49.
The moment the council ended, movement followed.There was no time for words to linger in the air.
The banner officers ran up first.As the colors shifted, the direction of the firing platforms turned with them.Crossbows fixed to the towers were released one by one and moved toward the breach.Temporary platforms were raised, and firing positions of differing heights were rebuilt.
Fire-control officers took their posts.Hands holding signal flags rose and fell.With each motion, bowstrings were drawn and released.Volley.Cease.Resume.The flow of arrows locked together like a single breath.
Behind the collapsed wall, archers formed a crescent.The front rank for long range, the middle for precision, the rear in reserve.Overlapping ranges knitted into a fire net.
Inside the fortress, stone and sandbags moved without pause.Beside hands that fought, hands that built did not rest.Stone was set, earth tamped down.Temporary stonework rose one tier at a time.Emergency materials were dragged near the wall—abandoned houses torn down, stripped, and hauled in without ceremony.
"Hold the angle."
The controller's voice stayed low.
At his command, the banner officer's flags moved.Crossbowmen practiced drawing and releasing empty bolts in rhythm.The core was simultaneous fire within the net.If even one man failed to fire with the rest, they were ordered to repeat it.
Though only rehearsal, the rhythm of fire returned.In repetition, the unit hardened.Commands became motion, and the training system turned into an efficient killing formation.
At dawn, the enemy approached again.This time they did not charge, stopping instead beyond firing range.A thin fog lay over the plain, within it the shapes of Northern Yuan cavalry drifting like stains.The vanguard advanced several dozen paces, then halted at a line as if agreed upon.Beyond arrow reach—yet close enough to charge.
A shrewd judgment.They had calculated Goryeo's range and stopped there.
The battlefield fell silent.That silence itself was already part of the fight.
Baekin-gun concentrated firepower at the South Gate.The east and north, ringed by the Taehwa River and moat, were difficult to approach.The south was the only axis the enemy could choose.
On the South Gate wall, archers stood packed tight.At each chi¹, master bowmen were placed—the sharp-eyed and quick-handed selected among them.They were called the marksmen.
Park Seong-jin stood among them.Baekin-gun had pointed him out personally after watching the previous day's fire.The end of the chi took the wind head-on.Each draw pulled the dawn's cold straight into his fingertips.The enemy commander had not yet appeared; only the low drumbeats from the north carried over the fog.
The marksmen were given one order:"The moment you see the enemy commander, shoot."
As the fog thinned, Seong-jin sat at the edge of the chi, bow resting across his knees.His fingers were cold.He stroked the bow's spine and evened his breathing.A long inhale. A long release.
Then the texture of the wind changed.The northern chill slackened, just for a moment.
From afar, Baekin-gun raised his hand.No words.But any fighter would know the signal.
On the plain before the gate, a line of enemy cavalry moved.Early sunlight lay faintly across their armor.At the front, a commander bearing a red banner turned his horse, surveying the ranks.Even at distance, his presence carried weight.
Seong-jin narrowed his eyes.Distance, wind, angle, trajectory—aligned in a single breath.He drew the string to his ear.The string trembled faintly; tendons rose sharp on the back of his hand.
"Hoo—"
A breath fell away.Tak.
A short, sharp sound—like a cicada's cry.The arrow flew before the eye could follow.After a brief stillness, the horse pitched forward.The red banner collapsed onto the snow.
With that single shot, time on the battlefield flipped.
Shouts burst from the fog, then the drums thundered.Seong-jin lowered his bow.No emotion followed.He nocked another arrow and began to steady his breathing again, like repeating an old rite.
Around the fallen red banner, the enemy formation wavered.Shouts and drums overlapped.Cavalry formed the front line; spearpoints flashed in unison.Armor clashed, tearing the air.
"Form up before the gate! Archers ready!"
Baekin-gun's shout swept along the wall.
At once, Goryeo's arrows erupted together.On a single signal, thousands filled the sky.The sound of wind being cut tore through the dawn.
Several riders at the front fell with their horses.Those behind trampled over them and charged on.Hooves slipped into pits dug in advance.Men and horses plunged into water and mud; blood spread.
Driven by the roar from behind, the advance continued.
"Fire teams forward! Launch fire pots at the South Gate chi!"
From each embrasure, flames burst.Burning canisters fell below.Horses panicked at the sight of fire, throwing riders.The ground before the gate flared red.Armor heated, men and beasts tangled together.
The enemy pushed siege carts beneath the gate—battering wagons plated with iron over wood.From above, stones and boiling oil poured down.Sparks flew; horses screamed.
Seong-jin raised his bow again.A gap showed in the siege cart.A flaming arrow drove into it.The straw inside caught.
"It's burning! Push it!"
The cart burned and blocked the gate approach.Enemies wrapped in flame screamed and fell back.
Then Baekin-gun's low command came down."Now. Drop the iron spikes at the South Gate."
Clank—
From inside the gate, iron stakes shot upward.Enemies surging through the flames were impaled in place.Blood and fire leapt together.Inside and outside the gate fused into a single inferno.
A roar exploded from the wall."Hold Liaoyang!"
The sound ripped through the fog and carried to the ridgelines.
Beyond the flames, the drums sounded again.The second wave was already moving.