The first thing Sim Gwan smelled was burning garlic.
He cracked one eye open.
Sunlight stabbed through the paper windows like guilt. His ribs still ached. His face felt puffy. His mouth was dry enough to sand wood.
There was a shadow moving in the room.
"Did you break in?" he croaked.
"No," Baek-Ha said. "I kicked in."
She was crouched near the brazier, stirring a clay pot with the same seriousness as someone preparing a poison.
"You're cooking inside the infirmary?"
"You have a concussion. You need iron."
"What the hell is in that pot?"
She ladled some into a bowl and thrust it toward him.
He stared.
It was brown. Not a normal brown. A spiritual, emotional brown.
"Pig's blood. Plum wine. Garlic, obviously. And powdered centipede shell."
He leaned away.
"Eat," she ordered.
"Are you trying to kill me more slowly than Jang-Hun did?"
She sighed, dropped the bowl in his lap, and sat next to the cot.
"You lasted twelve exchanges. You earned this."
Sim took a sip. Bitter. Earthy. Absolutely horrifying.
He finished the whole bowl.
Because he did earn it.
---
Recovery was slow.
Jang-Hun's strikes hadn't broken anything vital, but his internal flow was disrupted. The manual warned this might happen. Qi pathways, if bruised improperly, started spiraling instead of flowing. He had to retrain his body to follow the right lines.
So he spent the next four days lying flat, breathing slow, and doing what looked like nothing.
But Baek-Ha saw it.
"You're cycling again," she muttered one morning, handing him warm tea.
"Qi doesn't rest just because the bones do."
"Most of the outer disciples would be crying into their porridge by now."
"I'm not most."
She looked at him, narrowed eyes, and said nothing. But something in her expression shifted.
That was the first sign.
---
The second sign was more annoying.
On the fifth day, she dragged him literally out of bed.
"Field trip."
"I'm dying."
"You've died already. This is just the afterparty."
She led him through the rear gate. Through the woods. Over two streams. All while he grunted like a pensioner.
They arrived at Old Chae's market stand. A tiny wooden cart stacked with baskets of roots, dried petals, mystery meat, and fermenting jars.
Baek-Ha nodded at the vendor. "We're here to buy for a new recipe."
Sim frowned. "What recipe?"
She handed him a list that looked like a lunatic had written it on a napkin during a fever dream.
> "Dried bloodgrass
Goat marrow paste
Crushed fire peaches
Something with a tail"
"You're inventing a pill," he said flatly.
"Soup."
"That's not soup. That's a low-grade explosive."
"I'm experimenting. You're my subject."
He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Please don't love me like this."
Baek-Ha blinked.
He froze.
It had slipped out. Meant to be a joke. A sharp-edged deflection.
But her expression didn't change.
She just stepped closer. Took a good, long look at him.
"…You say a lot of things like you don't mean them," she said.
"Because I don't."
She didn't move.
"Do you want to?"
He opened his mouth. Closed it.
Then turned away and said nothing.
---
That night, she didn't cook.
She sat with him outside the bunkhouse, their backs against the wall, a single lantern between them. Crickets buzzed. Wind moved in soft sheets.
"You ever think about leaving the sect?" she asked.
Sim glanced at her. "What, like now?"
"No. Just… ever."
He thought for a long time.
"I used to think I'd die here. Some forgotten grunt in a robe that never fit."
She nodded. "You're not that anymore."
"No," he agreed. "Now I'm the guy people want to kill."
Baek-Ha leaned her head back. "I'll make you a better target then."
"How generous."
"Think about it," she said. "Starting our own sect. Some little place out west. Clean floors. A kitchen that doesn't leak. Maybe a peach tree."
He didn't respond.
She looked over.
"You're quiet."
"I don't deserve a peach tree yet."
She didn't laugh.
Just looked down.
"…Then I'll grow one for the both of us."
---
The next day, Sim sparred again.
Not against Jang-Hun. Against a boy named Chul sloppy stance, fast hands, big mouth.
Sim crushed him.
Not with strength.
With footwork. Pressure. Patience.
He moved like someone who knew every weakness, because he lived them.
Elder Han watched.
Didn't speak.
Just drank.
---
Later, Jang-Hun approached.
"You recovered well."
"I had good soup," Sim replied.
"You're still weak."
"I know."
"You want to be strong?"
Sim didn't hesitate. "Yes."
"Then stop being polite about it."
---
That night, Sim meditated under the tree behind the bunkhouse.
Rain didn't fall.
But the wind did.
Sharp. Cold. Like a reminder.
He focused his qi.
And for the first time… it didn't scatter.
It spiraled.
Perfectly.
---
[Breakthrough Imminent: Foundation Establishment – Early Stage Within Reach]
He exhaled.
And from the trees, someone watched him.
Not a disciple.
Not a spy.
A messenger.
Carrying a blade, a letter, and the name of someone he had never met.
But who had been watching him since the beginning.
---