Where Ghosts Do Not Dance

“Nothing much here.”

Mujin scratched his head as he finished combing through the entire floor.

For all its outward splendor, the place was hollow. Priceless items were scattered about, but the documents and clues that truly mattered were nowhere to be seen.

Namgung Cheon's gaze drifted upward.

“It will be on the third floor.”

“You're certain?”

“The shadier the people, the more they keep everything close at hand.”

The kind who could only rest easy when their safety and their secrets were kept within arm's reach. A breed he had seen countless times in his previous life.

The two made their way up to the third floor.

And there—

“Only ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠one room.”

Unlike the floors below with their various chambers, the third floor held just one: a single firmly shut door at the end of the corridor. It was clearly the leader's quarters.

The door creaked open under Namgung Cheon's hand, revealing a space lavished with ornate furnishings. Antique furniture lined the walls, alongside porcelain that looked worth a fortune.

“Hm. Impressive.”

Mujin whistled as he stepped inside.

Namgung Cheon spared the finery ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠not a single glance and went straight to inspecting the walls and floor with meticulous care. Before long—

Thud. Thum.

He found it: spots along one stretch of wall and beneath the desk that rang with a dull, unnatural sound, unlike anywhere else.

“Best start with the desk.”

He shoved the desk aside, and a section of stone flooring, distinct from its surroundings, came into view. Running his fingertips along its edge, he caught a protrusion no thicker than a hair. He fed a thread of internal energy into it, and a heavy grinding echoed from below.

Grrrrk.

The stone slab slid aside, unveiling a space large enough for a man to enter. It was the secret vault the leader had hidden away.

Mujin peered inside and let out a low whistle.

“They piled it up something fierce.”

The chamber was stuffed full of gold ingots—easily thousands of nyang by even a rough estimate, with a number of precious gems and ornaments besides.

Namgung Cheon regarded the gold for a moment, then spoke.

“Take it all. We'll have plenty of use for it going forward.”

“Ha, a relief to hear it. People may be a problem, but money's committed no crime, has it? Of course we take it.”

While Mujin busied himself gathering the spoils with theatrical flair, Namgung Cheon's eyes settled on a small red sandalwood box tucked in the corner of the gold pile. Against the dazzling treasures around it, the box looked utterly plain. But anything kept in a vault like this was no ordinary thing.

He retrieved it and opened it. Inside lay a fragment of aged silk, a small wooden tablet, and a single book.

He unfolded the silk first.

*Where no shadow falls, the ghost does not dance.*

*Muyeongjicheo, gwibulmu.*

'So—where shadows are absent, spirits will not dance.'

A cryptic phrase whose meaning eluded him.

'Pocket it for now.'

Next, the wooden tablet. It was a crude thing, whittled from old wood, but the pattern carved into it was strange: nine circles overlapping one another, each encroaching on its neighbors.

'Nine circles...'

Even in his past life as the Heavenly Demon, he had never seen this crest. He had prided himself on knowing the ways of the Jianghu, yet this emblem was foreign to him.

'To think there is something even I do not know.'

As Namgung Cheon studied the tablet in silence, Mujin—who had drifted over without his noticing—tilted his head at it too.

“Never seen that pattern before. Does it point to whoever's behind these bastards?”

“Cannot say yet. But it came from this place, so it must mean something. We'll learn in time.”

At that moment, Namgung Cheon briefly considered showing the tablet to Ak Mookyeol. Then he shook his head at once.

'It would be dangerous for me not to know a tablet that Ak Mookyeol recognizes. But a tablet that he does not know, while I do—that can become a weapon at any time.'

Asymmetry of information. The single most decisive factor in the balance of power. There was no need to dilute the value of intelligence he himself didn't possess by sharing it needlessly.

Namgung Cheon tucked the tablet deep into his breast.

What remained was the worn old book. Its cover bore no title at all.

'Best see what's inside.'

He turned the pages. The opening passages looked like the ordinary breathing method found in any number of sects—basic instruction on dantian breathing and the circulation of qi.

'An internal cultivation method, then.'

But the deeper he read, the narrower his eyes grew. The contents were plainly close to the foundational practice of a heart method, yet Namgung Cheon saw through the subtle difference at once.

'It isn't the qi of the dantian it touches... it is Innate Qi.'

A difference too fine for any ordinary martial artist to notice—but it could not fool the eyes of a man who had mastered every demonic art under heaven. This method drew, alongside the internal energy of the dantian, upon the wellspring of life dormant deep within the heart: the Innate Qi itself.

'How vicious.'

On the surface, it would appear to be merely a heart method of tremendous power. But Namgung Cheon saw through it. Anyone who trained by this manual would gain explosive strength at the cost of their body burning away slowly from within. Every unleashing of the art would shave years from their life, until at last they met a wretched death.

'Less a martial art than a curse—a sentence forcing a life on borrowed time.'

A heart method designed to manufacture expendable tools.

'No doubt the children they abducted were meant to learn it.'

If the kidnappings had continued—if hundreds, thousands trained in this art were loosed upon the Jianghu—the mere thought was horrifying.

'I must look into this once I return to the clan.'

With a frost-bitten expression, he slipped the manual into his robes.

“All packed?”

At his question, Mujin held up a bulging sack of treasures with a grin.

“Of course.”

“Then it's time we checked the wall.”

