63
In the dream, he returned home.The road was warm like a spring day, and instead of cold snow, the smell of earth filled his nose.After crossing the river, wide green fields opened before him.Barley heads swayed gently in the wind, and soft green sunlight spread across the embankment where he had run as a child.
Under the familiar eaves of a thatched house, the door opened.His father stepped out.The bronze-toned face, the deep wrinkles, even the hardened knuckles shaped by years of training—everything was exactly as it had been when he was alive.
"You've worked hard, Seong-jin. I never thought you'd come this far."
For a long moment, Park Seong-jin could not speak.He simply took his father's hand.The rough calluses pressed clearly into his palm.
Then, from behind a corner pillar, his older brother appeared.His face was unmarked, unstained by blood.There were no wounds anywhere, and his eyes were clear.He looked well fed, solid, healthy.
"Well done. Thank you for coming back alive."
At those words, Park Seong-jin's knees gave way.
"Ah—"
He sank down where he stood.His breath came fast, and his throat burned.
His brother wrapped an arm around his shoulders and said quietly,
"Don't fight anymore now. You've come too far."
As the words ended, the sound of wind came from far away—the sound it makes when snow begins to fall.
Park Seong-jin snapped awake.The coffered wooden ceiling of the guesthouse in Geumseong filled his vision.The light was almost gone; only the sound of wind remained.A single snowflake slipped through the window gap and touched the back of his neck.It was cold.
They really should have fixed it properly—snow had blown in all night, leaving the window frame and floor damp.He lay still for a while as the warmth lingering from the dream slowly faded.
"Father… Brother…"
The words scattered from his lips.The air in the room hardened again with cold.
As he tried to rise, he stopped.His hand was trembling.
Nothing had happened.There was no sound, no threat.And yet his fingertips would not obey.
He slowly clenched his hand, then opened it again.The trembling did not easily subside.
He lifted the sword lying beside the lamp.The blade rattled faintly in his grip, and pale dawn light slid across the shaking steel.Only then did the trembling stop.
Footsteps sounded outside.It was Lee In-jung's voice.
"Arakhtai will summon us soon. A message from the Great Khan has arrived."
Park Seong-jin closed his eyes for a moment.He drew in a breath, then let it out slowly.
"Yes. I'll come out shortly."
His voice was low.Only the sound of wind remained in the room.
Park Seong-jin opened the door and stepped into the courtyard.The dawn air was biting.The sky was neither blue nor bright, but a gray close to ash.
In the middle of the guesthouse courtyard, someone was wielding a sword.He stopped walking.
It was Lee In-jung—a fifth-rank Jungnangjang.
He had martial skill?A man who moved by documents and orders was standing alone at dawn with a blade in hand.
Park Seong-jin held his breath and remained still.
Lee In-jung's feet skimmed the snow.There was no slipping.It was footwork that knew the path in advance.
Each time the sword tip rose, the air split with a short, sharp sound.What he was practicing was the Joseon Se-beop (Joseon combat forms),the practical sword techniques all military officers learned.
Yet there was no haste in the movement.
First, the Pyeongmu-se (平舞勢).The sword tip lowered.The waist loosened, and the whole body sank slowly.The footprints in the snow did not deepen.
The wind brushed past.There was no force in the shoulders.The wrist looked less like it was gripping a sword than simply resting there.
It felt less like the sword moved, and more like the space itself was being split.A single quiet line was drawn, dividing positions.
Park Seong-jin forgot even to breathe.
Next, the Ungeom-se (雲劍勢).The blade flowed left and right.The feet barely moved.
Wherever the sword tip turned, the grain of the air subtly changed,as if invisible waves were folding and unfolding.
Nothing remained where the sword had passed.And yet something had unmistakably gone through.
Finally, the Churak-se (墜落勢).Lee In-jung raised the sword.The angle was restrained.
For a moment, the entire courtyard seemed to stop.
The blade came down.Neither fast nor slow—it arrived at exactly the moment it should.
There was no force, yet the weight was undeniable.Before the tip could touch the ground, he had already moved to the next position.
The snow was unchanged.The air had not shifted.
Park Seong-jin stood frozen.The courtyard was silent.That silence lingered.
Lee In-jung sheathed his sword.There was no sound of breath.As the hem of his official robe settled, it traced a circle on the snow.
After a moment, Lee In-jung turned toward him.
"You're up early."
"Yes. I didn't know you practiced such sword work, General."
"It's a way of finding one's breath," Lee In-jung said, looking at the sword."A person must first recover his own breathing.If the breath is disordered, the sword will be as well."
Park Seong-jin bowed his head.
"I want to try that too."
"Then do it."
Lee In-jung slid the sword behind his back.
"If you put the sword down even for a day, the sword will move ahead of you."
Park Seong-jin held those words in his heart.
From that day on, he stood in the courtyard every dawn.Whether snow fell or fatigue remained, he took up the sword, even briefly.Following the lines traced by the blade's tip, he checked the position of his own body.