The barracks lanterns were already snuffed when Jang crawled inside. Rows of sleeping bodies rose and fell in the dark, each breath a faint whistle of exhaustion. He shed his rag-torn tunic, fingered the rent where he’d torn cloth for Won-Il’s burn, and sat on the edge of his straw roll until his eyes adjusted. On the table by the door a wash-basin waited, rimmed with last-night’s frost. He dipped two fingers, but instead of scrubbing, he stirred the thin film of soot that had settled on the water—ash from the pits that had followed him home in the folds of his clothes.

The black streak clung to his skin as he smeared it across his cheekbone, then dragged the line down to meet the corner of his mouth. A soldier’s mark he’d once seen painted on a disciple before battle; charcoal made badge when steel was scarce. The stale scent of burnt pine rose like incense, sharp and stubborn.

Memories of the day fluttered in the black smear—the hiss of embers, Seo Yun-tae’s polished boot nudging molten coals, Won-Il’s cracked joke that barely masked a scream. Jang touched the place where the sword pommel had pressed his skull. No bump lingered, yet the echo pulsed beneath the bone, counting out his heartbeats.

He closed his fist and rubbed the remaining soot over each knuckle until they glistened, dark and oily, a promise pressed into skin.

“Turn waste to power, then,” he whispered to the slumbering room, voice no louder than the crackle of a dying ember.

The pit behind his eyes cooled to a dull, sullen glow; yet inside him the ember refused to cool. Ash could be ink, ink could sign power. He would learn to write his name in fire.