Preparing the Withdrawal
The tent was quieter than before.
The lights had been reduced, and voices were gone.
What remained were paper, cords, and human hands.
Yi In-jung did not sit.
Standing before the map, he removed its covers one by one.
They showed neither battle lines nor enemy deployments.
Only the locations of storehouses, the number of horses, the count of wagon wheels, and the depth of rivers appeared—
only what was needed at the end of a war.
"Yun Gyeongbok."
"Yes."
"Provisions."
Yun Gyeongbok opened the ledger he had prepared.
The remaining grain, moldy sacks, even cracked jars were all recorded.
"We can last fifteen days. If we ration strictly, perhaps twenty."
"Twenty days isn't necessary."
Yi In-jung shook his head.
"Ten days is enough. Anything more becomes a burden."
He pressed a finger to the bottom of the ledger.
"Keep half the horse fodder. Distribute the rest."
"To the soldiers?"
"No. Leave it in the villages."
"If the horses die, the wagons are finished."
Yun Gyeongbok paused, then nodded.
Yi In-jung unfolded another map.
Red dots traced along the river—water routes.
"How many boats remain?"
"Thirteen that are usable."
"Thirteen is enough."
He picked up a cord and shifted its knots across the map as he spoke.
"First night: the wounded and the elderly."
"Second night: the supply train."
"Third night: the rear guard."
"And the combat troops?"
"Last."
Yun Gyeongbok hesitated.
"If we're discovered while holding the line—"
"We are discovered," Yi In-jung said calmly.
"And we go anyway."
He folded the map's edge.
The front line no longer mattered on paper.
"Leave the fires."
"The fires?"
"Light them every night. More than before."
Yun Gyeongbok did not ask further.
The tent flap opened. It was Park Seong-jin.
"Reconnaissance report."
"Speak."
"Movement outside the city has decreased.
But lights along the southern waterways have increased."
Yi In-jung nodded.
"They're thinking the same thing."
He looked at Park Seong-jin.
"Tonight, we go to the river again."
"Yes."
Park Seong-jin did not ask more.
Outside, soldiers moved quietly.
Cloth was wrapped around horses' hooves, and oil coated wagon wheels.
No one spoke the word withdrawal.
They feared the enemy might hear.
That night, the Goryeo army moved as if preparing an ambush.
Song I-sul and Park Seong-jin
The war continued.
Yet in its narrow gaps, Park Seong-jin continued his study.
Not a single day was missed.
Not a single hour forgotten.
Spending time near Song I-sul deepened his learning noticeably.
A passing word, offered in stride, often helped more than long instruction.
At times, a senior could teach more than a master.
The battlefield made calm difficult,
but study allowed him to catch his breath.
Sharpening the blade and sharpening the mind were not so different.
Even amid blood, dirt, and firelight, his hands and breathing stayed turned toward learning.
Song I-sul was an unusual teacher.
He often spoke with a grumbling tone.
"Life's like that. If it doesn't work, you turn back.
And when you turn back far enough, you see the way forward again."
The words were rough, but within them clung the principles of the martial path.
Park Seong-jin chewed on them and understood:
Song I-sul's teaching was not explanation—it was life itself, left behind as study.
Finding separate time was not easy.
Yet Song I-sul was always nearby.
Whenever a lull appeared, he would surface from somewhere.
The few demonstrations he had shown remained vivid in Park Seong-jin's eyes.
Even without drawing a sword, the wind moved.
Without large motions, space itself seemed to split.
He might have been weaker than Yi Wol-gun,
but his level was never inferior.
More than anything, Song I-sul had a desire to show.
That mattered most to Park Seong-jin.
As the campaign lengthened, so did their time together.
Their conversations widened, and the depth of their words changed.
One evening, the two sat side by side atop the wall.
The lights of the battlefield rose and fell in the distance like breathing.
"The ultimate state of martial arts being a mental realm—
does that mean extreme concentration?" Park Seong-jin asked.
"If you see it only that way, it's dull."
"Then why call it mental?"
"Because it needs free imagination and creativity."
"That's difficult."
"For beginners, it's concentration. That matters.
But as study deepens, that other side becomes more important."
"Then what about me? Where am I now?"
"Just work hard."
"Something will catch eventually. When it does, stay calm."
"Still… it's hard."
"If it weren't hard, anyone could do it."
"How do you train that state of mind?"
"Steadfast loyalty and free imagination."
"Aren't those opposite directions?"
"Yes."
"That's why it takes courage."
"Courage?"
"To push through situations that shouldn't be possible."
"That's when courage is needed."
"Another way to say it—
a mind that doesn't stop."
"There are millions of reasons to quit."
"When things fail, what tempts us is always easy surrender."
"Crossing that is courage."
"Knowing it won't work, yet not letting go."
"Study isn't anything special," Song I-sul said.
"You just go as far as you can."
"Is there an end?"
"There isn't. Or maybe there is—I don't know.
I've never stood at the end."
"But while walking that path, a person changes."
That night, the wind atop the wall was gentle.
The two sat in silence, watching the distant lights of war.