111
Descent (下山)
The mountain was burning red.It was the day Guwol Mountain's autumn leaves reached their peak.
Iwol-gun sat on the wooden platform and spoke nothing for a long while.Each time the wind blew, crimson leaves scattered.Through them, Park Seong-jin's shadow stretched long.
After some time, the old man slowly opened his mouth."It is time to go down."
"…Pardon?"
"The state is calling for you.It is time to return to the lower world."
He already knew.Before he could fully grasp the meaning, the ending arrived first.It felt as though the remaining time had been quietly sealed shut.The span in which learning could continue folded in on itself.That realization pressed heavily on his chest.
Park Seong-jin looked at the old man.His eyes were deeper and calmer than the valley piled thick with red leaves.
Iwol-gun traced the dust that had settled on the platform with his finger.The winding line became a single shape.
"This is a river.Study must flow like this river.If it stays in the mountain, it stagnates.Only by flowing does it soak the world."
Park Seong-jin bowed his head."I have learned nothing yet."
Iwol-gun smiled."Never forget those words.The moment you believe you have learned, the Way grows distant."
From his waist, he took out a small bamboo tube and offered it."When you descend to the lower world, open this.It is not the form of the sword, but the frame of the mind.If you wish not to forget, this study will continue anywhere."
Park Seong-jin received it with both hands.The bamboo tube was pale, yellowed, half translucent.Its texture differed from anything of this world.His fingertips trembled faintly.
Iwol-gun laughed softly."Teaching is, in the end, a lending.When you shine on your own, that light becomes my study as well."
Then the old man raised his hand and pointed south."Below, someone will be waiting for you.The world is always faster than we are.When you descend, seek the Jungnangjang.He is the one who called you."
"Jungnangjang…?"
At the word, a long-forgotten face surfaced.Lee In-jung.
"I heard he studied here as well."
"He did."He, too, was once someone who stood somewhere along this path.
When Park Seong-jin lifted his head, the mist atop the mountain was slowly clearing.Steam rose from the kettle beside the platform and dissolved into the air.As the steam dispersed, Iwol-gun's figure grew faint with it.
The form remained, yet could not be grasped.The presence was clear, yet did not linger.It thinned like light, and at last transformed into nothingness, vanishing.
"Master…!"
He called out, but no answer returned.Only a few fallen leaves remained on the platform.
As he descended the mountain path, sunlight warmed the lower valleys.Red leaves crunched beneath his feet.
At the edge of the village, a patrol soldier waited, reins in hand."Are you Park Seong-jin?"
"I am."
"The Jungnangjang has summoned you."
At those words, old memories surged.The blizzard of Liaoyang.The council at Geumseong.And one name he could never forget.
Park Seong-jin turned back for a moment.Mist still drifted over the mountain.But within it, there was no shadow of Iwol-gun.Only the wind remained.
A part of his heart felt empty.As though he had left everything he learned behind.The sensation of setting down something precious lingered.
He bowed his head and murmured to himself."Master… will I be able to return?"
No answer came.Only a single strand of mountain wind brushed past his ear.
Within that wind remained Iwol-gun's final voice:"Flow. Do not stop."
He retrieved the horse he had left in the lower village and rode on.Along the road, the rice in the fields had ripened yellow.The season had moved swiftly.The plains were unchanged; only the wind had altered its grain.
From afar, the smoke of burning straw carried a warm scent.By the time he reached home, the sun was slanting low.Yellow light slid beneath the tiled roof.
Inside, a low murmur of counting could be heard.
"Mother."
"Oh… Seong-jin, is that you."
His mother was stacking sacks of rice in front of the granary.On top lay neatly arranged tax grain from his military allotment.An old, well-set firmness lived in her hands.
As she loosened the sack, measured out grain, and weighed it,she recited the numbers quietly.
"What are you doing? Is something wrong?"
"…The amount is large."
Park Seong-jin tilted his head.It was the annual grain from the military allotment.
"Why?"
His mother loosened the cord again."It's more than the set share.Military allotment grain is fixed in quantity."
At that moment, the farmer who had carried the grain into the yard bowed.His darkened face bore layers of years.His eyes revealed nothing of emotion—the face of someone who had endured life in silence.
"Why is there so much?" Park Seong-jin asked.
The farmer replied calmly,"I hear that when one's merit is great,additional tax from the assigned land is added.You must have earned distinction, or been promoted."
"Promoted…?"Seong-jin smiled and shook his head.We are bow-gunners for life.There is no rank higher to climb.A bow-gunner's share cannot be this much.
"I only returned alive."
"If you return alive, that itself is merit."
The farmer said no more and withdrew.
When things go well, one believes it is due to oneself,forgetting those who helped.
Dust scattered softly with each step.Only the two of them remained on the veranda.
His mother continued counting the grain."So this is how they add grainfor a son who returns from death."
At the now-familiar word "death,"Park Seong-jin lowered his head.
From between the sacks of grain rose the scent of home—the smell of sun-dried rice,the smell of damp earth,and, from far away, the scent of Guwol Mountain's wind.
Suddenly, he understood.The weight of this grain was not the weight of tax.It was the weight of someone who returned alive.
By that weight, the world binds a person back into place.
His mother sat on the veranda and let out a long breath."At least there's plenty left. That's something."
Park Seong-jin nodded quietly."Yes. This time, I'm truly grateful for that."