Ling Tan Danmei

[lingtandanmei]

Cheongji Necromancer Excerpt 31

Gyeong-jae sighed but didn’t resist. His body was too tired to pretend.

Seong-wook watched him sit, watched the way Gyeong-jae’s head drooped the moment he stopped moving, watched the faint shadows under his eyes.

His jaw tightened. Something was wrong. He didn’t know what, but he would keep watch until he figured it out. He would keep Gyeong-jae safe until then—whether Gyeong-jae realized what he was doing or not.

So that was how numerous days after Master Eun’s reassurance slipped by gently and the sparrow skull no longer flared, like pages turning in a well-worn book. The spiritual flare became a story they no longer whispered about at night, but rather a memory folded away—present, but no longer sharp. Nor did such a flare appear in Gyeong-jae’s dreams anymore.

The pavilion’s corridors filled once again with the mundane rhythms of training.

Gyeong-jae balanced atop the low stone platform in the pavilion courtyard, breath misting in the early chill. His fingers hovered over the small sparrow skull talisman hung at his sash.

Master Eun’s voice floated across the yard, calm and assured.

“Feel your spirit’s outline first. Before any technique, grounding is your truest shield.”

Gyeong-jae nodded, lowering into the stance. Seong-wook stood beside him, slightly behind—close, though he didn’t seem aware he’d moved there. He watched Gyeong-jae more than he watched his own form.

“Your elbow is too stiff,” Seong-wook said.

Gyeong-jae blinked. “Is it? No—Master Eun said—”

“It’ll hurt later if you keep it like that.” Seong-wook reached out and nudged Gyeong-jae’s arm, gentler than necessary.

Gyeong-jae didn’t argue, since Seong-wook rarely corrected anyone, and when he did, it was always precise.

When Master Eun passed by, she observed the two boys with a private, approving warmth.

Good, she thought. Let their spirits settle in companionship. Fear dissolves best in quiet bonds.

As the subtle unease faded from the pavilion, training gradually shifted back to routine:

- Spirit-thread alignment drills at mid-morning

- Copying stabilizing sigils in the study hall

- Afternoon sparring under Elder Dan Myeong-hwa’s bright guidance

- Evening lantern rounds to check low-level spirit wards

Yet something had changed, almost imperceptibly. Seong-wook always stepped a half-pace closer to Gyeong-jae. Gyeong-jae, sleep-deprived from dreams he didn’t understand, leaned into that closeness without noticing.

And since Master Eun reported the flare as “inconclusive and not threatening,” the children trained without the shadow of fear—but with a new, subtle attentiveness to one another. They felt safe. Their limbs softened and their vigilance fell quiet.

[lingtandanmei]

Cheongji Necromancer Excerpt 30

“Up,” Seong-wook said softly, as if afraid a louder voice might shatter something fragile. “We should get a little practice in before we move on.”

Gyeong-jae blinked blearily, rubbing at eyes that still felt full of cobwebs. The dawn was thin and gray. His sleep had been shallow and strange again — flashes of the sparrow skull, a whisper he couldn’t quite hear, a cold draft brushing over the back of his neck.

He didn’t mention it. Even if he were to mention it, what would he say? It wasn’t like he understood the dream. His tongue felt too heavy for that kind of conversation so early in the day.

They stepped outside the ruined storehouse they’d used as shelter. The sky was washed-out, the air chilly. Gyeong-jae shivered once, hard.

Seong-wook noticed instantly.

“We’ll start slow,” he said, already adjusting their usual regimen without comment. “Footwork only. No channeling.”

Gyeong-jae nodded as if that had been the plan all along. His limbs felt uncooperative, bones reacting a fraction later than his intentions. When he stumbled on a loose stone, Seong-wook moved automatically—too automatically—hand darting to Gyeong-jae’s elbow before the boy even swayed.

“I’m fine,” Gyeong-jae murmured.

“I know,” Seong-wook replied, but he didn’t let go immediately. For a moment, his grip tightened, thumb brushing lightly over the fabric of Gyeong-jae’s sleeve as if checking for an injury. Only after a beat too long did he pull his hand back.

They resumed.

Gyeong-jae attempted a simple sidestep-and-turn but misjudged the timing and nearly collided into Seong-wook. Again, the swordsman reacted on instinct, one arm coming around Gyeong-jae’s waist to steady him.

Gyeong-jae made an embarrassed noise. “I’m— seriously, I didn’t sleep well.”

“I could tell,” Seong-wook said, too quickly. Then he coughed, looking away. “I mean— your posture’s sloppy. It’s obvious.”

Gyeong-jae grimaced, not at the criticism but because focusing made his head throb. “Yeah. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” Seong-wook stepped closer to adjust his stance. His hands hovered—far more hesitantly than they ever had before—before settling lightly at Gyeong-jae’s hips to turn them. “If you push yourself when you’re tired, you’ll only make mistakes. Or get hurt.”

“That’s why we’re training,” Gyeong-jae replied, attempting a smile he didn’t fully feel.

A small crease appeared between Seong-wook’s brows. “Training shouldn’t come at the cost of your safety.”

Gyeong-jae blinked. “Since when are you the careful one?”

Seong-wook opened his mouth, closed it, then crossed his arms defensively. “Since you started walking like you’re about to fall over at any moment.”

“I’m not—”

Gyeong-jae tripped on nothing at all.

Seong-wook caught him again. With both hands this time.

A long silence.

“…I see your point,” Gyeong-jae muttered.

Seong-wook studied him, eyes lingering longer than usual, gaze far less neutral than he probably meant it to be. There was a faint, tight worry at the corners—completely unhidden because he didn’t realize he was showing it.

Gyeong-jae didn’t notice; he was too busy trying not to yawn.

Seong-wook exhaled slowly. “Training’s over for now.”

“That was barely five minutes.”

“And you nearly died three times.”

Gyeong-jae groaned. “I did not—”

“You absolutely did,” Seong-wook said firmly, turning him by the shoulders and guiding him—guiding, not pushing—back toward the half-collapsed building. “You’re resting. I’ll handle breakfast.”

“Seong-wook hung—”

“No arguments.”

