**119
The Road to Jiangnan — Crossing the Continent**
The expeditionary force numbered three thousand.
It was an elite corps centered on cavalry and archers, reinforced by nameless masters from the martial orders, with merchants trailing behind to handle supplies. From the moment they set out, everyone knew this would be a long war. Money had begun to move ahead of the army, and each warrior was expected to stand in place of hundreds.
The finest archers of Goryeo were among them, their firepower formidable enough that the title bowman felt almost inadequate. All were mounted now, cavalry in full, until even Park Seong-jin's original post as a bow soldier seemed to lose its meaning.
Seen from afar, the column leaving Liaoyang looked like a single ribbon of dust. Up close, it was a dense, unbroken flow of heavy cavalry—breath, hoofbeats, and equipment entangled into one long movement.
Once they left the Liaodong plains, the wind changed. The sharp northern gusts softened, and new grass pushed up through the soil. Where the mountain ranges broke, the land opened wide into endless fields. By day, dust and heat pressed down on them; by night, an icy cold settled over their bodies in turns.
They slept on the road and ate on the road. The wind no longer merely brushed their faces—it seemed to shave away at their skin, little by little.
Every night, Park Seong-jin regulated his breath and studied.
He rested not a single day, let his focus lapse not for a moment. He made certain that neither the duration nor the intensity of his practice fell below what it had been in the mountains. This was both preparation for what lay ahead and a struggle simply to stay alive.
At dawn the sky was barren, the wind carrying dust and pollen together. When they reached Yanjing, a new unit joined the main force—men from far away, survivors of the borderlands of Liaodong, Yanjing, and the northern frontier.
At first glance, their attire was unfamiliar. Mongol-style garments and continental gear caught the eye. But the moment faces met, something became clear. In their speech, their breathing, the rise and fall at the end of their tones, there was an oddly familiar cadence.
Yi In-jung went out personally to meet them.
"Where do you come from?"
The answer was brief."Yanjing. We gathered there—Goryeo people who live in that land."
At those words, something stirred in Seong-jin's chest. Every syllable carried the flavor of his homeland's tongue. Yet their bodies already belonged to the continent. Their clothes were Mongol, their weapons varied—curved blades, bows, clubs, northern iron daggers—each bearing the memory of a different battlefield.
They were called the tribal troops—Goryeo descendants absorbed long ago into the Yuan armies, conscripted from Goryeo settlements around Yanjing. Generations who had lived between frontier defense and expansion.
For them, Goryeo was a land they could not return to—yet a name that could never be erased.
An elderly commander stepped forward.
"We have come to fight together," he said, his voice low and firm."When I was a boy, my father stood at Liaodong Fortress. In those days, our banner flew above its walls. We have come to raise that banner again."
The air in the camp shifted.
These men were not mere auxiliaries. They had returned bearing the long shadow of a lost homeland on their backs.
Yi In-jung remained silent for a moment, then slowly nodded.
"Only now does the army take its true shape," he said."Only now is it complete."
That night, a low song drifted through the camp—an old song of Goryeo. Someone added a melody on a reed flute, and the horses lifted their heads, ears pricked. Goryeo words and Mongol sounds mingled into a strange harmony.
It was not a chorus for war, but a prayer of those who had lost their home.
Seong-jin watched them by the firelight. Each face bore the color of different lands—the red earth of Liaodong, the dust of the steppe, the smoke of Yanjing, and the wind of Goryeo.
Only their eyes were the same. Quiet. Unyielding.
Without words, he understood.
We are going back.
When rain began to fall, the smell of wet earth rose thickly. Seong-jin murmured without thinking, "It smells like home."
A veteran beside him replied softly,"That's the smell of war.The most familiar scent—because it comes from the farthest place."
The soil of Liaodong was red. Entering Guanzhong, it turned yellow, and farther south it darkened toward black. They chose the waterways, moving south along the rivers of Hebei, stopping briefly at riverside towns.
They watered the horses, checked dried rations and equipment. Wherever they stopped, they purchased what they needed, receiving formal, measured support from local governors. By day they crossed endless plains; by night they lit fires by the riverbanks. The sky hung low, the stars faint.
As they moved into the continent's center, the air changed again. The wind held moisture, and night after night, mist rose and wrapped softly around their bodies.
One day Yi In-jung said,"From here on, this is the breath of the south.Not winter's land, but spring's water.Here, you must first learn water."
