The bandits' camp buzzed with ugly energy the next morning. Twenty-three men now, plus a handful of captured women who cooked and mended in silence. Scar Wang ruled with a heavy hand and quicker knife. They had dragged Feng Kuan to a cleared patch of dirt beside the ruined watchtower. The baby remained strapped to his chest, her small weight a constant reminder that he was never truly alone. She had cried twice during the night, each time earning curses and dark looks from the men. One bandit had suggested "quieting the whelp for good." Scar Wang had only laughed and said, "Not yet. The old soldier fights better when he's angry."
Feng Kuan stood in the center of the circle, wrists still bound loosely so he could demonstrate. His wounded arm ached, but the herbal paste from the monks had kept infection at bay for now. At forty-eight, every movement reminded him how far he had fallen. Once he had drilled imperial troops with pride. Now he taught killers how to kill better.
"Again," he growled.
The bandits practiced the basic Ming infantry dao forms he had shown them. Downward chop to split skull or shoulder. Horizontal cut to open the belly. Thrust under the ribs. They were clumsy, starved, half-drunk on stolen wine but desperation sharpened them. Feng Kuan corrected grips, footwork, and balance with short, harsh words.
"Weight on the back leg when you cut," he snapped at a young peasant-turned-raider.
"You swing like a woman chopping wood. The jiangshi don't care about your strength. They care about whether you can burn the wound before it closes."
Scar Wang watched from a broken stone wall, chewing on a strip of dried meat. "Show them the fire trick again, old man."
Feng Kuan took a shallow clay dish of scavenged lamp oil mixed with the last dregs of sour wine one of the bandits had offered. He soaked a rag, wrapped it around the blade of a borrowed dao, and struck sparks from a flint. The oil caught with a whoosh, blue-white flames dancing along the edge. The men murmured in approval.
"Fire is the only thing that stops them for good," Feng Kuan said, voice flat. "Blade wounds heal in moments. Fire cauterizes the corrupted qi. Cut and burn at the same time if you can. If not, set the whole thing alight and run. Do not let them grab you. Their nails carry the rot."
He demonstrated on a straw dummy they had stuffed with rags. The flaming blade sliced deep. The oil-soaked straw flared up, black smoke rising. The bandits cheered like children at a festival.
But Feng Kuan felt no pride. Every word he spoke felt like another chain. He was teaching these animals how to survive longer in a world that should have already ended them. Just like he had once followed orders that sent good men to slaughter. The memory of his troop rose unbidden, young faces twisted in pain, bodies piled in Yellow River mud. He pushed it down, but the guilt stayed, heavy as the baby against his chest.
Little Sparrow's face flashed behind his eyes. The boy's eager laugh, the wooden sword, the silent plea as the jiangshi closed in. Feng Kuan had looked at him and run. Now he taught killers. The Berserk spiral pulled tighter. He was poison. Everything he touched turned rotten. The little ghost cried softly, as if agreeing.
Scar Wang stood and clapped slowly. "Good. Very good. Tonight we hit Black Ox's crew at the old granary three li west. They have grain, salt, and three horses. We take it all. You lead the front line, old soldier. Teach my boys on the move. If we win clean, maybe we let you keep the whelp and give you a skin of real baijiu."
Feng Kuan met the bandit leader's eyes. "And if I refuse?"
Scar Wang smiled without warmth. "Then we take the baby first. Use her cries to draw jiangshi while we watch from the walls. You can listen to her die. Then we cut you slow. Your choice, captain."
The threat landed like a blade between the ribs. Feng Kuan looked down at the infant. Her dark eyes, unfocused but trusting in the only way a five month old could. She had no name. He still called her "little ghost" in his mind, sometimes with resentment, sometimes with something dangerously close to pain. He could not let them use her as bait. Not after he had already failed Little Sparrow.
"I will teach," he said quietly. "But the girl stays with me. Touch her and the lesson ends in your blood."
Scar Wang laughed again. "We have a deal."
The rest of the day became planning and more training. They sat in the dirt drawing crude maps with sticks. The granary was a half-ruined Ming supply depot now held by Black Oxm a rival bandit chief with fifteen men and a reputation for cruelty. Approach from the dry riverbed under cover of dusk. Use fire arrows to ignite the roof and create panic. Feng Kuan would lead ten men in the first wave, teaching them how to maintain formation while watching for jiangshi drawn by noise.
"Noise is death," Feng Kuan warned them as the sun lowered. "The stiff ones hunt by sound and the scent of living blood. Keep quiet until the attack starts. Once fighting begins, burn everything you cut. If the dead come, fall back to the high ground and set fires. Do not let them swarm you."
One of the younger bandits, a skinny boy barely older than Little Sparrow, asked nervously, "What if there are too many?"
Feng Kuan looked at him. The boy's face held the same mix of fear and false bravery he had seen in his own dead soldiers. "Then you die screaming. Or you burn them and live one more day. Choose fast."
The words tasted like failure. He was preparing these men for slaughter, just as corrupt generals had once prepared him. The Berserk weight pressed down harder. He hated Scar Wang. He hated the empire for creating men like this. Most of all he hated himself for surviving long enough to become their teacher.
As dusk fell, the bandits armed themselves. Feng Kuan was given a better dao and a small flask of harsh wine not enough to drink deeply, but enough to soak rags for flames. The baby was rebound tighter against his chest with strips of cloth so she would not slip during the fight. She fussed at the tightness but did not cry yet. Small mercies.
Scar Wang gathered them for final words. "Black Ox thinks he owns this land. Tonight we show him the new order. The old soldier leads the charge. Listen to him. Burn what you kill. Take what you can carry. Leave the rest for the jiangshi."
The men cheered roughly. Feng Kuan stood silent. He felt the chain around his soul tighten another notch. He would fight tonight. He would teach them how to kill more efficiently. And tomorrow? Perhaps another raid. Another lesson. Until he found a moment to slip away with the girl… or until the darkness finally won.
As they moved out under the rising moon, the baby made a small sound against his chest. Feng Kuan placed one scarred hand over her back, steadying her.
"Stay quiet, little ghost," he whispered so only she could hear. "If you cry tonight, we both burn."
The dry riverbed stretched ahead like a scar across the land. In the distance, faint lantern light marked the granary. Somewhere beyond, jiangshi moaned in the night, drawn by the movement of living prey.
Feng Kuan gripped the dao and walked forward into another fight he did not want.
Because stopping still meant admitting he had already lost everything.