[lingtandanmei]

Cheongji Necromancer Excerpt 29

In the next room, Gyeong-jae floated somewhere between waking and sleep, too tired to rise, too aware to rest fully. His breath was slow, shallow. The night’s unease lingered beneath his ribs. His consciousness danced between dream and reality. At first, the dream felt like nothing at all—just a soft gray hum, like fog settling over the training fields after rain.

Then the mist thickened. A faint tapping echoed in the distance. Not loud. Not frightening. Just a persistent tap that was like a small beak clicking gently against stone.

Gyeong-jae’s dream-self turned toward the sound.

The fog parted. There—resting on the worn wooden pedestal inside Cheongji Hall—was the sparrow skull, exactly where he had left it. Only… it wasn’t still.

A single silver thread of spiritual light drifted around it, rising and falling like a quiet breath. It pulsed faintly, then dimmed again. He had watched this cycle of movement each night so carefully.

In the dream, though, the thread looks sharper and thinner. It was as if pulled too taut and it could break if pulled any tighter. It was like something was stretching the thread from the other side.

Gyeong-jae stepped closer. He could not feel his feet. Yet, somehow he moved. He reached out with his small trembling hand.

Just then, the skull shifted for just a fraction, a tiny bit. It seemed to be watching him.

His breath snagged. His heart stuttered. Yet he didn’t back away. A strange sadness filled him, heavy and familiar, as though he had heard someone call his name from very far away.

“Are you… all right?” he whispered.

The silver thread trembled violently. A cold, suffocating wind rushed through the hall—dark, oily, carrying whispers he couldn’t understand.

The sparrow skull cracked. It did not break. The hairline opening made enough space for darkness to seep out like ink, coiling through the mist. The wind grew louder, the whispers shaping into words he almost recognized—

—return—

—bound—

—wrong hands—

—return—

Gyeong-jae tried to step back, but the fog gripped his ankles like a tide pulling him in. His chest tightened. The sparrow skull blurred, stretched, and distorted until it became a larger skull, much larger, becoming something avian and yet not so.

Spirit-wings unfurled behind it.

Then, a hand touched his shoulder – not in the dream but in the real world.

The vision shattered like glass, dissolving into soft feathers and silver dust.

Gyeong-jae woke up with a gasp.

Seong-wook’s voice whispered urgently beside him, half-asleep:

“Gyeong-jae… you’re dreaming. It’s okay.”

Somehow, even though his heart was pounding, Gyeong-jae felt calmer. Grounded. Safe.

The dream slipped away in fragments as he blinked through the moonlight—but the feeling remained:

The sparrow was trying to say something. Something important. Something he was not certain about nor ready to hear.

He curled beneath his blanket, breath still shaky, but eyes slowly closing again. Before sleep claimed him, a final image flickered in his mind:

A silver thread that was pulled too tight, accompanied by a whisper—“Return…”

All too soon, Gyeong-jae felt a nudge against his left shoulder.

[lingtandanmei]

Cheongji Necromancer Excerpt 28

Seong-wook watched until the door closed fully, then let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. Only then did he turn down the corridor toward his own room, steps quiet and lingering—like something in him wanted to stay just a little longer. Only when he got back to his own room and raised his arm to open the door did he remember the burn wound on his arm that Gyeong-jae had tended.

He climbed into his bed and sighed. The boys’ quarters had long fallen silent. The lanterns outside had been extinguished, leaving only the pale wash of moonlight slipping through the paper windows. Most apprentices seemed already deep in sleep—soft breaths, restless shuffling, the occasional sigh drifting across the room.

Seong-wook, though, lay awake, blankets drawn to his chin, staring at the wooden beam above him. His eyelids felt heavy, but his mind wouldn’t still.

His forearm ached faintly—the spot where the spiritual flare had grazed him. The burn wasn’t deep, just a few thin red welts. Gyeong-jae had fussed over it earlier, brow furrowed in that serious way of his, cool ointment dabbed with careful fingers.

The ointment had stung for a heartbeat… but then the warmth spread. Or was that just him?

Seong-wook groaned softly and buried half his face into his pillow. Why was that the part his mind kept replaying now? He dragged a hand through his hair, frustrated. “None of this makes sense,” he muttered under his breath.

A spiritual flare—that he could understand. Danger? Sure. Training? Absolutely. Protecting someone younger? That was natural.

But the feeling that had surged through him the moment the flare snapped toward Gyeong-jae—sharp, fierce, immediate—like something had grabbed him by the ribs—

that…

That wasn’t normal, was it?

He squeezed his eyes shut. He didn’t worry like this about Ha-rim or Soo-yeon or anyone else. Only Gyeong-jae.

Even now, thinking about the younger boy asleep in the next room, Seong-wook felt that stubborn tightness in his chest again. It wasn’t a painful tightness. It was just… present. Annoyingly so.

He flipped onto his back and stared at the ceiling again. “Is this what Master Eun means by heightened spiritual perception?” he whispered.

Probably not. Definitely not.

His forearm throbbed again—just enough to remind him of the moment Gyeong-jae had pressed close, his fingers cool and gentle as he applied the ointment. Seong-wook covered his face with both hands, mortified at the warm flush creeping up his ears.

“It’s just because he’s younger,” he told himself firmly. “You have to look after him. That’s all.”

But the words rang hollow in the darkness. Because when he heard Gyeong-jae say “Goodnight, Seong-wook hung” earlier, soft and sincere… he’d felt something twist inside him that had nothing to do with duty or training or being an older brother figure.

He didn’t have a name for it. Didn’t want one. Couldn’t think of one. And yet…

Seong-wook shifted again, restless. He pressed his palm over his heart, as if trying to steady whatever strange rhythm lived there.

“Why is this harder to understand than spirit calculus?” he whispered miserably.

From across the room, one of the other boys snored lightly in his sleep.

Seong-wook sighed, long and quiet. He wasn’t in pain. Even the burn wound barely tingled anymore. It was thinking about Gyeong-jae tending to it that left him feeling overheated and unbalanced, like he’d been knocked sideways by something invisible.

When he finally began drifting toward sleep, it was with a final, bewildered thought: He worries me more than that flare ever could.

[lingtandanmei]

Cheongji Necromancer Excerpt 27

The corridor lamps had been lowered to half-light, their golden glow stretching long shadows along the wooden floor. Gyeolhak Pavilion was quiet now—only the hushed patter of late-night attendants and the gentle creaking of beams settling against the cool air.

