The fire in the courtyard crackled like a dying heartbeat.
Nine men remained.
They huddled inside the ruined watchtower, backs pressed against cold stone walls, eyes fixed on the flames that formed their only barrier. Outside, the jiangshi horde waited, hundreds of pale, rigid corpses bathed in moonlight, hopping in place with that relentless thump… thump… thump. Their moans blended into one endless, hollow dirge that vibrated through the tower's timbers and into the men's bones.
The raid's spoils lay scattered across the floor: sacks of millet, a little salt, two horses tied in the corner, four captured matchlocks, and the last barrel of gunpowder. It should have felt like victory. Instead, it felt like a tomb.
Scar Wang sat on an overturned crate, cleaning blood from his cleaver with slow, deliberate strokes. His scar gleamed wet under the firelight. He stared at Feng Kuan with flat, dangerous eyes.
"Nine men," he said quietly. "We started with twenty-three. Because of you and that cursed whelp."
Feng Kuan sat against the far wall, legs stretched out, the baby still bound to his chest. She had finally gone silent, exhausted from hours of terror, her tiny fist curled into his torn robe. His wounded arm throbbed in time with his heartbeat. At forty-eight, every breath felt like it might be his last. Sweat and blood mixed on his face, carving dirty tracks through the soot.
He said nothing.
Scar Wang stood slowly. "The guns. The screams. Her crying. All that noise pulled them here like flies to shit. We could have slipped away clean if not for you."
One of the surviving bandits, a gaunt man missing three fingers, muttered agreement. "The old soldier's training saved some of us… but the girl kept calling them."
Another voice rose. "Throw her over the wall. Let the stiff ones have her. Maybe they'll feed and leave the rest of us alone."
Feng Kuan's hand tightened around the dao resting across his knees. The steel was still warm from the flames he had used during the retreat. He looked up at Scar Wang, eyes bloodshot and steady.
"Touch her," he said, voice low and rough, "and I will burn this tower down with all of us inside."
The air thickened. For a moment, the only sounds were the crackling fire and the endless moaning from outside.
Scar Wang laughed once, without humor. "Still playing the hero, old man? You're no captain anymore. You're a drunk with a bastard whelp who brings death wherever she goes. Black Maiden, the monks called you. They were right."
Feng Kuan felt the words sink into him like nails. Black Maiden. The name had followed him from the monk settlement like a curse. He saw Little Sparrow again, the boy's bright eyes, the wooden sword, the silent plea as the jiangshi took him. He saw his own troop dying in the Yellow River mud because of bad orders he had followed. Now these men, killers, yes, but men he had trained, lay dead because of another raid he had helped lead.
He looked down at the baby. Her small face was peaceful in sleep, soot-streaked and tear-stained. She had no name. He had never given her one. Naming her would make her real. Naming her would make losing her hurt worse than anything.
Yet here she was, the only reason he had not simply walked into the horde and let them take him.
A soft whimper escaped her. Even in sleep, fear lingered.
One of the bandits shifted uncomfortably. "She's just a baby, chief. Maybe we wait till morning. The fire might hold."
Scar Wang spat. "Morning? Look outside. They're not leaving. We have grain for maybe four days if we stretch it. Powder for a few more shots. Then what? We starve or we burn trying to break out."
He pointed the cleaver at Feng Kuan. "You trained us. You fight like the devil. So you fix this. Keep her quiet. Teach us how to burn through that horde when the fire dies. Or I swear on my mother's grave, I'll slit her throat myself and use her as bait while we run."
Feng Kuan met his gaze without blinking. The Berserk weight pressed down harder than ever. He was trapped again, chained to monsters, just as he had been chained to corrupt generals years ago. Every choice led to death. Every survival came at someone else's cost.
He thought of the temple burning. The monks welcoming the cleansing with open arms. Little Sparrow's face disappearing into the horde. Now these bandits, reduced to nine, staring at him like he was both savior and curse.
"I will keep her quiet," Feng Kuan said finally, voice flat. "I will teach you how to break out when the time comes. But she stays with me. Always."
Scar Wang stared at him a long moment, then nodded once. "For now."
The night stretched on.
Feng Kuan took the first watch. He stood at a narrow window, dao resting against the sill, watching the flames dance against the pale sea of corpses outside. The jiangshi hopped in eerie unison, their long nails catching the firelight like obsidian claws. Moonlight turned the scene into something almost beautiful, a silver lit nightmare painted by a cruel god.
His mind wandered despite the danger.
He remembered teaching Little Sparrow the simple dao block in the monk courtyard. The boy's laugh. The trust in his eyes. Then the cut-off scream. Feng's legs had carried him away without looking back. Just like tonight. Just like always.
Tears came again, silent this time. They rolled down his weathered face and disappeared into his gray streaked beard. He hated himself for surviving. Hated the stubborn refusal inside him that kept him walking when better men had fallen.
The baby stirred against his chest. Her tiny hand found the edge of his robe and gripped it weakly.
Feng Kuan looked down at her. For the first time, a name almost formed on his lips, something soft, something real. He stopped himself just in time.
Naming her would be dangerous. It would make her his.
Instead, he whispered the only truth he had left.
"Damn you, little ghost… why won't you let me die?"
Outside, the fire began to gutter lower. The moans grew louder, pressing against the walls like a living thing.
Dawn was still hours away.
And the tower felt smaller with every passing minute.