manageable one.

Yoon Jong exhaled shakily and lowered his hand from the sword hilt. “We’re sorry.”

Baek Cheon nodded stiffly. “It’s… reflex. We didn’t expect…”

“We didn’t expect to find him like this,” he finished, softer.

They approached slowly now, eyes locked on their youngest disciple.

Baek Cheon leaned forward, studying every line on his face, every shadow, every new scar that hadn’t been there weeks ago.

“He looks… better,” he said, voice low. “Still fevered, but…”

Yoon Jong nodded. “Not like before. He’s resting.”

Madam Geum folded her arms, gaze steady. “Because he’s been warm, fed, and untouched by clumsy hands for two straight days. The poison has slowed. The amulet’s still there, still draining him—but we’ve managed to weaken its grip.”

Baek Cheon let out a long, quiet breath.

Finally—finally—something was going right.

He reached down and gently took Chung Myung’s hand in his, careful not to jostle the blanket. The hand was warmer than before. Weak, yes—but not deathly cold.

“Junior…” he murmured. “We’re here.”

Chung Myung’s fingers twitched faintly, but he didn’t wake.

Yoon Jong smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “He’s going to make it.”

Baek Cheon nodded. “We just need one more thing.”

He turned to Madam Geum, expression sharpening with purpose.

“We need to bring someone here. His name is Dumak. He’s… one of the ones who put that cursed thing around Chung Myung’s neck.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You trust him?”

“Absolutely not,” Yoon Jong said bluntly.

“But we don’t need to trust him,” Baek Cheon added. “We just need him to take the damn thing off.”

Madam Geum studied them for a long moment.

Then nodded. “Bring him here. Quickly…”

“You won’t need to lift a finger,” Baek Cheon said. “We’ll handle it.”

He gave Chung Myung’s hand one last squeeze.

“Just a little longer,” he whispered. “We’ll get it off you, and bring you back to mount hua.”

The door to the inn slammed open so hard it nearly popped off its hinges.

Baek Cheon and Yoon Jong burst inside, faces flushed, eyes alight—not with panic this time, but something dangerously close to joy.

“He’s alive!” Yoon Jong gasped.

“We found him!” Baek Cheon beamed, practically bouncing on his heels like an excited child.

Jo Gul, mid-bite into what had once been Fink’s fourth stolen dumpling, nearly choked. “What?!”

Yu Iseol’s head snapped up, eyes wide.

Fink dropped the last of his snack, mouth agape. “Sword Guy?! You found him?!”

They didn’t even wait for confirmation. Baek Cheon stormed into the corner of the room and yanked Dumak to his feet—still bound head to toe, looking like a particularly regretful sack of onions.

“Wha—hey! What’s the rush now? I didn’t do anything—well not right now at least!” Dumak squawked.

“You’re going to undo what you did,” Baek Cheon growled, dragging him out the door by the ropes.

“Don’t you want to untie me first? Maybe loosen the—ACK! No? Okay!”

They stormed through the streets, gathering curious glances as they hurried toward Madam Geum’s clinic. Dumak waddled behind them, arms still bound, trailing like a criminal being marched to execution.

By the time they reached the clinic door, the receptionist’s face was already a thundercloud.

She looked at Dumak—tied, squirming, muttering—and then at the rest of them.

“If that man so much as sneezes wrong,” she said flatly, “I will personally remove his spleen with a rice spoon.”

Noted.

Baek Cheon gave a hasty bow. “Understood. Thank you.”

They pushed past, entering the hallway again—but this time, the tension was electric.

Every step was deliberate.

Every second heavy.

Inside the back room, the air was thick with warmth and medicine. Chung Myung lay just where they’d left him, sweat dotting his brow, breath shallow but calm.

Byung stood up from his stool, expression instantly guarded.

Madam Geum narrowed her eyes. “Is this him?”

Baek Cheon nodded. “One of the two.”

Dumak squirmed slightly. “Wow. This feels more hostile than usual.”

Baek Cheon shoved him forward.

They positioned Dumak at the foot of the bed—Yu Iseol and Jo Gul on either side, Yoon Jong at Chung Myung’s head. Baek Cheon stood between Dumak and the rest, his hand already resting on the hilt of his sword.

“Remove the amulet,” Baek Cheon ordered.

Dumak blinked. “Like, now now?”

Baek Cheon’s eyes glinted. “Now.”

The room went dead quiet.

Even the fire stopped crackling.

Then—

Dumak smirked.

“I order him,” he said suddenly, “to protect me.”

The amulet around Chung Myung’s neck pulsed.

Once.

Twice.

A sickening hum filled the air, the light in the room flickering like a candle about to be snuffed.

Chung Myung’s body twitched.

Then lurched.

He groaned—deep, guttural—and began sitting up, his hand bracing against the bed.

“No—no no no!” Yoon Jong yelped, rushing forward. “Lie back down, junior! You’re sick!”

“Stay down, damn it!” Jo Gul added, trying to gently push him back.

Chung Myung’s head lifted.

His eyes opened—blank, colorless, empty.

The pulse of the amulet beat again like a dark heartbeat.

“Stop this!” Baek Cheon snarled, drawing his blade in one fluid motion. “You shouldn’t have done that!”

He swung.

The sword came down—aimed clean across Dumak’s shoulder, not lethal, but decisive.

But before it could land—

CLANG.

Chung Myung’s hand caught the blade.

Bare-handed.

Steel bit into his palm, slicing deep.

Blood poured freely, down his wrist, over his elbow, dripping onto the floor like thick ink.

Baek Cheon stared, eyes wide. “Chung… Myung…?”

Chung Myung stood.

Fully.

His legs trembling, but locked. His figure hunched, breath ragged, blood dripping—

—but his posture unflinching.

He moved between Dumak and the rest of them.

His arms lifted.

A fighting stance.

Protective.

Eyes faded.

Expression blank.

Ready to fight.

Jo Gul’s voice cracked. “He’s… he’s protecting him.”

The room held its breath.

Every disciple frozen.

Every heart pounding.

And the Divine Dragon, bleeding and bound by something worse than chains, stood silently, guarding the one who cursed him.

Chapter Text

The air was electric—thick with tension, heat, fear.

Chung Myung stood in front of Dumak like a silent wall, his chest rising and falling in ragged, strained breaths. Blood from his wounded hand pooled at his fingertips before dripping to the floor in slow, sickening splatters.

Every disciple in the room stared, frozen. Not because of the blood. Not even because of the stance.

But because he shouldn’t have been able to stand.

Not after everything. Not after the weeks of fever, poison, and starvation.

But there he was—standing as if the will of another had welded his bones upright.

Then Dumak spoke, his voice shrill, panicked, and full of ugly accusation.

“How do I know you’re not gonna kill me the second I take that amulet off, huh?!”

He backed away a step behind Chung Myung, pointing at each of them in turn, eyes wide and sweaty.

“You’ve tied me up, dragged me here like livestock, treated me like some worm—I saw you draw your sword on me just now! And now I’m supposed to just trust you?!”

No one answered.

Because no one could.

“Exactly!” Dumak barked. “If I take that thing off, he won’t be yours to command anymore—and then what’s stopping you from gutting me like a fish?”

“Dumak—” Yoon Jong began, voice tight, but Dumak cut him off.

“No! I’m not stupid! I’ve survived this long because I know when I’m being cornered!”

“Stop this,” Jo Gul snapped. “Just take the amulet off. We don’t want you—we want him back.”

“Yeah, sure,” Dumak scoffed. “Until I outlive my usefulness.”

As they all argued, Chung Myung hadn’t moved a muscle.

He remained between them, blank eyes trained on nothing, not flinching, not reacting—not even to the pain dripping from his hand.

“Why is he still standing?” Fink muttered, horrified. “How is he still standing?!”

Yoon Jong approached slowly, cautiously reaching for Chung Myung’s elbow. “Junior, please. You’re hurting. Let us help—”

Chung Myung didn’t respond. He didn’t even twitch.

Like the message had never reached him.

They all surrounded him now—slowly, nervously—trying to sit him down, pull him away from Dumak, ease his shaking legs.

But he wouldn’t move.

Like a statue chiseled from suffering and obedience.

“He won’t let you touch him,” Dumak said smugly, his voice gaining that familiar slimy confidence. “Because I didn’t tell him to. And unless I do, he’s not going anywhere.”

“Please,” Yu Iseol said softly. “You’re hurting him.”

“No, you’re hurting him,” Dumak sneered. “Every time you try to move him without permission—he resists. That’s pain. That’s damage. You think I don’t see the blood?”

Baek Cheon stood in front of him, still stunned, his sword half-raised from earlier.

Slowly… he lowered it.

Then, like a wave of guilt washing over him, he returned the blade to its sheath with a heavy click, his eyes never leaving Chung Myung’s face.

“I’m sorry,” Baek Cheon whispered, voice shaking. “I’m so sorry, Junior.”

Chung Myung’s eyes finally moved.

Just slightly.

They shifted toward Baek Cheon—not recognition, not understanding. Just… acknowledgment.

And then—

His knees buckled.

“Chung Myung!” Jo Gul shouted.

Yoon Jong leapt forward.

Chung Myung collapsed to the floor with a thud that made everyone’s heart stop. A deep, horrible cough racked through him, and blood spewed from his lips in thick, red streaks. It splashed on his robes, the floor, and even Dumak’s shoes.

“Someone get water!” Madam Geum’s voice rang out from the back of the room as she rushed in, already preparing cloth.

“Don’t touch him!” Dumak shouted, stepping over the boy’s trembling form.

“If anyone lays a hand on him again, I swear—you’ll answer to him.”

He pointed down at the boy—who lay gasping on the floor, blood dripping from his mouth, hand mangled, body twitching under the weight of the poison and commands.

And yet—

Still reaching for his sword.

Still forcing himself upright.

Still trying to obey.

Baek Cheon fell to his knees, eyes wide, hands shaking.

What do we do now…?

Baek Cheon’s knuckles were white around the hilt of his sword. His breath came in short, furious bursts as he stared at Dumak—this disgusting, spineless creature—who stood behind Chung Myung like a warlord commanding a loyal dog.

A dog bleeding out.

Chung Myung lay on the floor, one hand braced under him, trembling violently. His breathing was wrong—hollow, staggered, too fast. Blood bubbled at the corners of his mouth, every cough wet and brutal. His chest rose and fell like each breath was an uphill climb.

Baek Cheon could feel the way his blood screamed to act. One swing. One.

He could end Dumak’s life in less than a breath.

But then—

Chung Myung’s eyes flicked to him.

Not fully open. Not sharp. But aware.

They locked onto Baek Cheon with a gaze stripped of everything but instinct and agony—and somewhere, buried under all that—

Was a warning.

Don’t.

Even now, barely conscious, bleeding from the mouth, muscles spasming from exhaustion—

Chung Myung was warning him not to strike.

Baek Cheon’s hand dropped from his sword slowly, chest rising with restraint and rage.

No one in the room moved.

No one dared.

Jo Gul hovered near the wall, frozen. Yoon Jong had one foot forward, but wouldn’t take the next. Even Madam Geum stood stiff, cloth in hand, unsure if helping would hurt him more.

“Let us move him to the bed,” Baek Cheon said finally, voice thick with pleading and control. “That’s all. No tricks. Just let him lie down. Please.”

“Why?” Dumak smirked, arms crossed smugly. “He’s on the floor, but he’s still protecting me, isn’t he? Seems like he’s fine to me.”

Baek Cheon took a slow step forward.

Jo Gul stiffened, whispering, “Senior…”

“I’m not threatening you,” Baek Cheon said carefully. “I’m making a deal.”

Dumak tilted his head.

“You’re hungry, aren’t you?” Baek Cheon said, eyes cold. “We’ll get you food. Anything you want. But let us move him to the bed so he doesn’t choke on his own blood.”

Dumak raised his eyebrows. “Anything?”

“Anything within reason.”

“I want meat,” Dumak said instantly. “Braised pork belly. Hot soup. And don’t forget rice. Good rice. None of that dried-out traveler junk.”

“You’ll get it,” Baek Cheon growled, “as soon as he’s resting.”

Dumak looked down at Chung Myung, still gasping, arm shaking, his entire body trembling violently as he stubbornly—helplessly—tried to stay between them.

“No,” Dumak said suddenly. “I want the food first.”

Everyone froze again.

“You can’t be serious—” Yoon Jong started, voice spiking.

“I am serious,” Dumak said, adjusting his sleeves with a dramatic flair. “I’m tired. I’ve been tied up. Dragged around. Threatened with swords. The least you can do is give me a hot meal before I let you lay a finger on him.”

Jo Gul looked like he might burst into flames.

Madam Geum’s jaw clenched, and even she took a step toward Dumak, ready to speak her mind.

Baek Cheon raised a hand to stop them all.

“I’ll get the food,” he said coldly.

“No!” Fink burst out. “You don’t negotiate with pigs!”

“We don’t have a choice,” Baek Cheon said tightly, his eyes not leaving Dumak’s. “Not until he says the words.”

Chung Myung gave another sickening cough, and more blood hit the floor.

Yoon Jong winced. “We’re losing him by the minute…”

“And he’s starving him for a meal,” Jo Gul muttered through gritted teeth.

Dumak yawned. “Better hurry, then. Oh, and make sure it’s got sesame oil. I like flavor.”

Baek Cheon turned on his heel without another word, storming toward the door.

His fists were trembling.

One meal.

Then he’d drag the order out of him if he had to.

But first—
Chung Myung had to survive long enough to see the bed again.

The food steamed in Baek Cheon’s arms, the weight of it far lighter than the storm raging in his chest.

Braised pork belly, sesame rice, hot soup—every order Dumak had spat out with smug precision was now stacked in lacquered boxes. The vendors had moved fast, more out of fear than courtesy. Baek Cheon had paid with a glare and left before change could be counted.

He walked fast. The kind of fast that could crack stone underfoot.

When the clinic came into view, he didn’t slow.

But the moment he stepped inside, his breath caught.

There was Dumak—exactly where Baek Cheon had left him—leaning against the wall beside the bed. Hands still bound, posture relaxed, chewing what had to be invisible air out of boredom.

And there, just beside him on the floor, was Chung Myung.

Still in the exact position he had collapsed in—face glistening with sweat, breath shallow, mouth slightly parted. The tremble in his shoulders had stopped, but not in a good way.

He wasn’t moving.

Not a twitch. Not a flicker.

Only the steady rise and fall of his chest—each breath forced and overheated, trapped beneath the fever crawling deeper into his body from the cold, unrelenting floor.

The disciples were gathered around him, circling but helpless, eyes darting between Chung Myung and Dumak as if the very thought of disobeying the order might make things worse.

They didn’t know if touching him would hurt him. Or if it would kill him.

So they waited.

Just like Dumak.

Waited for Baek Cheon.

He didn’t say anything when he stepped into the room. He didn’t breathe.

He just walked straight toward Dumak, holding the food—

And slammed it down on the floor beside him.

The trays rattled. The soup nearly splashed out of the bowl. The force of it made Fink flinch and Jo Gul step forward, half expecting something to explode.

Everyone held their breath.

Even Yoon Jong’s hands hovered near his sword.

Dumak looked at the food.

Then at Baek Cheon.

Then at the others—their desperation written across their faces in full ink. Chung Myung’s blood had long since dried on their sleeves.

And then…
He sighed.

The sound was casual, almost annoyed. Like he was giving in to a minor inconvenience.

“Fine,” he muttered.

He waved a tied hand vaguely. “You can move him now. Whatever.”

He turned to the food and started poking at it with his nose like some bloated noble waiting for servants to spoon-feed him.

But Baek Cheon didn’t hear him.

Because the moment the words left Dumak’s mouth—

Everyone moved.

Jo Gul and Yoon Jong were the first, kneeling at either side of Chung Myung. Yu Iseol was already at his head, checking his temperature, whispering a list of symptoms to Madam Geum who swooped in with cloth and tincture.

Beak Cheon hovered at the edge—watching, seething, jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached.

They rolled Chung Myung gently, slowly, lifting him together, arms under his back, his legs, his head. The boy groaned faintly, but this time, he didn’t resist.

Because now, he could rest.

They laid him on the bed like something sacred. Like they were afraid to break what little was left.

Yu Iseol wiped the sweat from his brow. Jo Gul adjusted his blanket. Fink shoved Dumak’s food tray an inch farther away with his foot, just out of spite.

And Baek Cheon…

He stood still, hands clenched, watching the boy he’d carried through fire and wind finally lie somewhere safe.

He should have felt relief.

But all he felt was rage.

Rage that they had to beg.

Rage that they had waited.

Rage that he hadn’t just cut Dumak in half and dealt with the consequences later.

But mostly—rage at himself.

Because even now… he could do nothing.

Except watch.

And pray.

That the next time Chung Myung opened his eyes…
It would be himself looking back.

Beak Cheon stood near the foot of the bed, arms crossed tight over his chest, eyes never leaving Chung Myung’s still form. The light in the room was low, shadows creeping along the corners as the sun slipped lower in the sky—but Baek Cheon’s mind was already far ahead.

A plan had formed.

And now, it was time.

He turned to face the room, voice calm—but commanding.

“We’re taking him back to Mount Hua.”

The words echoed, ringing with finality.

Jo Gul looked up from where he sat fanning Chung Myung. “We are?”

“We have to,” Baek Cheon said. “We’ve done everything we can. He’s stable, for now, but this amulet—it’s beyond us. We need the Sect Leader. If anyone can figure out how to remove it safely without relying on him—” He jerked his head toward Dumak. “—it’s the Sect.”

Madam Geum, seated nearby, gently tending to the wound on Chung Myung’s palm, didn’t speak—but she didn’t protest either. That silence was enough of a blessing.

Yoon Jong nodded slowly. “I agree. If we stay here much longer, we risk someone else finding out who he is.”

“Someone already has,” Yu Iseol said, not looking up.

Fink blinked. “Wait, who?”

Jo Gul gave him a flat look. “You. You’re ‘someone.’”

“Oh. Right.”

All eyes shifted to Dumak, still sitting in the corner with his food trays stacked next to him like some lumpy emperor. He blinked, scooping a generous bite of pork belly into his mouth.

He chewed.

Chewed some more.

Then swallowed dramatically. “Nope.”

Baek Cheon’s eye twitched. “Nope?”

“Nope,” Dumak repeated, licking a speck of sauce off his thumb despite having his hands still loosely tied. “I’m not going. Not to some mountain sect where you’ll probably toss me in a well the second I take this necklace off.”

“You won’t be harmed,” Yoon Jong said tightly. “We’re not like you.”

“Sure. Sure.” Dumak nodded sarcastically. “I can see the deep serenity in your death glares.”

Beak Cheon stepped forward. “This isn’t a request.”

“I don’t care!” Dumak barked, arms flailing. “Do you know what sect leaders do to men like me?! Disrespectful? Greedy? Slightly manipulative? I’m probably on a wanted poster by now!”

“You’re probably on a wall of shame,” Jo Gul muttered.

Dumak stood—or tried to. He got halfway up before Yu Iseol and Yoon Jong both casually stepped in front of the doorway, arms crossed, eyes silent but sharp.

Fink followed suit, dramatically spreading his arms. “This hallway is now under Pig Lockdown.”

Dumak glanced around. Four disciples. One kid. All positioned like a net. He looked back at the bed—at Chung Myung, still breathing hard, unconscious but calm. He looked at the tied bandages on his hand. The towel on his forehead. The faint scent of soup still in the air.

And… the food.

His food.

His warm, well-seasoned, free food.

He sighed.

Slumped.

Sat back down.

“Fine,” he grumbled. “But I want three meals a day. Minimum. And no more of that dried barley tea—real tea, you hear me? With honey.”

Baek Cheon turned away before his patience cracked like an old roof tile. “We leave tomorrow. I want the wagon ready before dawn.”

He stepped closer to the bed, brushing a thumb gently across Chung Myung’s bandaged hand. “Hang in there, Junior. We’re taking you home.”

The room was a flurry of movement, organized chaos conducted with silent urgency. Blankets were being folded, bags packed, herbs bundled into cloth pouches. Every disciple moved with a purpose, each step charged with a sense of finally, finally making progress—finally going home.

Yoon Jong knelt beside Madam Geum, a pot of herbal broth gently steaming between them. She demonstrated with practiced hands how to hold a spoon to the lips of an unconscious patient without choking them.

“Don’t tilt his head back too much,” she said, her tone firm but kind. “Let the warmth wake his throat before you feed him. Tap under his jaw if he doesn’t respond.”

Yoon Jong nodded attentively, soaking in every word.

Behind them, Baek Cheon paused his folding, pretending he wasn’t listening—but his eyes hadn’t left them once. Chung Myung’s extra robes, damp towels, and their remaining bandages were being packed into a cloth roll with clinical precision. But his ears were definitely tuned to every word about feeding.

Across the room, Jo Gul was dragging a rope-tethered bag behind him, visibly irritated, as Dumak reclined comfortably atop a heap of folded straw mats like a particularly smug sack of potatoes.

“A little to the left!” Dumak called, pointing vaguely. “No, wait—right. No, no, your other right.”

“You’re lucky we need you,” Jo Gul muttered, heaving the pack down with a thud.

“I am lucky. And you’re lucky I’m gracious,” Dumak replied, popping the last bite of an extra dumpling into his mouth.

Jo Gul twitched.

Yu Iseol calmly walked past, placing a firm hand on Dumak’s shoulder as she passed. She didn’t say a word, but her expression was enough to make him stop chewing for a good ten seconds.

Then—

It was time.

Beak Cheon approached the bed, wrapping Chung Myung in layers with meticulous care. The boy didn’t stir, not even as his arms were folded across his chest and the final blanket was drawn gently over him like a shroud.

Baek Cheon crouched low, lowering his shoulder. His hands moved with a kind of reverence.

And then, with one smooth motion, he lifted Chung Myung onto his back.

The boy’s body, lighter than it had any right to be, slumped softly against him, his head resting just beside Baek Cheon’s cheek. His breathing—faint, but present—brushed warmly across Baek Cheon’s skin.

And it was hot.

Far too hot.

Baek Cheon’s brow furrowed. His jaw clenched.

“Still feverish,” he murmured, not realizing he’d spoken aloud.

They stepped out into the sunlit street. The others flanked them—Yoon Jong and Yu Iseol up front, scouting the road; Jo Gul and Fink in the rear with the supplies; Dumak dragging his feet dramatically in the middle, tethered like a bad idea.

