The courtyard stones still breathed the sun’s parting heat when Jang stepped onto them, mop-pole balanced over one shoulder like a banner of defeat. Dusk painted every surface in brassy gold; even the puddles left by afternoon rain carried a coin-bright sheen. Above him the veranda jutted out from the western administration hall, its lattice railing carved with drifting-cloud motifs. Lanterns had not yet been lit, so the carved gaps framed the silhouettes of two elders and a single scribe like puppets against the deepening sky.

He made a show of wringing his rag over the bucket, letting water patter quietly while he studied the acoustics. The stone apron funneled sound downward—every word that escaped the veranda would slip through those low clouds and land, intact, beside his ears. Perfect, he thought, and eased the bucket nearer the shadows cast by the pillars.

Insects whirred in the decorative pines. From the southern drill yard a cadence drum thumped as Outer disciples finished forms for the day; each muffled beat seemed to shove more hush into the council’s alcove until Elder Choi cleared his throat—a brittle crack that needed no drum to announce authority.

“Ten days, Instructor Lee.” His voice fell like a lacquered screen, every syllable polished. “Ten days in which a relic older than this sect has been mis-catalogued, mishandled, and—may the heavens choke on the irony—misplaced.”

A second voice—lower, rasped by too many years barking orders on the field—answered. “With respect, Protocol Elder, no seal failed under my watch. The medallion was withdrawn for study, signed by your own clerks. My men merely kept the vault door shut. If signatures sprout legs, blame the ink-keepers, not the gate.”

Jang’s grip tightened on the mop handle. Medallion. Even before the term lodged itself fully, his memory supplied the spy girl’s glinting prize, the half-heard rumors, the star-shaped questions that had haunted him since. He slid one sandaled foot forward, knees bent in an artless squat that looked like diligence but placed his head in the perfect acoustic cone.

Elder Choi sniffed, a scholar affronted. “Ink-keepers you call them. I call them safeguards of continuity—the very line between civilisation and chaos. Should the Iron-Lotus Medallion fall to riff-raff—”

“It already has,” Lee cut in. “The question is merely whose riff-raff.”

A breeze stirred the carved railing; golden motes floated down like sparks from an invisible kiln. Jang kept his eyes on the stone grain, every sense widened.

Choi exhaled, the sound of someone sheathing temper. “Grant me five breaths to outline the true risk, Instructor. The artefact is not some commemorative trinket. It is one fifth of the Inheritance Constellation devised by Iron-Gale’s founders. Unlocking that star array requires the medallion seated at zenith, three Jin-Seals turning on magnetised Qi arms, and a stabilising keystone we no longer possess. Their treasury erupted when novices mis-aligned the pattern—art, lineage, lives obliterated in a tide of white fire. One hundred and twenty years later, we still comb their valley for shards.”

Jang’s mop stilled. Inheritance Constellation. The phrase glimmered like fresh ink.

Lee made a dismissive grunt. “Your history lecture impresses no one. Practical step: we retrieve the medallion before word leaks beyond these walls. My proposal stands—Core Disciple Han Jeong-il departs with a discreet party, recovers the item, carries it on to the Grey-Pine ruins. He’s strong, loyal, and unburdened by politics.”

Choi mulled that, sandal tapping wood in slow beats. “Five days to marshal, five to travel. Acceptable—if you personally guarantee his escort’s discipline.”

The scribe’s brush scratched, sealing the vow in wet strokes. Overhead, the veranda beams creaked as bodies shifted. Jang allowed the mop head to slap water onto the flagstones, rhythmic, harmless—yet inside his ribs something raced. Girl spy, relic, Iron-Gale catastrophe, five-day window; the fragments slotted together like teeth of a hidden gear.

The debate rolled on, voices blurring behind a sudden, sharper sound: boots scuffing gravel at the courtyard’s edge. Reflex dropped Jang into the role he’d rehearsed before memory-ink could dry. He shoved a rag between his teeth, hunched, eyes fixed to the puddle as if deciphering his own reflection.

Guard Cho Sun-kyu limped into view, lantern lifting. The oil-glass threw rings of amber across stone until they collided with Jang’s crouched shadow. Cho’s knee—crushed last winter by a misjudged spar—made each step jerk like a marionette pulled by spite. He valued any excuse to lean on the weak.

“What’s this?” The lantern beam pinned Jang’s bowed neck. “Cleaning at dusk? Better sweep the moonlight next, rat.”

Jang kept the rag clenched, answered with a soft, throat-deep grunt—sound of a man born without speech. The act felt old now, second nature. He lifted the bucket as though weightless and bobbed his head in apology. The Fang-Stitch seam along his inner collar tugged, reminding him the fragment copy lay warm against his skin.

Above, the elders ceased talking; perhaps they sensed intrusion. Cho followed the pause with a sneer, dragged a copper from his belt pouch, and flicked it. The coin spun, struck stone, sang as it rolled—straight toward the veranda’s supporting pillar.

“Mutes love shiny things,” Cho muttered. “Fetch.”

Jang’s cheeks burned, but humiliation cost less than suspicion. He scurried, palms skimming wet stone, scooped the coin just before it clattered loud enough to betray eavesdroppers. When he turned, Cho was already limping off, lantern swaying like a hanged man’s last arc.

The veranda debate resumed, voices softer, wary of unseen ears. Jang squeezed the copper until its rim bit skin—a reminder of how cheaply some men thought a life was priced—then tucked it beside the hidden scroll as though filing debt with promise.

Overhead Elder Choi pronounced the session adjourned; sandal heels retreated toward inner chambers. Jang sloshed the bucket once more for show and, under cover of the drum’s final echo, slipped into the lengthening shadows. Five days, the council had said. Five. The number tolled inside his skull as surely as any monastery bell, each strike bending the iron of his resolve a fraction closer to blade-sharp purpose.