96
The snow began to melt.The wind was still cold.From beneath the ground, the smell of soil rose up.
That scent stirred an old memory—the smell of the day, before spring, when his father plowed the field.
In that earth, human blood and ash and snow had all seeped together.
A dead horse lay by the roadside.Its saddle had been stripped away, its hooves stiffened toward the sky.Without thinking, he reached out and brushed the horse's neck.
The place that would have been warm when it livedheld only a stony cold.
From a nearby snowbank, the sour rot of old blood rose—and beneath it, a faint smell of grass.
Strangely, that smell resembled home.
In the villages they passed, only the proof of absence remained.Burned houses, collapsed walls choking the road.
And yet—smoke rose from one chimney.
He followed it and found a child standing there.In the child's hand was a single dried persimmon.
"Want this?"
He could not answer.
A child—thinking to share.And they still had not escapedthe world of hunger and cold.
He put it in his mouth and chewed slowly.The sweetness spread deep into his chest.
It was the winter of home—the scent his mother left hanging beneath the eaves.
That taste called up, with cruel clarity,a place he could not return to.
Tears fell first.
At night they lit fires.Now there was no need to fear the enemy's eyes.
When Oh Jin-cheol—who knew how to build a fire well—gathered wood and coaxed the ember to life,people drifted in one by one.
When the firelight touched their faces,they recovered the shape of being human.
When the light diminished, shadows returned to fill the space.
Someone spoke of home.
"In spring, the scent of jujube blossoms fills our alley."
He closed his eyes.
His home had been like that too.When spring came, plum blossoms opened beneath the wall on the hillside.When their fragrance rode the wind inward, his mother always said,
"This year will be a good harvest."
Her voice rang clear inside his memory.
The next day, he saw an abandoned temple by the road.A burned Buddha statue had a face half melted away.
Even so, the mural remained.People were holding hands and laughing.
He stood there a long time.The painting felt like a living person.
The faces of those who had vanished into the snowoverlapped with that smile.
The road continued.
Snow melted.Under the ice in the valley, water could be heard moving.
He dismounted and scooped water with his hand, drinking.Cold water slid down his throat,and somewhere in his chest, something quiet washed clean.
In that moment he understood:the world was still breathing.
His awareness began to move again,in time with that breath.
A crow cried in the distance.The sunset reddened.
Beneath it, they kept moving south, slowly.
These scents—soil and snow, smoke and dried persimmon, the sound of spring water—all of it would someday lead him backto the place of being human.
The road to Heunghwajin in Tongju reached as far as this point.The wind of Yodong eased,and a river revealed itself in the distance.
That river was a boundary.Beyond it lay Goryeo.Beyond that—lay home.
The ferry landing at Heunghwajin was quiet.Thin sheets of ice floated on the surface,drifting and tapping each other with a fine, narrow sound.
Someone said,
"We're here."
The words lingered in the air for a long time.
At the mouth of the landing stood temporary buildings raised by the garrison troops.It looked less like an inspection postand more like a gate—a threshold where one washed off the dust of warand returned to being a person again.
At Heunghwajin Fortress, the nangjang Han Heum came out to receive them.In the lower town, a modest feast had been prepared.
It felt less like a welcomeand more like a rite—a way of burying what they had carried.
The small fortress could not properly host two hundred men.Only the commander-in-chief and some fifty guards entered the gathering.The crossbow unit set camp nearby instead.
Once the camp was raised, meat and liquor arrived.
He set his bow down.
The calluses on his fingertips felt strange—as though they would soon be neededfor a different kind of work.
A faint sadness brushed through him.
Across the river, a village could be seen.Smoke rose from chimneys.
The smell of barley straw burning, soybean stew, damp earth—the scent of home that had clung to his mind through the war.
With that scent alone, a person's heart loosened.His eyes stung.
Behind him, Oh Jin-cheol said,
"Now it's really over."
He could not answer.The word "over" needed timebefore it could settle into the body.
He had believed that when war ended, freedom would come.Freedom arrived heavier than he had imagined.
The smell of death still remained in his hands.
And yet, quietly, the things he would have to do nextbegan to close around him.
A sensation seeped in—that even with hands stained by death,he could still grasp something new.
The commander-in-chief sat on horseback, looking out over the river.Beside him, the black-clad warriors from that day were still there.
They kept their place without speaking.Their cloaks flickered in the wind.They looked like people standing at a distance from this world.
Near them, even victory felt light.
A wind brushed the riverbank.
He knelt slowly and scooped river water with both hands.It was cold as ice.
Within that cold, a faint current of life rose.
It was the first spring he was meetingafter the war.
He sensed something strangearound the time they drew close to Seogyeong.
After crossing the river and passing one mountain range, the air changed.Instead of blood and smoke and the sweat of warhorses,there were scents of silk and ink—and between them, an unnameable feeling of calculation.