Beak Cheon kept his arms firm around Chung Myung’s legs, adjusting the boy gently with every step to avoid jostling him.

Chung Myung’s face rested near his shoulder—his flushed skin pressing against Baek Cheon’s cheek. That burning warmth stayed there like a constant whisper of everything that was still wrong.

Then—

A slap.

Light, casual, but unmistakable.

Whap.

Beak Cheon froze.

Dumak, walking beside him, had reached out and slapped Chung Myung’s back gently—like he was burping a toddler.

“There, see?” Dumak said, gesturing with greasy fingers. “Sometimes you just gotta knock loose the chi, y’know? Gets the lungs going.”

Chung Myung gave a small cough in response.

Just a little one.

It didn’t matter.

Baek Cheon stopped walking.

So did the others.

Jo Gul closed his eyes and whispered, “Oh no.”

Yoon Jong turned slowly, already sighing. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

Baek Cheon, still holding Chung Myung on his back, turned his head just enough to look over his shoulder at Dumak.

His smile was tight.

His voice… deadly calm.

“Touch him again,” Baek Cheon said, “and I promise your next bowl of rice will be through a straw.”

Dumak blinked. “Y-you mean like… porridge?”

Baek Cheon didn’t answer.

He just started walking again.

The heat of Chung Myung’s fever still on his cheek.

The rage simmering just beneath it.

And the road to Mount Hua waiting ahead.

The creaking of wooden wheels on dirt marked the start of their journey back home.

Mount Hua was still days away, nestled high in the clouds, beyond miles of forest paths and winding mountain roads. But the moment the wagon rolled out of the town, it already felt like they had begun climbing back toward something right.

Yoon Jong walked up front beside the horses, reins in hand. Yu Iseol followed behind the cart, ever silent, scanning the road like a shadow. Jo Gul walked alongside her, muttering under his breath about how they should’ve left certain people behind. Fink trailed them, carrying an extra satchel of dried soup mix like a loyal but judgmental puppy.

Inside the wagon, Chung Myung lay on soft bedding, bundled under layers of cloth from Madam Geum’s clinic. He didn’t speak, didn’t stir much—but his color was slightly better. The black tendrils on his skin no longer crawled, though they remained dark and unmoving. He breathed, steadily. His body twitched occasionally from bumps in the road, but it was no longer a battlefield of violent coughing.

This, they had been told, was the medicine holding the line.

But the mood outside the wagon was far from peaceful.

“I want the whole wagon to myself,” Dumak had declared before they’d even cleared the village gates, arms crossed like he was addressing a council of war.

Jo Gul had blinked. “Come again?”

“I said,” Dumak repeated with irritating calm, “no one else in the wagon. I need privacy.”

“Privacy?” Baek Cheon had snapped, eyebrows twitching. “You’re not in a luxury inn. This wagon was built for him.” He gestured toward the bundled, sleeping form of Chung Myung.

“I’m just saying,” Dumak shrugged, lounging against the wagon frame. “If I don’t feel respected, I might get stressed. And if I get stressed…” He grinned. “I might have to tell our boy here to stand up and stretch his legs. Maybe walk a few miles. Who knows?”

Baek Cheon’s sword hand twitched so hard Jo Gul had to subtly nudge him.

“Alright, alright,” Yoon Jong had interrupted, gritting his teeth. “You can have your… privacy. But at least let him stay in there. Resting. No commands.”

Dumak clicked his tongue. “Fine. Just keep the volume down out there. I nap light.”

Now, they walked.

All of them.

Beside the wagon like a miserable entourage, feet kicking up dust, glancing bitterly every few minutes at the sloppily tied curtain fluttering at the wagon’s edge—Dumak’s “private quarters.”

Beak Cheon looked ready to chew through stone.

He had been walking closest to the wagon’s side for over two hours. His ears strained with every rattle, every bump. And every time Chung Myung made a small sound—an exhale, a groan, a sharp breath—he twitched.

His hand hovered near the curtain.

His eyes burned a hole through the fabric.

“Don’t,” Jo Gul warned under his breath. “You open that curtain, he’ll have him doing cartwheels out the back.”

“I just want to check his fever,” Baek Cheon snapped.

“You’ve tried to check his fever nine times,” Yoon Jong said from the front. “I’m counting.”

“I didn’t ask you to count!”

Yu Iseol, as always, said nothing.

But when the wagon rocked and Chung Myung let out a faint groan from inside, she and Baek Cheon both flinched at the same time.

“Ugh!” Baek Cheon growled. “This is unbearable!”

“The medicine’s working,” Jo Gul said, a bit softer. “He’s not coughing as much. The fever’s gone down… a little.”

Baek Cheon muttered, “It’s not enough.”

“I’d offer to sing a calming song,” Fink piped up, “but you all look like you’d throw me into the trees.”

“Yes,” Jo Gul muttered. “That’s exactly what would happen.”

Still, the wagon kept moving. The wheels creaked. The road stretched long ahead. And though Dumak reclined like a sultan and Chung Myung still didn’t speak, every mile closer to Mount Hua felt like dragging hope behind them—

Bruised, bloodied, and still breathing.

The wagon rumbled gently along the dirt road, creaking and bouncing with every stone and divot. The sun hung high in the sky, casting warm light on the winding path through the sparse woods. The breeze was light, birds chirping lazily in the distance. Everything, for once, seemed calm.

Then—

THUNK.

The front wheel dipped into a shallow ditch in the road, jostling the entire cart. The wood groaned, and inside the curtain-covered interior came the sound of a soft thump—followed by a too-familiar, too-painful coughing fit.

A wet one.

Baek Cheon stopped walking mid-step.

There it is again. That raw, scraping cough that always came after too much movement. The one he could never get used to. He could hear the sharp inhale after it, like Chung Myung’s lungs were struggling to decide if they’d work at all.

“That’s it,” he muttered, turning toward the wagon.

“Hyung, wait,” Jo Gul warned, already stepping forward.

“You can’t,” Yoon Jong said firmly, his hand hovering near Baek Cheon’s arm. “What if he wakes up and commands him again?”

“I don’t care,” Baek Cheon growled, already reaching for the curtain. “He’s coughing blood while that pig lounges on silk like royalty. I’m checking on him.”

“You’ll get him hurt if Dumak sees—” Jo Gul started.

Baek Cheon pulled the curtain aside.

Everyone leaned in behind him, bracing for the worst—shouting, a smug threat, a shouted command to make Chung Myung jump out of the wagon and juggle knives.

Instead—

Silence.

Followed by… snoring.

Loud, utterly graceless, swamp-creature snoring.

And there he was: Dumak, sprawled out like a lopsided rug, mouth open, arms spread wide, a plate of half-eaten pickled radish lying near his hand. His entire body flopped belly-up like a sleeping hog in a sauna.

But that wasn’t what made their blood boil.

What made Baek Cheon’s eye twitch, what made Jo Gul silently mouth a string of unspeakable words, was that Dumak’s hefty leg was laid right over Chung Myung’s stomach—like he were some kind of personal armrest.

Chung Myung lay curled awkwardly to the side, blanket half-slid off, his pale face flushed again, lips slightly parted from fevered breathing. He looked like he was too weak to even flinch.

The coughing had subsided… but just barely.

Yoon Jong whispered, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Is he using him as a pillow now?” Jo Gul muttered. “That can’t be legal.”

Baek Cheon didn’t say a word. His face said everything.

Dead. This man is dead. The moment the amulet comes off, he’s pig soup.

He stepped into the wagon like a ghost, careful not to make the boards creak too loudly. Dumak snored louder, shifting slightly. His leg flopped once more over Chung Myung’s ribs, eliciting a soft ugh from the boy’s throat.

Baek Cheon’s brow twitched hard enough to summon lightning.

With the kind of tenderness only learned through days of carrying a half-dead brat on his back, Baek Cheon lifted Dumak’s leg by the ankle and slowly, so slowly, shifted it away from Chung Myung’s stomach, letting it plop with an ugly thud onto a stack of rolled-up bedding.

Chung Myung immediately exhaled a little easier, his body slumping more naturally into the bed.

“Hyung,” Yoon Jong whispered, peeking in from behind, “I can help sit him up if you want—”

“I’m already here,” Jo Gul muttered, stepping in behind them. “We’ll make it fast.”

Together, the three disciples worked silently—adjusting his blankets, dabbing a bit of the sweat from his brow, moving the herbal pouch closer to his side. Beak Cheon even folded the blanket over his legs again, tucking the edge beneath his knees like a mother would her child.

All the while, Dumak snored.

One deep, honking inhale. Then a slow, wet snore that rattled the frame of the wagon.

Yoon Jong wiped Chung Myung’s brow carefully and whispered, “We’re taking you back, Junior. Just hold on.”

Chung Myung didn’t respond.

But the breath that followed was a little smoother.

The sun dipped behind the trees, its golden light bleeding into deep reds and purples that stretched across the sky like bruises on a sleeping giant. Crickets began their slow song as the air turned cool, and the scent of pine and earth settled around them.

They had found a clearing off the side of the road, tucked just enough into the woods to offer some cover but not so deep that it became unsafe. It was the kind of place that invited quiet conversation and warm firelight… under normal circumstances.

But tonight, the disciples of Mount Hua were tired, tense, and all in complete agreement about one thing.

“We’re not leaving those two alone,” Yoon Jong declared, voice hushed but firm as they set up camp.

“Absolutely not,” Jo Gul added, laying out blankets with exaggerated aggression. “He’s already rolled onto Chung Myung’s ribs once today. What’s next? Using him as a foot warmer?”

Yu Iseol, silent as always, just nodded as she knelt to stack firewood.

Fink held up a small stick. “Do you think I could poke him if he tries it again?”

“No,” Beak Cheon muttered. “Because if anyone gets to poke him, it’s me.”

They worked quickly, muscle memory guiding their hands as they assembled the campsite. Firewood. Blankets. Warm soup reheating in a dented pot. One by one, the small tasks were done—save for the most important one: moving him.

Chung Myung had to be carried from the wagon to the resting mats.

And the wagon, unfortunately, still held Dumak, who’d spent the entire setup process snoring beside Chung Myung like a self-important slug, one arm thrown dramatically across his face.

Beak Cheon let out a slow breath as he walked up to the wagon. He already felt his blood pressure rising. All he wanted was to lift Chung Myung, check his fever, and settle him near the fire.

But the moment his hand touched the cart—

Dumak sat up, yawning like a man who had just finished a ten-hour shift on a royal throne.

“Oh, finally!” Dumak cried. “Took you all long enough. I thought I was going to have to work, heavens forbid!”

He swung his legs around and gave a dramatic stretch. “Welp! Now that you’re done playing mountain babysitters, I’ll go find a nice flat rock to get some beauty rest.”

And then—he hopped off the wagon.

And as soon as the sheer gravitational force of Dumak’s departure shifted the balance—

THUD–CLUNK–RATTLE!

The wagon rocked hard on its wheels, jolting the bed like a kicked box.

Inside, Chung Myung let out a sharp, ragged gasp—

Followed by a brutal cough.

One. Two. Three.

A splatter of red hit the inside of the wagon.

Beak Cheon’s face contorted in pure, exhausted rage.

He groaned—not from fatigue, but from the sheer physical effort it took not to launch Dumak into orbit.

Chung Myung groaned too, from actual suffering, his thin form shaking under the blanket as the pain overtook him again.

The rest of the disciples turned in unison, side-eyeing Dumak so hard it might’ve counted as a coordinated martial technique.

“What?” Dumak said, hands up. “I didn’t know the thing was so sensitive!”

“You’re sensitive,” Jo Gul muttered. “To gravity.”

Beak Cheon gritted his teeth. “Say one more word, Dumak.”

Dumak took one look at him and… wisely stepped back, hands still raised.

Beak Cheon climbed into the wagon, his hand instantly going to Chung Myung’s forehead. Still warm. Still burning. But not worse than earlier.

He adjusted the blankets, cleaned away the blood with a gentle cloth, whispering low under his breath, “It’s okay, Junior. I’ve got you.”

Chung Myung whimpered softly, eyes still closed, body instinctively leaning toward the warmth of Beak Cheon’s hand.

He gently gathered him in his arms, like lifting something made of glass and memory, and stepped out of the wagon as slowly as the moon rose.

Yoon Jong was already laying out extra blankets.

Jo Gul grabbed the warming soup and poured a small portion into a cup.

Yu Iseol placed a fresh cloth on the bedroll and patted it once—ready.

Beak Cheon lowered Chung Myung down carefully onto the softest mat they had, settling him just near the fire where the warmth would touch him but not overheat him.

He sat beside him, one hand still resting on his arm, making sure his breathing stayed steady.

Dumak wandered off to a patch of grass far enough to be ignored—but not far enough to be trusted.

And as the night deepened, the crackling fire cast long shadows across their faces.

The disciples huddled near.

Not as warriors tonight.

But as brothers.

Watching over one of their own.

The fire cracked softly, casting flickering orange light across the tired faces of the disciples huddled around it. Jo Gul had drifted into a lazy slouch, poking the fire with a stick. Yoon Jong sat upright, arms folded, his gaze fixed on the flames, thoughts clearly miles away. Yu Iseol was silent as always, sharpening her blade more out of habit than need.

And Beak Cheon—he sat closest to Chung Myung’s resting form, ever watchful.

The boy lay wrapped in thick blankets, face turned slightly toward the warmth. His breath came in slow, whispery drags, each one raspy but steadier than the days before. His brow was furrowed, his hand twitching every so often.

Beak Cheon reached out gently for the third time in the last ten minutes, pressing Chung Myung’s arm back down to his side. The boy had been scratching absently at his throat in his sleep again—the same spot the amulet clung to like a parasite.

“Stop that,” Beak Cheon murmured. “You’ll make it worse.”

The silence of it hurt.

Then—

It shattered.

Chung Myung bolted upright.

“I’M GONNA KILL YOU!!!”

The scream pierced the night like a blade, raw and furious, full of unmistakable rage.

Everyone jumped.

Jo Gul yelped, tripping over himself to get closer. Yoon Jong scrambled upright, eyes wide. Fink screamed in terror and ducked behind a blanket. Yu Iseol was already halfway to her feet.

Beak Cheon’s heart stopped.

Because Chung Myung was awake—really awake. Eyes sharp, chest heaving, fury blazing through him like fire through kindling.

And he was looking dead at Dumak.

The con artist, who had been chewing something suspicious in the shadows, went stiff.

“Wha—hey—wait—why’s he looking at me like that!?” Dumak panicked, standing up. “What did I do?!”

“You know what you did!!” Chung Myung barked, voice hoarse but unmistakably his. “You sat on me! You made me fetch water! You had me pick fights with dogs!”

He coughed hard, doubling over—but that didn’t stop him. He started crawling toward Dumak, his arms trembling, dragging his body forward one inch at a time.

“Do you have any idea what I’ve been through!?” he rasped. “I swear, the moment this curse is gone, you’re gonna have to scrape what’s left of you off a wall—”

“STOP!”

Dumak’s panicked scream cut through the moment like a whipcrack.

The amulet pulsed. A dark glow, subtle but ominous, radiated from Chung Myung’s throat.

And just like that… his body froze.

He looked down at the amulet, chest rising and falling quickly, frustration and realization crashing together in his expression.

“…Dammit,” he whispered, his voice quieter now.

His hands trembled in his lap. He closed his eyes for a second—just a second—and gave a small, tired smirk.

“Tch. Should’ve said it faster…”

Then his body shuddered.

The fire in his eyes dulled in an instant, blurred, as if a fog swept across his mind. His limbs slackened, and with a wet, sickening cough, blood spilled from his mouth, staining the front of his blanket.

“Junior!” Beak Cheon was already there, catching him before he collapsed face-first.

Yoon Jong knelt beside him, steadying his shoulders. “He’s bleeding again—he’s—!”

Jo Gul fumbled with a fresh cloth. “I’ve got it—here—dammit, hold him steady!”

Chung Myung’s skin paled rapidly, the fire gone from his face, the strength leaking out of him like water from a cracked jar.

And as Beak Cheon held him, panic rising in his chest, he stared at the faintest trace of that smirk still lingering on Chung Myung’s lips.

Even now, after all that…

He’d still tried to fight.

And damn it, Baek Cheon missed that version of him more than he could say.

The others gave the occasional glance his way, each one thinking the same thing but not daring to say it aloud: It’s been too long since we’ve heard his voice.

Chapter Text

The camp had settled into an uneasy quiet.

The fire burned low now, reduced to soft embers glowing like sleepy eyes, casting dim orange light across the campsite. Crickets chirped lazily, and the gentle rustling of leaves in the wind brushed softly against the ears of the sleeping disciples. Their forms lay in scattered clusters around the fire—some curled in blankets, others half-sitting against bags or packs, weapons always within reach.

Jo Gul had finally passed out after mumbling to himself for half an hour. Yoon Jong’s chest rose and fell in the practiced rhythm of someone pretending not to be anxious. Yu Iseol slept upright, back against a tree, but her sword lay unsheathed across her lap, as if even sleep had to earn her trust.

Beak Cheon lay closest to Chung Myung.

It wasn’t intentional.

At least… not entirely.

Somehow, throughout the past hour, he had migrated inch by inch across his bedding—adjusting for warmth, proximity, maybe even instinct—until he found himself lying not more than an arm’s length from Chung Myung’s side.

Every breath the younger disciple took still sounded too shallow.

And Beak Cheon’s hand, even in sleep, had settled near Chung Myung’s head—as if to check his fever, or perhaps to protect it.

He didn’t even know he was asleep.

But he would know he woke up.

Dumak was already moving.

A shadow at first, slinking across the edge of the camp, eyes flickering back and forth to ensure no one stirred. His footsteps were padded, his movements careful—not because he was skilled, but because he was desperate.

He made his way to Chung Myung’s side like a thief—kneeling beside the boy’s still form.

Dumak’s face was tense. Not smug. Not sarcastic.

Just wired.

He leaned in close, whispering low enough for only the unconscious boy to hear.

“Hey,” he hissed. “You. Wake up.”

Chung Myung didn’t stir.

Dumak’s mouth twisted. “Come on. Don’t make me look stupid.”

He leaned in even closer, speaking directly into the boy’s ear.

“Be silent… and follow me.”

The amulet pulsed faintly.

Chung Myung’s fingers twitched.

His leg shifted. His breathing caught in his throat, and then—with a visible effort—he began to rise. Slow. Robotic. Like someone moving through a fog.

He stood, staggering just slightly. His limp more pronounced in the silence of the woods.

Dumak watched him for a moment, eyes narrowing. Then he rolled his own.

“Ugh. Finally. Come on, hurry up.”

They crept toward the treeline, Chung Myung following like a string-pulled puppet, his gait uneven, his expression blank.

But as they made it twenty paces out—

He coughed.

Just once. No blood. Just a soft rasp of his lungs catching on air.

But that was enough.

Baek Cheon stirred.

His hand reached out, instinctively seeking the familiar shape of a fevered head beside him.

But it wasn’t there.

His eyes snapped open. His hand clutched nothing but crumpled blanket.

And then he saw it.

A flicker of white and blue robes moving between trees.

A slumped silhouette.

A slinking shadow beside it.

“Chung Myung…?” he whispered. Then louder—

“STOP RIGHT THERE!”

The words cracked through the clearing like thunder.

The other disciples shot upright, weapons in hand, panic bursting across their faces.

“What?! What is it?!” Jo Gul shouted, scrambling.

Baek Cheon was already on his feet, pointing toward the woods.

“He’s taking him! Dumak’s taking him—HE’S RUNNING!”

“SH*T!” Jo Gul barked, grabbing his sword.

“MOVE!” Yoon Jong bellowed.

Dumak flinched at the shout, his eyes snapping wide.

“GO! GO!” he screamed at Chung Myung, shoving him forward. “Run, you idiot, RUN!”

Chung Myung staggered forward—limping, slow, his body reacting to the command even as his mind screamed behind it.

Behind them, the disciples were already giving chase.

The forest lit up with footsteps, curses, and the sheer force of Mount Hua’s fury descending once more on a thief who dared to steal their brother.

And Baek Cheon’s heart roared with one truth only:

*He’s not slipping

The night had wrapped around them like a heavy blanket.

After the storm of emotions from hearing Chung Myung’s voice—his real voice, sharp and furious as ever—the disciples had tried to settle in. But none of them truly relaxed. They spoke in hushed tones, checking and double-checking his fever, his bandages, the pulse that fluttered too fast under his skin. Eventually, exhaustion claimed them one by one.

Yu Iseol sat watchfully near the fire, eyes half-lidded but alert. Jo Gul had mumbled himself to sleep beside his blade. Fink was curled up like a cat with a blanket draped over his head.

And Beak Cheon…

He was the last to drift off.

He hadn’t meant to sleep right next to Chung Myung. He’d laid his bedding a safe foot or two away at first. But somehow—by habit or some subconscious instinct—his body had shifted. Rolled closer. Shifted again. Until now, he lay nearly shoulder-to-shoulder with him, his hand resting just above where Chung Myung’s head would be. Like a barrier. Or maybe a tether.

The fire cracked low.

The forest breathed.

And then…

A shadow moved.

Dumak crept slowly from the edge of the camp, his steps soft in the grass. He eyed the disciples carefully—especially Beak Cheon, whose arm was slung lazily across his blanket, knuckles still faintly white from stress.

But they were asleep. He was sure of it.

And Chung Myung—oh, his prize. He was lying just where Dumak left him, bundled up, limp and quiet. For now.

Dumak crouched low beside him, eyes darting once more to the sleeping forms around the fire.

Then he leaned close.

“Be silent,” he whispered, breath hot against the boy’s ear. “And follow me.”

The amulet glowed faintly.

Chung Myung didn’t respond at first—his body twitching once, like a man surfacing from deep water.

He groaned softly, legs shifting.

Then, slowly, mechanically, he began to push himself up, wincing with every motion. His breath was shallow, but his limbs obeyed.

Dumak rolled his eyes, whispering, “Come on. We don’t have all night.”

Chung Myung took one uneven step, his limp heavy, then another, dragging his feet slightly. He looked like a ghost slipping from his grave.

The two figures moved out of the light—into the brush—toward the woods beyond.

And then—

khrr—

The tiniest cough escaped Chung Myung’s throat.

Not violent. Not bloody. Just a weak rasp of air.

But it was enough.

Beak Cheon stirred, his hand reaching instinctively for where he knew Chung Myung’s head should be. His fingers swept across only cool blankets.