Seo Gyeong-jae padded toward his room, clutching his small notebook of talisman observations. His steps were soft, but nervous energy still clung to him, like threads he couldn’t quite shake loose.

Han Seong-wook walked beside him, hands loosely behind his back, glancing at him every few moments. Seong-wook’s usual confidence was subdued tonight. He was focused, watchful. “You’re still tense,” he murmured.

“I’m not,” Gyeong-jae said quickly, though his fingers tightened around the notebook.

Seong-wook huffed a soft breath—half amusement, half concern. “You are. Your shoulders are all the way up here.” He reached out and tapped lightly at Gyeong-jae’s shoulder blade. “That’s how Elder Mun looks when someone ruins her ink stones.”

Despite himself, Gyeong-jae let out a small laugh, the sound barely more than a puff of air.

Seong-wook brightened. “See? Better.”

They reached Gyeong-jae’s door, paper-paneled and lantern-lit. The hallway was so quiet it felt like a breath held between them.

Gyeong-jae hesitated. “Seong-wook hung… earlier, when the flare happened… did you think it was my fault?”

“No.” Seong-wook answered before the question fully left Gyeong-jae’s lips, firm and certain.

His brows knit slightly. “Why would you even think that?”

“I was the one assigned to the sparrow skull.” Gyeong-jae lowered his gaze. “Maybe I misread something. Maybe I wasn’t careful enough.”

Seong-wook let out a slow exhale—one of those rare moments when he sounded older than ten.

“Gyeong-jae,” he said softly, “you were braver than all of us.”

Gyeong-jae blinked. “Brave?”

“You didn’t run. You didn’t panic. You kept your eyes open even when it scared you.” He nudged Gyeong-jae’s arm gently. “That’s what a strong necromancer does.”

The words warmed Gyeong-jae in a way he didn’t quite understand, settling somewhere beneath his ribs.

“And you can always…” Seong-wook hesitated, then added, “...rely on us. On me.”

The last words were quiet—almost swallowed by the corridor—but Gyeong-jae heard them. He frowned slightly, puzzled, but touched. “I know,” Gyeong-jae said with sincerity. “Thank you, Seong-wook hung.”

Seong-wook’s ears turned a faint pink. “Good. Then go to sleep before Master Eun catches you awake and makes you copy another doctrine passage.”

Gyeong-jae cracked a grin. “You always get caught before I do.”

“That—” Seong-wook sputtered, then sighed dramatically. “Fine. True. But don’t tell anyone.”

“Okay,” Gyeong-jae promised, smile softening.

As he turned to slide his door open, Seong-wook reached out and briefly, hesitantly, rested a hand on Gyeong-jae’s shoulder.

“Really,” he said, voice just above a whisper. “You did well today. Don’t carry the fear into your dreams.”

Gyeong-jae nodded, small and steady.

“Goodnight, Seong-wook hung.”

“Goodnight.”

[lingtandanmei]

Cheongji Necromancer Excerpt 26

The Shrouded Ledger Sect had begun a slow seep of gradual weakening of the Cheongji Order’s wards before any instability could be noticed. Tonight, a fragment of the corrupted script had reacted too strongly. A flare, a whisper, a pulse of wrongness… and the Order had felt it. Although it was not enough to suspect malign intent, it was enough to make them look. Immediately, Baek Mu-yeom had suspended any and all spiritual energies being sent to the Order.

He tapped the table twice, sorting through the variables. The spiritual energy that was sent served two purposes—weaken the boundaries and also detect spiritual energy signatures. The moment the spiritual flare occurred, he had detected the rebounding energies. From the energies detected, he’d discerned that one of the elders’ sensitivity seemed far sharper than the others and one of the younger energies seemed to have some sort of amplification powers that sparked the flare to the point that it seemed to magnetize it and increase its speed. The source of the amplification intrigued him.

It would be a wise idea to step back from any output of spiritual energy in the immediate future, and get more information on the Order’s habits—seasonally, annually, special events, response times to different kinds of things at varying distances from the Order. The more information the sect could gather over a lengthy duration of time the better.

He leaned back and let the deduction spiral outward.

“No more flares for certain,” he decided. The corrupted fragment must be dampened, masked under layers of neutral spiritual patterns. He would need to weave a false resonance—something harmless, perhaps akin to a tired spirit’s fading.

Let the perceptive elder’s energy conclude the flare was a dying remnant. A natural release. Harmless.

It was customary of necromancy orders to track anomalies in cycles of threes: Three nights of observation, three layers of divination, three cross-checks with resting spirits. The Cheongji Order must have similar customs. To defer to utmost caution, he could plan for three-by-three nights instead of the typical three.

If he caused minor, unrelated disturbances—tiny variations in the spirit winds, nothing near the pavilion—they would appear random, trivial. He smiled faintly. Add noise to their data until the pattern dissolves.

“Inconclusive results always ease the mind,” he whispered.

The Cheongji Order was diligent but not paranoid. A single flare, followed by silence, followed by inconclusive cross-readings? They would document it, assign a low-level watch… and would most likely forget. Security would return to normal. Rot would grow unnoticed.

He traced a finger along the table edge, imagining the final breach months from now—when the Order’s wards weaken just enough that they do not notice the blade descending. The massacre would seem abrupt, unforeseeable, and only because he made it so.

Baek Mu-yeom’s expression cooled.

The young spiritual energy vessel that had amplification abilities was far too sharp. Whoever this was seemed to see things others didn’t and brushed too close to the hidden threads. This person must be identified, habits studied, and perceptive abilities muted or nullified. Being young, redirection was the best course. When the time came in the future and an appropriate form of infiltration of the Order was set, this person could be given a harmless assignment, a quiet shift in training schedule, a customary boundary placed for “spiritual safety.”

“Then this person will look away,” Baek Mu-yeom murmured. “Before this person’s perceptive abilities could kick in and look back, then it will be far too late.”

A single misstep among his own ranks could undo everything. He would reinforce the sect’s silence doctrine, rotate agents, and reassign the most impulsive to distant outposts. Their work here must be invisible. It didn’t need to be absent. It only needed to be invisible to the Order.