The meaning of his words revealed itself along the road.
Water was everywhere. Dry land was rare. Days later, they reached channels feeding into the Yangtze. Instead of boats, they drove their horses along the levees. Water flowed beside them, meadows and lakes widening the view.
When hooves struck the ground, droplets leapt from the surface. The path was narrow; the column stretched into a single line. The cavalry's flow became like a river itself.
Rain fell often. Mud mixed with water, making the road slick. Horses shortened their stride. Soldiers held the reins and matched their steps, and that day's march slowed into a walking advance.
At dusk, across the river, lights appeared through the water mist—like longing made visible. The green vitality of southern villages drifted across: wet wood, ginger, oil, and the scent of nameless flowers.
Seong-jin's chest tightened. Spring on Chosan overlapped in his memory.
After several more days, they reached the edge of Jiangnan. The fields opened wide. Bamboo and willows turned pale green, the earth soft and yielding. Wind carried water sounds and birdsong.
The horses conserved their strength. The soldiers' gazes drifted farther and farther ahead.
They camped by Jiangnan's first canal. Mist flowed between the tents, frogs croaked, and distant music rode the breeze.
Seong-jin drew his sword. Moonlight spread across the blade. Matching his breath to the water's movement, he traced slow lines. The sword tip sank toward the surface like the Butterfly Dream Form taught by Yi Wol-gun.
Study continued every day.
Even movement itself became study.
The martial unit he belonged to was a gathering of such people—those who practiced without intruding upon one another. Their gazes turned inward, not outward. Dozens kept a measured distance from one another, like scattered islands. Keeping distance even from the main force, the procession itself became a form of practice.
The scene felt natural.
Study in Motion — When a Day Becomes Breath
The march began before sunrise. As folding tents and mounting horses grew familiar, half the day was already gone.
Seong-jin held the reins loosely, letting the rhythm of the horse's neck guide him, settling his body atop that motion. As the horse stepped forward, a fine vibration traveled up his spine.
He placed his breath onto that vibration.
Inhale.Pause.Exhale.
Breathing on horseback differed from seated practice. If the breath grew too long, the horse's gait faltered. Too short, and the body jolted ahead. So he did not try to control the breath. He layered it atop the horse's breathing.
When the horse exhaled, he exhaled.When the horse lifted its head, breath filled his chest.
The boundary between body and horse thinned. He matched his breathing to terrain and landscape, becoming rocklike at times, forest-wide at others.
It no longer felt like a man riding a horse, but a single living thing flowing along the road.
Around him, soldiers spoke in low voices. Equipment clashed, leather straps creaked. Inside Seong-jin, there was only quiet.
His breath flowed with the horse's stride, and deep in his lower abdomen, a mustard-seed-small sensation grew firmer, clearer. What had once been a faint presence now took shape, and he was fully aware of it.
At noon, a brief rest was called. When he dismounted, he did not immediately draw his sword. He straightened his body, settled the slope of the ground, the direction of the wind, the lingering sway of riding.
Then he stepped forward.
Footwork came first.
Walking lightly, he adjusted his breath again. Then came walking sword. The blade was not fast. Each movement was short, but the short lines connected without break. His body remembered the teaching: Do not cut—continue.
Because of that, his movement was slow, almost dance-like. Each step moved after the breath, the arm followed, and only then did the sword trace the air.
It seemed as though the steps carried the sword, and the sword carried the body back.
Nearby soldiers glanced at him, then looked away. On the battlefield, focus without explanation was the most threatening thing of all.
At dusk he mounted again. Fatigue accumulated, but he did not break the flow. He conserved sleep.
At camp, most soldiers collapsed where they stood. Seong-jin moved beyond the firelight, placed the sword beside him, and loosened his legs. Circulating breath followed—guiding energy from the lower abdomen up the spine, through shoulders and arms, then back down beneath the navel.
When drowsiness came, he let it pass.
Eyes closed, opened—one full circulation complete.
His body felt heavy as stone, yet the internal flow did not break. He chose wakeful rest over sleep.
Late into the night, water sounds and horses' breathing overlapped, merging into a single rhythm.
That day did not end with walking, riding, or stopping.
On horseback he learned breath.On the ground he joined sword and step.At night he guarded the inner flow.
When the day ended, fatigue remained—but he had filled the entire journey with study.
Long travel was no longer exhaustion.
On the road, he was studying every hour of the day.