He blinked.

Sat up.

Looked.

The space beside him was empty.

His heart plummeted.

Then, in the faint moonlight just beyond the fire’s reach, he saw two shadows.

One limping. One urging him faster.

Dumak.

And Chung Myung.

Walking away.

Again.

“STOP RIGHT THERE!” Beak Cheon’s voice ripped through the silence like a sword through cloth.

The camp exploded into motion.

Jo Gul jolted up with a curse. “What—?!”

Yoon Jong was already grabbing his sword. “Who—what happened?!”

“DUMAK!” Beak Cheon shouted. “HE’S TAKING HIM—AGAIN!”

Dumak froze like a rat caught in a torchlight. “Sht, sht, sh*t—!”

He grabbed Chung Myung’s wrist and took off running, dragging him along. “RUN, YOU IDIOT!”

Chung Myung stumbled forward, legs protesting, eyes glassy again, his steps driven only by that cursed light around his throat.

The disciples gave chase without hesitation.

Branches cracked. Feet pounded. Rage fueled every motion.

And Beak Cheon’s heart roared with one wild, furious certainty:

This time, he was not letting go.

The forest had erupted into a frenzy of movement.

Branches snapped, feet pounded over fallen leaves, and voices tore through the air like arrows.

“Chung Myung!”
“Junior, come back!”
“Dumak, you rat—show yourself!”

But ahead of them all was Baek Cheon, sprinting with fire in his blood, his fingers just inches from the trailing edge of Chung Myung’s robe. So close. So godsdamned close.

“I’ve got you!” he shouted, hand outstretched, brushing cloth.

That’s when Dumak—sweating, red-faced, and bouncing like a sack of flour—screamed, “Do something, you moron!”

And Chung Myung moved.

His body, worn and trembling and soaked in illness, shouldn’t have been able to do what it did. But eighty-two years of honed instinct, battle-forged reflex, and divine martial discipline surged in a single moment.

With a sharp gasp and a mouthful of blood, Chung Myung lifted Dumak’s entire weight—with one arm—and leapt.

Not just forward.

Up.

His feet planted against a tree trunk, and with barely a push, they vanished into the branches above—blurring into the canopy like a phantom.

Baek Cheon skidded to a halt, heart hammering.

“No—NO!” he shouted. “He went up! He—He’s in the trees!”

The others were rushing up behind him, too slow, too wide in their formation.

“I can’t see them!” Jo Gul gasped, eyes darting. “Where’d he go?!”

“Fan out! Fan out!” Yoon Jong ordered, panic tight in his throat. “They have to be close!”

Above, hidden among the leaves and shadows, Chung Myung crouched in a crooked branch, hunched and bleeding, one arm slung weakly over Dumak’s shoulder. His breathing was shallow, his chest barely rising between each stifled wheeze.

Dumak was pressed beside him, gripping a branch with both hands, sweat dripping down his brow. His eyes darted below where the disciples searched the underbrush in frantic patterns.

They were shouting. Pleading.

“Your body’s not ready for this, Junior!”
“Please—just answer us!”
“Let us help!”

Dumak said nothing.

Not even a whisper.

He kept his hand tight on Chung Myung’s shoulder, eyes watching the group below like a hawk guarding its last coin.

Then—

Chung Myung’s lips trembled.

His chest seized.

And a harsh, crackling coughing fit burst out of him. Loud. Painful. Blood sprayed into the leaves below.

Baek Cheon froze.

He spun in place, eyes scanning every branch, every leaf.

“There! He’s—He’s nearby! I heard him—!”

But before anyone could react further—

Dumak whispered, sharp and urgent: “Shut up.”

The amulet pulsed with that awful glow.

And Chung Myung’s body froze.

His eyes widened.

His throat twitched.

And then he went silent.

Deathly silent.

No breath.

No cough.

No movement.

Baek Cheon’s heart lurched.

“…No…” he whispered. “What did he do? What did he make him do…?”

Yoon Jong turned, eyes wide. “Was that an order? Did he—?”

“Something’s wrong,” Yu Iseol said quietly, hand already gripping the hilt of her sword. “I can’t hear him breathing.”

Seconds passed.

Long, cruel seconds.

Then—

HhhkkkkkHH!

Chung Myung exploded into another coughing fit, worse than before—raw and broken, body convulsing so violently that blood hit the bark beside him. His grip slipped on the branch. Dumak panicked and grabbed him tighter.

“Oh come on,” Dumak hissed. “You’re making too much noise! That’s not what I—!”

Baek Cheon looked up into the trees, eyes wild.

“He’s close! He’s hurting! That bastard—he made it worse!”

The rest of the disciples re-formed behind him, blades drawn, eyes trained skyward.

Jo Gul’s voice shook. “How the hell do we get him down without hurting him more?”

Baek Cheon didn’t answer.

Because there was no good answer.

Only one truth:

If they didn’t act soon, that branch might be the last place Chung Myung ever stood.

 

“Take me to that bush over there, you idiot! I can’t balance on this skinny branch!” Dumak’s harsh whisper cracked through the silence of the woods like a clumsy foot on dry leaves.

Chung Myung didn’t respond, as expected. His body, sluggish and burning with fever, obeyed nonetheless. He shifted, limbs trembling as he lifted Dumak’s round bulk off the creaking branch. The strain on his wasted muscles was unbearable. Every movement was agony, but he bore it, because the amulet said he must.

The two slipped down from the trees—rather, Chung Myung practically collapsed under Dumak’s weight—and landed hard in a thicket. The bush offered little comfort and even less cover. Chung Myung dropped to his knees with a violent cough, trying in vain to stifle it. His hands trembled as he covered his mouth, blood already bubbling against his palm.

Dumak, ever clueless, slapped him on the back. “Cut it out, you’re gonna give us away!”

The patting only made the coughing worse. He kept going, muttering curses under his breath as if Chung Myung were an unruly dog instead of a dying swordsman. “Jeez, you’re useless right now.”

Not far from them, Baek Cheon froze mid-step. He’d heard it.

A cough.

Not loud—barely audible, even—but it rang like a gong in his ears. His training, drilled deep into his bones by none other than the coughing boy himself, lit up like fire through flint.

He raised a hand to halt the others. Yoon Jong stopped beside him. Jo Gul and Yu Iseol crouched on either side, all of them alert.

Baek Cheon stared into the dark, the brush heavy with the scent of pine and dry leaves. The sound had come from ahead. Not from the trees—but low. Ground level. Somewhere hidden.

He swallowed, then crouched slightly, scanning the terrain. “Listen,” he whispered.

They did. Nothing.

But he kept going. In his head, he was retracing the sound. If a branch had cracked that way, then the fall had to be—yes—downhill, just slightly. Someone heavy had gone down from the tree.

And the cough? Weak. Labored. Someone trying not to be heard.

Someone like Chung Myung.

He taught me this, Baek Cheon thought, eyes narrowing. How to hear silence. How to listen to intent.

He gestured again, guiding the others to fan out. Their swords stayed sheathed but hands hovered close to hilts. The forest was dark, but not quiet. Insects whined, wind brushed trees, and then—

Another cough. Barely a gasp. But it was there.

Baek Cheon’s ears sharpened, muscles poised. He knew that sound. That’s him. I know it is.

He veered toward it, silent but fast. The others followed closely, letting instinct lead where sight failed. As they neared, he caught a glimpse—just a flutter of cloth behind a bush.

He didn’t hesitate.

Baek Cheon rounded the bush and found them.

Chung Myung was on the ground, slumped over, coughing into his arm. His whole body rocked with every breath. Dumak hovered behind him, kneeling in the brush and still patting his back like a fool.

The fury in Baek Cheon’s chest exploded.

With one step, he reached forward and grabbed Dumak by the collar, yanking him backward. The man squealed in shock, tumbling out of the bush like a sack of spoiled rice.

Baek Cheon towered over him, eyes burning, voice low and shaking. “Do you think this is a game?!”

The others arrived just as he raised his fist. Jo Gul’s sword was half-drawn, Yu Iseol’s eyes narrowed, and Yoon Jong was already rushing toward Chung Myung.

“Wait—!” Jo Gul shouted.

But Dumak, panicked, screamed, “Help me, you idiot! Protect me!”

The glow of the amulet pulsed.

Chung Myung’s head lifted slightly.

“No,” Baek Cheon whispered. “No, no, no—”

But it was already too late.

Chung Myung moved, sluggish but precise. His hand came up and caught Baek Cheon’s fist midair. The grip wasn’t hard—there was no strength left in him—but it was enough.

Enough to stop the strike.

Baek Cheon froze. Their eyes met—Chung Myung’s dull, empty, nearly void of life. The fire from earlier, the screaming promise to kill Dumak, was gone.

He was still in there. Somewhere. But not now.

Baek Cheon slowly lowered his arm, pulling his hand from Chung Myung’s grip as gently as he could. Yoon Jong was at Chung Myung’s side now, holding his shoulders, trying to help him breathe.

Jo Gul and Yu Iseol flanked Dumak, eyes filled with hatred.

But Baek Cheon knelt beside his junior.

“Dammit,” he muttered, voice breaking. “You’re still protecting him, even now?”

Chung Myung didn’t respond. He was coughing again—harder, louder, red staining his lips.

The others gathered around him. No one said it aloud, but they all felt it.

They were losing him.

And as Dumak straightened his collar and muttered smugly, Baek Cheon turned toward him with murder in his eyes.

They wouldn’t lose him again.

Not because of this pig. Not this time.
Dumak had seen many angry people in his life. Merchants he’d swindled. Tavern owners he’d conned. Even one or two martial artists he may or may not have sold a fake elixir to.

But none of them—not a single one—compared to the figure looming over him now.

Baek Cheon’s body cast a long shadow beneath the moonlight, his presence growing tenfold under the tilt of the trees. From Dumak’s view, hunched low in a thorny bush with sweat beading down his temples, Baek Cheon looked monstrous—like the wrath of Mount Hua itself, carved into muscle and fury. His face was cloaked in shadow, but his eyes… oh, those eyes.

Worried at first, glancing at the wheezing, broken form of Chung Myung. But then they shifted, slowly… like a blade being drawn. Right to Dumak.

Dumak gulped. “H-Hey now. We’re all friends here, right?”

Baek Cheon didn’t answer. Just kept glaring at him like he was trying to kill him with a look alone.

Even Jo Gul raised a brow. “Huh. That’s a new shade of murder in his eyes.”

“Pretty sure he’s inventing new ones,” Yoon Jong muttered.

But Baek Cheon said nothing. He simply exhaled—very slowly—and turned back to Chung Myung, who was bent over and coughing, trying to keep himself from vomiting blood into the grass.

“We’re heading back,” Baek Cheon said at last, voice cold and hard as stone. “Now.”

His eyes didn’t leave Dumak.

The piglet of a man stood stiffly, trying to act nonchalant while patting dust off his robe. “Y-Yeah, sounds good. Let’s… all get some rest, right?”

No one replied.

Baek Cheon gently crouched beside Chung Myung, whose limbs were now stiff with effort. He looked like he was trying to stand again, lurching toward Dumak with unsteady knees.

“No. No, you don’t,” Baek Cheon murmured, sliding an arm beneath his junior and lifting him with practiced care. “You’ve walked enough for ten lifetimes, Chung Myung.”

Chung Myung groaned weakly, but his body didn’t fight too hard. Not until Baek Cheon took a step.

Then, with what little strength he had, Chung Myung squirmed like a toddler trying to get back to the candy aisle. His hand reached out—toward Dumak.

“He’s trying to go back?” Jo Gul stared. “He’s actually trying to go back to him?”

Yu Iseol’s grip tightened on her sword hilt. “That pig’s control runs deep.”

“Yeah,” Yoon Jong muttered grimly, stepping forward to help Baek Cheon hold him. “And it’s still growing.”

Baek Cheon shifted Chung Myung in his arms, the boy’s weight feather-light but somehow heavier with guilt.

“This is my fault,” Baek Cheon murmured. “I provoked him. I knew better. And still—”

He glanced back at Dumak, who was waddling behind them trying to whistle innocently.

“Still, I let my fist almost get us killed.”

“Almost?” Jo Gul quipped. “You had it in midair.”

Baek Cheon sighed, finally reaching the campfire again. “Let’s get him down slowly. No jolts.”

All four disciples gathered around, forming a sort of sacred ceremony of lowering Chung Myung to the ground. But even as they knelt and set him down, the boy kept twitching, his fingers curling like he was trying to draw a sword that wasn’t there.

“I think he’s ready to leap into action.”

“He’d leap off a cliff if Dumak told him to,” Jo Gul said, then scowled. “We really need to remove that amulet.”

They managed to get him resting again, though it took all four of them. Baek Cheon wiped a thin trail of blood from the corner of Chung Myung’s mouth, his jaw tightening.

“He’s burning up,” he muttered. “And we’re dragging him through the woods like a rag doll.”

Yu Iseol brought a cool cloth and pressed it gently to his forehead. “He’ll be okay,” she said softly. “He has to be.”

Meanwhile, Dumak settled onto a log, grunting. “You know, I think I’m developing a cramp from all this walking.”

The others collectively froze.

Baek Cheon didn’t look at him. “You’ll develop a concussion if you keep talking.”

Jo Gul raised a brow. “He’s not wrong…”

“I could have tripped on a rock, you know,” Dumak went on, stretching his leg dramatically. “Then what would you all do without my instructions, huh?”

“Celebrate?” Jo Gul offered. “Picnic?”

“Light fireworks,” Yoon Jong added.

“Perform an exorcism,” Yu Iseol said, deadpan.

Baek Cheon didn’t laugh, but he smiled faintly as he tucked the blanket around Chung Myung tighter.

And behind closed, fluttering lids, something in Chung Myung’s brow relaxed for just a moment. A flicker of peace.

Or maybe he was just dreaming of punching Dumak. Either way, it was something.
Sleep came uneasily to the disciples of Mount Hua that night.

Each one had lain down with half an eye open, minds racing with the memory of Chung Myung lunging toward Dumak with barely a whisper of strength left in his body—and still, somehow, the will to kill. Even Yu Iseol, who usually slept like a blade at rest, remained alert, hand resting on the hilt of her sword as if she’d need it before morning.

And yet, the exhaustion won out. Slowly, one by one, they drifted into uneasy slumber beneath the starlit sky.

When dawn finally broke, it was Jo Gul who noticed first.

“He’s gone!” he yelped, leaping to his feet and sending his blanket flying behind him.

“What?!” Beak Cheon bolted up, heart hammering. His eyes darted to the empty bedroll beside the fire, the carefully tucked blankets now flattened like a ghost had slipped free during the night.

Yoon Jong immediately scanned the surrounding trees. “He couldn’t have gone far. He can’t even walk!”

“Unless…” Jo Gul’s eyes narrowed. “Unless someone made him walk.”

That was all it took. Beak Cheon’s sword was halfway out of its sheath before he even spotted them.

There, just a short distance away, under the shade of a twisted pine, sat Chung Myung—slumped with his back to the bark, chest rising and falling with shallow, wheezing breaths. And beside him?

Dumak.

Snoring.

Beak Cheon’s expression twisted, his jaw tightening so hard it cracked.

“What did you do?” he growled, stomping toward them like thunder in sandals.

Dumak blinked awake just as a shadow fell over him. “Huh? Wha—Hey! I didn’t do anything! I didn’t give him an order! He just came here himself!”

Beak Cheon didn’t look convinced. He crouched beside Chung Myung, pressing a hand to his forehead and wiping a damp strand of hair from his cheek. “You expect me to believe that?”

“I was sleeping!” Dumak shot back, holding up his hands like a man being mugged by monks. “You think I’d lie with him coughing all night next to me like a dying goose? Trust me, I wanted distance.”

Yu Iseol squinted at the pair, voice calm but cold. “Then why didn’t you call us when he showed up?”

“Because if I woke you lot, I figured you’d try to strangle me again.”

No one corrected him.

Beak Cheon stood and exhaled slowly through his nose. “Forget it. Let’s pack up and get moving.”

The disciples began gathering their gear, folding blankets, dousing the fire, strapping packs and securing swords. Dumak, naturally, did none of it. He flopped dramatically beside Chung Myung again and stretched.

“Wake me when we leave.”

Jo Gul rolled his eyes. “Oh, sure. Should I fluff your pillow and prepare tea, too?”

But no one was laughing. Because just as Dumak stood, muttering something about heading to the wagon before everyone else, Chung Myung stirred.

At first it was just a twitch—his head leaning slightly, shoulders shifting. But then his arms moved.

“Wait… is he—?” Yoon Jong blinked.

Chung Myung was rising to his feet. Wobbling, swaying, pale as mist, but moving—his eyes unfocused but locked onto Dumak’s retreating form. One shaky foot after another, he began to follow him.

“No—no, no, no, absolutely not!” Beak Cheon was already rushing forward. “You are not walking again!”

Jo Gul joined him in a heartbeat, grabbing Chung Myung’s other side. The boy didn’t resist—not violently. But his body leaned toward Dumak like a compass pointing north.

“He’s following him,” Yoon Jong said, the words slow and dreadful as realization hit all of them at once.

Yu Iseol stepped beside the wagon, eyes narrowing. “They can’t be separated.”

A heavy silence fell over the group.

“Great,” Jo Gul muttered. “Just great. We’ve got a poison-infested, sleep-deprived sword demon who now apparently has separation anxiety.”

“And the only person he needs nearby,” Yoon Jong added, pinching the bridge of his nose, “is the human equivalent of pig stew.”

From the wagon, Dumak waved lazily. “Told you. I need protection, and he listens. Not my fault I’m charming.”

Beak Cheon sighed, his hands already gently adjusting Chung Myung’s robes as he settled him back in the wagon. “This is going to be a long trip.”

As they resumed the journey, the wheels creaking over the dirt path, a shared thought passed silently between them all:

This… was going to get worse before it got better.

The wheels of the wagon creaked rhythmically as they rolled through another stretch of winding forest. The air was cooler now, the sun trailing low behind distant hills. A hush had settled over the disciples—part fatigue, part dread—as they approached familiar terrain.

The rocks.

Jo Gul groaned when he spotted them up ahead. “Oh no. Not this patch again…”

Yu Iseol narrowed her eyes, recalling vividly the last time they had come through here—how the jagged, uneven dips in the path had jostled the wagon so hard it nearly sent Chung Myung into another coughing fit that lasted half the night.

Beak Cheon said nothing, already moving to the rear of the wagon.

He slid the curtain aside and looked inside.

Chung Myung lay in his usual spot—thin, pale, motionless, save for the occasional twitch of fingers gripping the blanket like a lifeline. His lips were parted slightly, breath shallow, face glistening with sweat from the heat trapped inside the enclosed space. But he was, for once, asleep.

Beak Cheon exhaled carefully and rolled up his sleeves. “We can’t risk bouncing the cart through that terrain again. I’ll carry him.”

He climbed in slowly, every step as quiet as possible. The others were already moving to the sides of the wagon, clearing space so he could step down safely with their junior disciple in arms.

He crouched beside Chung Myung, easing his arms beneath his legs and back with the practiced grace of someone who had done this many times before. His movements were fluid, gentle.

“Alright,” Beak Cheon murmured softly, lifting him with the care of a man holding a feather dipped in glass. “We’ll get you through this, like always.”

But just as he turned to move, a loud, nasal voice cut through the air.

“Hold on a second.”

Beak Cheon froze.

“Actually…” Dumak said, lounging with his hands behind his head on a folded blanket just outside the wagon, “I’ve decided my feet hurt.”

Beak Cheon blinked at him. “…Excuse me?”

“I want a piggyback. From you,” Dumak added with a self-satisfied smirk. “My ankles are killing me. You wouldn’t want me to twist one, would you?”

Silence.

Followed by a sharp intake of breath.

Yu Iseol narrowed her eyes, Jo Gul’s jaw dropped in disbelief, and Yoon Jong looked like he was physically restraining himself from launching the man into orbit.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Jo Gul muttered. “You’re a grown man, not a sleepy toddler.”

Beak Cheon was speechless for a beat.

Then Dumak added, nonchalantly, “Or I could just have him carry me instead.” He jerked his thumb toward the unconscious form of Chung Myung still lying in Beak Cheon’s arms.

It was as if lightning cracked through the group.

“Don’t you dare!” Beak Cheon snapped, his voice sharp enough to split the air. “You’re out of your mind if you think I’m letting a sick, poisoned boy carry you like some prized hog!”

Dumak raised a brow. “Are you saying you’d rather carry me yourself, then?”

“NO ONE is carrying you!” Jo Gul shouted.

But Dumak just smiled smugly and called out casually, “Sword Guy, get up.”

Beak Cheon’s stomach dropped. “No, no, no—” He quickly turned to press Chung Myung back down, his hands firm but careful. “Don’t. Don’t listen to him, please.”

Chung Myung stirred.

“No, no—stay down,” Beak Cheon whispered, a flicker of panic in his voice. “I’ve got you. You’re alright. Just rest.”

The boy groaned weakly, his fingers flexing against Beak Cheon’s robes, eyes fluttering open, dazed and clouded. His lips parted like he wanted to obey—but the compulsion from the amulet pulled at him.

“Okay! Okay, enough!” Beak Cheon barked over his shoulder. “I’ll carry you, alright?!”

There was a beat of stunned silence.

Even Dumak blinked in surprise. “Huh. Didn’t think you’d fold that quick.”

“I’m not folding,” Beak Cheon growled, eyes blazing as he turned his head. “I’m protecting him. That’s all.”

The pig of a man grinned. “Whatever gets me a ride.”

With a sigh that shook more than just his lungs, Beak Cheon gently set Chung Myung back down in the wagon, arranging the blanket under his head like it was made of glass. He touched his cheek one last time, whispering, “I’m sorry you have to see me do this.”

Then he turned to Dumak, cracking his neck.

“Climb on.”

“Really?” Dumak’s face lit up like a child getting candy.

“Climb on before I change my mind and feed you to the birds.”

As Dumak gleefully clambered up onto Beak Cheon’s back—far heavier than he looked—Jo Gul couldn’t help muttering, “This is it. This is the lowest point of our lives.”

Yoon Jong winced. “Don’t say that. You’ll jinx it.”

Meanwhile, behind them, Chung Myung gave a quiet, wheezy chuckle in his sleep.

Beak Cheon groaned under Dumak’s weight, his face twisted into a scowl. “You know,” he muttered through clenched teeth, “you don’t have to sit like a sack of flour. You could at least try to—ugh—distribute your weight.”

