130
Street Fighting Inside the City
From the moment they crossed the gate, the nature of the war changed.
The open battlefield was gone.Now, the entire fight was compressed into spaces barely wide enough for two people to pass.Alleys were so narrow that shoulders brushed.Blood, dirt, and shattered roof tiles clung to the stone pavement, slick underfoot.
Flames spread, and smoke sank low.Every breath drew heat deep into the lungs.
"Hold formation. Don't scatter."
The shouts were there, but in street fighting, distance and doorways made the decisions.
Park Seong-jin stood with his back to the wall.He lowered his blade and pressed his breathing down.
Footsteps sounded at the end of the alley.Not a charge—the sound of someone advancing while measuring distance.
In here, numbers meant nothing.The first man you met decided the flow.
The first enemy appeared—a shield-bearing infantryman.
Park Seong-jin did not retreat.
As the shield surged forward, he slid his blade low and stabbed along the inner edge of the shield.The wrist broke; the shield dropped.He stepped in half a pace and cut under the jaw.
Blood splashed against the wall.
A second enemy burst out from behind.
Park Seong-jin was already moving.
He turned half a circle, drawing the blade back.In a narrow space, there was no reason to swing wide.A forward thrust was enough.
The blade drove between the ribs.The enemy collapsed without a sound.
The alley fell silent for a moment.
That silence was a signal—calling the next movement.
Flames spread near the storehouses.
A granary.
Dry straw caught, swelling fast like breath.Smoke poured into the alley.Screams erupted from inside.
The line between soldiers and civilians had vanished.
"Don't put it out.""Block the route."
It was a choice to seal the passage.
Fire cut space without discrimination.
Park Seong-jin turned his back to the storehouse and drove into the opposite alley.
Residential homes.
Low walls, open doors, shattered window frames.Signs of hurried flight lay scattered across the ground.A cooking pot, sacks of rice, a child's shoe—left together.
Then a shadow dropped from the roof.
Park Seong-jin twisted on instinct.Steel sliced through empty air.
A downward strike from above.
He didn't block it.
He stepped aside, and the instant the enemy landed, he cut through the waist.The body folded as balance collapsed.
"Watch your rear."
A signal from the assault unit.
Three men advanced in a line, clearing the alley.The front struck, the rear sealed the gaps.
No words were needed.Eye lines and body angles were commands.
Inside the houses, fighting continued.
Narrow rooms and low ceilings limited movement.The enemy drew a dagger.
The moment Park Seong-jin crossed the threshold, he read the angle.He raised his blade vertically, deflected the dagger, and drove straight in.
The head struck the wall with a dull thud.
His breathing grew rough.Weight built in his arms.Blood made the hilt slick.
Still, the advance held.
If they stopped here, the allies pressing from behind would jam the alley.In street fighting, the speed of the front decides the survival of the rear.
"This side's clear.""Next alley."
They kept moving.
Crossing alleys.Vaulting walls.Detouring around flames.
One house, one alley—each was a battlefield.
Park Seong-jin felt it clearly.
In this fight, there was no room for rallying cries or formations.What remained were breaths, footsteps, and eyes far too close.
They paused briefly in a house courtyard.
A well.
The water was still cold.
He washed the blood from his hands.Red spread across the surface, then slowly sank away.
Footsteps sounded again.
Park Seong-jin lifted his blade, steadied his breath, and stepped back into the alley.