The candle flickered for the first time, as though acknowledging his decision. Baek Mu-yeom extinguished it with a pinch of his fingers. In the sudden darkness, his voice was calm—almost gentle.

“Let them believe they are safe,” he whispered. “Security breeds blindness. And blindness… is precisely what we need.”

Then he rose and left the shrine, steps soundless, the night swallowing every trace of his presence.

[lingtandanmei]

Cheongji Necromancer Excerpt 25

Unbeknownst to them—even as they sat in this sealed chamber—in distant caverns beyond Cheongji lands, in a black-ink sanctum lined with spirit jars and rotting scrolls…

Baek Mu-yeom traced a finger over an obsidian bowl, murmuring: “So Cheongji’s wards still breathe. Good. Let them tighten. Let them think the world is small.”

None of these words reached Cheongji’s ears.

Back in the Inner Stone Chamber, Eun Seol-hwa concluded: “This flare may have been harmless. An anomaly. But it is too close to an apprentice’s training to ignore. Regardless of its source, we must increase vigilance.”

The elders murmured in agreement.

Elder Gwan asked, “And the child, Gyeong-jae?”

Eun Seol-hwa paused. “He was not harmed, but he drew the flare’s attention and Seong-wook was injured in his place.”

“That alone is worrisome,” Lady Dan said softly. “If something out there is reaching…”

“It was not reaching for the skull,” Eun Seol-hwa finished. “It was reaching for him.”

The elders reacted—alarm, confusion, dread flashing in their eyes.

Jeok Dae-eun whispered, “…is he in danger?”

“Not yet,” Eun Seol-hwa answered, steady as frost. “We must remain vigilant.”

She gathered the filaments, sealing them inside a small jade case.

“Whatever caused the flare,” she said, “has touched our boundaries once. It may try again.”

Lady Dan leaned forward. “Do we alert the High Council?”

“Not yet. With so little evidence, we risk a false alarm.” Eun Seol-hwa rose. “For now, we observe quietly and protect the students even more closely.”

The elders nodded.

As Master Eun turned to leave, the faintest wisp of black smoke curled from the jade case—so faint that none of them noticed. A quiet reminder that the flare was not merely a warning…it was the first ripple of a storm.

Meanwhile, far away in the Hollow Archive, Baek Mu-yeom sat in the dim alcove far below the abandoned shrine. The night wind threaded through the broken latticework like a whisper of old debts. A single candle burned before him, its flame steady—so steady it made the darkness around it seem intentional.

He rested his palm on the table’s cracked surface, feeling the faint pulse of necrotic qi sealed beneath. The spiritual flare had been small, fleeting.

But not fleeting enough.

He let out a silent breath. He mustn’t rush the process. The Cheongji Order would fall. It was just a matter of time. The past few weeks of reports were insufficient to craft a foolproof plan of action.

“Too early,” he murmured. “Too close.”

[lingtandanmei]

Cheongji Necromancer Excerpt 24

Gyeong-jae whispered, “Master… will the spirit flare happen again?”

She brushed his hair back with a soft, steadying gesture. “If it does, it will meet us together.

That is enough.”

He nodded, reassured.

Soo-yeon herded her younger siblings inside, Ha-rim patting Gyeong-jae’s back, Hwa-jin quietly thoughtful, Yeon-rang humming a calm tune under her breath.

Han Seong-wook hovered a moment—his eyes lingering on Gyeong-jae, relieved he looked calmer now—before awkwardly pretending he hadn’t paused at all.

One by one, their footsteps faded to the sleeping quarters.

Master Eun remained a moment longer, gazing into the pond. The moon reflected there looked whole, serene, unmarred. She hoped the children would remain so, for at least a little while. She arose and slowly made her way back to the Hall to investigate the flare. It was always best to look into these things while the experience was fresh.

She conducted the investigation and shortly after utilized the emergency meeting sigil to alert all the elders to meet at the Hall.

Cheongji Hall was silent at this hour—deep night, when even the lanterns felt drowsy. But in the Inner Stone Chamber, a circle of pale-blue wardlights pulsed faintly, illuminating four figures seated around the engraved table.

Elder Mun So-ryeong from the Sowha Threading Hall.

Jeok Dae-eun from the Redstone Bulwark Institute

Lady Dan Myeong-hwa from the Myeonghwa Blessing Garden

Elder Gwan Taeseong from the Star-Mantle Observatory

—and at the head, fresh from her inspection,

Master Eun Seol-hwa.

The chamber doors shut behind her with a soft thrum as she laid a handful of ash-gray thread-filaments on the table. They twitched like dying insects before settling.

Jeok Dae-eun leaned forward, frowning. “That is the residue from the flare?”

Master Eun nodded.

Elder Mun So-ryeong’s expression tightened. “There is corruption in those threads.”

“Not corruption,” Eun Seol-hwa murmured. “Interference.”

A tense quiet fell.

Lady Dan Myeong-hwa spoke first. “Interference from where? No wandering spirit can mimic the signature of a departing flare without being bound by a vessel.”

“That is precisely the troubling part.” Eun Seol-hwa placed her hand over the filaments, and they fluttered under her qi. “The resonance is fragmented—half-formed. Almost like something tried to reach the talisman before realizing it lacked the anchor to do so.”

Jeok Dae-eun exhaled through his nose. “This sounds like the behavior of a lost spirit, not an unquiet one.”

“Not exactly,” Seol-hwa replied. “Lost spirits drift weakly. This flare was deliberate.”

Elder Gwan Taeseong rubbed his thumb along the edge of the table, deep in thought. “A test, perhaps? A probe?”

“By whom?” Lady Dan murmured. “No one outside the Order practices bone talisman resonance at this level anymore. Not legitimately.”

Silence ensued. Then Elder Mun So-ryeong said quietly, “Unless someone is practicing illegally.”

The temperature shifted before Jeok Dae-eun coughed. “The underground practitioners? Those charlatans barely know how to bind a prayer-knot. They wouldn’t be capable.”

“Not them.” Mun So-ryeong’s eyes sharpened. “Something older. Something that once belonged to the Orders before fracturing.”

The room held its breath. Then Eun Seol-hwa finally broke the stillness. “I examined the boundary lines around Cheongji Hall as well.”