As the commander-in-chief returned bearing the buwol,local magistrates rushed out to meet them.
Unnamed militia and officials lined up in order.Flags stood dense along the roadside.
"Congratulations on your victory."
The familiar words came one after another.
They were refined.Their temperature was low.
They smiled, their gazes sharp.Etiquette was added at every turn—and that etiquette came toward them like a blade.
Those eyes were not seeking favor.They were measuring weight.
The tables were lavish.The liquor bitter.The food warm—the heart arranged into tension.
Even in the midst of loud voices, the nature of the place was clear.It was a forum of observationwearing the form of celebration.
He lifted his gaze and swept the room.
After crossing death many times, he had begun to see more.The grain of calculation laid behind words,the density of anxiety stacked inside silence.
The commander-in-chief's expression did not change.Calm.His gaze steady.
He understood exactly what this scene was.He was reading, too, that all of it rose from decisions made in Gaegyeong.
A victorious general's power demands balance.People called that balance politics.
To him, it felt like another battlefield.
On the battlefield, he threw his body toward survival.Here, he adjusted his breathing toward survival.
Night came, and the wind blew.
Seogyeong's wind carried a different grain than Yodong's—not sharp, but evenly spread,cooling the surface of the heart in slow waves.
That night, he stayed awake a long time.
Beyond the firelight, laughter continued—and within it, wordless tension stacked like order.
That order held him with unblinking clarity.
That night, in the guest quarters at Seogyeong, moonlight lay blurred.The dust of war still lingered above the air,and in the city's air the scent of politics had already soaked in.
By day, the magistrates and clerks had offered wine in celebration.By night, they leaned close and let low words slip into one another's ears.
"Gaegyeong will send someone down soon.""They say the buwol stayed in the field too long."
Those words passed through the cracks of the guest quarters like wind.
He stood outside the door like a night watchman.
Inside, the voices of Baegin-gun and Lee In-jungcontinued in a low, slow grain.
"It may not be His Majesty's will—it may be something arranged by the Seungjeongwon."
Lee In-jung's tone was even,but a cold calculation lay within it.
"When the court composes a will,it becomes His Majesty's will."
Baegin-gun set his cup down slowly.
"The war is won,but power has already moved to another battleground."
The air in the room sank for a moment.
Outside, wind passed between pillars.Moonlight broke across the roof tiles.The shadow of the cup stretched long over the floor.
"Gaegyeong is already uncomfortable with us,"Lee In-jung spoke again."They are not looking at a hero of Yodong—they are weighing the burden of his return."
Baegin-gun gave a short laugh.
"And you see that as fear?"
"Yes.The fear of those who do not know how to divide merit."
Over the scent of liquor, an old smell of blood overlapped.
Baegin-gun's gaze turned toward the darkness beyond the window.
"I fought to end fighting.But this country—it keeps breathing only when there is a fight."
Those words remained, unusually long.
Outside the door, hearing a conversation that did not touch him directly,he felt cold water seeping into the center of his chest.
People were learning how to aim at each othereven in places where the target was not named.
The night deepened.The cups emptied.
The two men sat facing each other,silent, staring into the firelight.
From outside, he watched the light brush the wall.Its shadow covered the two faces in turn.
One face belonged to a general who had crossed many wars.One face belonged to someone who understood that general—and still chose another path.
And between them, the court's shadow stretched long.
Lee In-jung was reading the tides.Park Seong-jin stood at a distance, listening to the flow.Baegin-gun already knew his own fate.
The court in Gaegyeongdid not want a triumphant general returning homeholding the buwol.
Buwol (斧鉞)
A ceremonial axe and halberd symbol granted by the sovereign.It symbolizes full military authority, including the right to command armies and execute judgment in the ruler's name.A general holding the buwol is not merely a commander, but an extension of royal power—which often makes him politically dangerous upon returning to court.
Seungjeongwon (承政院)
The Royal Secretariat of Goryeo.Though formally a bureaucratic institution, it often acted as a gatekeeper of royal will, shaping or filtering decisions before they reached the king.In practice, actions "not directly ordered by the king" could still carry absolute authority if processed through the Seungjeongwon.
Hyangni (鄕吏)
Local clerks and hereditary administrators serving provincial magistrates.They possessed deep regional influence despite low official rank, often acting as the real power behind local governance.In victory celebrations, their politeness often masks calculation—measuring who is rising, and who may soon fall.
Suryeong (守令)
Local magistrates appointed by the central government.They represent the state's authority in provinces and are highly sensitive to shifts in political balance.Their public praise is often sincere in form but strategic in intent.
Seogyeong (西京)
The Western Capital (modern Pyongyang).More than a city, Seogyeong functions as a political buffer zone—a place where military success begins to collide with court politics before reaching Gaegyeong.
Gaegyeong (開京)
The capital of Goryeo.In the narrative, it represents not home, but the center of political gravity—a place where victories are weighed, redistributed, or neutralized.