“Flour sits however it wants,” Dumak replied lazily, chin resting on Beak Cheon’s shoulder like they were lifelong friends. “And this is what you get for threatening the guy with the amulet.”

Beak Cheon resisted the urge to throw him into the trees. Only Chung Myung matters, he reminded himself. Keep it together.

Behind them, the other disciples stood around the wagon, trying to work out who would carry Chung Myung across the rocky stretch. Yoon Jong raised his hand first. “I should do it. I’ve been helping with medicine the most. I know when to shift his weight—”

Jo Gul immediately cut in, waving a hand. “Excuse me, I carried him during the river crossing. I’ve got the balance and the height. The last thing we need is his foot grazing a rock—”

Yu Iseol didn’t say a word. She simply stepped past them both and knelt down beside Chung Myung, slipping one arm under his knees and the other around his back in a smooth, practiced motion. She lifted him with ease.

Both men went silent.

“…Okay,” Jo Gul said, nodding, “fair.”

“Reasonable,” Yoon Jong added quickly.

Yu Iseol didn’t respond, already walking forward with careful steps. Chung Myung’s head rested lightly against her shoulder, his breathing shallow, but even. She didn’t flinch, didn’t stumble—her movements were deliberate, as if she’d been doing this all her life.

Beak Cheon, still carrying Dumak, immediately drifted closer to her side. “Watch his left side—it’s worse than his right. And if he starts coughing, tilt him toward—no, more left than that.”

“I know,” she said plainly.

“His pulse feels better after soup. Did he eat anything this morning? Should we—?”

“I know,” she repeated gently, without looking at him.

He went quiet for a moment. “I just… I know it’s not my place, I just—”

“I know,” she said again, this time with a faint smile.

Beak Cheon blinked. He didn’t say another word, but he stayed close—close enough to catch him if he slipped, to hear every breath, every faint sigh from Chung Myung’s mouth. Close enough to ease the guilt that clung to his chest.

And behind them, Dumak slouched deeper into the piggyback, frowning.

He didn’t know why it bothered him. Maybe it was the way Beak Cheon kept looking over at that kid like he mattered more than his own life. Maybe it was how the whole group orbited around the boy like he was a sun about to collapse. Or maybe…

Maybe it was because no one had ever looked at him like that. Not even when he was worth looking at.

He shifted on Beak Cheon’s back, muttering under his breath. “Buncha weirdos.”

“Say that again and I’ll toss you into the rocks,” Beak Cheon growled.

The journey continued, slowly, carefully, one step at a time—with Beak Cheon scowling, Yu Iseol focused, and the others trailing close behind, all eyes on the boy who had once been their strongest sword… and who now barely breathed in their arms.
They had finally left the rocky trail behind. The wagon rolled onto smooth road that felt like silk compared to what came before. The sun was sinking low. It had been an excruciating day—hours of jostled blankets, slow calls for help, and Dumak’s constant complaining from Beak Cheon’s back. Even the wind sounded relieved.

That evening, they broke camp beside a wide low field. Dumak sauntered off to lean against a bush, arms crossed, his mood still sour. Yoon Jong, ever the night nurse, knelt beside Chung Myung’s wagon, gently lifting his wrist to administer the last round of medicated broth and soup. The herbal warmth eased some of the fever’s scorched edges. At last, blankets smoothed, supper served, and fire dying to cinders, each disciple drifted into restless sleep.

Night settled over them like a cloak.

Hours passed.

Then the amulet around Chung Myung’s neck pulsed—a soft, ominous glow. He gasped. Something in the poison recoiled. For the first time in ages, he fought back.

Slowly—so slowly—the boy stirred. But he did not utter a sound.

Eyebrows furrowed, his breath came in ragged rasps. He blinked open empty colorless eyes, sat up as still as a statue in heat, and then slumped. Breath rattling like dry leaves, he sank to the ground quietly, pooling at the tree near the wagon.

He crawled backward in near darkness, thinking frantically, panic tearing at his chest. When he hit the rough bark, he pressed his face into it, dizzy, warm, trembling—but alert.

A grin crept through the fever haze. Not of joy. Of vengeance.

He ducked his head slightly and looked at Dumak—who lay asleep against the bush just ten paces away, oblivious.

In his mind, the most wicked plans formed. Not because he didn’t care—not even because he hated Dumak… but because the curse had forced him into obedience long enough.

Suddenly, the crack of a twig.

He froze.

No one else stirred. The camp remained dream–deep, alive only in breathing bodies.

But under the moon’s pale glare, two shadowy figures separated themselves from the forest line. Cloaked men, belonging to the sect that coveted the Divine Dragon. They had followed the group, hunted them, waiting for weakness.

The two stalked close enough to see Chung Myung lying there. One of them gripped the other’s arm and whispered harshly. They moved in.

A hand seized Chung Myung’s wrists and forced it over his head, pinning him flat to the tree. The other pressed cold steel to his throat.

Chung Myung’s body sagged under the weight of his sickness—but his eyes flared. In that still, savage moment he managed to cough once. Blood spattered over the leaves.

He stared up at them.

“Worse,” one man said, “He’s thirty miles too far from home.”

But Chung Myung didn’t flinch.

Instead, he let a faint smirk pull at his lips and rasped, voice raw with darkness, “You’re going to regret this.”

His breath rattled like a warning.

And somewhere deep in the night—Beak Cheon’s fingers twitched.
Under the cold press of the dagger’s edge, Chung Myung stared at the man pinning his wrists above his head like some unceremonious trophy. His body burned with fever, lungs aching from too much blood loss, too many nights lying still—but his eyes? Still sharp. Still Chung Myung.

The taller of the two men shifted, squinting at him. “Hey… he’s just a kid.”

“No,” the other one muttered. “Look at him—smallest in the group… Could it be?”

He leaned in closer, scrutinizing his face.

“You’re Mount Hua’s Divine Dragon? Doesn’t feel right. I imagined someone… I don’t know, taller. Stronger. Breathing, maybe.”

Chung Myung gave a weak, hoarse snort. “You imagined wrong.”

The man blinked.

Chung Myung tilted his head as much as the dagger would allow and added, voice raspy but drenched in mockery, “Congratulations. You found a half-dead legend. What now? Going to monologue me to sleep?”

The man holding his wrists stiffened. “He’s got a mouth on him.”

“Mount Hua’s finest,” Chung Myung rasped. “Our sect’s known for three things: swordsmanship, resilience, and sarcasm. You got lucky. I’m a triple threat.”

The second man actually snorted. “He’s funny.”

“And you’re ugly,” Chung Myung deadpanned.

Before the man could react, something stirred from across the camp.

Beak Cheon shifted in his sleep, brows furrowing. He could’ve sworn he heard… no, that couldn’t be.

That voice.

That voice had haunted his dreams for months, always vanishing just as he turned to hear it better. It sounded just like—

He bolted upright. His gaze whipped to the bedroll.

Empty.

“Chung Myung?”

His heart slammed against his ribs. He turned.

Three figures. One of them pinned. One with a blade. One holding both wrists up—

And one of them, unmistakably, was his junior brother.

Beak Cheon’s blood ran cold. No questions. No second thoughts.

He stood with such force the grass shifted beneath his feet and reached for his blade, the steel flashing in the firelight.

“Step away from him,” he growled, voice low and shaking with fury. “Now.”

Chung Myung, still pinned, grinned despite the blood in his mouth. “Took you long enough.”

The night wind stilled.

And Beak Cheon’s sword gleamed, a warning—not just to the intruders, but to fate itself.

Because Mount Hua’s Divine Dragon was not going to fall. Not tonight.

Chapter Text

The only movement: the rise and fall of Chung Myung’s chest. The thrum of his fierce spark—like iron meeting fire.

The Divine Dragon may be exhausted.

But he was still alive.

And no blade, no command, no evil sect could take that away—not tonight, not with Beak Cheon standing in the dark, sword drawn, eyes ablaze—

Protecting his junior, his brother, his charge.

“Step away from him,” Beak Cheon growled, his sword now fully drawn, gleaming in the dying moonlight.

He was shaking—not out of fear, but from the mix of rage and the overwhelming sight before him.

Chung Myung.

Awake.

Awake, and smirking, even as he was pinned to a tree like some frail animal, his wrists bound above his head by one man’s arm, and the other holding a blade at his throat.

Beak Cheon’s chest felt tight, a knot of grief and guilt and awe.

He’s really awake.

But there was no time to marvel. He had to be a senior brother now—not the panicked mess inside him.

Chung Myung struggled to swallow, leaning forward, lowering his arms despite the pressure holding them up. He coughed again. Not blood this time—just sharp air—and his chest wobbled under the strain.

His resistance flickered. The amulet’s dark pull still held strong. Beak Cheon felt it—the ineffable tug of a pillar cracking beneath pressure. Everything balanced on those few ragged breaths.

He took a step forward.

“Let go!” he barked, voice steady and ice cold.

Chung Myung’s head dipped. Beak Cheon recognized the motion. He clenched his jaw, ready to strike… but just as he tensed—

The two cloaked intruders exchanged a look.

“Back off, little swordsman,” the one with the knife sneered. “We’re here on direct orders from our sect leader.”

“Oh no,” Chung Myung said, voice weak but still dripping sarcasm, “they brought the ‘direct orders’ card. I’m terrified.”

“Shut up,” the one holding him growled.

“No, really,” Chung Myung continued, “do you carry that scroll around in your pocket? Do you pull it out when you order dumplings too?”

Beak Cheon’s eye twitched. He’s taunting them. On purpose.

The bastard was stalling.

And somehow, that hit him harder than the panic—he was still Chung Myung. Even poisoned. Even nearly dead. Still grinning in the face of death just to give his brothers a chance.

And Beak Cheon missed him more than he could say.

“You don’t get it,” said the second man, the ruthless one, stepping forward. “Our sect leader wants him. Alive, if possible. Broken, if necessary. Either way—he’s ours.”

“You’re just mad I’m prettier than your sect leader,” Chung Myung wheezed. “It’s fine. Jealousy is natural.”

All the sarcasm and coughing finally roused the rest of the camp.

Jo Gul sat up groggily. “Who the hell is yelling?”

Yoon Jong, eyes adjusting quickly, scanned the scene. “Wait—Is that Chung Myung?!”

Everyone froze.

For a long, breathless moment, no one moved. Then every single disciple scrambled to their feet and ran toward the clearing.

“Let him go!” Yoon Jong shouted, drawing his blade.

“We don’t want to hurt anyone,” Yu Iseol said coldly, voice like steel on ice.

“Well, I do,” Jo Gul added, cracking his knuckles.

The man with the knife didn’t flinch. “Try anything, and we slit his throat.”

“Bad idea,” Jo Gul muttered to Beak Cheon. “Maybe we think this through.”
Beak Cheon was sweating now. His blade trembled slightly in his grip—not from fear, but from the absolute restraint he was forcing into his muscles.

Jo Gul crept closer to him, whispering, “Listen… we can split their attention. Yu Iseol goes left, I take right, Yoon Jong distracts from the center—”

Before he could finish, the man pinning Chung Myung yanked him upright.

The sudden movement made the boy groan, knees nearly buckling.

“Move and he dies,” the man shouted, dragging Chung Myung with one arm, the other still pressing the knife against his neck. He was taller—broader. Chung Myung looked impossibly thin next to him. But there was steel in the boy’s eyes even as he stumbled.

“Nice technique,” Chung Myung muttered. “You practice that on children often, or am I your first?”

Beak Cheon flinched.

They were losing him. Again.

The man began backing away, hauling Chung Myung by the arm, dragging his limping form into the woods.

“No,” Beak Cheon whispered. “No, no—”

“What do we do?” Jo Gul hissed.

“I can’t—I don’t have a shot—!” Yoon Jong’s voice cracked.

“We’ll hit Chung Myung if we go in,” Yu Iseol growled, teeth clenched. “We need a plan—fast.”

But no one moved. No one knew what to do.

And Chung Myung, breath shallow, eyes fierce, locked gazes with Beak Cheon as he was dragged away—

A message without words:

Don’t worry

Then a smirk tugged and Chung Myung’s lips.

They were all shouting ideas at once—Jo Gul barking about flanking them, Yoon Jong suggesting archers up ahead, even Fink piped in something wild about using his snack sticks as weapons. But Beak Cheon stood motionless, eyes fixed on the dark space where Chung Myung had vanished. He felt a shiver ripple through him at the memory of that look Chung Myung had given him—a quiet, fierce gaze that seemed to say: Don’t worry. It raised the hairs on his arms.

Then came the sounds—a shout, a clash of steel, the sickening thud of flesh against wood. Instinct pulled them all forward. They sprinted toward the noise, leaves crunching beneath their feet, adrenaline coursing through their veins.

They burst into a moonlit clearing and froze in awe.

Unarmed. Poisoned. Bleeding. And there stood Chung Myung, fists clenched raw and shaking, facing two sinister figures. With every strike aimed at him, he barely shifted—just enough to let his mind know where to send his body. His movements were slow, ragged, but precise. He dodged a slash, coughed, staggered, countered with a punch that would have fallen short if not for the flicker of his training.

Around him, Beak Cheon’s heart thundered. And something else—something stronger—burned in his chest. Pride. Hope. A vow.

Without hesitation, the disciples joined the fray.

Yoon Jong dived toward one assailant, parrying and stepping in. Jo Gul hurtled across the clearing, bringing his blade down in a sweeping arc. Yu Iseol strained through the open gap with silent, ruthless efficiency, cutting off retreat paths with a single sure motion.

Beak Cheon slid behind Chung Myung, shielding him. As the taller enemy swung a heavy strike, Beak Cheon ducked beneath it, drawing his sword and tapping the attacker’s elbow with precision—not to kill, but to protect. The blow sent the man staggering.

Chung Myung leaned forward, coughing another wet spatter. He managed a wry wheeze: “Still alive.”

“Good,” Beak Cheon replied quietly, sliding close enough to support him. A warmth blossomed in his chest—relief, joy, a fierce love so sharp it made his eyes sting. For the first time in months, he felt something settle inside him.

The others moved swiftly. Jo Gul subdued the second man and bound both wicked intruders before Dumak had time to protest. Yoon Jong and Yu Iseol tended to Chung Myung.

Beak Cheon knelt beside his junior brother, fingers gentle against weary bone. Chung Myung’s eyes fluttered halfway open, breathing momentarily calmer.

“Everything’s okay now,” Beak Cheon whispered.

Chung Myung’s lips curved in a faint, ragged smile.

In that moment, under moonlight and quiet exhales, the disciples felt something shift in their world.

While Yoon Jong knelt beside Chung Myung, adjusting the younger disciple’s robe to keep him warm, his hand brushed against something damp.

He frowned.

It was too wet. Too warm.

He squinted in the low light, bringing his fingers up for a closer look. Even in the pale shimmer of moonlight, the dark red smeared across his fingertips was unmistakable.

“Blood…” he breathed. “There’s a lot of it.”

Beak Cheon immediately snapped to attention. “What?”

Yoon Jong looked up, urgency rising in his voice. “Hyung, he’s bleeding—bad.”

Beak Cheon was at Chung Myung’s side in an instant, eyes scanning, hands already moving. His heart dropped when he touched the sticky warmth clinging to Chung Myung’s robe.

“Where’s it coming from?” he asked sharply. “What happened before we got here?”

Chung Myung, still crouched slightly with one arm clutched around his stomach, gave a crooked smirk. “What, you didn’t like the welcome party I arranged?”

“Don’t joke,” Beak Cheon snapped. “Tell us.”

But Chung Myung just clutched his side tighter, breathing through his nose.

Jo Gul and Yu Iseol exchanged looks, concern growing by the second.

Then, without warning, Chung Myung straightened up, took one step forward, and started walking off like it was just another night under the stars.

“Oh no, you don’t,” Beak Cheon growled, stepping forward. His hand reached out and grabbed Chung Myung’s wrist to stop him—only to feel the younger boy flinch, his breath catching sharply through clenched teeth.

Beak Cheon froze.

His grip loosened instantly.

“Damn it…” he muttered. “Those bastards—”

He could already see the faint marks where the cultist had crushed both of Chung Myung’s wrists against the tree. Bruises were beginning to rise like thunder beneath the skin.

“I’ll apologize later,” Beak Cheon muttered, voice low.

Then, with gentle but firm hands, he began peeling open Chung Myung’s robe.

The cloth resisted at first, stuck with blood—but it gave way, revealing an angry red wound across his side. It looked like a blade had slashed him across the stomach—not deep enough to be fatal, but deep enough to bleed a lot.

Jo Gul gasped.

Yoon Jong’s breath caught in his throat.

Yu Iseol’s eyes darkened with fury.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” she asked, voice quiet, but colder than ice.

Chung Myung didn’t answer.

Beak Cheon stared at the wound, his face twisting. “You stubborn idiot…”

Then he reached forward to pick him up, already bracing him by the back—but Chung Myung stepped back, face twitching in irritation.

“I can walk on my own,” he said. “I’m not a baby.”

Beak Cheon blinked.

Then he sighed, dragging a hand down his face.

“Oh right,” he muttered. “I forgot.”

“Forgot what?” Jo Gul asked.

Beak Cheon looked up, defeated and exhausted, but with the ghost of a smile on his lips.

“How impossibly stubborn he is.”

Still… his gaze flicked back to the wound. His chest ached with concern. It was serious—and they couldn’t afford to ignore it.

The warmth he’d felt only moments ago was still there—but now it came with dread. He had his junior back, yes.

But for how long?

As Chung Myung tugged his robe back into place with all the dignity he could muster after Beak Cheon had practically ripped it off, he muttered, “You’re nice and all, but you’re not my type.”

Beak Cheon blinked, taken aback. “What—?”

But Chung Myung was already walking ahead, hands folded neatly behind his back in that same posture he always had when he strolled around Mount Hua like he owned the place. The sight hit Beak Cheon like a nostalgic punch to the chest.

He’d done that a thousand times before.

Now, as they walked, Beak Cheon deliberately stayed just behind him, half to keep an eye on his balance and half to catch him if he fell—which, judging by the slight limp and uneven breath, wasn’t out of the question.

“Those guys,” Beak Cheon said quietly, “the ones who attacked you—were they from the evil sect?”

Chung Myung didn’t stop walking. He answered with his usual composure, as if this wasn’t their first real conversation since his collapse. “Obviously. Who else wears black robes in the middle of the night and smells like disappointment?”

“So there’ll be more,” Beak Cheon said.

“There’s always more,” Chung Myung replied. “The ones we beat won’t exactly be reporting back, so they’ll send others to find out what happened.”

Beak Cheon nodded, biting his lip. He had a dozen more questions and barely enough time to ask them. Who were they exactly? What were they after? What did they want with him?

He looked at Chung Myung’s back and took the chance. “Do you think the amulet’s weakening? Is that how you’re staying… yourself?”

Chung Myung glanced over his shoulder and grinned faintly. “It’s not weakening. I’m just more annoying than it is.”

That made Beak Cheon chuckle under his breath. “Sounds about right.”

“You’re worried.”

“I am your senior.”

“You act like it.”

That line, somehow, calmed Beak Cheon more than anything else. It meant Chung Myung was still in there—still witty, still sharp, still himself.

He was about to ask more when Yu Iseol cut in from behind them, her voice like a steel whisper. “Don’t overwhelm him.”

Chung Myung didn’t miss a beat. “I’m fine.”

But none of them believed it. Not fully.

When they arrived back at camp, the fire had burned low, casting long shadows over sleeping forms. Beak Cheon moved forward to prep Chung Myung’s bed—but Chung Myung’s eyes snapped to one particular shape slumped near the fire.

Dumak.

Sleeping. Snoring.

Peaceful.

The smile on Chung Myung’s face vanished.

He stared, unblinking.

And then?

All hell broke loose.

They gathered in a rough circle around the campfire, the orange glow warming their faces and softening the night’s edge. Chung Myung sat in the middle, cross legged and surprisingly steady, the center of something that had almost lightened the dark for the first time in too long. His eyes—though dull with fever—carried that spark again. That spark they knew.

Beak Cheon, Yoon Jong, and Yu Iseol worked methodically beside him, cleaning and re-bandaging his side wound with practiced care. Every so often, Chung Myung would cough—more dry than violent now—but each cough made them flinch, eyes flicking nervously.

Jo Gul cracked a joke about Chung Myung’s coughing being “his signature solo act.” Fink choked on a grunt, nearly dropping his tea bowl. Even the fire seemed to crackle in amusement.

They laughed—almost like old times. Like nothing had ever nearly killed them all. Like the world outside hadn’t tried to break them that very night.

Chung Myung sniffed and tapped ash from the fire to his bowl, eyes flicking between them all. When Yoon Jong’s fingers lingered too close to the wound, or Beak Cheon’s brow furrowed with concern, Chung Myung waved a dismissive hand.

“Relax,” he said, voice hoarse but steady. “Stop looking at me like I’m made of glass. I’m basically invincible. Right?”

Their laughter shifted, softer now, more affectionate. Yoon Jong gently wrapped a fresh strip of cloth. Beak Cheon smeared herbal salve. Yu Iseol quietly cleaned stray blood from his forehead.

Chung Myung cleared his throat. “Seriously though… can someone pass the roast? Unless you want to feed me stuff in syringe form.”

Jo Gul rolled his eyes only half-heartedly and handed him the skewered meat. Chung Myung bit, chewing slowly, eyes fluttering as the flavor hit his tongue. For a moment, he looked like himself again—not the boy bound by amulet or poison, but the swordsman they all counted on.

They settled back into easy conversation—old stories, new laughs—while Chung Myung ate in silence, occasionally sipping broth from a wooden bowl. Each time he swallowed without coughing, a cheer rose up.

They relaxed.

The fire crackled low.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, no one spoke of curses, of amulets, of sects or hatred.

They just existed.

Together.

Under the smoke-scented sky.

For now, that alone was enough.

They stirred awake to the sound of voices, half-conscious and bleary eyed around the campfire. Chung Myung sat apart, rigid and silent, drenched in sweat and starlight. Dumak yawned, rolling onto his side with irritated sluggishness. “Are we—really doing this now? I didn’t hear a thing last night.”

His gaze drifted and landed on Chung Myung — and froze.

Dumak’s sleepy expression contorted into shock.

Chung Myung’s eyes were terrifying. Not colorless. Not empty. Sharp. Piercing. Full of menace. The firelight flickered dark shadows across his hollow cheeks, illuminating a calm fury.