The elders straightened.

“They are intact,” she said, “but strained. As if something pressed against them from afar… and then withdrew the moment it sensed resistance.”

Elder Gwan’s jaw tightened. “A distant ritual?”

“Possibly.”

Lady Dan frowned. “A resonance ritual strong enough to brush ours would require a master-level necromancer. And aside from us, who else survives with that knowledge?”

Her voice dipped. “The old splinter sects are gone.”

Jeok Dae-eun nodded. “Extinct. Even their writings vanished decades ago.”

[lingtandanmei]

Cheongji Necromancer Excerpt 23

Sensing the unease in the room, Master Eun smiled gently. “You did well tending to each other, despite the absence of your elders. Let’s gather in the Moon-Reflection Court for a meditation.”

The Moon-Reflection Court, the quiet inner garden behind Gyeolhak Pavilion, had lanterns lighting each corner. The gentle flicker of their pale-blue flames mirrored in the pond.

“Sit,” she said softly.

The pavilion siblings settled on the wooden deck:

Jang Ha-rim steadying Seo Gyeong-jae with a hand at his back,

Han Seong-wook trying not to look as shaken as he was,

Hwa-jin quiet with furrowed concern,

Yeon-rang gripping her sleeves,

Soo-yeon watchful,

Daon composed but visibly alert.

Master Eun lowered herself to the center of the circle and touched her fingertips to the wood. A soft, soothing pulse of qi shimmered outward—like a moon ripple on still water. Her voice, as always, was calm silk. “Tonight, we will practice the Spirit-Rest Breath. It eases the living when their inner spirits have been stirred. When you are ready, close your eyes.”

The children took a deep breath and closed their eyes.

Master Eun continued to guide them. “Breathe in… and let the air fall gently to the belly. No force. No shaping. Let breath move as it wishes.”

The pond mirrored the slow rise and fall of the lantern flames, and with each inhalation, the air tasted cooler—like dew.

“Now place your palms on the deck. Feel the ground beneath. Remember: the Order stands upon the bones of the mountains. You are safe on their spine.”

Even Seong-wook, ever restless, pressed both palms flat, letting the lingering adrenaline leak from his fingertips. Ha-rim steadied her breathing. Gyeong-jae’s small shoulders dropped a fraction.

“Now imagine a small chamber inside the chest,” she continued. “A quiet room, lit by a single lotus-lantern.”

Soft exhalations filled the courtyard. The children leaned into the visualization, faces loosening.

“Worries may knock at its door,” Master Eun said gently. “But they do not enter unless you invite them. Let the door remain closed.”

One by one, each child felt their internal flurry slow.

“Lift one hand,” she instructed.

Six small hands—and one smaller—rose into the lantern glow.

“Now imagine a single silver thread connecting your palms… not binding you, but reminding you.”

The children’s breathing synced, softer, steadier.

“This is the living’s version of guiding a spirit,” Master Eun explained quietly. “To offer peace, we must first hold peace inside ourselves. And to hold peace, we remember we do not walk alone.”

A faint warmth shimmered between their raised palms. Not magic—just shared breath, shared presence.

Gyeong-jae felt it like a soft weight settling against his heart.

Even the tension eased for Daon, the oldest who held a grave sense of responsibility for the younger siblings.

“Lower your hands,” Master Eun said.

They did.

“Let your breath fall… let your pulse slow… let your thoughts drift like fallen petals.”

A long, quiet moment passed, followed by another. By the time the pond rippled with a soft wind, the children looked lighter—no residual fear, no leftover tremor, just the soft afterglow of safety.

Master Eun finally opened her own eyes and assessed the children. “When you are ready, gently open your eyes.”

One by one, the children all opened their eyes.

“You did well,” she smiled.. “Rest is not the absence of fear, but the gentle placing of fear aside.”

The children bowed.

[lingtandanmei]

Cheongji Necromancer Excerpt 22

Eun Seol-hwa interrupted softly. “No, child. What occurred here was not your error.” She straightened, expression sharpening into something thoughtful—almost troubled. “This kind of flare is typical only in one circumstance.”

The siblings stiffened.

“When a spirit is preparing to depart,” she continued, “for rest—for good.”

Gyeong-jae blinked. “But… but there’s still a spirit in the sparrow skull.”

“Indeed,” she replied. “Which is precisely why this warrants concern.”

A faint crease formed between her brows.

“Spiritual flares that appear do not leave these vessels the way this skull is still lit. Something brushed against the talisman. Something attempted to make contact… or was pushed toward it.”

The room grew cold in a different way—fear threaded with awe.

Seo Yeon-rang whispered, “Does that mean a spirit was near? One that didn’t belong here?”

Master Eun inclined her head. “Possibly. Or a resonance from beyond the Hall. Or—” She paused. “—an echo of an unquiet force.”

The siblings exchanged uneasy glances.

Gyeong-jae, gripping his brush tightly, swallowed. “Master… does this mean… I should stop?”

Master Eun turned to him fully. Her voice softened—not a common occurrence, and thus all the more meaningful. “No, Gyeong-jae. This is precisely why you must continue.”

His eyes widened.

She placed a hand gently on his shoulder. “The sparrow skull reacted to you. And to what approaches. You must continue your observations. But from now on…”

Her gaze swept over the older siblings.

“…you will not sit here alone.”

Seong-wook straightened immediately. “I’ll accompany him every night, Master.”

The others nodded, murmuring agreement.

Master Eun Seol-hwa allowed the faintest smile. “Good. Because tonight’s flare was not dangerous. But the next might not be so gentle.”

The lantern flickered again—as though in agreement.

She folded her sleeves. “I will conduct an investigation of the Hall and the surrounding boundary threads. A flare of this nature—even if benign—should not occur unsummoned.”

The children bowed in unison.

Master Eun added, her tone low and firm: “Stay vigilant. A spirit seeking rest is harmless. But a spirit pushed out of balance… or guided by unseen hands… is something else entirely.”

The siblings exchanged looks—fear, curiosity, determination mixed together, but Gyeong-jae was only looking at Seong-wook’s arm while Seong-wook looked only at him. A few of the siblings then nervously whispered about the flare.

[lingtandanmei]

Cheongji Necromancer Excerpt 21

Gyeong-jae froze.

