228.
〈Lines Beneath the Shrine — A Battle to Cut the Path〉
The moment he stepped into the darkness, the air changed first.
Though there was no wind, ash slid sideways.
On the surface of a puddle formed by melted snow, thin ripples spread as if someone had stirred it with a finger.
Park Seongjin halted.
This was not human.
Song Isul lowered his breath beside him.
"Did you hear it?"
"I wasn't hearing it," Park Seongjin replied.
"I was being pressed."
Between the blackened stones beneath the shrine's base, a hair-thin line was visible.
It was not a crack, but a pattern.
Not carved into the earth, but affixed onto stone.
Mud mixed with blood had been smeared on, ash pressed over it, and hardened into a grain.
As their gaze slid along that line, a dull sound echoed from deep within the ruins.
It felt distant, yet clearly resonated from beneath the ground.
Thud… thud…
Song Isul clenched his teeth.
"We're late.
They've already rewritten the altar."
One of the elders of the warrior band raised a hand.
"There's no light."
"No sign of people, either."
Another elder added quietly,
"Then they withdrew, leaving only the altar behind."
Park Seongjin's eyes turned cold.
"A lure."
The moment he shifted his foot, blue vapor surged from between the stones.
It was neither incense smoke nor poison mist.
It was a cold, thin force that sucked at the breath itself.
Death-qi.
His breath caught in his throat.
His lungs froze like ice.
"Stop!"
Song Isul reached out and seized Park Seongjin's shoulder.
At the same time, he pulled a small talisman from his robes and tore it.
The torn paper spun once in the air without wind, then stopped before Park Seongjin's chest.
Song Isul's fingertip pressed onto it.
Tap.
The paper did not burn.
Its grain vanished, and the characters along with it—
as though its very existence had been drawn out.
"Look.
This isn't poison.
It takes.
Breath, heat, pulse.
What made your blade rebound last night came from this.
Your sword wasn't pushed back—your power was absorbed."
Park Seongjin gritted his teeth and drew his sword.
"Then if we destroy the altar—"
"The method is the problem."
Song Isul pointed beneath the shrine's base.
Where tubes once sat to regulate airflow, those tubes were gone.
In their place, thin white metal fragments were embedded—
as slender as talismans, pale like bone.
"That's the handle.
The bone necklace is command.
This is connection.
Touch it, and it won't end here."
Before the words had fully landed, three shadows slid out from within the shrine.
They resembled the ones from the night before—yet were different.
Their outlines were clearer, almost flesh-like, yet breathless.
They left no footprints.
The elders of the warrior band lowered their stances at once.
"They're back."
"This time they're denser."
Park Seongjin stepped forward.
The air around him contracted.
The qi wrapped around his body grew heavy, like soaked cloth.
One shadow approached.
It advanced without steps, then suddenly arrived—
as if space itself had folded.
Park Seongjin did not raise his sword.
He lifted his left hand.
"Master Song."
"Speak."
"This isn't a fight to cut people.
We have to cut the path."
He reversed his grip on the sword.
The tip pressed into empty air—not cutting, but pinning and drawing.
—The Sword that Cleaves Currents, prelude to the complete form.
A thin line appeared in the void.
No light, no sound.
Along that line, the direction of the wind split.
When death-qi touched it, the flow faltered.
Two shadows lunged at once.
Park Seongjin lowered his body and spun half a turn.
Clang—
Recoil rang out.
This time his wrist did not shake.
What rebounded was the death-qi itself.
The shadow's arm slowed—just a fraction.
"Now!"
Song Isul slammed his palm to the ground.
Ash scattered, revealing part of the base.
A pale ring remained, as though mixed with bone dust.
"That's the root of the origin!"
"If we break it?"
"The connection snaps.
Can you bear that?"
"No."
"Then cut it."
Park Seongjin's gaze hardened into calculation.
He sprinted toward the hole where the tube once was.
All three shadows pursued at once.
The patterns on the ground came alive.
He did not lift the sword.
He brought it down.
—The Sword that Cleaves Currents, severing form.
The thin boundary between earth and air tore.
Space was cut.
From the shrine's opening, a black, threadlike strand of death-qi was revealed.
When it snapped, all three shadows wavered at once.
They did not vanish.
They lost their way.
Park Seongjin stopped himself from inhaling.
One wrong breath would freeze his lungs.
"Set fire to it.
This altar feeds on fire."
As the warriors moved to roll oil jars, Song Isul stopped them.
"Don't use oil.
The scent reconnects it."
He scattered salt and ash.
"Cover it with ash.
Block the flow."
Ash poured down.
The patterns dimmed as if extinguished.
At that moment, the last shadow—the one with eyes—reached for Park Seongjin.
When its fingertips touched him, his chest caved inward.
His breath was ripped away.
He raised his sword.
This time, it was not severing—but separating.
—The Sword that Cleaves Currents, complete form.
One inch.
He cut only the edge where breath was escaping.
The stolen breath returned.
The shadow's gaze wavered.
That wavering was its mistake.
Song Isul seized the metal fragment and snapped it with bare hands.
"The origin was here too."
Crack.
The metal broke.
The air around the shrine loosened.
The cold drained away.
All three shadows slid out of existence.
Not even ash remained.
Park Seongjin dropped to one knee, breathing hard.
His eyes stung.
The sensation of being alive arrived late.
Song Isul spoke.
"This isn't over.
There's no way there was only one origin."
Park Seongjin lifted his head.
In the ash, traces of the pattern remained—
pointing south.
Liaoyang.
Deeper.
A greater altar.
Wiping his sword, Park Seongjin said,
"Next is not the origin point, but the source."
Song Isul nodded.
"Your fight is no longer on the battlefield.
It's a war to destroy the map of the altars."
The wind blew.
Not a cold wind—
but a wind urging them onward.