“Look who’s awake,” he spat, voice low and deadly.

Dumak stammered, “Is that… Sword Guy?” His tone tried to be mocking—but his knees shook.

“My name is Chung Myung. Learn it,” came the reply, icily controlled.

Relief flickered across Dumak’s face when he saw the amulet still around Chung Myung’s neck. He was not free. He still had power—to suppress, to command. But Chung Myung’s next words burned sharper than any blade:

“You’re only delaying the inevitable. You will pay… and soon learn who you truly messed with.”

Fear rooted Dumak to the spot—he turned pale, hands clenching.

“You don’t know me… I—”

Chung Myung interrupted, voice razor clear:

“Hwi.”

The name was a blade. Dumak’s face went white. Memories flashed—Hwi, the only man brave enough to confront Dumak first. The man Dumak forced Chung Myung to kill with the amulet’s compulsion. A lifeless body in the woods…

“You made me kill Hwi.”

Dumak’s body trembled. Behind him, Fink’s gasp had echoes of horror; Yoon Jong, Jo Gul, and Yu Iseol’s faces turned hard with rage.

Chung Myung rose, the wounds in his ribs and side making him sway. But he stood anyway. Every breath held intention. Death was in his gaze.

“Even if you flee to the ends of the earth… I will find you. I *will kill y—”

He stopped. Dumak’s eyes bulged. He collapsed silently into the dirt.

Chung Myung’s eyes darkened. The blade of hatred vanished suddenly—a flicker of the blank, overshadowing obedience returned.

Beak Cheon rushed forward, heart pounding. He knelt beside his brother, dread in his chest, his sword’s point buried deep in the broken soil.

“It… it’s got him again,” Beak Cheon whispered, voice thick with grief.

Silence swallowed them. Dumak lay shaking. And around the cold, empty stare of Chung Myung, the disciples understood this terrible truth:

They had finally found their Divine Dragon—but they had not saved him.
Morning crept in with a pale, cold light. The fire had long since burned down to embers, and the camp was quiet—except for the faint rasp of breathing from Chung Myung.

He hadn’t slept. Not once.

Beak Cheon had been watching him through the night, seeing the small, barely noticeable twitches in his fingers, the way his gaze stayed distant—focused somewhere far beyond their camp. The amulet’s hold was back, but not absolute. That stubborn spark in him was still fighting… and that was both a relief and a curse.

Because it meant no rest. No recovery. And the stab wound in his abdomen—angry and swollen—was only making things worse.

None of them were healers. All they could do was clean it, stitch it, and keep it bound tight. The only silver lining? The amulet’s control meant Chung Myung didn’t resist. No sarcastic remarks. No smacking their hands away. No pretending he “was fine.”

And Beak Cheon hated it.

As he carried Chung Myung toward the wagon, carefully avoiding the worst bumps in the road, Dumak followed like a shadow, yapping in his ear.

“Everyone here hates me, you know. The tension’s unbearable. They glare at me like I’m the villain!”

Beak Cheon didn’t answer.

“And another thing—I need a proper drink. Not that watery garbage you’ve got. Oh, and pillows. I can’t sleep without enough pillows.”

Still, Beak Cheon said nothing, tucking Chung Myung in with quiet efficiency—blankets, water, everything within reach. The only sound from his junior was the faint, uneven rhythm of his breathing.

Beak Cheon’s eyes lingered on the wound under the bandages. He could only guess at the pain Chung Myung was in, but last night… he’d hidden it perfectly while speaking to them.

The thought landed like a stone in his chest. What else has he been hiding from us?

When everything was settled, he crouched beside the wagon.

“You need sleep,” he murmured.

Chung Myung’s half-lidded gaze flicked toward him, unfocused but still stubborn. Beak Cheon tried brushing his hand lightly over Chung Myung’s eyes, coaxing them closed. They stayed shut for barely a heartbeat before fluttering open again.

He tried again. And again. Same result.

Frustration crept in, but he swallowed it. They’d already fed him. What he needed now was rest—real rest—but the amulet’s grip kept him unnervingly alert.

From the fire, Yu Iseol’s voice cut through the background noise.

“Dumak. Shut up.”

The words landed like a blade in the still morning air. Dumak’s mouth snapped shut, more in shock than obedience.

And, just like that, Chung Myung’s eyes slid closed. His breathing evened out almost instantly.

Beak Cheon stared at him in disbelief. Jo Gul, who’d been watching from the side, chuckled quietly.

“Relatable,” he muttered. “Happens to me all the time.”

Beak Cheon didn’t laugh. He just sat there a little longer, watching over him like he had all night, and wishing it didn’t feel like guarding a flickering candle from the wind.

Now that Dumak’s mouth was shut, Beak Cheon noticed something. Chung Myung’s breathing was harsher—more labored than before. The sound of it made his chest tighten with worry.

He reached for Chung Myung’s wrist, checking his pulse. It was fast, too fast. His palm brushed against skin that was far too warm. Sweat dampened the back of his neck, and when Beak Cheon looked closer, he caught the faint tremor running through Chung Myung’s hand.

Chills.

Leaning in, he pressed his forehead lightly against Chung Myung’s. The heat radiating from him confirmed it. When he pulled back, he noticed something else—pale, cracked lips.

Dehydration.

From the side, Yoon Jong’s voice broke the silence.
“What’s wrong?”

Beak Cheon didn’t take his eyes off Chung Myung as he answered.
“High fever. His pulse is racing. He’s sweating, shivering… lips are pale and cracked.” He swallowed. “I think he’s got it bad.”

Yoon Jong and Jo Gul scrambled into the cart, both checking for themselves, both wearing the same growing look of denial that slowly bled into fear.

“This… this isn’t the amulet,” Jo Gul muttered. “It’s not in its nature to do this.”

“The wound,” Yoon Jong said quietly. “It’s probably infected. We stitched it wrong.”

The realization sat heavy between them. None of them spoke for a moment, the only sound the uneven, tired breaths from the boy lying before them. His eyes were half-lidded, and each inhale seemed like it took more effort than the last.

Guilt settled like a stone in all of their stomachs.

Beak Cheon dipped a cloth into the nearest bucket of water and wrung it out before placing it gently on Chung Myung’s forehead.

“We need to get him a doctor,” he said, his voice low but firm.

Everyone was walking, voices overlapping as they tossed out ideas.

“We could try pushing harder, maybe reach the village before nightfall—”

“That’ll kill the ox before we even get there, idiot.”

“What about sending someone ahead?”

“And leave the rest of us vulnerable? Are you out of your mind?”

The arguing looped endlessly, no real solution in sight. The next village was a day away, and even if they somehow got there, how were they supposed to find a doctor who could handle something like this? No—taking him straight to Mount Hua was the only real choice.

Beak Cheon sat in the cart, leaning against the wooden side beside Chung Myung. His brows were drawn together, frustration carved into his face. His eyes drifted to the boy lying there.

“How the hell do you always know what to do in situations like this?” he muttered under his breath, half talking to himself, half to the unconscious form. “You’re supposed to be the reckless one, not the—”

A sudden, muffled string of words cut him off.

“…Shit… bastard… damn it, son of a—ugh—fucking hell, what the—”

Beak Cheon’s head snapped around. Chung Myung was awake.

Relief hit him so hard it almost knocked the wind out of him. His face lit up like every problem in the world had just evaporated. “He’s awake! He’s awake!”

The others rushed over instantly, their expressions mirroring Beak Cheon’s as they crowded the cart.

“Are you okay?” Jo Gul leaned in.

“How are you feeling?” Yoon Jong asked quickly.

Chung Myung’s voice came out hoarse, thin. “Can’t… move my body. Can barely lift my own hand.” His lips twitched into a smirk. “Never felt this weak before.”

For him, it was casual—a simple observation. For the rest of them, it was like someone had just poured ice water down their spines.

If he was like this, what did that mean for the rest of them? Normally, they had Chung Myung standing behind them, the unshakable wall that would step in when things got overwhelming. Without that… any one of them could die before they reached home.

Beak Cheon swallowed, pushing the thought aside. “What should I do?”

Chung Myung’s gaze shifted toward him, and even in his state, there was a flicker of sharpness there. “You already know. Protect them. Keep them alive. Doesn’t matter if you’re scared, doesn’t matter if you think you’ll fail—your job’s to make sure they walk out of whatever hell’s coming next. And if you have to break yourself to do it…” He gave a faint smirk. “Then break. That’s what it means to lead.”

A lump formed in Beak Cheon’s throat, but he forced a grin. “You know I’m the senior brother, right? You can put your trust in me. I’ll protect them. I’ll keep them safe.”

The others smiled at the exchange. Even Chung Myung, pale and feverish, let a small, genuine smile touch his lips.

Suddenly, Chung Myung flinched, the sharp jerk in his body too raw to hide.

Beak Cheon’s head snapped toward him immediately. “What’s wrong?”

“…Nothing,” Chung Myung muttered, voice thin, brushing it off like it was nothing more than a passing ache. But his hand moved—slow, trembling—trying to reach toward Beak Cheon.

Without thinking, Beak Cheon took it, gripping tight. Or… at least, he tried to. Chung Myung’s fingers were so weak that it felt like he was holding air.

Between ragged, uneven breaths, sweat streaking down his pale face, Chung Myung forced the words out. “I… can’t do it anymore.”

The wagon went still.

Nobody spoke, the weight of his voice sinking deep before he continued, each word sounding heavier. “This… might be the last time we can talk… with the amulet still on. I can’t fight it anymore. I just… can’t.”

Beak Cheon’s heart stopped cold in his chest.

Jo Gul and Yoon Jong exchanged a look, panic flickering in their eyes. Yu Iseol didn’t waste a second—her hand shot out, grabbing Dumak by the collar and dragging him forward. She slammed him down beside Chung Myung, her voice like ice. “Remove it. Now.”

Dumak’s lip curled, his voice dripping with childish spite. “No.”

Chung Myung’s gaze locked onto him—cold, unblinking—and then, a slow smirk spread across his face.

Dumak froze. His skin prickled, a chill crawling down his spine. Without a word, he tore himself free and scurried back to the farthest corner of the wagon.

Turning back to Beak Cheon, Chung Myung spoke again, sarcasm laced in his voice. “Oh… I forgot to tell you. There’s another way to get the amulet off. But…” His lips twitched, “…it’s a bit risky to attempt.”

Beak Cheon leaned forward, desperate. “Tell me.”

But before the words could come, Chung Myung doubled over, coughing violently—wet, bloody. His hand slipped from Beak Cheon’s grasp, hanging limp.

“Hey—hey, stay with me,” Beak Cheon urged, catching his chest and patting gently, trying to help the blood come up.

The coughing didn’t stop. It came in ragged bursts, tangled with gasps for air.

The others snapped into motion instantly—grabbing cloths, holding him steady, trying to keep him breathing as the dark stains spread across his lips.

Chung Myung’s coughing didn’t stop. It wasn’t like before—short, sharp bursts that faded after a moment—this was deeper, heavier, each one rattling through his chest like it was tearing something inside him apart.

Gathering whatever strength he had left, he shifted, forcing himself over onto his stomach. The wet towel on his forehead slid off and hit the wagon floor with a dull thud, forgotten. His body shook with every cough, the sound wet and raw.

Beak Cheon’s pulse spiked. “Yoon Jong—water! Jo Gul—get more cloths! Yu Iseol—keep Dumak away from him!” He barked the orders without thinking, his eyes locked on Chung Myung.

He leaned down, voice low but urgent. “What’s wrong? Talk to me, Chung Myung—what’s wrong?”

But there was no answer.

Chung Myung’s head swayed weakly from side to side, his eyes barely open. His breathing was shallow, and a faint groan escaped him before his lips tightened in pain. He looked dizzy—like the world was spinning under him—and the strain on his face told Beak Cheon he was fighting a pounding headache on top of everything else.

“Stay with me,” Beak Cheon urged, voice rising. “Hey—look at me! You have to stay awake! Tell me what you were about to say!”

But his words didn’t reach him.

Chung Myung’s eyes slid shut. His body slackened, all tension draining away as he collapsed, going limp on the wooden wagon floor.

Beak Cheon sat frozen, staring down at Chung Myung’s limp body in his arms. His mind refused to catch up with what had just happened. The words still echoed like a curse inside his skull—“I can’t fight it anymore.”

That wasn’t Chung Myung. Chung Myung didn’t say things like that. He was the one who never faltered, the one who’d grin with blood running down his face and tell them they were the ones being dramatic. For him to admit defeat, even for a moment—it chilled Beak Cheon to his bones.

Jo Gul broke the silence first, his voice trembling. “He… he didn’t mean it. Right? He was just saying that because of the fever and the pain. Right?”

No one answered.

Yoon Jong’s fists were clenched so tight his knuckles turned white. “No. That wasn’t pain talking.” He looked at Beak Cheon, his voice grave. “It’s not that Chung Myung doesn’t want to fight it anymore… he can’t. The amulet—it’s adapting to him.”

Beak Cheon’s eyes snapped to him. “Adapting?”

Yoon Jong nodded grimly. “Think about it. He’s lasted longer than anyone should have, but the amulet isn’t just forcing itself on him anymore—it’s learning him, molding itself around him until it becomes… natural. It’s swallowing him whole. His consciousness, his will, everything.”

The words struck all of them like a hammer. Even Yu Iseol’s expression faltered, her eyes flicking to Chung Myung’s pale face before quickly darting away, as though she couldn’t bear to look.

Jo Gul shook his head violently, as if trying to shake off the thought. “No, no, no! That’s insane. This is Chung Myung we’re talking about. He’s like a cockroach—you can’t kill him, you can’t break him. He’ll be laughing at us in a few hours saying ‘what, you thought I was dying? Idiots!’”

But even his attempt at humor was hollow, his voice cracking in the middle.

Beak Cheon’s jaw clenched. He brushed a trembling hand through Chung Myung’s damp hair and whispered, half to himself, half to the unconscious boy, “Then how in the world did you last this long?”

Silence fell over the cart, heavy and suffocating. Each of them knew the answer, even if they didn’t want to say it: stubbornness. Stubbornness and a will so unbreakable it defied belief. But even that had limits.

Finally, Yu Iseol broke the silence, her tone cutting through like a blade. “We can’t waste any more time. The next village is too far. We head straight for Mount Hua.”

Beak Cheon looked up, his face hardening. “Agreed.”

Jo Gul groaned, rubbing his temples. “Fantastic. Because hauling an unconscious Chung Myung through the wilderness isn’t hard enough already, now we’re going to sprint across half the damned province with a lunatic strapped to a wagon. Perfect plan. Love it.”

“Do you have a better idea?” Yoon Jong snapped, more harshly than he meant to.

Jo Gul opened his mouth, then shut it with a frustrated sigh. “No, I just like complaining.”

“Then shut it and push,” Yu Iseol said flatly.

Far away, under a sky bruised with storm clouds, the Evil Sect stirred.

An army moved, stretching across the horizon like a black tide. Their banners snapped in the wind—crimson cloth torn and frayed, painted with grotesque symbols of blood and fangs. The ground trembled under the march of boots, horses, and wagons carrying weapons of war.

At the front rode a figure in heavy black armor, his face hidden by a snarling mask. He raised a hand, and the army slowed, eyes fixed ahead at the mountain range in the distance.

“Mount Hua,” he said, his voice cold and sharp as steel. “The sect that dares to meddle in our affairs.”

One of his lieutenants, a wiry man with a crooked grin and eyes too bright to be sane, laughed. “I almost feel bad for them. Almost. They’ll be wiped out before they even understand what hit them.”

Another sneered, cracking his knuckles. “Hah! Let me at them first. I’ll crush their disciples one by one, make their master watch.”

The armored leader turned his head slightly, silencing them with a glance. “Do not underestimate them. Mount Hua has resisted us before. They will fight desperately to the last man.” He paused, then his voice dropped, darker, more venomous. “And I want to see their despair when even their so-called prodigy can do nothing against us.”

The lieutenant chuckled. “Ah, yes. The divine dragon. I’m actually looking forward to meeting him, even under these circumstances.”

The leader’s gaze flickered toward the distant mountains, his voice a low murmur. “Chung Myung.”

The name lingered in the air like a curse, carried by the wind toward Mount Hua.

And as the black tide rolled forward, Mount Hua’s disciples, still clinging to their unconscious brother, had no idea that a storm unlike any before was racing toward them.

Chung Myung never woke after that. His body lay unnervingly still, his chest rising and falling so faintly that more than once Beak Cheon thought it had stopped altogether. It was too quiet, too wrong—Chung Myung was supposed to complain, curse, or glare at them whenever they hovered like this. But now… nothing.

Beak Cheon sat pressed against him in the cart, one hand constantly on Chung Myung’s chest. His palm rose and fell with every shallow breath, and every time he felt the faint rhythm, a shred of relief washed over him. But just as quickly came the dread: what if it stopped? His other hand worked restlessly, brushing damp strands of hair off Chung Myung’s sweat-slick forehead, adjusting the blanket around him again and again even when it didn’t need fixing. He kept patting lightly at his chest—not hard enough to wake him, but enough to remind himself, he’s still breathing, he’s still here.

Jo Gul finally broke the silence, his voice edged with nerves. “This is creepy. He hasn’t moved in hours. He usually at least twitches, or insults us, or… I don’t know, something.”

“Don’t say it like that,” Yoon Jong snapped, though his own face was pale. “He’s… resting. He needs it.”

Jo Gul shot him a nervous glance. “Resting? He looks like he’s halfway to the afterlife. You call that resting?”

“Shut up.” Beak Cheon’s tone was flat, his eyes never leaving Chung Myung. His thumb brushed across the boy’s collarbone, feeling the heat radiating off him. Too much heat. Fever still climbing.

Yu Iseol had been quiet, watching from the side, but now she spoke in her calm, cutting voice. “Beak Cheon.”

He glanced at her quickly, almost defensively. “What?”

“You’re shaking.”

Beak Cheon looked down and saw it—his hand trembling as it rested on Chung Myung’s chest. He swallowed hard but didn’t pull away. “…If I stop, I won’t know if he’s still breathing.”

Jo Gul muttered under his breath, trying for levity but failing. “Yeah, that’s comforting. Let’s all just stare at him and wait for him to keel over. Wonderful plan.”

Yoon Jong shot him a glare. “Enough, Jo Gul. If you can’t be useful, then—”

“No, let him talk.” Beak Cheon’s voice was tired, raw. His eyes stayed fixed on the weak rise and fall of Chung Myung’s chest. “…If we don’t keep talking, the only sound left is his breathing. And it’s too damn faint.”

For a long moment, none of them said anything, the truth of his words weighing heavy over them. Then Jo Gul let out a shaky laugh. “Fine. Talking it is. Who wants to start?”

Yu Iseol only gave him a cold look.

“…Right. Not you,” Jo Gul muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. He glanced at Chung Myung. “Hey, sword lunatic, you better not be pulling some twisted joke on us. If you wake up later and say, ‘oh, you should’ve seen your faces,’ I’ll strangle you myself.”

Beak Cheon’s hand stilled for a heartbeat—then he pressed down slightly, reassuring himself as he felt a weak, shallow breath against his palm. “…Still here,” he whispered, more to himself than anyone else.

Yoon Jong let out a quiet sigh. “We need to make it to Mount Hua. Fast. If anyone can save him, it’s the elders.”

Beak Cheon nodded, his voice low and hoarse. “Then we don’t stop. No matter what.”

He shifted closer, leaning his forehead briefly against Chung Myung’s temple, as if to anchor himself. “…Just hold on. You don’t get to leave us like this. Not without a fight.”

Chapter Text

Little did they know, that faint whisper—idiots—was the last sound they would hear from Chung Myung for a very long time. It was like a flame’s final flare before being snuffed out, a last breath of warmth before the cold silence settled. If you had told the Five Swords beforehand—before the amulet, before the collapse—that this would be the case, they would have laughed in your face. They would have told you Chung Myung was indestructible, unshakable, the kind of person who’d still be bickering at the world while the heavens fell around him.

 

But no one was laughing now.

 

The air in the cart was thick with tension, every creak of the wheels and groan of the wood magnified against the silence where Chung Myung’s voice should have been. Beak Cheon’s hand hadn’t left his chest, his thumb still moving in an unconscious rhythm to make sure the boy’s breathing didn’t fade completely.

 

And Dumak had had enough.

 

With a loud huff, he shoved himself off the side of the cart, stomping toward the unconscious Chung Myung. The boards shuddered beneath his weight, the wagon trembling lightly. Instantly, every disciple moved. Beak Cheon’s eyes snapped up like a hawk’s, Yoon Jong’s hand went for his sword, Yu Iseol’s posture stiffened like a drawn bowstring, and Jo Gul’s blade was already half drawn.

 

“If you so much as touch him…” Jo Gul’s voice was low, dangerous, his blade angled toward Dumak’s throat.

 

But Dumak didn’t touch Chung Myung. Instead, he turned abruptly and jumped down from the wagon, landing hard in the dirt with a thud that made the cart bounce.

 

“Careful!” Beak Cheon and Yoon Jong barked at once, panic flashing in their voices. Beak Cheon’s hands instantly checked Chung Myung again, leaning close to feel his shallow breaths.

 

Dumak dusted himself off, glaring at them all. “Tch. You lot care more about that brat bouncing than you do about me. I’m done with this.”

 

Jo Gul’s eyes narrowed. He slid fully out of the cart, blade pointing at Dumak with cold precision. “Where do you think you’re going?”

 

“Anywhere that’s not here,” Dumak snapped. “I’ve had enough of your glares, enough of your threats, and enough of watching you dote on him like some helpless baby. I’m leaving.”

 

“No, you’re not,” Jo Gul said firmly, stepping closer.

 

“I am,” Dumak insisted, baring his teeth. “Keep your precious Chung Myung. You seem to think he’s worth more than anyone else anyway. Fine. But don’t expect me to sit here like a dog while you all ignore me.”

 

“Remove the amulet,” Yoon Jong said sharply, his voice laced with authority. “If you want to leave, then do it without dragging that cursed thing with you.”

 

Dumak’s face twisted. “Remove it? Are you insane?! The second it comes off, that monster will slit my throat without blinking. I’m not suicidal!”

 

“You mean you don’t trust him,” Yu Iseol said, her tone quiet, almost cold.

 

“I mean I know him!” Dumak shot back. “He’ll kill me. You think he won’t? He’s been itching for it from the start!”

