Securing Passage and the Secret Withdrawal Order
Securing Passage and the Secret Withdrawal Order
It was dawn the next day.
The sky over Yukhapsong lay beneath a pale veil of fog.
A battlefield without combat was quiet.
The flames had died down, leaving only the traces of the dead.
Burning and burying the bodies was the only humane act left to them.
Lee In-jung stood inside his tent, holding a single letter.
It was a handwritten note sent directly by Zhang Shicheng after a night meeting.
Short. Decisive.
"The ships will be prepared."
"Depart from the southern riverbank when the moon begins to sink."
Lee In-jung repeated the lines several times, then finally picked up his brush.
The tip trembled briefly, but the order itself was clear.
Secret Return Order
— Divide the troops in half and transport them by waterway.
— Select only light weapons and provisions for removal.
— Maintain the northern defensive line and conceal all preparations.
— Prohibit all external communication.
After sealing the document, he summoned Yun Gyeongbok.
"This order will be carried out at night," he said.
"The soldiers are to know nothing."
"If the allied forces notice, it's over."
Yun Gyeongbok nodded, then asked quietly,
"What about the troops that remain?"
"They only need to look as if they are holding the line," Lee In-jung replied.
"What we protect is not the fortress, but the people."
"The troops conscripted by the capital will be dismissed immediately once they leave this place."
Yun Gyeongbok asked no further questions.
He understood the weight of the order.
Outside the tent, Park Seong-jin was waiting.
Dew clung to the hem of his robe.
"Senior, will Zhang Shicheng's ships truly come?"
"They will," Lee In-jung answered without hesitation.
"But until we leave, no one can know."
From that night on, the Goryeo army began to move.
They inspected trebuchets as if maintaining positions, while quietly dismantling them.
They redistributed grain as if organizing supplies, while shifting personnel instead.
The soldiers suspected nothing.
The orders they received had always been consistent.
On the second night, as mist settled over the river, the first transport ship emerged silently, cutting through the current.
Oar sounds were swallowed.
Lanterns were dimmed.
The ship crossed without a word.
Park Seong-jin stood one last time atop the city wall.
Under the moonlight, the fortress was empty.
He murmured softly,
"Was this what we fought for?"
Song I-sul, beside him, replied,
"Yes. Hollow, isn't it? That's how life is. Hollow added upon hollow."
In the distance, the ship's lanterns vanished one by one.
As they faded across the river, the long war of Yukhapsong—and their names—sank quietly into history.
Wang Pilsun's Support
It was the third day since the withdrawal order was issued.
The Goryeo camp at Yukhapsong was strangely quiet.
No battle cries. No drums.
Instead, the sounds of shovels, picks, and opening chests echoed intermittently.
The noise of war had been replaced by the sounds of clearing and accounting.
Wang Pilsun appeared in person.
He wore an old robe rather than the fine silks of Jiangnan.
He looked less like the head of a merchant consortium and more like an official returned from a long journey.
Lee In-jung greeted him.
"For you to come this far—our gratitude is immeasurable."
Wang Pilsun smiled.
"These days, I'm more a man of accounts than a benefactor."
"It's time to conclude matters," he said.
"We must leave."
At his words, boatmen and clerks from the merchant guilds began unloading chests one by one.
Each was filled with silver.
It was wealth secured during the campaign—taken from Gaoseong and Yukhapsong.
It was pay.
And it was also the cost of returning to Byeokrando.
Wang Pilsun spoke.
"This portion is for the locally conscripted troops."
He handed out sealed envelopes.
"They must return home now. This war is already over. Continuing a fight without cause is only stubbornness."
The soldiers lined up, receiving their silver.
They removed old armor and laid down their weapons.
Fatigue, relief, and an unnamable emptiness lay on their faces—the expression of men leaving the battlefield.
Park Seong-jin asked,
"Where will they go?"
"They will return," Wang Pilsun replied.
"To their villages. To their fields. To their families. Having somewhere to return to is a blessing."
Park Seong-jin said quietly,
"For them, this war was never truly theirs."
"And you?" Wang Pilsun smiled.
"You are not soldiers of another land. You must return to Goryeo."
That night, twenty large troop ships lined up across the river.
All banners of Yukhapsong were lowered.
In place of chatter, a new silence settled over the camp.
It was not the silence of an ending—but of departure.
The Allied Forces Take Notice
On the morning of the second day, unease spread through the northern allied camp.
The lights in the Goryeo camp still burned, but something had changed overnight.
Even unseen, the absence of people leaves a trace.
Guard rotations remained precise, but troop density had thinned.
Fewer horses cried out.
The morning smoke rose thinner than before.
This was not a camp preparing for battle.
It was a camp that had finished packing.
Yuan commanders noticed first.
Messengers moved less frequently.
Joint councils were delayed.
A Western-region general muttered,
"The Goryeo camp is quiet."
It was a warning.
Silence always precedes withdrawal.
By noon, a minor disturbance broke out near the northern gate.
An allied supply officer demanded to inspect Goryeo warehouses.
Seals already marked the doors—not Yuan seals, but Goryeo's own.
His face stiffened.
From that moment, rumors spread quickly.
"The Goryeo army is moving."
"They're withdrawing."
"Some units are missing."
"The waterways are busy every night."
No fact was confirmed, but the direction was clear.
They were leaving.
The allied command convened urgently.
The meeting was brief.
"It's insubordination to withdraw without permission."
"Is this the time to argue that?"
"If Goryeo leaves, the northern line collapses."
They knew Goryeo's strength.
Cold to their achievements, they had nonetheless relied on their effectiveness.
No one spoke.
A messenger was sent toward the capital.
No reply came.
The court was already choking on larger crises.
The Empress's faction remained silent.
Old orders lay powerless.
The command understood.
There was no authority left to stop them.
That evening, wine circulated through the allied camp.
Not a pre-battle drink, but the wine of resignation.
Someone said,
"They've found a way to live."
No one argued.
As night deepened, the lights in the Goryeo camp held steady.
The allies calculated.
If they interfered, the front would shatter.
If they did nothing, a pillar would vanish.
Before dawn, one commander spoke quietly.
"Let them go. We cannot stop them."
It was not an order.
Not an agreement.
Only a judgment made by those who could read the current of the age.
From that night on, the allied forces no longer reached toward the Goryeo camp.