The fire in the courtyard had burned low by the time they made their move.
Dawn was a thin gray line on the horizon, but the jiangshi showed no sign of retreating. Their moans had become a constant, droning chant that drilled into the skull. The nine survivors gathered what they could carry, grain sacks, the remaining gunpowder, the captured matchlocks, and the two horses. Scar Wang's face was set in grim determination.
"We break out now," he said. "The old soldier leads. Burn a path. If we wait any longer, we starve inside this tomb."
Feng Kuan said nothing. His wounded arm throbbed with a deep, sick heat. The baby was bound tighter than ever against his chest, her small body trembling from the cold and the endless noise. He tested the weight of his dao with his good hand. At forty-eight, with exhaustion and old injuries pulling at him, every movement felt like a negotiation with death.
They opened the gate.
The horde surged forward the moment the barrier of flames weakened. Pale corpses hopped through the dying fire, skin hissing as embers caught on their robes. The smell of burning flesh mixed with the rot of corrupted qi.
"Form up!" Feng Kuan shouted. "Stay tight! Burn everything you cut!"
The breakout turned into a nightmare of moonlight and flame.
Scar Wang's men fought with desperate fury. Matchlocks cracked, two quick shots that punched holes through the front line of jiangshi. The creatures staggered but kept coming, wounds already knitting. Feng Kuan moved at the front, his flaming dao sweeping in wide arcs. He had soaked rags in the last of the gunpowder-laced wine. Each strike left trails of blue-white fire that cauterized corrupted flesh.
"Left flank!" he barked. "Oil on the blade, now!"
A bandit obeyed, igniting his weapon just in time to meet a jiangshi that lunged with outstretched nails. The burning edge severed an arm at the shoulder. Black smoke rose as the limb twitched on the ground.
They pushed forward step by bloody step. The watchtower fell behind them. The dry riverbed lay ahead, their best chance at open ground and speed.
Then the horde tightened.
Hundreds of rigid bodies pressed in from both sides, funneling the survivors into a narrow kill zone. Nails raked across flesh. A bandit screamed as long black claws tore open his throat. Another was dragged down, his cries cut short by snapping jaws.
Feng Kuan fought like a man possessed. His dao flashed, trailing fire. He protected the baby with his body, turning so her cries were muffled against his chest. "Stay behind me!" he shouted to the remaining men. "Don't break formation!"
Scar Wang fought beside him, cleaver rising and falling. "Keep moving, old soldier! We're almost clear!"
A jiangshi broke through the line, an old farmer in tattered burial clothes, face stretched into a permanent snarl. It hopped straight at Feng Kuan, arms locked forward.
Feng Kuan raised his dao for the killing strike.
The creature was faster than it looked.
Its long nails slashed across his already wounded left arm, tearing through cloth and flesh. Then its jaws clamped down, teeth sinking deep into the muscle just below the shoulder.
Pain exploded.
Feng Kuan roared and drove his flaming blade through the jiangshi's skull. The head burst into flames, but the teeth remained locked. Black corruption spread instantly from the bite, veins darkening under the skin like ink in water. The infection moved with terrifying speed, racing up his arm toward his chest.
"Get it off!" he gasped.
Scar Wang reacted first. He grabbed Feng Kuan's arm, eyes wide with fury and fear. "It's in you! The rot is spreading!"
The baby screamed, a high, piercing wail that cut through the chaos and pulled even more jiangshi toward them.
Scar Wang didn't hesitate.
He raised his heavy cleaver.
"Hold him!" he barked at the nearest bandit.
Two men pinned Feng Kuan's shoulders. He struggled, eyes wide with realization.
"No...wait..."
There was no time.
Scar Wang brought the cleaver down in one savage, precise chop.
The blade bit through bone and muscle just above the elbow. Blood sprayed in a hot arc. Feng Kuan's scream tore from his throat, raw, animal, echoing across the riverbed. The severed arm fell to the ground still twitching, the jiangshi bite mark already turning black and pustulent.
The pain was beyond anything he had ever known. His vision tunneled. The world spun in silver and red.
Scar Wang pressed a burning rag to the stump, cauterizing it with a hiss of searing flesh. Feng Kuan convulsed, nearly dropping to his knees. Only the hands holding him kept him upright.
"Move!" Scar Wang roared. "The rot is stopped! Keep fighting!"
Feng Kuan fought through the agony. One-armed now, he switched the dao to his right hand, movements clumsy and weak. Every swing sent fresh waves of pain through the cauterized stump. Blood soaked his side. The baby's cries vibrated against him, mixing with his own ragged breathing.
They broke through the final ring of the horde.
The survivors staggered into open ground, only six men left now. The jiangshi pursued but slowed as the group gained distance, their hopping got less effective on the uneven terrain.
Scar Wang grabbed Feng Kuan by the collar, holding him steady as they ran.
"You owe me your life, old soldier," he growled. "That arm was the price."
Feng Kuan could barely stand. The world blurred at the edges. Fever was already rising, the corruption had spread just far enough before the chop. Hallucinations flickered at the corners of his vision. Little Sparrow's face, his dead troop, the temple master staring with accusing eyes.
He looked down at the stump where his left arm had been. The cauterized end was black and raw. His sword arm, gone. The arm that had once led men into battle. The arm that had held the flaming dao that discovered fire's power.
He clutched the baby tighter with his remaining arm, feeling her small, terrified heartbeat.
Tears cut through the blood and soot on his face.
"Damn you…" he whispered, voice breaking.
"Damn you, little ghost… look what you've made me become."
The survivors kept running toward the distant hills as the sun finally broke the horizon, painting the sky in red light.
Behind them, the jiangshi horde slowly turned, still drawn by the scent of living blood and the echo of a baby's cries.
Feng Kuan stumbled forward, one-armed, fever burning in his veins, the weight of the child heavier than ever.
He kept moving.
Because stopping still meant admitting the darkness had already won.