 

For once, none of the disciples could argue. The truth hung between them, heavy and bitter. Even Beak Cheon, who wanted to shout that it wasn’t true, couldn’t. Not with the memory of Chung Myung’s eyes, half-glazed with fury under the amulet’s influence, still fresh in his mind.

 

But they were desperate. And Dumak was their only lead.

 

Beak Cheon’s mind wandered, unbidden, back to Chung Myung’s last words before he collapsed. There is another way… He had said it—his lips forming the shape of the promise before his body betrayed him. Another way to remove the amulet. But what? How? Why didn’t he finish? The questions gnawed at Beak Cheon’s chest until his heart thudded painfully against his ribs.

 

He could only stare helplessly at the boy’s pale, sweat-soaked face.

 

“Beak Cheon,” Yoon Jong’s voice snapped him back.

 

The senior disciple looked up to see Jo Gul and Yoon Jong tying Dumak’s arms, ropes wound tight around his wrists. Yu Iseol stood nearby, silent but sharp-eyed, watching Dumak like he might explode.

 

“What are you doing?” Beak Cheon demanded, his voice low but tense.

 

“Keeping him in the cart,” Jo Gul said simply, tugging the knot tighter. Dumak hissed, struggling.

 

“You can’t just—” Beak Cheon began.

 

“Yes, we can,” Yoon Jong cut him off. His tone was uncharacteristically hard. “If he runs, we lose our only chance. And we can’t afford to chase him down again. If we’re forced to leave Chung Myung behind for even a moment, he won’t make it. We can’t risk that.”

 

“Exactly,” Jo Gul added, shoving Dumak back onto the cart with no ceremony. “He stays. Tied. Quiet.”

 

Dumak struggled, teeth bared. “You self-righteous bastards! You’re all insane! Do you really think tying me up like an animal will solve your problems?!”

 

“Yes,” Yu Iseol said. Just one word, but her eyes cut him deep enough to silence his rant for a moment.

 

“Unbelievable,” Dumak muttered, thrashing in the ropes. “This is abuse! I’ll sue you all when this is over! I’ll—”

 

“Shut up,” Jo Gul snapped, pressing the flat of his sword against Dumak’s thigh, not cutting, but enough to warn. “Or I’ll gag you. Again.”

 

Dumak froze, eyeing the blade, then slumped dramatically against the wagon floor. “Monsters. All of you. Heartless, cruel monsters.”

 

“Good,” Jo Gul muttered. “At least you’re quiet.”

 

The wagon rattled on. Beak Cheon turned back to Chung Myung, adjusting the damp cloth on his forehead. His hand lingered, brushing damp hair away from the boy’s face. The silence weighed heavy until Jo Gul broke it.

 

“Senior brother,” he said softly, his eyes flicking to Chung Myung. “What do we do if he doesn’t wake up again?”

 

Beak Cheon didn’t answer. His throat tightened too much for words. Instead, he whispered only to the boy lying still before him: “You’ll wake up. You always do.”

 

And in the back of the cart, Dumak muttered under his breath, “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

 

Would you like me to continue next with them finally reaching a village, or build more tension inside the cart with Chung Myung’s condition worsening before then?

 

Inside the wagon the air was heavy—thick with dust, sweat, and the constant scraping sound of wheels on uneven ground. But the weight of silence pressed harder than anything else. It wasn’t the silence of peace, nor even of exhaustion. It was the silence of fear—fear that the boy lying between them might never open his eyes again.

 

Beak Cheon sat cross-legged, leaning over a small pot of herbs he had mashed together. The crude poultice didn’t look like much, and the smell was sharp enough to sting his nose, but it was all he could manage with what little they had on hand. His hands worked automatically, mixing, grinding, muttering half to himself, half to the boy who wouldn’t answer.

 

Next to him, Yu Iseol hadn’t moved for what felt like hours. She didn’t fidget, didn’t blink, didn’t let her eyes leave Chung Myung’s face. Her stillness was almost unnerving—it was like she’d become part of the wagon itself, steady and unshakable, her focus bound entirely to the unconscious disciple.

 

Without a word, she reached forward. Her finger brushed against his open palm. His hand was restless, twitching, fingers spasming every few seconds as though some unseen force was trying to pull them in different directions. Slowly, as if guided by instinct, his trembling hand closed around her finger. With a faintest squeeze.

 

Beak Cheon caught sight of it out of the corner of his eye. And he let out a deep chuckle, unexpected and quiet, but warm despite everything. “he probably thinks you’re a sword.”

 

But the fragile moment broke almost instantly.

 

Chung Myung’s body trembled suddenly, a shudder running down his frame. His face twisted in pain, a low breath caught in his throat. His fingers slipped from Yu Iseol’s, drifting upward to his own neck. His nails scratched against his skin.

 

Yu Iseol’s brows drew together, her frown sharp. She caught his hand firmly before he could dig deeper, holding it in place.

 

Beak Cheon turned, searching for the source of the sudden tremor that had triggered him. His eyes landed on Dumak. The fat moocher was thrashing against the ropes, his thick belly jiggling with every squirm, his legs kicking weakly against the boards. The whole cart creaked under his struggling.

 

“Stop moving so much!” Beak Cheon snapped, his voice low but edged with raw anger. “You’re shaking the whole wagon!”

 

Dumak froze for half a heartbeat—then smirked. “Oh? So you do notice me.” He leaned back dramatically, wiggling his shoulders like a child testing his bonds. “Then since you’ve got so much attention to spare, Beak Cheon, fetch me some water. I’m parched.”

 

Beak Cheon glared at him, his lips pressed tight.

 

“And while you’re at it,” Dumak continued, rocking himself side to side so the cart squeaked even louder, “adjust these ropes. They’re cutting into my wrists. Ah, and a cushion! My poor back will snap in half before long. Not that any of you care.” He rolled his eyes exaggeratedly.

 

Jo Gul, already on edge, yanked his sword an inch from its sheath. “Say another word and I’ll make sure you don’t need wrists to complain about.”

 

“Oh, scary, scary!” Dumak mocked, puffing his cheeks like a child. “You’re all so violent. Remember who’s in charge, one word from me and I can make the boy snap!”

 

“Shut your mouth,” Yoon Jong growled, his usual calm frayed thin. “Every time you open it, the world becomes a worse place.”

 

“Oh, what poetry!” Dumak laughed, rocking his bulk side to side again so the whole cart jolted. Chung Myung let out a low groan, his face tightening in pain. Yu Iseol’s grip on his hand tightened.

 

That was all it took for Beak Cheon to snap. He surged forward, eyes blazing. “Enough!” His voice cracked like a whip, silencing even Jo Gul’s sword. “If you move this cart again, if you so much as breathe too loudly, Dumak, I swear I will throw you off and let the wheels do the rest.”

 

For once, Dumak faltered, eyes widening at the fury blazing in Beak Cheon’s face. He opened his mouth, then closed it, puffing out his cheeks instead. With a huff, he slumped back against the boards, muttering just loud enough for them to hear: “Fine pretty boy, but you’ll regret it.”

 

Beak Cheon ignored him, turning back. His hands were gentle again, steady as he helped Yu Iseol keep Chung Myungs hands from scraping at his neck.

 

For the faintest moment, the cart quieted again. The wheels groaned, the horses clopped, the wind brushed through. And the Five Swords sat there, fear hidden under anger, hope hidden under silence.

 

The days bled together into one long, sleepless haze. By the second night, the tension inside the group had grown unbearable. The sun had long since set, and the forest around them was quiet except for the chirping of crickets and the occasional rustle of leaves. A small fire burned in their hastily built camp, throwing uneven light on their tired faces. But their gazes weren’t on the fire.

 

They were all gathered around Chung Myung, who still lay on his side, pale and motionless, his breaths shallow and uneven. The boy who could tear armies apart with a flick of his sword now looked like he might vanish if the wind blew too hard.

 

Dumak, of course, had wasted no time making himself known. He sat on a bundle of supplies, tied wrists resting lazily on his belly, barking out demands as if he were the sect leader himself.

 

“Oi, you with the serious face,” he called out to Yoon Jong, pointing his chin at him. “Fetch me some more roasted chestnuts. My throat’s dry. And you—” he swung his head toward Jo Gul, “put some honey on them, yeah? I deserve at least that much.”

 

Jo Gul’s sword twitched in its sheath. “The only thing you deserve is a gag.”

 

Dumak grinned wide, wiggling his eyebrows. “Careful, Junior Brother. If I get upset, maybe I’ll get clumsy and loosen this amulet right here.” He nodded toward Chung Myung’s still body. “Then what happens, eh?”

 

That shut them all up, the fire popping loudly in the silence that followed. Even Jo Gul’s hand froze on his sword. The threat was too real, and Dumak knew it. He leaned back smugly, humming to himself while Beak Cheon fought to calm his shaking hands.

 

A little later, when Dumak finally grew quiet, the Five Swords gathered close to Chung Myung. The firelight flickered over his sweat-streaked face. His lips were cracked, his skin warm to the touch, but he didn’t stir.

 

Beak Cheon pressed a damp cloth to his forehead again and sighed. “This isn’t working. Nothing’s working.”

 

“What else have you tried?” Yoon Jong asked, his voice soft but strained.

 

Beak Cheon rubbed at his temple. “I’ve cooled his forehead with wet towels, I’ve fanned him, I even tried massaging the points along his meridians—his qi’s a mess. It’s like something’s fighting me at every step.”

 

“Maybe he needs medicine,” Jo Gul suggested quickly. “Like—like some ginseng, or… or at least some herbs to clear heat? Anything.”

 

“We don’t have that kind of medicine,” Beak Cheon shot back, his voice cracking. “And even if we did, giving it to him while the amulet’s still there—what if it makes things worse?”

 

Jo Gul clenched his fists. “We can’t just do nothing! He’s—he’s my junior brother. I should’ve been there when that bastard put the amulet on him. I should’ve—” His voice broke, and he looked away, ashamed.

 

Yoon Jong laid a hand on his shoulder. “No one blames you. None of us could have stopped it.”

 

“I blame me!” Jo Gul snapped, though his voice was more pain than anger. He leaned down, gently and slowly, patting Chung Myungs chest. As if to remind him to breath. “I keep thinking ‘if he were awake right now he would know what to do’ but then I feel ashamed to always rely on him.”

 

Silence settled again, heavy and sharp.

 

Yu Iseol’s gaze never left Chung Myung. Her hand was still resting near his, though she hadn’t tried again to hold it. Finally, she spoke, her voice flat but steady. “He’ll wake up.”

 

They all looked at her.

 

“How do you know?” Beak Cheon asked, almost desperate.

 

“Because he’s Chung Myung,” she answered simply. Then, after a pause: “And because I’ll make him.”

 

For a moment, no one could reply. Then, from the corner, Dumak groaned loudly. “If you want him to wake up, I can wake him up for you-”

 

But before he could finish his sentence Beak Cheon whipped his head toward him. “You shut your mouth.”

 

Dumak smirked. “What? Did I strike a nerve?”

 

Beak Cheon gritted his teeth so hard his jaw ached. He forced himself to turn back to Chung Myung, gently pressing two fingers to his neck to check his pulse. Still there. Still strong enough. He exhaled shakily, speaking more to himself than to anyone else. “Stay with me, you stubborn brat. You’ve never once listened when I told you to rest—don’t you dare start now.”

 

Yoon Jong sat down, rubbing his face. “We have to keep trying. Anything. Even if it’s small.”

 

“Suggestions, then,” Beak Cheon muttered, wringing out the cloth in the bucket again.

 

“Fan him more,” Jo Gul said immediately.

 

“Feed him water?” Yoon Jong suggested.

 

“Stick Dumak’s head in the fire and see if that helps,” Jo Gul added bitterly.

 

Dumak gasped in mock outrage. “Cruel! Cruel treatment! You’d cook a poor, innocent soul?Barbaric!”

 

“Not innocent,” Jo Gul muttered, glaring at him.

 

Beak Cheon dipped the cloth again, pressing it carefully to Chung Myung’s lips, trying to moisten the cracks.

 

The fire was little more than glowing embers now, shadows crawling long across the grass as the disciples sat in tense silence.

 

Jo Gul couldn’t sit still. He was pacing in circles near the wagon, his hands twitching like they wanted to grab something—anything—to do. He’d already checked his sword three times, polished it once, and muttered no less than twenty prayers under his breath. But none of that helped. His eyes kept snapping back to Chung Myung’s unmoving form, and with every shallow rise and fall of his chest, Jo Gul’s heart sank further.

 

“He’s not waking up,” Jo Gul whispered for what had to be the fiftieth time. “It’s been too long. It’s wrong.”

 

“Sit down, Jo Gul,” Yoon Jong sighed, rubbing his face. “You’re making all of us dizzy.”

 

“I can’t sit down! What if he stops breathing the moment I sit down?” Jo Gul shot back, his voice raw with panic.

 

“You’re being ridiculous,” Beak Cheon muttered, dabbing Chung Myung’s forehead with another cool cloth, though his own voice wavered.

 

Dumak, who had been lounging against a tree stump with his hands still bound, finally snapped his head up. He had been watching them all this time, his eyes darting between their frantic movements and Chung Myung’s still body. His lips twisted, and before he could think better of it, he barked out, voice sharp and commanding—

 

“Enough! Oi, brat! Wake. Up. Now!”

 

The disciples froze. Jo Gul stopped mid-pace, his mouth hanging open. Beak Cheon’s hand stilled on the cloth. Even Yu Iseol, who rarely flinched at anything, turned her gaze sharply to Dumak.

 

For a moment, there was only silence, the sound of the forest pressing in around them. And then—

 

Chung Myung’s eyelids twitched. His fingers flexed weakly against the blanket. A faint groan slipped out from his cracked lips.

 

Beak cheon was about to draw his sword on Dumak right then and there when he noticed Chung Myung wasn’t coughing any blood out. He was… ok.

 

“—Hes ok!” Jo Gul practically leapt three feet in the air. Practically reading Beak Cheons mind “He actually moved!”

 

“Quick, quick—help me sit him up,” Beak Cheon barked, the shock breaking into frantic orders. He slid an arm behind Chung Myung’s back, carefully lifting his feverish body. His head lolled heavily against Beak Cheon’s shoulder, the sweat on his neck soaking through Beak Cheon’s robes.

 

“Careful,” Yoon Jong warned, supporting his other side. “His body’s weak—don’t jostle him too much.”

 

“Water! Get the water!” Beak Cheon ordered.

 

“I’ve got it!” Jo Gul scrambled for the flask, nearly dropping it in his rush. He unscrewed the lid with trembling hands, then hesitated, glancing at Chung Myung’s half-opened mouth. “What if he chokes?”

 

“Then feed him slowly!” Beak Cheon snapped, holding their unconscious junior brother steady.

 

Jo Gul knelt down, his usual clumsiness replaced with a strange gentleness. He pressed the flask lightly against Chung Myung’s lips. “Come on, Junior Brother,” he muttered, voice almost pleading. “Just a little. You can do this.”

 

Chung Myung coughed weakly, but a thin trickle of water slid past his lips. His throat worked once, twice—and then he swallowed.

 

The relief that hit the group was palpable. Yoon Jong exhaled so hard his shoulders sagged. Jo Gul let out a sound halfway between a sob and a laugh. Even Yu Iseol’s lips softened, though she didn’t move her eyes from Chung Myung’s face.

 

Beak Cheon swallowed hard, his own throat tight. He looked over at Dumak, who was watching the whole scene with a self-satisfied smirk. The words burned on Beak Cheon’s tongue, but he forced them out anyway.

 

“…Thank you.”

 

The clearing went dead silent. Even the crickets seemed to hush.

 

Jo Gul’s head whipped around so fast it was a wonder he didn’t sprain his neck. “Wait—did Senior Brother Beak Cheon just thank Dumak?!”

 

Yoon Jong blinked, eyes wide. “I—I think he did.”

 

“Write it down!” Jo Gul shrieked. “This is historic! Our Senior Brother thanking that thing!”

 

Dumak’s smirk faltered, something flickering in his eyes. For just a second, warmth bloomed in his chest at the begrudging gratitude. But the moment he glanced back at Chung Myung, pale and trembling even in unconsciousness, his stomach twisted. He scowled, covering the warmth with irritation.

 

“Tch. Don’t flatter yourself,” he muttered, kicking a rock at his feet. The pebble bounced harmlessly across the dirt. “If I hadn’t said anything, you lot would’ve sat here crying until he turned into a corpse.”

 

“You little—!” Jo Gul growled, half-rising again.

 

“Sit down,” Yoon Jong warned, grabbing his sleeve.

 

Beak Cheon ignored them, still patting lightly at Chung Myung’s chest to steady his breathing. He murmured low, words meant only for Chung Myung: “Stay with us. Just a little longer.”

 

Dumak watched from the corner of his eye, his frown deepening. He rolled onto his side, grumbling under his breath.

 

But he didn’t argue further. Instead, he let his head rest against the wagon wheel, eyelids growing heavy. The warmth in his chest still lingered, no matter how hard he tried to stomp it down. Eventually, despite the bickering and the crackling of the fire, he drifted off into a restless sleep.

 

The climb up Mount Hua should have felt like returning home. The familiar path, the comforting sight of the peaks above—it should have brought Beak Cheon peace.

 

But it didn’t.

 

Every step of the way, he kept glancing over his shoulder at the wagon creaking behind him, where Chung Myung lay pale and unresponsive. His thoughts tangled and twisted like knots in a rope.

 

What am I supposed to say?

 

The question haunted him with every crunch of gravel beneath his boots.

 

What was he going to tell the Sect Leader? That they’d run into a wall they couldn’t break? That they’d failed to protect their junior brother? That the one person who never faltered, who never let anyone else shoulder the burden, had been reduced to this fragile shell?

 

His jaw tightened. His hands curled into fists.

 

We ran crying back to Mount Hua for help like children… because we couldn’t do it ourselves. We’re disciples of Mount Hua—and yet without him, we’re nothing?

 

The thought burned his pride like acid. He clenched his teeth so hard his jaw ached.

 

“Senior Brother,” Jo Gul’s voice cut in gently, almost hesitant, “we’re almost at the gates.”

 

Beak Cheon blinked out of his storm of thoughts and saw it—the towering gates of Mount Hua, their familiar characters carved into the ancient wood. A relief so sharp it hurt twisted in his chest, but his fists didn’t unclench.

 

The gates swung open before they could knock. The Sect Leader himself, Hyun Jong, came striding out with several elders close behind. His robes billowed in the mountain breeze, but his usually calm expression broke the moment his eyes landed on the cart.

 

“Chung Myung…” His voice cracked, raw and unsteady.

 

Hyun Young pushed past him immediately, his face red and blotchy. He half-ran, half-stumbled to the wagon. “Chung Myung! What—what happened to him?!” His voice climbed, breaking at the edges, and he reached for the unconscious disciple with trembling hands.

 

Beak Cheon caught his arm quickly. “Elder! Please—he needs to be moved carefully.”

 

Hyun Young looked like he might strike him for daring to hold him back, but then he saw Beak Cheon’s own trembling hands, the pain etched into his face, and his fury melted into helpless sobbing. Tears rolled freely down his cheeks.

 

“This brat… this damn brat! Always throwing himself into things, always! And now—now look at him!” Hyun Young nearly collapsed against the wagon.

 

Hyun Sang placed a steadying hand on Hyun Young’s shoulder, his own face grave but calm. “We mustn’t waste time. Get him to the medicine hall. Quickly.”

 

“Yes, Elder,” Beak Cheon bowed sharply, though his heart was twisting.

 

Hyun Jong stood frozen for a moment longer, his eyes glued to the boy who had changed Mount Hua’s fate more than any of them could have dreamed. Chung Myung had always been a storm—reckless, brash, untamed. Yet here he was, small and fragile, struggling even to breathe.

 

It broke him.

 

“…Bring him,” Hyun Jong whispered, his voice so heavy with grief that the disciples’ throats tightened just hearing it. “Bring him to the medicine hall. Now.”

 

The disciples moved quickly. Yoon Jong and Jo Gul wrapped Chung Myung like a borrito with blankets, Beak Cheon hovered by his side, one hand on his junior’s head as Hyun Jong carried Chung Myung inside gentle but in a rush.

 

The moment they entered the sect grounds, disciples young and old turned their heads. Whispers spread like wildfire—

 

“What happened, why are the elders gathered?”

“What are they carrying?”

“Where is Chung Myung did he not return with the others?”

 

Hyun Young snapped, his grief boiling into rage. “Shut your mouths and clear the way! Do you think this is a spectacle?!”

 

The younger disciples flinched back immediately, making room as the group rushed through.

 

The medicine hall doors burst open, physicians and attendants spilling out. They rushed to the sect leader, lifting Chung Myung’s feeverish body with the practiced urgency of those who had seen life and death in close quarters.

 

Beak Cheon tried to follow, but a hand gripped his shoulder—Hyun Jong.

 

“…Tell me everything,” Hyun Jong said quietly. There was no anger in his voice, only a weight so heavy it nearly crushed Beak Cheon.

 

Beak Cheon’s throat closed. His teeth clenched. He bowed his head, shame biting into his skin like frost. “Sect Leader… I… we…”

 

The words wouldn’t come. How do I tell him we weren’t enough? That without Chung Myung, we are powerless?

 

Hyun Jong’s hand didn’t leave his shoulder. Instead, he gave it a firm squeeze, his voice deep and steady despite the grief in his eyes.

 

“You brought him home. That alone… is enough for now.”

 

Beak Cheon’s chest constricted. His eyes burned, but he swallowed hard and nodded.

 

Behind them, Hyun Young’s sobs echoed down the hall, raw and unrestrained, as the healers worked on the boy who had become Mount Hua’s blazing flame.

 

The heavy oak doors of the medicine hall had never seemed so suffocating. They loomed shut, barring Beak Cheon, Yoon Jong, Jo Gul, and Yu Iseol from their unconscious brother. Only the physicians were permitted inside.

 

Beak Cheon had tried to sit, tried to steady himself, but every muscle in his body buzzed with restless energy. His feet carried him back and forth across the hall’s tiled floor, his fists opening and closing in agitation. Jo Gul mirrored him in his own frantic way, pacing circles like a caged animal, muttering half-formed prayers under his breath. Yoon Jong sat stiffly on a bench, hands clenched so tightly his knuckles whitened. Yu Iseol leaned silently against the wall, her gaze locked on the closed doors, still and unyielding as stone—but the way her fingers twitched betrayed her tension.