Namgung Cheon stood before the wall that had given off that peculiar sound earlier, and ran his fingers along the hanging scroll mounted upon it.

At once—

Clack.

Something depressed, the whole wall shuddered, and slid sideways. A low rumble rolled through the room. A hidden passage yawned open.

A stale, musty reek washed over them, laced with the bitter scent of medicine. Namgung Cheon and Mujin exchanged a look and stepped inside.

The passage was not long. Before they had gone far, a massive iron door appeared; they lifted the bar and passed through into a stone chamber. And there, laid out on the cold stone floor, were five children.

Mujin rushed over and examined them. Pale faces, faint breathing—but their pulses beat steady and regular. He let out a breath of relief.

“...Thankfully, their lives aren't in danger. Looks like they've been sedated deep with bloodletting and drugs.”

Namgung Cheon nodded, as if to say thank the heavens, then swept his gaze over the children. Every one of them had a sturdy frame and an unusual flow of qi and blood through their meridians.

'Exceptional talent for the martial path.'

It confirmed what the grotesque demonic art had implied—they had been chosen to learn it.

“But what do we do with them? If only they have parents to return to...”

Mujin looked at him with worried eyes.

Namgung Cheon fell into thought.

'If they have parents, we send them home. But if they're orphans... then even escaping this hell, another hell may be waiting.'

After a long moment, he gave a slow nod and spoke.

“There is a good way. But first, we must leave this island.”

“A way, you say...”

Mujin had a hundred questions. What Namgung Cheon had collected, and what he intended for the children. But he held his tongue. He had seen the unwavering certainty in Namgung Cheon's eyes. For now, getting everyone out safely was enough.

Still, there was one thing he had to say.

“Young Master.”

Mujin lifted one child onto his back and called out. Namgung Cheon, a child slung over his own shoulder, turned his head.

“You worked hard.”

A single word, spoken in earnest. At it, Namgung Cheon regarded him for a moment, then answered quietly.

“As did you.”

And then a faint smile touched the corners of Namgung Cheon's mouth. Seeing it, Mujin burst out laughing.

“So the Young Master does know how to smile. It suits you. Smile like that often from now on.”

“Hm.”

With a short, fake cough, Namgung Cheon's mouth flattened back into its usual line.

A quiet inn near Yueyang Tower.

Morning sunlight streamed through the lattice of the window, filling the room with a soft glow. In one corner, the five children brought back from Dream Ring Island sat huddled together over bowls of porridge. Though they must have gone days without food, none of them gulped it down; instead they cast furtive glances about and moved their spoons with painstaking care. That alone was enough to guess the suffering they must have endured.

Mujin, who had been watching over them, drew close to Namgung Cheon—who sat sipping his tea—and lowered his voice to a whisper.

“...None of them have anywhere to go, or parents to name. The shock has been so great that some can't even remember their own names.”

At that, Namgung Cheon set down his teacup and asked quietly in return.

“So they're all orphans.”

“Shh! Not so loud!”

Mujin started and made a show of covering his mouth.

“The children will hear you. They already flinch at every look—what if you wound them?”

Namgung Cheon gazed at the children with detached eyes.

Wounded, was it. Well, compared to the hell those children had been made to endure, the word 'orphan' might be the lighter scar of the two.

'In my past life, I was an orphan too.'

And yet he had gone on to become the Heavenly Demon. In the end, what mattered was not the past, but how one chose to live from this point forward.

Just then—

Tap.

Mujin's hand came to rest, careful and deliberate, on the hilt of his sword.

“Someone's here.”

Barely a moment after they had cut down the Ghost Mask Pact. For anyone to seek them out covertly at this juncture could mean nothing good. Mujin's eyes sharpened.

“I sense no killing intent, but there's nothing ordinary about this visitor. Best prepare yourself.”

But Namgung Cheon only set down his teacup and smiled lightly.

“No need. This is someone I know better than an old acquaintance by now.”

“...?”

Mujin stared at him, puzzled. Namgung Cheon looked toward the door and spoke.

“Come ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠in.”

The door slid open with a creak, and a man stepped inside. A low-drawn bamboo hat and a threadbare traveling robe concealed his identity, but the heavy presence seeping through the gaps could not be hidden.

It was Ak Mookyeol, Commander of the Black Wind Squad.

Mujin's hand flinched on pure instinct—but he did not draw his sword. Before they had departed, Namgung Cheon had told him: the one who supplied the intelligence on the Ghost Mask Pact was Ak Mookyeol himself.

'So this is the famed Black Ghost Blade.'

Curiosity shaded his eyes more than wariness. As if sensing that gaze, Ak Mookyeol glanced sidelong at Mujin from beneath his hat. As the two men's eyes met, Namgung Cheon spoke to Mujin.

“Take the children to the next room for a time.”

“Understood.”

Mujin rose without another word. He had grasped at once that whatever passed between Namgung Cheon and Ak Mookyeol was no conversation for children's ears.

“Come along, everyone. Let's order ourselves something even tastier.”

Mujin led the children out of the room. The door closed, and only the two men remained.

Ak Mookyeol slowly removed his bamboo hat. On the face revealed beneath it, fatigue mingled with a strange, unmistakable anticipation.

“You came sooner than I expected,” Namgung Cheon said, refilling his teacup.

Ak Mookyeol's eyes glinted beneath the brim.

“There is much I am curious about.”