The siblings exchanged wide-eyed looks between them—some impressed, some exasperated, some quietly amused.

But Gyeong-jae… Gyeong-jae stared at Seong-wook like he was seeing him clearly for the first time.

“I don’t understand,” he whispered. “Why would you do that?”

Seong-wook didn’t meet his eyes.

He looked away, cheeks burning red despite the cold.

“You… you matter, okay?” he muttered. “That’s all.”

Gyeong-jae didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t say anything. He simply reached out—hesitant, delicate—and touched Seong-wook’s injured arm, as though checking if what happened was real.

Seong-wook inhaled sharply at the contact.

“I’m sorry!” Gyeong-jae said, alarmed. He looked around and tried to find a piece of binding cloth.

“Here.” Im Daon withdrew a soothing salve from her robe and offered it to Gyeong-jae, who took it and spread the salve over Seong-wook’s arm while the others formed a loose semicircle—alert but shaken. Then as Gyeong-jae wrapped Seong-wook’s arm, the sparrow-skull chamber still pulsed faintly with the chill residue of the spiritual flare. The lantern’s light wavered as if reluctant to settle.

The sliding door opened without a sound.

Master Eun Seol-hwa stepped inside. Her robes swept like a winter breeze—cool, pristine, and steady. Always steady. The silver clasps on her sleeves glinted as she surveyed the room with calm, assessing eyes. Her gaze first swept over the scattered papers. Then the sparrow skull.

Then the children.

“What happened?” she asked—not sharply, but with quiet gravity.

Nam Soo-yeon bowed. “Master, a spiritual flare manifested around the sparrow skull. It was abrupt and… stronger than we expected.”

Master Eun’s gaze shifted to Seong-wook’s injured arm. “And you intercepted it.”

Seong-wook looked down, sheepish. “He—Gyeong-jae was too close. I just reacted, Master.”

Master Eun nodded once—neither praising nor chastising. She turned toward the sparrow skull, lifting her hand. Pale, refined necromantic light unfurled from her sleeve, brushing gently across the skull, its threads, its cracks.

The skull trembled faintly under her touch. And then stilled.

“I see,” she murmured.

The siblings leaned in.

Gyeong-jae’s small voice broke the silence. “Master… Did I do something wrong? I recorded everything just as you said—”

[lingtandanmei]

Cheongji Necromancer Excerpt 20

Another week passed, and Gyeong-jae’s nightly observations became a steady routine. The sparrow skull’s spiritual threads had been soft and predictable, like ripples on a calm pond.

Tonight, however, the air felt different. The lantern flame guttered the moment the children settled in the pavilion, as if bowing to something unseen. Even the wooden floorboards seemed to exhale a colder wind.

Gyeong-jae didn’t notice at first. He knelt as always, brush poised, leaning close to the skull with a mixture of reverence and curiosity.

But Seong-wook felt it. A prickle at the base of his neck. A warning that settled behind his ribs like a stone.

Yoo Hwa-jin whispered, “Did you feel that?”

Before anyone could answer, the sparrow skull twitched. Not physically—but the spiritual threads around it snapped taut, flaring outward like a startled bird’s wings. A sudden burst of cold swept over the room. The threads writhed. Then a flare burst forth.

Gyeong-jae gasped as his brush jerked in his hand. “S–something is—”

The spiritual energy erupted, a sharp, unstable wave that sent papers flying and the lantern lurching on its hook.

The older siblings recoiled—but Seong-wook didn’t. He lunged. In a heartbeat he was in front of Gyeong-jae, one arm braced protectively, the other reaching behind to shove Gyeong-jae down, out of the flare’s direct path.

“Stay low!” His voice cracked with adrenaline but carried a steadiness far beyond his ten years. The spiritual energy scraped against his arm like freezing needles, biting through his sleeve. Seong-wook grit his teeth, refusing to move.

The sparrow’s threads snapped again, this time corkscrewing toward them with erratic, volatile force.

Nam Soo-yeon shouted, “Seong-wook, get away from there!”

“No!” he barked back, planting his feet. “He’s too close—it’ll hit him!”

Gyeong-jae, still half-pinned beneath Seong-wook’s arm, blinked in confusion and awe.

“But—Seong-wook—it’s just a flare—”

“This isn’t normal! Stay down!”

The air cracked like ice fracturing. Spiritual force slammed against Seong-wook’s back. He coughed, stunned, knuckles whitening against the floor, but he didn’t move. He made himself a barrier—instinctively, instinctually, like his body had always known that shielding Gyeong-jae was its purpose.

The flare built toward a second eruption.

And Gyeong-jae, finally understanding the danger, grabbed Seong-wook’s wrist with his small hands.

“Seong-wook—move! You’ll get hurt!”

“I can handle it.”

“You can’t!”

“I can,” Seong-wook growled, gripping the floor harder, “better than you.”

On the last word, the flare burst again.

This time, the pavilion siblings reacted—two forming a shaky boundary seal, another pulling on spiritual threads to dampen them. Their bodies glowed faintly with trained discipline.

The violent surge softened… then dissipated entirely, dissolving into harmless sparks of pale light. Silence thudded back into the room. The lantern flickered back to life.

Seong-wook slumped forward, panting. His sleeve was shredded, forearm marked with frost-bitten lines, faint but visible.

Gyeong-jae scrambled up.

“Your arm—your arm—why didn’t you dodge?!”

Seong-wook attempted a lopsided smile. “Because you didn’t.”

[lingtandanmei]

Cheongji Necromancer Excerpt 19

It wasn’t the skull, or the lesson, or the spiritual threads that fascinated him. It was Gyeong-jae’s earnestness. His tiny hands. His quiet courage in doing something most kids their age feared. How he tilted his head just slightly when thinking. How he bit his lip when writing.

Without thinking, Seong-wook reached into his sleeve and pulled out a warmed pebble—one he always kept in his pocket for no reason except that he liked the way it felt in his hand. He nudged it toward Gyeong-jae’s knee.

“For your nerves,” he whispered. “You fidget when you’re cold.”

Gyeong-jae blinked, surprised by the sudden softness at his side.

“Oh. Thank you,” he murmured, barely looking up. He tucked the pebble beside him and returned instantly to charting the spiritual threads.