 

The air was thick. Too thick. Even the elders, usually composed in the face of storms, looked unsettled. Hyun Sang’s steps were heavy as he paced the length of the corridor. Hyun Young hadn’t stopped wringing his hands since they’d arrived, his lips trembling with half-spoken words that never fully left him.

 

Finally, Hyun Jong broke the silence. His voice was calm but laced with a father’s anguish.

“…Tell me. Everything. From the beginning.”

 

Beak Cheon stopped in his tracks. He swallowed hard, then bowed his head, forcing his voice through the knot in his throat. After a long explanation Beak Cheon explained what happened though their travels the sect leader did interrupt he just silently listened but the more the story progressed the more the Hyun Jong’s face grew pale.

 

Hyun Jong’s face drained of color. His normally serene expression cracked, his eyes widening in disbelief. “…He fought? In that condition, and that’s where the stab wound is from?”

 

Beak Cheon forced himself to meet his eyes, though shame burned his chest. “…Yes. If he hadn’t… who knows what would have happened.”

 

For a long moment, no one breathed. Hyun Young let out a strangled sigh, clutching his robes as though to stop his heart from bursting. “That child… that damn reckless child…”

 

Hyun Sang’s frown deepened, but there was a cold steadiness to his words. “If the Evil Sect dared to strike at them once, then there must be something they want. they will strike again. And harder, they might even bring an army.”

 

That thought silenced the hall. Every disciple froze, eyes darting between each other and the elders.

 

“…An army,” Beak Cheon murmured, his voice low and grim. The image of that advancing horde he’d glimpsed on the road burned into his mind. “They’re coming for Mount Hua.”

 

Yoon Jong’s jaw tightened. “Then we’ll face them.”

 

“Face them?” Jo Gul snapped, fear edging into his voice despite his resolve. “We’re talking about an army! Against Mount Hua—against us—”

 

“Would you rather run?!” Yoon Jong shot back, fire flashing in his eyes.

 

Jo Gul faltered, his mouth hanging open. He clenched his fists, shaking his head. “…No. But—damn it—we don’t have Chung Myung by our side.” His voice trailed, unable to finish.

 

The weight of his words dragged everyone into silence again. The truth none of them wanted to say aloud: without Chung Myung, they were a blade without its edge. He was like a back up they could always rely on. A plan B if something goes wrong or they realize they underestimated the enemy he was there to save them and grumble about how much of a pain in the ass they were.

 

Their conversation was shattered by a sound that froze the blood in their veins.

 

A cough—violent, raw, and desperate—ripped through the walls of the medicine hall. The disciples flinched as one, their heads snapping toward the closed doors. But it wasn’t the sound alone that stopped their hearts. After every hacking cough came a dreadful pause, a strangled gasp for breath, as though Chung Myung were drowning on dry land—fighting for air only to be dragged into the next spasm.

 

The noise clawed at them. Each cough sounded like it was tearing something loose inside him.

 

Then the doors burst open. A pair of physicians stumbled out, their faces pale, their steps unsteady. Red splattered across their robes, stark against the white fabric. But the blood was not their own.

 

Beak Cheon’s stomach lurched, terror coiling around his chest like chains. He rushed forward, voice cracking. “What happened?! What’s happening in there?!”

 

The physicians’ lips moved, but no clear words came. Mumbled fragments. Groans. They collapsed against the wall, dizzy, as if the very air inside that room had poisoned them.

 

Beak Cheon didn’t think—he threw himself toward the door, ready to tear it down if he had to. But before he could push through, other physicians braced themselves in the doorway, their sleeves rolled, faces grim with urgency. They shoved him back with surprising strength.

 

“Stay out!” one barked.

 

Beak Cheon’s voice roared, wild with desperation. “That’s my junior brother! Let me through! Tell me what’s wrong!”

 

Behind him, Hyun Jong’s steady hand clamped on his shoulder, though his own voice was raised, sharper than any had heard before. “Speak. At once!”

 

The lead physician shook his head firmly, holding his arms wide to block their view. His words came low, but unyielding, like steel.

 

“None of you may enter. Not disciples. Not even the Sect Leader. His condition has turned dangerous—he must be isolated.”

 

The words slammed into them harder than any blade.

 

Beak Cheon froze, his breath coming shallow. The others stood pale and stricken, unable to believe what they had just heard. Isolated. Shut away from them, as though his very presence was too perilous to approach.

 

And from within the sealed room, another tortured cough erupted—followed by a ragged, choking gasp that made the whole hall go cold.

 

The room was damp and heavy with the scent of oil and dust, the only light coming from a lantern that swung lazily in the corner. Dumak sat tied to a post, rope digging deep into his thick arms, his expression somewhere between defiance and mockery. He leaned forward with a smug grin, his belly pressed against the bindings.

 

Standing before him were Un Am and Un Geom, the two elders known for their unyielding sense of duty. Their shadows stretched long and sharp against the walls, their eyes fixed on Dumak with a steel-like intensity.

 

Un Am’s voice was cold, stripped of any softness. “You will take that amulet off Chung Myung.”

 

Dumak snorted, tilting his chin up arrogantly. “And have him rip me apart the moment it’s gone? You must think I was born yesterday. I’d rather stay tied to this post than end up dead.”

 

Un Geom stepped forward, his fists tightening at his sides. “Do you think this is some sort of bargain? That boy is fighting for his life while you sit here, smug and selfish. You’ve seen him. You know he won’t last much longer.”

 

“Not my problem,” Dumak shot back, though his eyes flickered, betraying a crack in his mask. “You think I’ll just hand myself over to death out of pity? Ha. I’d rather watch you lot squirm.”

 

Un Am’s expression darkened. His voice trembled with restrained fury. “You don’t understand… Chung Myung is not just another disciple. He is the heart of this sect. Without him…” His words faltered, as though the thought was too heavy to carry. He looked away, his jaw set tight.

 

For the first time, Dumak’s smirk wavered. His eyes darted to the floor.

 

Back in the medicine hall, Beak Cheon stood rooted outside the door, his entire body trembling with restlessness. He leaned left, then right, desperate to see around the broad bodies of the physicians standing like stone pillars in the doorway. He caught glimpses of shadows, of movement, but not enough. His heart hammered in his chest.

 

“Please,” he said hoarsely, his voice cracking under the weight of desperation. “Please, I just… I need to see him. Just once.”

 

The physicians said nothing, their silence more painful than any scolding. One of them shoved him gently but firmly back when he pressed too close. And in that fleeting moment—the world cracked open before him.

 

He saw Chung Myung.

 

The sight tore through him like a blade.

 

Chung Myung’s eyebrows were furrowed, his face ashen and ghostly pale, sweat dripping in rivulets down his temples. His lips were cracked, stained with the red of fresh blood, his chest jerking violently with every labored gasp. His body trembled against the sheets, as though even lying still demanded too much strength.

 

Beak Cheon froze, his breath catching in his throat. The world seemed to fall away, sound muffled until there was only the pounding of his own heartbeat in his ears.

 

This wasn’t the Chung Myung he knew. Not the one who teased, who mocked, who carried them forward with reckless confidence and a smile that dared the heavens themselves to stop him.

 

This was a boy on the edge of breaking. Fragile. Mortal.

 

Beak Cheon’s hands curled into trembling fists at his sides. When will this nightmare end? he thought bitterly, his chest aching. How long do we have to watch him suffer like this?

 

He wanted—more than anything—to see that arrogant grin, to hear that sharp tongue again. Even if it was another insult at his expense, even if it was cruel or petty. Anything would be better than this silence.

 

Behind him, Jo Gul whispered shakily, “Senior brother… he doesn’t look… he doesn’t…” His voice cracked before he could finish.

 

Yoon Jong placed a hand on his shoulder, though his own face was pale and drawn. “Don’t say it. Don’t… say it.”

 

Yu Iseol stood closest to Beak Cheon, her gaze fixed on the thin line of Chung Myung’s trembling body through the doorway. She said nothing, her silence sharper than any blade, but her hand hovered at her side, twitching as though ready to cut her way through the physicians if they didn’t save him.

 

Beak Cheon bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, the copper taste of blood filling his mouth. He whispered so quietly only those nearest him could hear. “Give him back. Please… just give him back.”

 

The hall was silent but for the ragged gasps echoing from inside. And in that silence, every disciple’s heart cracked just a little more, the weight of their helplessness suffocating them all.

 

Chapter Text

The doors of the medicine hall creaked open, and the disciples who had been pacing for what felt like hours froze in place. The physicians stepped out, their faces drawn and weary, the smell of blood and bitter medicine still clinging to their robes.

Beak Cheon immediately stepped forward, his eyes wide, hands trembling at his sides. “How is he?” he demanded, voice cracking with the weight of fear he’d been holding back. “Tell me he’s stable. Tell me—”

The eldest physician raised a hand, silencing him. His expression was grave, as if each word cost him more strength to speak. “He is… alive. But barely.”

That single word—barely—slammed into all of them like a hammer. Jo Gul staggered back a step, his hand flying to his mouth. Yoon Jong shut his eyes tightly, lips moving in a silent prayer. Yu Iseol didn’t move at all, her body rigid as stone, though her knuckles were white from the way she clenched her sword hilt.

Beak Cheon’s voice broke. “What do you mean barely? He’s still breathing, isn’t he? He’s… he’s…”

The physician sighed heavily. “The fever is relentless. His lungs are filling faster than we can clear them, his body is rejecting what little food we manage to get in him, and the wound on his side is showing signs of rot. The boy has been fighting harder than anyone I’ve seen in my years, but his body…” The old man’s voice trailed off, his eyes lowering.

Hyun Jong, who had been standing silent behind the disciples, finally stepped forward. His usually warm and steady tone shook as he asked, “Then… what can we do for him?”

The physician’s answer came slowly, reluctantly. “There is only one path left. The amulet.”

The room went still.

“The amulet is draining him of everything—his strength, his spirit, even his ability to heal. If it isn’t removed soon, I… I do not believe he will survive more than a couple of nights.”

The words hung in the air like a death sentence.

Beak Cheon’s eyes widened. His chest felt as though it had caved in. He staggered back, his breath coming shallow and ragged. Jo Gul dropped into a chair, burying his face in his hands. Yoon Jong’s voice shook as he whispered, “A couple of nights? He’s lasted this long, he… he’ll last longer. He has to.”

But the physician only shook his head. “He has already surpassed what anyone should be capable of. That boy is holding on through sheer will alone.”

Beak Cheon clenched his fists until his nails dug into his palms. His voice was hoarse, thick with anger and grief. “Then it’s Dumak. That bastard. He has the key to all of this.”

The physician’s eyes lowered. “If Dumak truly holds control of the amulet… then yes. Without him, your friend’s time is measured in hours.”

Beak Cheon couldn’t listen any longer. His breath came sharp and shallow, fury burning hot through the suffocating dread. He spun on his heel and stormed toward the exit, his footsteps echoing like thunder down the hall.

“Beak Cheon!” Yoon Jong called after him, panic rising in his voice. “Wait—don’t do anything reckless!”

But Beak Cheon didn’t stop. His teeth were clenched, his jaw aching from how tightly he ground them. His eyes burned with a wild mix of desperation and rage.

If Dumak doesn’t take that amulet off… if he doesn’t save Chung Myung…

The thought cut off as his pace quickened, fists shaking violently at his sides. He didn’t care what excuses Dumak had. He didn’t care if the man was terrified of what Chung Myung would do once freed. All that mattered was that the person who carried them all—their brother, their sword, their strength—was slipping away. And Dumak was the one holding the rope.

As Beak Cheon shoved open the heavy door to the chamber where Dumak was bound, the wooden frame slammed against the wall with a resounding crack.

Inside, Dumak flinched at the sudden noise, his eyes darting up nervously. He was still tied, still guarded, but his smug expression faltered when he saw the storm burning in Beak Cheon’s eyes.

Beak Cheon stepped into the room, his voice low, shaking with fury. “You’re going to take that amulet off. Now.”

Dumak blinked, then let out a shaky laugh, trying to mask his unease. “Or what? You’ll beat it out of me? You’ll kill me? Then you’ll never get it off.”

Beak Cheon’s jaw tightened. His hand hovered over his sword hilt, trembling not with hesitation but with the sheer effort it took not to cut him down right there.

Yoon Jong’s voice, faint from behind the door, called again, “Beak Cheon—think! Don’t lose yourself!”

But Beak Cheon’s eyes never left Dumak. His voice cracked as he growled, “He has two nights left, Dumak. Two nights. And if you don’t help him… I swear, even if it costs me my life, I’ll make sure you regret it.”

The tension in the room was suffocating, the air thick with hatred, desperation, and the faint sound of Chung Myung’s strained coughing echoing from the hall beyond.

The air in the dimly lit chamber was heavy, so heavy that even breathing felt like dragging stones into your chest. Beak Cheon stood over Dumak, his eyes dark and sharp, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade.

“You have two choices, Dumak,” he said, each word trembling with the anger he’d been holding in. “Take it off now—now—and maybe, maybe, you live to see another sunrise. Or you wait two days, when Chung Myung is dead, and I swear to you, I will personally make sure you don’t take another breath after him.”

Dumak stiffened, eyes darting toward the door, as if looking for an escape that wasn’t there. His throat bobbed as he swallowed nervously. Then, with that same forced bravado he always put on, he muttered, “Tch… give me time to think.”

Beak Cheon’s face twisted, his fury boiling over. He stepped forward so fast the chair Dumak was tied to scraped against the floor. His hands slammed down on the armrests, rattling the wood. “TIME?!” he barked, his voice echoing in the small room. “You think there’s time?! Chung Myung is lying there fighting for every damn breath and you—you’re worried about thinking?!”

“Calm down, Beak Cheon!” Yoon Jong’s voice cut through, though even he looked ready to throttle Dumak. “Don’t lose yourself—”

“Don’t tell me to calm down!” Beak Cheon snapped without looking back. His eyes locked onto Dumak’s, voice trembling as it cracked. “Every second you waste thinking, he’s closer to dying. Is that what you want? To wait until there’s nothing left of him so you can keep hiding behind that stupid amulet?!”

Dumak tried to hold his ground, tried to smirk, but his lips wavered. “If I take it off, he’ll kill me,” he muttered, softer this time. “He’ll kill me the moment he wakes up.”

“Maybe,” Beak Cheon hissed, leaning in close enough that Dumak could see the fire in his eyes. “But if you wait? I’ll kill you before he gets the chance.”

The room fell silent. Even Dumak’s smug mask crumbled under the weight of Beak Cheon’s words. He glanced away, his breathing uneven, chest rising and falling like a man caught in a vice. For a long moment, no one moved, the tension thick enough to choke on.

Finally, Dumak sighed shakily, muttering, “Fine… fine. I’ll do it. I’ll take it off.”

Beak Cheon didn’t beam, didn’t smile—he didn’t dare. But inside, relief crashed against his chest like a tidal wave. He exchanged a quick glance with Yoon Jong, whose eyes shone with the same hidden hope, though neither of them allowed it to show on their faces. They moved fast, untying Dumak with harsh, jerking hands, still holding onto him as if he might bolt.

“Try anything,” Yoon Jong warned coldly, his grip like iron on Dumak’s arm, “and you won’t make it two steps.”

Dumak only grunted, rubbing his wrists once free. “I said I’ll do it.”

They practically dragged him down the hall, shoving him into Chung Myung’s room. The sight of him lying there nearly stopped Beak Cheon in his tracks again—so pale, lips cracked, his chest rising and falling like it took all the strength in the world. The sweat plastering his hair to his forehead only made him look smaller, weaker, so unlike the monster of a swordsman they knew.

Beak Cheon tightened his grip on Dumak’s shoulder, pushing him forward. “Do it. Now.”

Dumak raised his hands slowly, dramatically, as though savoring the moment. His palm hovered over the amulet, fingers twitching. “This…” he muttered under his breath, “this is going to change everything.”

“Shut up and get on with it,” Beak Cheon growled, his hand already on his sword hilt, ready to strike at the smallest sign of hesitation.

The room went silent as Dumak’s hand descended, fingers brushing against the cold surface of the amulet. Suspense pressed down on everyone’s chests—the disciples all leaning in, barely daring to breathe. Yoon Jong muttered a prayer under his breath, Jo Gul clenched his fists so tightly his knuckles turned white, and Yu Iseol stood still, her eyes unblinking, glued to Chung Myung’s face.

And then—

A sharp whistle cut through the silence.

Beak Cheon’s instincts flared. In the corner of his eye, he caught a glint of silver—too fast to think, too fast to breathe. Without hesitation, his sword flashed. The clang of steel rang out, and when the world caught up again, he stood with his blade locked around the hilt of a dagger—its edge frozen just inches away from Chung Myung’s throat.

The dagger clattered to the ground, deflected. Beak Cheon’s chest heaved, the realization slamming into him like ice water: If not for Chung Myung’s brutal training, if not for the reflexes beaten into his bones, he wouldn’t have caught that.

Before anyone could speak, the door burst open with a violent crash. A bloodied disciple stumbled in, panting, his face pale with terror.

“Senior brothers!” he shouted, his voice hoarse. “Intruders—Mount Hua is under attack! It’s the Evil Sect—they’ve come!!”

The world spun into chaos.

“What?!” Jo Gul’s voice cracked as he nearly dropped his sword in shock. “They’re here?! Already?!”

“Damn it,” Yoon Jong muttered, gripping his blade so tightly his veins bulged. “We don’t have time for this!”

Beak Cheon turned to the trembling disciple, his voice sharp. “Where are they?”

“They’re swarming the outer gates!” the disciple cried, blood running down his temple. “There’s too many of them! The elders are already fighting but—” His words broke into a cough, blood spattering the floor. “They… they sent assassins inside too.”

Beak Cheon’s blood boiled. He looked down at the dagger lying on the floor, then back at Dumak, whose face had twisted into pale shock.

“They’re after him,” Beak Cheon growled, his sword trembling in his grip as he pointed to Chung Myung’s limp body. “They know.”

“Of course they know,” Yu Iseol finally spoke, her voice low, calm, but laced with venom. Her hand was already on her sword, knuckles white. “The amulet isn’t just a chain. It’s a beacon. They’ve come to claim him.”

The room fell into tense silence for a breath, every disciple standing frozen in place, the weight of what she said sinking deep into their stomachs.

Then Jo Gul broke it, his voice loud, desperate. “Then what the hell are we waiting for?!” His sword hissed as he drew it fully, stepping toward the door. “If they want him, they’ll have to walk over my corpse to do it!”

Beak Cheon glanced down at Chung Myung, who was still gasping weakly, sweat shining on his pale skin. His chest clenched. He looked back up at Dumak, who still hadn’t moved his hand from hovering above the amulet.

“Do it,” Beak Cheon snarled. “Do it now—or when we come back from this fight, I’ll make sure the Evil Sect doesn’t get the chance to kill you, because I’ll already have done it myself.”
The wooden doors groaned on their hinges before they were pushed open, the lantern light spilling across the figure standing in the threshold. The air instantly shifted—cold, suffocating, the weight of killing intent pressing down so hard it made even drawing breath feel like swallowing knives.

Every disciple froze.

The man who entered was tall, draped in black robes embroidered with crimson threads that caught the firelight like blood. His sword hung loosely at his side, but the way he carried it made it clear: he didn’t need to brandish it to kill them. His hair was long and dark, tied carelessly behind him, framing sharp features and a gaze that glowed faintly, unnaturally, like a predator’s eyes catching the moonlight.

He smirked when he saw them, his voice smooth and calm but steeped in menace. “Step aside,” he said, each syllable deliberate, dripping with the confidence of one who had never been denied. “You’ve done well enough to keep him breathing. Now… hand him over. That warrior behind you is wasted in your care.”

Beak Cheon’s blood ran cold, his instincts screaming at him to move, to get out of this man’s way—but his body stood firm in front of Chung Myung’s limp form. Yoon Jong, Jo Gul, and Yu Iseol immediately shifted, blades drawn, surrounding the bed like a wall of steel.

“No,” Beak Cheon said, voice steady despite the storm in his chest. “You won’t take one step closer.”

The man tilted his head, his smile sharpening. “So noble… and so foolish. You know you can’t win. Yet you stand.” He gestured lazily with his sword toward Chung Myung. “That one is marked. His fate isn’t yours to decide.”

Jo Gul snapped, his voice loud though it trembled, “Shut your mouth! He’s our junior brother, and you’re not touching him!”

Yoon Jong echoed, his own blade raised, though his knuckles were white, betraying the fear beneath. “If you want him, you’ll have to cut us all down first.”

Even Yu Iseol, who rarely spoke, moved her stance an inch wider, her sword pointed low and steady, her eyes locked on the intruder with an unblinking glare.

But Beak Cheon’s thoughts spiraled. What do I do? I can’t let them die here, not for nothing. He’ll cut us down like grass, and then—then Chung Myung will… His heart clenched. He asked himself the only question that mattered: What would Chung Myung do in a time like this?

Before he could answer, Dumak’s panicked shout ripped through the room like thunder.

“Sword guy, do something!!”

Every head snapped toward the bed.

The amulet around Chung Myung’s neck glowed suddenly, gleaming so bright it hurt to look at. Its light bled through the room, crawling into their peripheral vision, reflecting off their blades. They all held their breaths, eyes wide, waiting.

But nothing happened.

Chung Myung’s body remained impossibly still. No twitch of his fingers, no flicker of an eye. Not even the shallow coughs that had haunted them for days. He lay there unmoving, as though the light itself mocked them.

Dumak’s face drained of all color, his mouth falling open in horror. “N-no… no, no, no…” he stammered, stumbling back in his restraints. “I didn’t—no, it can’t—” His voice cracked. “I broke it. I finally broke it…”

The disciples’ faces turned just as pale, the weight of the realization slamming into them all at once. Jo Gul’s sword clattered against the floorboards before he snatched it back up, his hands trembling. Yoon Jong’s lips parted, his breath caught in his throat. Even Yu Iseol’s grip faltered for half a second, her eyes flicking toward their unmoving junior.

The man in the doorway wasted no time. He drew his sword in a single fluid motion, and before anyone could blink, he was in front of Beak Cheon, his blade coming down with murderous intent.

Steel screamed as Beak Cheon blocked, sparks flying. The force of the strike sent him staggering back, boots scraping against the wooden floor. The man pressed down, his smirk widening as though mocking Beak Cheon’s trembling arms.

