Mr. Park’s words hung in the still night air, a fragile bridge between Feng Jiu’s newfound power and the world’s hidden truths. His disbelief slowly melted into something akin to grudging awe, his eyes, usually sharp with suspicion, now held a glint of surprise. He stepped fully onto the rooftop, the heavy door thudding shut behind him, sealing them in with the hum of the city and the faint thrumming beneath Feng Jiu’s skin. “The ley line… it hasn’t responded with such clarity in centuries,” Mr. Park murmured, his gaze sweeping over Feng Jiu, then lingering on Sora, who still stood frozen, her gimbap forgotten. “Not since the Great Disjunction, when the conduits withered and the guardians’ lineage all but vanished.” He took another slow step, closer now. “You pulled raw terrestrial qi. Not just a trickle, but a river. How?” Feng Jiu’s triumphant smile faltered slightly. He didn’t have an answer beyond the burning desire to protect Sora. “I… I simply focused,” he said, his voice regaining its usual confidence, though a touch softer than before. “The world calls out. I merely listened.” Mr. Park scoffed, a dry sound. “Listening is one thing. Commanding is another. Especially for one whose dantian was… nonexistent.” He rubbed his chin, his brows pinching in thought. “Perhaps I misjudged. My ancestors spoke of a rare resonance, a soul attuned to the planet’s heart, capable of drawing breath directly from the soil, without the usual rituals or bloodlines. A true Conduit.” He paused, inspecting Feng Jiu with unblinking scrutiny. “This changes things.” Sora finally stirred, her eyes darting between the two men. “What changes? What are you talking about, Mr. Park? Ley lines? Conduits?” “The Weeping Willow,” Feng Jiu interjected, his gaze firm on Mr. Park. “The corrupted spirit. You said it was linked to the city’s sickness. What is its true root?” Mr. Park nodded, his expression grim. “The Willow is not merely on the Han River bank. That is but an anchor, a visible manifestation. Its true roots, its heart, lie deep beneath the city. In the forgotten veins of the Old Seoul Transit network.” He gestured vaguely downwards. “An abandoned section of the underground rail lines, where three major ley lines converge. The perfect place for a festering wound to drain the city’s vitality. And for the Graveblight to breed.” “Underground?” Sora spoke barely above a whisper. “The old, closed-off platforms near Jongno? People say strange things happen down there.” “Strange things, indeed,” Mr. Park confirmed. He reached into the deep pocket of his hanbok, pulling out a small, ornate brass compass. Its face was blank, no cardinal directions, just a single, slender needle that quivered with an almost imperceptible tremor. “This is an Astral Loupan. It points not to magnetic north, but to concentrations of supernatural rot. The Grey Fade. The Willow’s mold.” He held it out to Feng Jiu. “Our plan remains: to weaken the spirit. I have prepared three purifying talismans, infused with sap from mountain ash and purified rainwater. You will need to plant them at key junctions along the tracks, where the Willow’s rot is strongest. It won’t destroy it, not yet, but it will sever its hold on the ley lines, buying us time.” Feng Jiu took the instrument, its cold brass a solid presence in his palm. He felt a surge of purpose, a clear path laid before him. “When do we leave?” Sora clutched Feng Jiu’s arm, her worry etched on her face. “Feng Jiu, that thing hurt you before! What if…” “I am stronger now, Sora,” Feng Jiu said, his voice gentle but resolute. He covered her hand with his own. “And I will not allow this blight to threaten your clinic, or your city.” Hours later, the oppressive chill of the abandoned railway tunnels enveloped them. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth, rust, and something else—a heavy, suffocating stagnation that pricked at Feng Jiu’s senses. The brass needle in his hand spun erratically, twitching like a caged bird. Mr. Park led the way, a small, powerful lantern cutting a path through the suffocating darkness, with Sora close behind, her face pale but determined. “This way,” Mr. Park grunted, his voice echoing eerily. “The first junction is just ahead.” As they rounded a bend, the needle suddenly slammed against its brass casing, vibrating violently. A low, guttural growl rumbled through the tunnel, vibrating through the soles of Feng Jiu's boots. The temperature plunged. From the deep shadows ahead, they emerged. Swarming apparitions, not the faint wisps Feng Jiu had seen before, but coalesced forms, twisted mockeries of human commuters, their faces frozen in silent shrieks. They drifted with unnatural speed, their elongated limbs reaching, born of countless forgotten journeys and hungry for vital heat. “Stay close!” Mr. Park yelled, drawing a short, gnarled staff from beneath his coat. Sora gasped, stumbling back, clutching Feng Jiu’s jacket. One of the wraiths lunged, its spectral fingers brushing Feng Jiu’s cheek. An icy misery seized his lungs, threatening to drag him down. He pushed the cold misery away, the memory of Sora’s open confession acting as a shield. The ley line current he had drawn earlier flared to life within him, warming his ribs. He would not fall. Not here. Not now. He would protect them. With a sharp shout, Feng Jiu thrust his hand forward. The terrestrial force coalesced, blazing and sharp, surging from his palm. It wasn’t a talisman’s focused burst, nor a Grandmaster’s intricate spell. It was raw, untamed power drawn directly from the planet’s heart. An incandescent flash erupted, a blast of white radiance that tore through the darkness. The apparitions thrashed in a soundless chorus. Radiance ripped through their forms, dissolving them like smoke caught in a gale. Their twisted bodies unraveled, vaporizing in a burst of white heat, leaving nothing but a lingering scent of ozone and total stillness. When the light faded, the tunnel was utterly clear. Not a single phantom remained. Sora stared, her mouth parted. Mr. Park, his staff half-raised, took a staggering step back. “Impossible… Such raw power, such precision… You commanded it, instantly.” His voice was laced with an awe he hadn’t shown before. Feng Jiu stood panting, the last vestiges of power tingling in his fingertips. The dead chill had vanished, replaced by a strange stillness. As his eyes adjusted to the dim lantern light, he noticed something glinting on the grimy ties where one of the phantoms had dissolved. A small, rusted antique locket, its surface scarred by time, lay half-buried in the dust. He bent down, his fingers brushing against the cold metal, and a sudden, sharp image, fleeting as a dream, pulsed through his mind: a young woman’s face, etched with a quiet sadness, looking out from a black-and-white photograph. He picked up the locket. It was unusually heavy, and even through the rust, he could feel a faint, melancholic warmth emanating from it, a whisper of a life cut short, a story untold.

Ghosts of the Subway