92
When War Grows Distant
After the Battle of Simsu, the war receded as if into a dream.When the smoke cleared, what remained was silence.
Time inside a camp without combat felt strangely unfamiliar.The snow that had fallen for so long finally stopped, and sunlight seeped gently into the frozen ground.The wind of Liaodong was still cold, yet within it lingered a warmth that defied easy explanation.
The seasons were moving.
There was no advance, and no retreat.No new orders arrived.It was a rare stretch of days in which nothing happened.
The camp lay quiet.Soldiers cleaned their equipment, fed their horses, and at times sat on thawed earth simply staring up at the sky.In their eyes, weariness was present—but emptiness ran deeper.
The fighting at Simsu had been a victory.Yet it was not a conclusion, only a gap.
No one knew where they were meant to go next.What they were meant to fight for had grown indistinct.
Meanwhile, the enemy's movements vanished.The remnants of the White Lotus who had scorched Liaodong,the mounted forces of the Napsi clan that once roamed the riverbanks—all dispersed.
With Simsu as the last mark, they seemed to evaporate from the world.
And yet behind this broad emptiness, one presence remained: Nahaču.He was the shadow of Liaodong.
His position always lay on the boundary.He neither confronted them directly nor extended his hand.Negotiations did not open.Nor did open conflict resume.
Strangely, he remained still.
That silence was not indifference.It was endurance—neither attack nor surrender.Like a river flowing beneath ice.
"He wants peace."
One day, Jungnangjang Yi In-jung said so.
"But his peace is not the same as ours.To him, peace is a maintained state.A world where change has stopped."
Park Seong-jin turned those words over for a long time.
Does peace mean stopping?If so, is this moment peace?
Or is it simply stillness that has lost its direction?
The sun tilted westward.A long red glow spread across the sky above Yoyang Fortress.
Within that crimson light, the war had not disappeared.It lingered like a faint shadow—only the voices calling it forward were growing more distant.
Peace is a faraway dream.
The Formation of a Resolve
Toward Mount Guwol
Resolve did not arrive all at once.Like meltwater seeping into the earth, it slowly settled deep within Park Seong-jin.
He remained in the camp.In the mornings he checked his equipment.During the day he joined drills.At night he sat in silence by the fire.
Outwardly, he was no different from the others.
Yet one current had begun to shift.His thoughts no longer moved toward the next battle.
Before, it had been natural.The next fight, the next order, the next fortress—those came first.When he held a bow, the question was always where and how he would fight.
Now, it was the sword that appeared first.
The arc of the blade he had seen at the South Gate surfaced before anything else.It was less a cut than a separation.A fight already finished, even without blood or screams.
That image pulled his gaze inward rather than outward.
Park Seong-jin asked himself:Why am I still here?
Words like country, orders, comrades surfaced in turn—yet none settled firmly in his heart.
His mind was drifting away from war.It was not the sensation of fleeing.It was the growing clarity that he could not go any further in this state.
One night, he walked alone beyond the camp.The snow had nearly melted, and cold dampness rose from the ground.Stars were scattered sparsely across the sky.
He did not draw his sword.Resting his hand on the scabbard, he stood for a long while, steadying his breath.
Inhale.Hold.Release.
The breathing he had learned flowed on its own.Between those beats was a brief space—a pause he had never been taught.Between inhale and hold.Between hold and release.
Nothing moved, yet something gathered.That sensation of emptiness held him.
Then the Joui Seonin's words returned:
When you know that emptiness, the sword will follow you.
Only then did he see it clearly.
His hand was not leading the blade.He had been relying on it.
On the battlefield, that had been enough.But that sword reached beyond the battlefield.
He looked back toward the camp.The fires still burned.His comrades slept deeply.
There was nothing left here for him to add.
He repeated a promise he had never spoken aloud:
When the war ends, I will go to Mount Guwol.
It was no longer a condition.It had become a schedule.
What remained was simply to wait for the time.
The next morning he trained as usual.Answered commands.Filed reports.
Instead, he began to shed weight.
Objects that did not remain in the hand were set aside.Weapons that no longer fit his body were passed on.
Starting with a flintstone—then needle and thread,a small axe, a utility knife.Items gathered long ago "just in case."
Little by little, only a sword and fitted clothes remained.
No one noticed.But he knew.
The direction of his steps had already turned—away from the camp,toward the mountain.
Mount Guwol was not yet visible.Even on a map, it lay far away.
Yet the mountain was already growinginside his chest.
Thus the resolve was completed—without a word.