But Beak Cheon wasn’t looking at his opponent. His eyes were locked on Chung Myung, his chest twisting with pain. I was too late. Too slow. I couldn’t protect him.

“Beak Cheon!!” Jo Gul screamed, parrying a second blade that came out of nowhere—another assassin bursting through the window.

Yoon Jong cursed, steel clashing against steel as he was forced back toward the wall. “Stay focused! We can’t break here!”

Daggers and short swords flashed through the room as more shadows spilled in—two, three, four figures in black cloaks, moving with the precision of killers trained since birth. The disciples’ formation fractured instantly, each one forced into their own desperate duels.

Yu Iseol’s sword danced like silver lightning, sparks flying with every clash as she intercepted two assassins at once, her feet light but unyielding. Jo Gul gritted his teeth, swinging wildly but fiercely, his voice cracking between battle cries.

“Beak Cheon!” Yoon Jong’s voice roared through the chaos. “Focus on him! We’ll hold the others!”

But Beak Cheon’s arms burned under the weight of his opponent’s sword, his heart drowning under a heavier weight still. His blade trembled, and for the first time in years, fear pricked at the edges of his resolve.

All he could think was of the still body behind him, the one who had always been there to save them, and how now, when they needed him most—he wasn’t there.

And Beak Cheon couldn’t stop the thought that cut through sharper than any blade. What if he never will be again?

The sound of clashing blades filled the room, steel ringing and splintering like thunder. Beak Cheon’s breath came ragged, his body screaming with exhaustion, but he refused to falter. Each strike from the mysterious man was like being struck by lightning—fast, brutal, and impossibly heavy. The floorboards cracked beneath their feet, sparks flying with every clash.

Then, with a single brutal swing, the man’s sword came down with such force that Beak Cheon’s blade shattered.

The sound was deafening.

Steel fragments flew through the air like shards of ice. Beak Cheon stumbled back, the broken hilt trembling in his hands, his wide eyes reflecting the enemy’s cold, predatory grin.

For a heartbeat, time froze.

Jo Gul screamed. “Senior Brother!!”

“Beak Cheon!!” Yoon Jong’s voice tore through the chaos as he struggled to break free from his own fight, but there was no time—no way he could reach him before the next strike fell.

The man’s sword rose again, glinting coldly in the firelight, aimed straight for Beak Cheon’s neck.

This is it, Beak Cheon thought. I can’t—

Then—

“…Everything’s going to be okay now.”

The voice was so soft it was almost drowned out by the chaos. It wasn’t calm because it wanted to be—it was calm because it was tired, strained, as if every word cost the speaker strength he didn’t have.

Beak Cheon’s eyes widened. That voice—

He turned his head slightly, and there, standing right beside him, was a figure that made his knees almost give out.

Chung Myung.

His face was pale, sweat clinging to his temples, his breath shallow—but his eyes, those sharp, bright eyes, were open again.

For a moment Beak Cheon forgot how to breathe. He blinked once, twice, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. And when his gaze dropped—

The amulet was gone.

“Wha—” Beak Cheon’s voice broke. “Y-you—how—”

But he didn’t get to finish.

Because Chung Myung stepped forward, his gaze locking onto the enemy, his presence filling the room like a storm breaking after suffocating silence.

Every disciple froze, weapons trembling in their hands, unable to believe it.

Jo Gul’s sword nearly slipped from his grasp. “He—he’s awake?! Chung Myung!?”

Yoon Jong could only whisper, eyes wide, “He’s… standing.”

Even Yu Iseol’s composure cracked, a flicker of emotion flashing in her normally impassive face.

The mysterious man’s confident smirk faltered. He hesitated, gaze flicking between Beak Cheon and the newly risen figure. “So you live after all,” he murmured, his voice low and wary. “Impressive. No wonder the cult was afraid of you.”

Chung Myung didn’t respond. His steps were unsteady at first, but each one grew firmer, the air around him warping with familiar, suffocating pressure. It was faint compared to his usual self, but even weakened, his presence alone made the assassins flinch.

Beak Cheon could feel it—the same aura that once crushed them in training, the same suffocating intent that pushed them to exhaustion and beyond. It wasn’t the power itself that lit the fire in their chests—it was what it meant.

The disciples’ fear melted away, replaced by something fierce and unshakable. They straightened, swords lifting again, their movements sharper, their stances rooted like mountain stones.

Because now, they weren’t fighting alone.

The enemy felt it too. The shift. The balance tipping.

Chung Myung moved first.

In a blur, he closed the distance to the black-robed man, his hand twisting mid-air as he drove a palm strike into the man’s chest. The impact was a thunderclap that sent the attacker stumbling back several steps, sword scraping the floor.

Beak Cheon’s jaw dropped. He’s fighting without a sword?

Chung Myung ducked a counterattack, his movements so clean and precise it made every martial artist’s heart ache. But there was something wrong. Beak Cheon saw it immediately—a tiny hitch in his step, a limp in his right leg. His strikes were sharp, but slower. Hesitant.

Still, to their enemies, he looked like lightning.

Beak Cheon gritted his teeth, gripping the broken hilt in his hand uselessly. He wanted to help—but how?

Then, in one smooth motion, Chung Myung twisted his wrist, disarmed the enemy, and—without even glancing—tossed his own sword backward.

The blade spun through the air before Beak Cheon instinctively caught it.

“Don’t just stand there,” Chung Myung rasped, his voice still low and ragged, but firm. “You’re supposed to cover my back. Don’t be a liability.”

Beak Cheon stared at him, completely dumbfounded. “You—You’re scolding me now? You just came back from the dead!”

Chung Myung didn’t even look back. “Then make sure I don’t go again.”

Beak Cheon almost laughed—half from disbelief, half from sheer relief. “You… unbelievable bastard.”

But the words filled him with strength. He gripped the sword tighter, his stance resetting. The others, as if on cue, fell into position—the same formation they had practiced again and again under Chung Myung’s merciless eyes.

Their movements were sharp, fluid, perfect.

Yu Iseol struck first, slicing through an assassin’s guard with a cold, decisive slash. Jo Gul and Yoon Jong flanked another, their timing impeccable. The room that once felt suffocating with killing intent now crackled with fierce determination.

The black-robed assassins, once so confident, began to falter. They could feel it—the power of a group that had been tempered in hell itself.

Beak Cheon moved with his junior at his back, deflecting an incoming blow meant for Chung Myung. He could hear his own heartbeat, feel the weight of the sword, and he realized—his fear was gone.

All because of the man standing in front of him.

And even though he could see the exhaustion in Chung Myung’s steps, he was still at awe of his back the confident back that carried all of Mount Hua.

As long as Chung Myung stood, Mount Hua would never fall.

The clash tore through the room like thunder. Steel screamed against steel, sparks flying in bursts that briefly painted the chaos in molten gold. The smell of sweat, smoke, and blood hung thick. Beak Cheon’s pulse hammered in his ears, every heartbeat syncing with the strikes that echoed around him.

Chung Myung was still in the center of it all—pale, bandaged, and clearly hurting—but if anyone hadn’t known better, they’d never guess how close he’d been to death just a few hours ago. His movements weren’t flawless anymore—there was a hitch in his step, a tiny limp—but his eyes burned with that same terrifying focus, the one that always made his enemies regret breathing in his direction.

“Chung Myung! You’re hurt!” Beak Cheon shouted, ducking under a blade.

“Am I?” Chung Myung answered, deadpan, as he parried an incoming strike and slammed his elbow into the attacker’s nose. The man dropped like a sack of stones. “Thanks for noticing, senior. I hadn’t realized.”

Beak Cheon nearly choked on his own breath. “You—! That’s not—!”

But before he could finish, another assassin lunged from behind. Beak Cheon turned too late—but Chung Myung was already there, sliding between them in a blur, shoulder brushing Beak Cheon’s as his blade met the enemy’s steel with a sharp clack!

“You’re welcome,” Chung Myung muttered, not even looking. “You should really pay more attention to your back, senior brother. It’s not very… sword-like of you.”

Beak Cheon gritted his teeth. “I swear, even dying wouldn’t shut you up—!”

Chung Myung’s smirk was faint, bloody, and maddeningly smug. “Wouldn’t count on it.”

Then, in the same instant, an assassin with twin daggers charged in, trying to take advantage of Chung Myung’s slower movement. But instead of retreating, Chung Myung crouched low, glanced briefly at Beak Cheon, and grinned.

“Don’t drop me.”

Beak Cheon blinked. “What?”

“Your sword. Don’t drop it.”

Before Beak Cheon could even respond, Chung Myung stepped onto his blade.

“What the hell are you doing—?!”

Chung Myung pushed off, using the sword as a springboard. The sound that followed was almost poetic—the ring of steel flexing under pressure, the rush of displaced air, the gasp of the enemy realizing too late what was happening.

Chung Myung soared forward, twisting midair. His body was already screaming at him—the muscles in his side pulled sharply, the stitches from his wound burning like fire—but his expression didn’t even twitch. He landed squarely on the assassin’s chest, knocking the wind out of him, then grabbed the man’s wrist, disarmed him, and cracked his head against the floor in one smooth motion.

He winced when he landed, dragging a hand across his shoulder where a thin line of crimson was already soaking through his sleeve. The blood dripped, staining his fingers. He glanced at it once, then wiped it on his pant leg like it was dirt.

“Damn. That was my good sleeve,” he muttered.

Beak Cheon was halfway between awe and fury. “You’re bleeding!”

“I’m winning,” Chung Myung shot back, blocking another strike and twisting the attacker’s arm until something cracked. “Don’t mix the two up.”

Jo Gul, panting heavily, slashed through another opponent. “I forgot how annoying he was when conscious,” he muttered.

Yoon Jong ducked beside him. “Be grateful he’s annoying. When he’s quiet, people die.”

Chung Myung, overhearing, gave a dry chuckle that dissolved into a cough. “See? At least someone gets it.”

The battle raged on. Beak Cheon’s sword moved in perfect sync with Chung Myung’s rhythm now—like muscle memory snapping back into place. Every time one struck, the other followed. Yu Iseol was silent but precise, covering their flanks, her blade flashing like moonlight. Jo Gul, though muttering curses between gasps, fought like a man possessed, driven by fear and admiration alike.

Still, Beak Cheon couldn’t ignore it—Chung Myung was slower. His footwork lacked its usual razor precision. The limp in his left leg was subtle, but it was there. Every motion came with a faint wince, though he hid it behind that infuriating half-smile. Blood had begun to seep through the makeshift bandages under his robes, spreading dark and wet across the fabric.

But when Beak Cheon tried to step in, Chung Myung barked, “Don’t look at me, fight!”

Beak Cheon growled, “If you die on me again, I’ll kill you myself!”

“Empty threats,” Chung Myung replied, deflecting two blades with a lazy twist of his wrist. “You still can’t land a hit.”

A dagger flashed toward him suddenly, grazing across his ribs. He hissed sharply, but didn’t falter. Instead, he used the opening to drive his knee into the attacker’s gut, sending the man crumpling to the floor.

“See? Barely hurt,” Chung Myung said with a grin, even as blood trickled down his side.

“Barely hurt?! You’re bleeding like a slaughtered pig!” Jo Gul shouted.

Chung Myung shrugged. “Then I’ll oink later.”

Even Yu Iseol, usually silent, shot him a look that could only be described as incredulous disbelief.

And yet… the tide turned.

The assassins began to falter. The disciples moved like one body—each strike, each dodge, honed by years under the torment of Chung Myung’s impossible standards. They were battered, bruised, exhausted… but alive. The enemy’s precision broke under the weight of their combined rhythm.

Beak Cheon’s sword clashed against the enemy leader’s—his arms shook with the impact—but before he could fall back, Chung Myung appeared behind him, steadying the blade with his own hand.

“Don’t lose focus,” he muttered, voice quiet, strained—but steady.

Beak Cheon didn’t even have time to reply before Chung Myung darted forward, slashing in a blur that knocked the enemy’s sword clean out of his grip. One final strike to the gut sent the man sprawling backward into the wall.

Silence fell.

The room was a wreck—splintered wood, shattered lanterns, and blood-stained floors—but they were all still standing.

Beak Cheon turned to look at Chung Myung, breathing hard. His junior stood there, sword loosely in hand, swaying slightly. Sweat and blood dripped from his chin, his face pale but his grin still infuriatingly calm.

“You look like hell,” Beak Cheon said.

Chung Myung wiped his nose with the back of his hand, smearing more blood across his cheek. “You should see the other guy.”

Beak Cheon’s lips twitched between a laugh and a sob.

Jo Gul groaned, collapsing onto the nearest unbroken crate. “I’m going to be sick.”

Yoon Jong leaned against the wall, eyes closed. “You always say that.”

Chung Myung coughed into his hand, then waved them off. “Relax, it’s just blood. I’ve had worse nosebleeds.”

Beak Cheon gawked at him. “You’re leaking from your shoulder!”

“Yeah,” Chung Myung said, sheathing his sword with a click. “But look on the bright side—at least this time it’s mine.”

Despite everything—the exhaustion, the worry, the pain—Beak Cheon felt himself smile. Damn it all, this idiot was back.

And though his body was screaming for rest, Chung Myung only tilted his head toward the door and said, “Come on. I think the rest of them want a turn.”

That one sentence—half sarcasm, half command—was all it took to make Mount Hua’s disciples stand taller again.
The last of the assassins collapsed with a dull thud, and for a moment the world held its breath. The room was wrecked, splintered, blood-spattered, half-lit by broken lanterns—but the enemies were down. All of them. And the one who delivered the finishing blow stood in the center, panting faintly, swaying slightly, his clothes soaked through with blood that was—unfortunately—mostly his.

Chung Myung flicked his wrist, sending a thin arc of blood off his blade before lazily sheathing it.
“…Hah. That all of them?” he muttered, sounding more like someone finishing chores than someone who had just fought through death’s door.

Beak Cheon nearly keeled over. “You say that like you didn’t almost die twice today!”

Chung Myung shrugged. “And? I didn’t.”
He glanced at the unconscious men around him. “They did.”

Jo Gul looked torn between crying and strangling him. “I—I can’t do this. My heart can’t handle being your friend!”

Yoon Jong quietly wheezed.

Yu Iseol just stared at Chung Myung with that silent expression of why are you like this, though even she seemed relieved.

Before any of them could process the aftermath, the doors of the hall burst open.

“CHUNG MYUNG!”

The Sect Leader, Hyun Jong, nearly tripped over his own feet rushing in. Behind him, the Elders followed—red-faced from sprinting, robes fluttering, eyes wide with fear and hope tangled together.

Hyun Jong’s gaze darted frantically across the battlefield until he finally found him—standing slightly off-center, bloody, pale, leaning on one hip like he’d just woken from a nap.

“…Ah.” Chung Myung blinked. “Sect Leader.”

Hyun Jong froze.

Then his eyes filled with tears.

“C–Chung Myung…! My child, you—your wounds—how are you standing—how—how—”

Chung Myung scratched his cheek. “With my legs?”

Beak Cheon slapped a hand over his own face.

Hyun Jong stumbled forward, gripping Chung Myung’s shoulders before realizing the boy winced and immediately retracting his hands like they’d touched fire.

“O–Oh heavens—you’re bleeding—someone get bandages—no, a stretcher—no, the physicians—no, all of them—Chung Myung, why are you OUT OF BED—?!”

Chung Myung blinked slowly, expression entirely calm despite the chaos.
“They were loud,” he said, gesturing vaguely at the fallen invaders. “Couldn’t sleep.”

The Elders stared.

“What—WHAT KIND OF REASON IS THAT?!” Elder Hyun Young screeched.

Chung Myung shrugged again. “A practical one.”

Jo Gul muttered, “He’s back, alright…”

Hyun Jong looked like he was trying very hard not to cry. His voice shook.
“I thought… I thought we would lose you, Chung Myung.”

Chung Myung tilted his head, looking oddly confused by the emotion thrown at him.
“You won’t get rid of me that easily, Sect Leader.”

Somewhere behind them, Hyun Young sniffed loudly. “Stupid brat… making us worry…”

Even Hwangjang, the usually stern Elder, quietly wiped the corner of his eye.

Chung Myung blinked at all of them, genuinely baffled by why everyone was so dramatic about this.

“It was just a few assassins,” he said. “Hardly a big deal.”

Beak Cheon spun on him. “THAT—THAT WAS MORE THAN A FEW!”

Chung Myung looked down at the pile of collapsed bodies.
“…Hmm. I didn’t count.”

Hyun Jong took a deep, shaky breath. He stared at Chung Myung for a long moment—this small, battered, impossible disciple who had frightened them all half to death—and then, despite everything, a soft smile crept onto his face.

“…Welcome back, Chung Myung.”

The room went silent. The disciples watched. The Elders waited.

Chung Myung blinked once, twice… then gave the faintest, almost imperceptible curve of his lips.
Dumak had seen many things on this cursed journey.
Things he wished he could wipe from his memory.

But nothing—nothing—terrified him more than seeing the real Chung Myung in action for the first time.

Blood-smeared.
Breathing ragged.
Limbs trembling.
But still cutting down assassins like they were children made of paper.

“He’s… he’s not human…” Dumak whispered, trembling so hard the sword he held rattled in his hands.
“He’s a demon… a walking calamity…”

And worst of all?

Now the demon was free.
The amulet was off.
The last barrier between Dumak and death was gone.

Dumak’s stomach twisted so violently he thought he’d vomit.

The Mount Hua disciples were fussing over Chung Myung, scolding, crying, yelling—while Chung Myung just sat against the wall, eyes half-open, looking ready to fall asleep on the spot.

He was so drained he looked like he’d pass out any second.

“…This is my chance,” Dumak whispered, gripping the sword tighter.
“If I don’t act now… I’ll die the moment he wakes up.”

He lifted the blade.
Arms shaking.
Breathing shallow.

Dumak stepped closer.

One step.

Two.

Three.

Then he raised the sword high.

His own heartbeat thundered so loud he thought the entire room could hear it.

“Forgive me… Sword Guy… I don’t wanna die…”

He stepped forward—

And Chung Myung’s eyes snapped open.

Half-lidded.
Dark.
Empty.
Cold.

Dangerous.

A demon’s eyes.

The kind of look that told Dumak, without a single word:

You make one more step and I’ll tear you in half.

Chills crawled violently down Dumak’s spine.

He froze mid-step.

His knees nearly buckled.

“S–Sword guy…?” Dumak squeaked.

Chung Myung didn’t even lift his head fully.
He just stared.
And somehow that was worse.

Much worse.

Dumak felt his entire life flash before his eyes.

But then he remembered—

If I stop now… he’ll kill me anyway.

His terror twisted into blind adrenaline.

He screamed.

“FINE! I’M GONNA KILL YOU FIRST!”

He charged.

The sword aimed straight for Chung Myung’s throat.

Chung Myung’s fingers twitched—
He was about to stand—
About to intercept—
About to rip Dumak’s head off—

Until—

His leg faltered.

Chung Myung stumbled, dropping to one knee, breath hitching in pain.
His weakened body couldn’t follow through.

The blade was inches from his neck.

Everything slowed—
Dumak’s scream—
The disciples’ shocked cries—
Chung Myung’s hair swaying from the sudden movement—

And then—

CRACK—!!

A blinding strike sliced through the air.

The sword blasted out of Dumak’s hands, hurled across the entire room, slamming into the far wall.

Beakcheon stood between them, breathing hard, eyes blazing.

“Touch him again,” Beakcheon said, voice shaking with fury,
“and I swear—you won’t leave Mount Hua alive.”

Before Dumak could stutter a reply—

THUD!

Jo Gul slammed a fist into the back of his head.
Yoon Jong hit him from the side.
Yu Iseol swept his legs.
All three together dropped him like a sack of rice.

Dumak collapsed face-first into the floor, unconscious instantly.

Silence fell—
except for the ragged, exhausted breathing of Chung Myung.

He lifted his head weakly, blinking at the scene.

“…That… idiot…” he muttered, voice barely audible.

Then he slumped back against the wall, eyes fluttering shut—not from sleep, but sheer exhaustion and pain.
Chung Myung didn’t even react when Beakcheon caught the blade.
Didn’t react when Dumak hit the floor.
Didn’t react when the disciples nearly tore their own hair out in panic.

He just… tilted his head back against the wall again.

Exhaling slowly.

Like he’d just finished a long, annoying chore and was now ready to take a nap.

His eyes drooped.
His breathing shallow but steady.
His expression distant, foggy, exhausted—completely unaware how close he had come to being skewered.

Then—

“CHUNG MYUNG!”

“CHUNG MYUNG-AH!”

Hyun Jong and the elders stormed into the room like a small hurricane.

Hyun Jong got to him first, dropping to his knees so fast the disciples tensed, thinking he might actually cry.
Hyun Sang and Hyun Young were right behind him.

They didn’t hesitate.
All three of them reached for Chung Myung at once.

Hands on his shoulders, his face, his arms, checking him over like frantic parents who had just found their lost child.

“His pulse—!”

“Why is there blood here? Is this his? Which wound is this from?!”

“Where did this bruise come from?! And this one—?!”

“What happened to his leg?! Why is he limping?! Who let him walk?!”

Chung Myung, through all this, simply sat there…

Half-asleep.
Expression blank.
Letting three grown men pat, poke, press, and inspect him like a broken teapot.

Hyun Young grabbed his face with both hands.

“Chung Myung! Say something!”

Chung Myung blinked once, slowly.

“…Tired.”

Hyun Young nearly fainted.

Hyun Jong put a hand over his own heart, looking like he’d aged ten years in one second.

Beakcheon, still shaking from the fight, finally snapped back to reality.

“HEALER! SOMEONE GET A HEALER!” he yelled, voice cracking with urgency.

Several disciples scattered instantly, tripping over each other as they sprinted down the hallway.

Hyun Sang was already lifting Chung Myung’s arm, checking for fractures.

“This boy is all bone and bruises,” he muttered, horrified. “Did he fight like this?!”

“Yes,” Jo Gul said miserably. “And… he fought better than us even like this.”

Yu Iseol hovered silently at Chung Myung’s side, eyes fixed on his trembling hands.

Hyun Young’s voice broke.

“You reckless, infuriating brat… why do you always do this to us…”

Chung Myung blinked again.

“…Could you… be quiet…?” he muttered weakly. “I’m trying to… sleep…”

All three elders froze.

Hyun Jong put a hand to Chungmyung’s forehead and immediately stiffened, the sect leader turned to face the other elders.

“He’s burning up! Where is the healer!”