He remembered the day he first arrived at Ironshadow Sect, a scrawny eleven-year-old clutching his brother's hand. They had stood in a long line of hopeful children in the outer hall of admissions, dwarfed by towering pillars and the stern gaze of warrior statues. Jang's heart had pounded with nerves and a fragile, desperate hope. If he could somehow show even a spark of talent, maybe they would let him join the junior disciples. Perhaps here, he had thought, he could learn to be strong.
When his turn came, an examiner in rich black robes placed two cool fingers against Jang's wrist, checking for the flow of Qi in his veins. Jang had held his breath, willing with all his soul for some sign of power to surface. After the briefest moment, the examiner's lips thinned with disappointment. "Next," the man called, already looking past Jang as if he were invisible. A guard tugged Jang aside, directing him to the line of those who had failed to qualify.
Jang remembered the hot flush of shame and heartbreak that burned his face. He had watched through tears as a few lucky children with detectable Qi were led through a grand gate toward the disciple quarters—toward a future filled with possibility—while he was herded away with the rest of the rejects. His older brother Kwan, already serving as a sect servant, had been waiting at the side. Kwan thanked the officials for their "mercy" in allowing Jang to stay on as a servant, then gently pulled his distraught brother away before he could protest or draw any ire.
That day, Jang understood with bitter clarity: birth, not worth, drew the line between those destined for greatness and those fated to kneel.
The memory still stung like a reopened wound. And witnessing the duel just now rubbed salt in it. He stood slowly, bucket in hand, staring at the scorched lotus on the floor. How long would he remain here, cleaning up after others, watching them display wonders he could never touch? Until he was old and bent like Yun, clinging to what little authority he could scrape together? Until he made one mistake and was cast out—or cut down?
A quiet presence at his shoulder startled him from his thoughts. It was Won-Il, carrying a stack of rags. Jang hadn't even noticed him approach.
"I traded tasks with Seul so I could come see," Won-Il admitted sheepishly, keeping his voice low. His eyes were alight with excitement. "That was incredible, wasn't it?"
Jang managed a small smile for his friend. "It was," he agreed, though his voice came out more hollow than he intended.
Won-Il didn't seem to notice Jang's tone. He set the rags into Jang's bucket and practically bounced on his toes. "One day, I'd like to try that," he whispered. "Feel Qi moving inside me… even just once."
Jang looked at him, surprised. Won-Il rarely spoke so openly of his dreams. "You still think about that? Becoming one of them?"
Won-Il flushed, glancing around to ensure no one else was nearby. Most of the crowd had dispersed by now. "Sometimes," he confessed. "I know it's foolish. But seeing that... it makes you wonder if maybe—maybe there's a way. Not everyone strong is high-born, right? Master Yi isn't from some famous clan, and he made Core Disciple."
"Master Yi was still born to a warrior," Jang said quietly. "He had some training even before the sect, I'd wager. And Sister An… well, you heard."
Won-Il's brief enthusiasm dimmed a little. "I did. It's just… maybe if I train in secret, or find a manual—"
"Don't even say that." Jang's voice came harsher than he meant. He grabbed Won-Il's arm. "If anyone heard you—"
Won-Il blanched and nodded quickly. "You're right. Sorry. Forget I said anything." He bit his lip. "It was a stupid thought."
Jang released his grip, guilt and worry mixing in his gut. Won-Il was idealistic, not suicidal—he knew the rules. But Jang also understood that yearning all too well. It had crept into his own heart last night and taken root deeper after today's spectacle.
"Just be careful," Jang murmured. "I don't want to lose my friend to foolishness."
Won-Il gave him a wavering smile. "You won't. I promise." He hefted another bucket. "Come on, we should finish up here. Jisoo's probably wondering where we are."
Together they set about collecting the last of the cleaning supplies. The Lotus Pavilion was emptying out, only a few disciples lingering to discuss the duel. Jang's eyes drifted once more to the damaged lotus emblem on the ground. The burnt petals and cracks looked a bit like a spider, he thought—a creature crushed underfoot by giants.
"Jang!" Won-Il called from the doorway.
Jang shook himself from his reverie and hurried after his friend.
As they walked back toward the outer quarters, Won-Il chatted about different moves he'd witnessed, miming a sword swing in the air. Jang nodded along, but his mind was elsewhere. Won-Il's earlier words—maybe there's a way—echoed in his thoughts.
Heaven was not for people like them. That was the truth he'd been taught again and again. But as Jang glanced at the fading light of the afternoon sky, he felt that small ember in him glow a fraction brighter. If Heaven's gates were closed, perhaps there were other paths—darker, dangerous paths—yet still paths to power.
He shoved the notion down immediately. It was too risky, too likely to get him killed or worse. And yet, he couldn't entirely extinguish it. The duel had shown him what true strength looked like. It made the taste of weakness, of helpless acceptance, ever more bitter on his tongue.
They were nearly back to the servant quarters when Jisoo appeared from around a corner, carrying a basket of folded laundry on her hip. She eyed them with a knowing scowl. "There you two are," she hissed. "Sneaking off to watch the duel, weren't you?"
Won-Il opened his mouth, then closed it, unsure what to admit. Jang raised a placating hand. "We finished our duties," he said quietly. "I was called to help clean the pavilion, that's all. Won-Il only came at the end."
Jisoo set down her basket with a thump. "Risky fools," she muttered. "If Head Servant Yun were still around, he'd have skinned you if he caught wind of it. And if someone like Master Lee saw a servant loitering—" She drew her finger across her throat. Her expression was angry, but Jang sensed the worry beneath.
"We were careful," Won-Il piped up softly. "And it was worth it, Jisoo. You should have seen it. They were… astounding." His eyes shone at the memory of flying blades and blazing Qi.
Jisoo's lip curled. "Astounding, hm? What's astounding is how easily they toy with power we'll never have." She lifted one of the laundry sheets and snapped it sharply, as if venting her frustration on the cloth. "Heaven's energy, divine strength—whatever you call it, it belongs to them up there." She jerked her chin toward the distant peak of the sect's inner sanctum, visible over the rooftops. "Not to the likes of us."
Jang felt a pang in his chest at her words. They were harsh but true. Even so, the memory of that duel—and the memory of blood on the stones—flashed through his mind. He stepped closer and gently took the next sheet from Jisoo's hands to help her fold it. "Maybe not to us," he said quietly. "Not right now."
She glanced at him, brows knitting. Won-Il too looked at Jang curiously. Jang offered them the faintest of smiles, though his eyes were serious. "But nothing stays the same forever."
Jisoo opened her mouth as if to argue, then closed it, confusion and concern warring on her face. In truth, Jang wasn't entirely sure what he himself meant by those words—only that they'd risen from a resolve taking shape deep inside him.
He handed the folded sheet back to Jisoo and picked up her laundry basket. "Come on," he said, changing the subject gently. "Let's get this put away. We've duties to finish before nightfall."
After a beat, Jisoo nodded and gathered the remaining laundry. Won-Il hurried to grab a few loose garments that had fallen, and the three of them set off together down the dim corridor toward the servant quarters.
They walked in silence, but something had subtly shifted. Jisoo's shoulders, usually tense with barely contained anger, now slumped as if in weary acceptance. Won-Il's earlier excitement had faded into thoughtful quiet. And Jang—Jang Hwan kept his head bowed like any obedient servant, yet inside, his thoughts churned and that small ember of defiance glowed a touch brighter in the darkness.