The war ended just like that.
The long echoes of battle, the stench of blood, the roaring cries—all vanished one day without warning.
No one declared its end, yet everyone sensed the change.
The air was different.
The movement of the camps slowed.
People shared the moment through silence rather than words.
The battlefield no longer demanded battle.
The Yuan forces scattered first.
After Toqto'a's fall, the fighting lost its purpose.
Commanders turned inward to their own calculations, and the Western troops set out for their homelands.
Only the name of the alliance remained; its substance drained away quickly.
What stayed behind were the weary Goryeo soldiers.
They held the line, yet their eyes were already on what came next.
Within that flow, the Goryeo army moved quietly.
Each night, soldiers descended from beneath the northern gate toward the river.
There was no excitement on their faces, no regret.
Boats waited along the bank—ships sent personally by Zhang Shicheng.
Movements were orderly, sounds pressed down to the bare minimum.
Zhang Shicheng sought to bring the war to a close.
What remained to him was not battle, but a conviction in order.
He believed that a world begun with the sword could be concluded with words.
That belief supported his final choice.
He made his intent clear to Lee In-jung.
"I will aid the Goryeo army's return.
And I will send an envoy to the King of Goryeo.
It is time to build nations with words."
Lee In-jung bowed briefly.
Across his face passed both exhaustion from the battlefield and a subtle relief.
The decision had already been made.
That night, the Goryeo soldiers boarded the ships in turn.
The current was calm, moonlight stretching long across the river.
Park Seong-jin lifted his head to the sky.
It was empty, and his emotions had settled just as quietly.
He asked in a low voice,
"Is this the end of the war?"
"Endings always arrive plainly," came the answer.
"That plainness is what changes the current."
The ships cut slowly through the water, heading north.
Lanterns drifted farther apart across the river.
Names and the traces of battle dissolved into the mist.
The river accepted everything and continued its flow.
Zhang Shicheng stood for a long time, watching the departing vessels.
Beside him waited the envoys.
They would go to Goryeo and speak of peace.
No one could predict how long that peace would last.
Only the choice itself had been made.
Thus, Goryeo's Jiangnan campaign came to a quiet close.
Zhang Shicheng regarded his aid to their return as the foundation of a tripartite balance.
Even the past assistance from Guo Zixing was re-framed as progress toward negotiation and peace.
The war was over.
The world was moving into its next phase.
Aboard the homeward route, Park Seong-jin did not neglect his study for a single day.
Even after the fighting ended, his hands did not leave the sword, and his breath did not forget how to steady itself.
Each time the ship swayed, he found his center.
The harder the waves struck, the deeper his mind settled.
The battlefield had receded, but study followed him.
For him, martial practice was no longer about fighting—it became a way to endure what came after survival.
Looking back on the war, what remained were wounds and depletion.
People died.
Land was abandoned.
Nothing was truly built.
War did not nurture life, nor did it strengthen communities.
That truth became clearer not in the heart of battle, but on the road home.
He came to see war as an act of consuming life.
That understanding did not waver.
He recalled the faces of the mercenaries who had joined the campaign.
They asked no questions and held no purpose.
They moved between coin and command, then scattered when it ended.
Those tribal troops might head toward the vicinity of Beiping, seeking whatever work might be found.
Park Seong-jin judged that the most foolish choice of all.
It meant entrusting one's life to another's calculations.
He carved that resolve into himself:
he would never stand on such a path again.
The winter sea spread around the ship.
A cold northern wind settled over the sails and deck.
The waves were low, the sky clear.
The cold tightened his body, but his mind sharpened.
Sitting on the deck, Park Seong-jin regulated his breath and calmed his senses.
That moment was not combat—it was another form of meditation.
The ship carried the northern wind and moved steadily forward.
The current was even, the route unwavering.
There, he felt it clearly:
What the survivor needs is not more fighting, but the strength to rebuild.
That study had no end.
It would continue.
For those accustomed to war, peace felt like an uneasy void.
The word "return" did not come easily to the tongue.
When the fighting stopped, the world grew too quiet.
That quiet did not feel like stability, but another kind of tension.
Park Seong-jin experienced the same.
The battlefield was gone, yet the sensations remained.
Leaning against the ship's rail, he looked out.
The sea was unchanged, waves stretching endlessly before him.
The wind was warm.
The sky was clear.
That calm felt strangely unfamiliar.
The clash of steel, cannon fire, and shouts had vanished.
Silence became real, and he accepted it slowly.
"If this is peace," he murmured,
"it feels unfamiliar."
Days later, the ships reached Byeokrando at Gaegyeong.
Through mist-covered river waters, dozens of vessels entered in line.
Merchant ships docked first, followed by the Goryeo troop transports.
Soldiers stepped onto the pier one by one.
Their footsteps were quiet—so quiet it felt awkward.
The dock bustled as usual, yet the sound rang oddly in soldiers' ears.
Wang Pilsun, already arrived, welcomed them.
Despite the long voyage, his attire remained neat.
He said softly,
"Returning alive is a miracle.
Harder than dying is surviving and coming back."
Lee In-jung closed his eyes briefly, then lifted his head.
"This was possible because of you, Lord Wang."
Wang Pilsun shook his head.
"Not at all. The soldiers protected themselves. That is the true merit."
That day, most of the army that had marched into Jiangnan returned home.
Few had believed such an outcome possible.
People called it a miracle.
They called it luck.
But those who had stood on the battlefield knew better.
It was the result of choices layered with endurance.
Park Seong-jin stood by the river, watching the water.
Merchant ships continued to arrive—some led by Wang Pilsun, others sent by Zhang Shicheng.
As military and commercial vessels mingled, Byeokrando filled once more with noise.
The wind brushed his hair.
It still carried the scent of the battlefield.
"I thought the world would change when the war ended," he said.
"But it's the same."
"The world doesn't move that quickly," came the reply.
"That expectation was yours."
Park Seong-jin smiled faintly.
"I see."
"Come. They say we disband here."
The sun was slowly setting.
Light on the river turned red and soaked into the waves.
Within that glow, the long shadow of the war faded little by little.