The hills swallowed Feng Kuan whole. He walked for what felt like hours, each step heavier than the last. The burning temple had long disappeared behind the ridges, yet its orange glow still painted the low clouds. His wounded arm throbbed with every heartbeat. Blood had soaked through the rough bandage and now stuck the cloth to his skin. The infant strapped to his chest had finally fallen into a deep sleep, her small head lolling against his shoulder. For the moment her cries had stopped, but he knew it would not last.
The night air turned chill. Wind carried the sharp scent of smoke and distant rot. Feng Kuan kept the flaming dao low, the blue flame now weak and sputtering. He had used the last drops of baijiu to ignite it. Once the fire died, the blade would become nearly useless against the jiangshi. He needed to find shelter before that happened.
Ruins appeared ahead. An abandoned farming hamlet, perhaps ten mud-brick houses clustered around a dried up well. Most roofs had collapsed. Doors hung crooked on broken hinges. No lights. No voices. Only silence and the faint smell of old death. Feng Kuan approached carefully, boots crunching on dry earth. He pushed open the nearest door with the flat of his dao. The flame cast flickering light across the single room inside.
A family had died here. Three bodies lay on the kang bed platform, already stiff and beginning to bloat. Flies buzzed lazily. He checked each one quickly. No rise of chest. No corrupted qi yet. They had probably starved or been killed by bandits before the plague took the village. He dragged the bodies outside one by one and left them in the yard. Better to burn them later.
He returned inside and lowered himself onto the kang with a groan. At forty eight his knees protested the long walk. His back ached from carrying the extra weight of the child. He unwrapped the infant carefully and laid her on a folded piece of clean cloth he tore from a dead woman's robe. She stirred but did not wake. In the firelight he saw how small she truly was. Five months old at most. Skin pale from hunger already. Tiny fists curled tight.
Feng Kuan stared at her for a long moment. "What am I supposed to do with you, little ghost?" he muttered. His voice sounded loud in the empty room. "I have no milk. No soft food. Nothing but dried millet and bad water."
He searched the house. In a corner he found a small sack of coarse grain, half eaten by rats. A cracked clay jar held a little water that smelled sour but not yet poisonous. He mixed a thin gruel, mashing the millet between two stones until it became a watery paste. When the baby woke and began to fuss, he dipped a clean strip of cloth into the mixture and let her suck on it. She drank greedily at first, then turned her face away and started to cry. The sound cut through the night like a knife.
"Shh," he hissed, rocking her awkwardly with one arm. "Quiet. They will hear."
The cries grew louder. Hunger and fear mixed in her small voice. Feng Kuan felt panic rise in his chest. He pressed the wet cloth to her mouth again, but she pushed it away and wailed. The sound echoed off the mud walls and spilled out into the dark hamlet.
Then came the answering moan.
It started far away, carried on the wind. Low and hollow. Another joined it. Then a third. Thump. Thump. Thump. The rigid hops of jiangshi moving through the hills toward the noise.
Feng Kuan cursed. He wrapped the baby tightly against his chest once more, ignoring her protests. With his good hand he gathered dry grass and broken furniture. He piled it in the center of the room and struck sparks from his flint against the dao blade. The small fire caught quickly. He fed it until flames rose high enough to cast light through the doorway.
The first jiangshi appeared at the edge of the hamlet. A farmer, still wearing tattered trousers and a conical hat that had slipped over one milky eye. Its arms stretched forward, long nails glinting. It hopped straight toward the house, drawn by the baby's continuing cries.
Feng Kuan stepped outside. The dao glow had shrunk to a thin orange line along the edge. He had no more baijiu to make a proper flame. He would have to make every strike count.
"Come on then," he growled. "I have faced worse than you."
The creature lunged. Feng Kuan sidestepped and brought the blade down hard across its neck. The glowing edge sliced through flesh and bone with a sizzle. The head rolled away, but the body kept moving for two more hops before the fire finally ate through the corrupted qi and it collapsed.
Two more jiangshi hopped into the yard. One was a woman, her long hair matted with dried blood. The other looked like a young boy, small but no less deadly. Their moans rose together, calling more from the darkness.
Feng Kuan fought with grim efficiency. He was tired. His wounded arm screamed every time he raised the dao. Sweat stung his eyes. The baby's cries against his chest made his heart pound with fear and anger. He slashed at the woman's legs, severing one at the knee. As she toppled he drove the glowing blade into her chest and twisted. Fire spread and consumed her.
The boy jiangshi grabbed his injured arm. Nails dug deep into the existing wound. Pain exploded. Feng Kuan roared and smashed the creature's head against the mud wall. Then he stabbed downward, pinning it to the ground with the dao. The small body twitched as flames finished it.
Silence returned, broken only by the crackle of burning flesh and the baby's weakening sobs.
Feng Kuan staggered back inside the house. He dropped onto the kang, breathing hard. Blood ran down his arm again. The wound looked worse now, red and swollen. He tore another strip of cloth and bound it tighter, wincing. The dao glow had almost died. Only the stench of burning steel remained.
He looked at the infant. Her face was labeled with tears and soot. She stared up at him with dark, exhausted eyes. For the first time he noticed how much she resembled the temple master's quiet strength. The same stubborn will to live.
"Why won't you let me rest?" he whispered. His voice cracked. "I failed everyone else. My men died because of me. The empire is burning and I could not stop it. Now you… you make me keep walking when I should just lie down and die."
Memories flooded in unbidden. The disastrous campaign along the Yellow River. Orders from corrupt eunuchs that sent his troop into an ambush. Bodies of young soldiers piled in the mud. The public flogging afterward. The jeers of the crowd as blood ran down his back. "Coward," they had shouted. "Drunkard." He had taken to the road with nothing but his dao and his gourd, drinking to forget the faces of the dead.
Now this child had dragged him back from that numbness. Every cry reminded him he was responsible again. Every fight reminded him how weak he had become.
He mixed more thin gruel and fed her until she quieted. Then he sat with his back against the wall, the dao across his knees. The small fire burned low. Outside, the night stretched endless and black. Distant howls of wolves mixed with the occasional moan of jiangshi roaming the hills. No safe zones existed anymore. No imperial soldiers would ride to the rescue. No Taoist priests held secret cures. The Mandate of Heaven had been revoked, and the dead walked because the living no longer deserved the earth.
Feng Kuan took the empty gourd and shook it. Not even a drop remained. He set it aside and closed his eyes for a moment. Sleep would not come easily. Pain and worry kept him awake.
The baby made a small contented sound in her sleep. Her tiny hand rested against his chest, fingers curled into his torn robe.
He looked down at her and felt the weight settle heavier than before. Not just the physical burden. Something deeper. A chain forged in fire and blood.
"Damn you, little ghost," he said softly. "I cannot leave you. And I cannot save you either."
Outside, another distant moan rose on the wind. Closer this time.
Feng Kuan tightened his grip on the dao. The flame had died completely now, leaving only cold steel. He would have to find more alcohol tomorrow, or learn to fight without fire. For tonight he would guard the door and wait for dawn.
The first night on the road had only just begun. Many more would follow. Each one would take more from him than the last. Hunger would grow. Wounds would fester. The child's cries would continue to betray them. Yet he knew, deep in his tired bones, that he would keep walking.
Because stopping meant admitting the darkness had already won.
And for reasons he could not name, Feng Kuan was not ready to surrender yet.