Night had fallen by the time the day's tumult subsided. Jang Hwan lay on his straw pallet in the cramped servants' dormitory, staring at the rafters. Around him, dozens of others slept or tried to—exhausted bodies shifting under thin blankets, soft snores and muffled coughs breaking the silence. Normally, after such a long day, Jang would have collapsed into slumber too. But tonight, his mind refused to rest. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw blood on stone and heard the Sect Leader's cold voice echoing: the weak and dishonorable have no place among us.
Jang turned over, curling into himself. Across the dark room, he could just make out the silhouette of Won-Il's lanky form and the smaller shape of Jisoo beyond. Both seemed to be asleep, or at least lying still. Jang envied them; his thoughts churned like a storm.
He should have been thinking of the poor girl executed, or Head Servant Yun's grim fate. And he was—but another thread of thought kept winding through the fear and anger. A question he couldn't silence: What would it take to never be at their mercy again?
Power. If he had power of his own—real power, like the disciples wielded—no one would dare treat him as expendable. If he were strong, truly strong, he could protect people like that nameless boy, like the laundry girl…like his friends, his brother. He could change everything.
But such thoughts were dangerous fantasies. Jang knew this even as his heart tightened around them. Servants did not become warriors. The paths were decided long before he ever set foot in Ironshadow Sect. He pressed his fist against his chest, feeling the faint thud of his heartbeat. No inner power burned in him, no celestial energy answered his will. That gift belonged to others—born to noble bloodlines or identified young and taken in as disciples. People like him were destined to remain in the dirt.
Eventually, sometime before dawn, exhaustion dragged Jang into a fitful sleep.
He rose again barely two hours later to the sound of the morning bell. Muscles protesting, head clouded, Jang forced himself up. There was no time to dwell on nightmares; work awaited.
The atmosphere in the sect was subdued in the wake of yesterday's incident. Servants moved quickly and quietly about their tasks, eyes downcast. Even the disciples seemed unusually restrained, voices hushed as they crossed paths in the corridors. The Azure Sky Clan elder had departed at first light with little fanfare, and a heavy mood clung to the halls like smoke after a fire.
Jang spent the morning running small errands under Cook Dae's watch—fetching spices from the storeroom, tending the kitchen fires. It was grunt work, but he didn't mind. The routine kept his hands busy and his mind from drifting into dark corners.
Near midday, one of the inner sect administrators summoned Jang and a handful of other servants. They were tasked to assist in cleaning the Lotus Pavilion—a large open-air hall used for demonstrations and sparring practice. Apparently, some of the Core Disciples were to have a friendly duel there in the afternoon, perhaps as a morale-restoring event for the sect after the prior day's troubles. The prospect of witnessing a bout between Core Disciples sent a ripple of excitement through the servants, despite their outwardly stoic expressions.
Jang's heart quickened. He had never seen a Core Disciple duel up close. Core Disciples were the elite, prodigies among prodigies, second only to the elders. They spent most of their time training in the inner mountains or on missions; rarely did they bother with the outer grounds. To watch two of them cross swords was a rare privilege—even if he would have to do so from the shadows while scrubbing floors.
He and the other servants hurried to the Lotus Pavilion. The "pavilion" was in truth a grand courtyard ringed by covered walkways and bleachers for spectators. Ornate red lacquer pillars supported curving eaves overhead, though the center was open to the sky. The floor was smooth polished slate, painted with a faded white lotus design nearly ten yards across. Normally, only disciples trod those stones. Today, Jang carried in buckets and rags, conscious that his every footstep on the sacred training floor felt like trespass.
Under the supervision of a stern-faced steward, they cleaned diligently. Jang mopped up scuffs and dust while others wiped down the wooden rails and benches. By mid-afternoon, the pavilion gleamed in the high sun, ready for the exhibition.
Spectators began to file in. Primarily Inner Disciples, with a few Outer Disciples permitted towards the back. They gathered in small groups along the edges of the yard, murmuring in anticipation. Jang and two fellow servants retreated to a corner under the shade of a walkway, tools in hand, trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible now that their work was done.
Jisoo and Won-Il had not been assigned to this duty—Jang was a little relieved, in truth. Jisoo's sharp tongue and the presence of so many keen ears would have been a risky combination. Won-Il, for his part, might have struggled to contain his excitement at the coming spectacle. It was safer for both of them to be elsewhere.
The crowd suddenly parted as a group of Core Disciples entered. There were four of them, two women and two men, all wearing the black-and-silver trimmed robes of their station. They exuded a quiet confidence, each bearing the insignia of Ironshadow Sect on their left breast. Jang recognized one: Master Yi, a tall, lean man known for his swordsmanship and ruthlessness. He was said to have been born to a minor clan but risen through sheer ferocity. The others were less familiar, though their bearing left no doubt of their power.
Following them was Elder Choi, the disciplinarian from yesterday. The silver-haired elder took his seat on a raised dais to one side—overseeing the match, Jang supposed, in case things got out of hand. After the disgraces of the previous day, the sect surely wanted no further incidents.
Master Yi and one of the women stepped forward into the center of the courtyard. She was a Core Disciple as well, looking to be in her mid-twenties, with a face as impassive as porcelain. A faint murmur ran through the onlookers as she drew a long, slender blade from the scabbard on her back. Its steel shone with a keen edge.
Master Yi stood across from her, arms folded. "You're certain, Sister An?" he called out, voice carrying a hint of amusement. "It's not too late to withdraw your challenge."
Sister An's expression did not flicker. "I have no intention of withdrawing," she replied coolly. "Or holding back."
At that, Master Yi grinned and finally reached over his shoulder to unsheathe his own sword—a broad-bladed jian etched with dark patterns. He settled into a ready stance.
The elder raised a hand. "As this is a friendly duel," Elder Choi announced loudly, "the first decisive touch will determine the winner. Begin!"