Seong-wook watched as Gyeong-jae’s shoulders eased just a little, as though some unseen weight had lifted.

Nam Soo-yeon leaned toward Seong-wook with a smirk. “You like him, don’t you?”

Seong-wook flushed crimson, swatting her away silently. “Shh! Nonsense. He’ll hear and get distracted..”

“He won’t,” she whispered back. “He’s busy chasing ghosts.”

Indeed, Gyeong-jae was utterly absorbed, and Seong-wook was too distracted to even give her input any thought. Girls, what did they know anyway?

“The thread shifted again,” Gyeong-jae murmured, leaning so close his hair nearly brushed the skull. “I think… I think it’s reacting to someone’s presence.”

Everyone froze.

Then a sibling asked in a low voice, “Whose?”

Gyeong-jae’s brush hovered above the page. His gaze drifted—not toward the teasing siblings, not toward the lantern, but toward Seong-wook sitting behind him, posture too still, breath caught in his throat.

“…Warm presence,” Gyeong-jae said softly. “Not frightening. Just… very warm.”

Seong-wook’s ears turned scarlet.

Gyeong-jae, oblivious, wrote it down.

The older female siblings, Nam Soo-yeon and Im Daon, exchanged knowing looks.

For the first time, Seong-wook realized that even if he and Gyeong-jae didn’t understand it yet—even if Gyeong-jae was engrossed in rituals, in skulls, in threads of lingering spirits—these quiet nights carved something between them.

Something small and gentle—something Gyeong-jae didn’t yet see, and Seong-wook was beginning to—a thread of his own, thin and bright, connected him to the boy at the center of the room. Unlike the sparrow’s spirit, this thread only seemed to be growing stronger.

[lingtandanmei]

Cheongji Necromancer Excerpt 18

Over the next week at the Cheongji Order, every pavilion sibling had a chance to greet the sparrow skull at dawn after the invocation. The following week after that, Master Eun Seol-hwa had each of them take turns to hold a nightly vigil to accompany the sparrow skull as well. During the third week, she had them take turns leading the vigil and being in a group. Tonight, it was Gyeong-jae’s turn to lead.

Night draped itself over the Cheongji Order’s training grounds like a soft indigo veil. Inside the quiet pavilion, a single lantern burned low, its light trembling as though afraid to disturb the silence.

At the center of the room sat the tiny sparrow skull on a cushion of pale silk, so clean and delicate that the faint spiritual threads drifting around it looked like spiderwebs made of moonlight.

Gyeong-jae knelt beside the skull, straight-backed despite his small frame, brush in hand, inkstone warmed by a candle. His expression was unbearably serious for a child of nine.

“Write what the spirit shows you,” his senior sister Im Daon murmured. “Not what you want it to be.”

Two pavilion siblings sat with him as usual, cross-legged in steady companionship. Their presence kept the room warm: someone hummed softly, someone else passed Gyeong-jae candied ginger to chew when he grew nervous. This nightly ritual had become a sort of shared vigil.

But tonight, a third figure lingered in the doorway.

Han Seong-wook—too tall for his ten years of age, already with the makings of a guardian’s shoulders—hesitated as though the threshold itself might refuse him. He pretended he wasn’t watching Gyeong-jae specifically, though his eyes kept pulling back to the boy like a compass needle to true north.

One of the pavilion siblings waved him in.

“You can stay if you’re quiet.”

“I’m always quiet,” Seong-wook huffed, which was mostly true except when Gyeong-jae tripped over things and he burst out laughing. Oh, right, he was often reminded to not be so loud during mealtimes, too. He shrugged off the thought and pushed it to the back of his mind.

He stepped inside, taking a seat beside them all, slightly behind Gyeong-jae so he wouldn’t get caught staring. He didn’t know why or how it started—him seeking out Gyeong-jae. At first, it was unconscious. Then he caught himself looking at him, as if Gyeong-jae himself had become a whole-body magnet that had some kind of gravitational pull for his eyes.

The lantern light cast gentle gold along Gyeong-jae’s jaw and the bridge of his nose. He looked oddly grown-up whenever he focused like this.

Gyeong-jae didn’t notice any of it. He was already leaning in toward the sparrow skull, brows drawn together.

“The thread… it’s thinner tonight,” he whispered, as though afraid to frighten the spirit away.

“That’s good,” one sibling encouraged. “What does that tell you?”

“That maybe…” Gyeong-jae squinted, eyes narrowing the way they always did when he was concentrating so hard he forgot the world. “Maybe the sparrow is calmer. Or the spiritual residue is cooling.”

He dipped his brush and recorded the observation with surprising elegance for a nine-year-old, small strokes precise as silver needlework.

Seong-wook’s gaze softened without him realizing it.

[lingtandanmei]

Cheongji Necromancer Excerpt 17

He could only laugh. Such a small reward and yet such an exaggerated response. The first three pages of the Crimson Column was all about gathering one’s inner energy so that one’s anchor was strong enough to handle the calligraphy rituals that came later. He could keep stringing Hong Sa-jin along as needed to execute his plan. Moreover, the spirit essence he’d planted in her head allowed him to control her, to plant more false memories and manipulate her to keep her loyal to the sect. Little by little, after she increasingly absorbed more of the spirit essence he had tainted, she would be his willing puppet and most powerful weapon. Because the spirit essence was new and in such small amounts, she would not detect the impurities and catch onto his cunning. He knew the dangers of free will–especially those with great power–from Elder Hwang himself, the one who had found him and raised him and told him of the downfall of the sect. Too much infighting had led to the implosion of the previous Shrouded Ledger Sect. Under Baek Mu-yeom’s watchful care, such a thing would never happen again.

“Go,” he huffed, “and keep me posted.”

Grateful for the reward and used to his temperament, Hong Sa-jin finally bowed in obeisance and excused herself.

Baek Mu-yeom thought of his master, Elder Hwang Do-jin, who always said, “Knowledge cannot die before it is passed on.” If that was true, then the opposite was true as well: “Knowledge can die when it is not passed on.” By ridding the Cheongji Order from the face of the earth, then the only knowledge of necromancy left would all belong to the Shrouded Ledger Sect. All those who had belittled or persecuted the Shrouded Ledger Sect would regret their actions. Moreover, for anyone within the Shrouded Ledger Sect, there shall be no one more powerful and knowledgeable than he himself, Baek Mu-yeom.

