76
Deep Night, the Encampment
Deep night.The encampment lay buried in snow.
The light had sunk low, leaving only a single red wick.Around it, frozen air crouched like a beast.Each time the flame caught its breath, a thin veil of soot rose and vanished.The wind passed only at a distance; nearby, the silence had grown dense.
The canvas of the tents had frozen hard through the night.Frost clung to every knot, catching the moonlight and glowing pale.The horses stood pressed together, bodies touching.Their breath rose and fell slowly, intertwining into small clouds.Each swish of a tail rang with the brittle click of ice.
Beyond the ridge stretched a sea of darkness.The snow-covered plain concealed its contours, reflecting moonlight in a thin sheen, spreading endlessly without a visible edge.From far away came a single wolf's howl—low, then cut short.It did not draw nearer, nor did it disappear completely.
By the fire, the shadows of the group stretched long and overlapped.The sound of breathing, the faint cracking of firewood, the rasp of wind brushing the tents—these were the sum of the night.A time when nothing happened, yet anything could begin.Thus the encampment stood quietly at the heart of deep night.
As the night deepened, the snowstorm returned with force.The fragile light wavered as if about to go out, and the jungnangjang slept inside his tent, pulling the blanket close.Park Seong-jin stepped alone beyond the edge of the camp.
His body refused stillness, stirred by the studies of recent days.It was not the day's tension or fatigue.His breath had not yet cooled.
It was as though his body itself urged him to move.
He drew his sword.Without a word, he set his stance in the storm.The snow beneath his feet trembled faintly.
Hup. Inhale.Ji. Hold.Even the wind and sound came to a stop.Pa. Exhale.
The sword moved.There was not even a whistle—only the brief sound of air being cleaved.
At that moment, footsteps brushed through the snowstorm.At first, it seemed like an illusion mixed with the wind.Then the shadows lengthened.A dozen or more. Bandits.The ones who had retreated earlier.They had hidden their horses and returned under cover of darkness.
They approached without a sound, forming a semicircle around Park Seong-jin.Icicles clung to the tips of their spears.Hunger and killing intent tangled in their eyes.
Park Seong-jin said nothing.He raised his sword.There was no need for words.With men like these, there was nothing to say.
They felt the same.Killing and taking were their only justice.Their breathing was steady; their bodies did not stir.
One of them charged first.A blade tore through the snow.
Pa (破).
The sword flashed like light and flowed aside.The formulae of the blade followed like wind—no, like a wave.No ornament, no force.Only naturalness.
The bandit's body spun with a dull thud and collapsed onto the snow.
Two more struck from behind at the same time.He twisted one foot halfway and cut diagonally.Hup—Ji—Pa did not break.Breath itself became motion.
One man's wrist flew off.The other's spear snapped in midair.
The snowstorm surged.In the white wind, black shapes vanished.Yet each time the sword passed, something fell,and blood spattered across the snow.
The breath continued.On Park Seong-jin's face, there was neither fear nor rage.He moved only as he had been taught.
Once, he would have been the one to fall, overwhelmed by numbers.Just as he had studied—by the rhythm of breath.
Time lost its meaning.Wind and snow, blood and blade merged into one.The last remaining men looked at one another.Their resolve broke first.Screaming, they fled.
The steppe grew quiet once more.Only Park Seong-jin's breath scattered white into the air.
On the snow lay six—no, seven shadows.Blood slowly stiffened atop the frost.He stood there for a long while.His fingertips burned.
The boy who had never slaughtered even a chicken was no longer there.
The difference between a soldier and a warrior had become clear.The heat slowly cooled within him.
Park Seong-jin sheathed his sword.Snowflakes settled on his shoulders, then melted away.Not far off, Lee In-jung was watching.
Park Seong-jin turned toward him and bowed slowly.There were no words.
Dawnlight spread across the field.The snowstorm that had raged all night had stopped, and the cold air was as clear as glass.Fresh snow covered the red stains left behind.
Lee In-jung rode over the ridge.The horse's breath billowed white.His gaze caught on a place where blood and snow were tangled—and at its center stood Park Seong-jin, checking the frozen bodies one by one.
"Quite a number came," Lee In-jung said, reining in his horse."About a dozen," Park Seong-jin replied."I see."
Lee In-jung dismounted.His boots crunched softly as they pressed into the snow.He brushed aside the snow and examined the bodies in silence.Faces half-buried, blood already frozen, its dark red dulled.The night wind had been steadily covering the traces.
After a while, Lee In-jung spoke quietly.
"Your study has settled in.Cutting a man with a sword is no easy thing.Strength alone won't do it.You must follow the grain and cut in a single stroke—and now, you can."
Park Seong-jin lowered his head."It is thanks to you, sir.""Your progress is fast."
Lee In-jung let his gaze fall to the snow."This one went down in a single strike.The carotid artery must have burst—the blood would have surged like a fountain."
In the cold morning light, his eyes wavered briefly.After standing in silence for a long time, he slowly raised his head.
"Park Seong-jin.""Yes.""When the war ends, continue your study."
The words were closer to counsel than command."Receive proper martial instruction.You have passed the stage of learning alone."
Park Seong-jin lifted his eyes to him.
The praise was clear, yet the path uncertain.
Lee In-jung looked up at the sky and continued."Deep in the mountains of Guwol lies a place called Hoeun Hermitage.A recluse lives there, one who keeps his distance from the world.When I was young, I studied under him for a time."
The wind passed.The blood on the snow had fully hardened into frost.When the dawn sunlight touched it, the red glimmered briefly, then faded.
"If you go… he will recognize you.""Hoeun Hermitage, Mount Guwol…"Park Seong-jin repeated the words softly.
Lee In-jung turned his horse and began to walk away.Behind him, Park Seong-jin's voice followed with care.
"What is the hermit's name?"
Without stopping, Lee In-jung answered."They call him Iwol-gun."
After a brief pause, he added,"A man who resembles the heavens."
At the edge of the steppe, the morning sun rose fully.The long shadows on the snow began to move, one by one.Blood and snow, breath and light mingled, and the white plain slowly turned gold.
Park Seong-jin stood there for a while longer.Then, very softly, he murmured,
"Hoeun Hermitage of Mount Guwol… Iwol-gun."
The sound was like the world waking once again.