Baek Mu-yeom closed the codex. The soul-lamps guttered. The spirits in the jars lining the shelves fell strangely silent. He whispered to the Ledger:

“Everything must be accounted for. Everything must be written. Only then will the world bend.”

The Ledger—old, hungry, alive—rustled its pages in answer. Its ink danced as if alive and then went invisible to lock its contents for Baek Mu-yeom’s eyes only.

Elder Hwang, your wish shall come true. The Shrouded Ledger Sect will become renowned as the foremost necromancers in the world, and I, your disciple, Baek Mu-yeom, will keep this sect together with absolute and merciless power.

[lingtandanmei]

Cheongji Necromancer Excerpt 16

Looking up from the manuscript, he slowly said, “Then that would be the perfect place to exact your revenge.”

“Yes,” she said, “and I want first dibs to get rid of the entire Order.”

“You shall have it.” He nodded grimly. Plans began to form in his mind.

“I’ve already assigned spies to gather information on site mapping, points of entry, population and routines,” Hong Sa-jin said.

“Splendid!” the elderly man guffawed. “You have learned well.”

Hong Sa-jin was delighted to hear the praise. She admired this man’s insight and foreplanning. If not for him, she would not be where she was today. Nor would she have found out that she also had a knack for details and planning. “It is only thanks to you, Sect Leader Baek.”

Baek Mu-yeom pressed his lips into a thin line. “Thank me only when we have succeeded in eradicating the Cheongji Order.” Necromancy was a competition and belonged only to those who prevailed. “When they are gone, no necromancers will be left to challenge us. The Shrouded Ledger Sect will be the true necromancers that shall reign over the living and the dead.”

“Yes, Sect Leader Baek,” said Hong Sa-jin. She was still there and must have been expecting more. After all, it had been awhile since she had last received any tangible benefits. Maybe this time her contributions could earn her something beyond his verbal recognition.

After all, he needed to keep his disciples on their toes. Infrequent and unpredictable yet meaningful rewards would keep them guessing. They should never know when they could get something big in return.

“Here is your reward.” He manipulated spirit essence in one hand, then used it to plant a sigil on her forehead.

The power injected into her head made Hong Sa-jin gasp.

“Painful, isn’t it?” He chuckled, then reasoned, “Your body isn’t used to this gift, so it is trying to reject it. The essence you just got gives you access to the Crimson Column, the darkest section of the Grand Ledger. You will find lost calligraphy rituals that allow you to weaponize memory and identity. You will gain increased control over spirits.”

“Thank you, Sect Leader Baek!” exclaimed Hong Sa-jin, after she recovered slightly from the sigil implantation.

Baek Mu-yeom smirked inwardly. “Your body can only store that much spirit essence,” he lied. “So you can only gain access to the first three pages in that section. Get used to the spirit essence in you, and master those first three pages. Then when you get stronger and more fluent, we can level up your access.”

“Yes, Sect Leader Baek!” Hong Sa-jin bowed, overjoyed.

[lingtandanmei]

Cheongji Necromancer Excerpt 15

“Eighty years,” he muttered, “and this manuscript is yet to be complete.” With a wave of spirit essence, he unlocked the manuscript. Its ink danced and slithered alive and became visible.

Hong Sa-jin joined his side.

He flipped the volume past the extinct orders of the North, then past the remnants of the West.

Noticing the progression, Hong Sa-jin volunteered, “They are to our far southwest today.”

The man flipped to the Southwest section of the manuscript and did not find them. The Southwest was the direction of the waning sun. Knowing that the manuscript was quite old, he knew that there was a possibility of relocation. He flipped to the West, the direction of the setting sun, and found the passage on the Cheongji Order.

Strengths: “Their versatility remains unmatched: spirit-bone constructs, elemental talismans, medium-less spirit speech, and full-spectrum purification rites. No single weakness can break them. Their knowledge is not centralized but embedded in each apprentice’s training path. Their chain of command is loose enough to adapt yet disciplined enough to hold under siege.”

Troubling indeed. He summoned his brush, dipped it in spirit-essence, earning a new chorus of tiny, agonized whispers swirling from the ink bowl that sat to the right of the manuscript and marked the passage in a deep indigo arc—meaning “threat: complex.”

Weaknesses: “They refuse resentment. They cleanse where resentment could be cultivated.”

He then wrote, “They soothe spirits that ought to stay broken and harvested. Their mercy is their flaw.” He marked this passage with gray sigils—“exploitable compassion.”

His eyes moved onto the last passage in the manuscript about the Cheongji Order.

“Of all the extant orders, Cheongji alone has refused to change in the aftermath of catastrophe. They cling to their original creed—respect for the dead, guidance for the lost, mending of the boundary. They are immovable, unyielding, and immune to the erosion of time and bloodshed. Their traditions do not weaken with each generation; they deepen. Their strength lies not in innovation but in stubborn adherence to principle.”

He sealed this passage with his sigil for “unyielding ideology.” He had thought that the Shrouded Ledger Sect was the last of the practicing necromancers. He had referenced and added to this Great Ledger Manuscript for years. Of all the necromancy orders recorded in the manuscript, he had sought out practitioners and updated the manuscript accordingly. He used spirit essence to rip the bindings of spirit veins—amidst the screeching whispers of spirits whose veins were being ripped—that kept the pages together and rearranged the pages so that the Cheongji Order was now in its appropriate section of the book. Content, he began to write. This time, the spirit essence reacted violently, the ink hissing.

The Cheongji is most dangerous to the Plan, because they will interfere.

A blunt, absolute statement.

“They will not ignore missing children, broken graves, or unnatural storms. They seek balance instinctively. They are drawn to tears in the veil. Our work requires widening those tears.”

He wrote faster now:

“If left unchecked, they will become the counterweight that prevents the world from tipping.”

He inscribes a final line in blackened spirit-blood:

“Eradication of their institutional memory is required before the Plan can proceed.”

This one the Ledger absorbs eagerly, swallowing the ink until no mark remained—only a faint, pulsing indentation where the page now recorded the decree.