After setting a promise to meet Song Isul again, Park Seong-jin went his separate way.
He reported to the Sungui Corps to receive the order of disbandment, and as he parted from his comrades, they carefully noted one another's home villages once more.
The battlefield dispersed, and people returned to their individual lives.
Home was smaller than memory had preserved it.
The yard bore signs of long neglect, trees had stretched their branches at will.
Leaves had piled by the well, stones were thick with moss.
Park Seong-jin dismounted and walked slowly.
When he opened the door, damp earth and stale air rushed out together.
He lit a fire and sat on the wooden floor.
Winter moonlight seeped beneath the eaves.
Only then did a long breath finally loosen.
"So… I'm back."
The words he offered himself lingered briefly in his mouth before sinking away.
When he closed his eyes, echoes of the battlefield overlapped—
the clash of steel, fragments of distant shouts still ringing in his ears.
The scent of flames rose again from memory.
His body had returned home, but his mind still carried the breath of the encampment.
Days passed, yet sleep remained shallow.
At dawn he walked the yard; when the sun rose, he sat by the well to draw water.
That monotonous repetition gradually seeped into him.
It settled as proof of being alive.
One day, Song Isul came to visit.
As always, his face showed little expression.
"Livable?"
"Yes. Still a bit unfamiliar."
"That's good. Means the war has finally let go."
Song Isul laughed lightly as he spoke.
"Anyone who comes back from the battlefield has to study."
"When you set the sword down, thoughts return.
And when thoughts return, you start seeing the world again."
The words remained like a lesson.
From that day on, Park Seong-jin stood in the yard every dawn.
He trained his breathing among the weeds, felt the grain of the soil beneath his toes.
Between inhaling and exhaling, the weight of his body sank into the ground.
On that earth, he learned peace.
That peace was not silent.
Noise still lingered within him, and memories did not easily settle.
But he learned how to handle those sounds—
not suppressing them, not pushing them away, simply letting them flow.
Toward evening, the sunset washed the yard in red.
Watching that light, Park Seong-jin slowly lifted his sword.
The blade, swung for the first time in a long while, followed the grain of the wind.
Strength filled the movement, his breathing even and unbroken.
Night fell.
A single lantern swayed quietly at the center of the yard.
Seated beneath its light, Park Seong-jin steadied his breath.
The house was small, the night deep.
There, he resumed the rhythm of living.
It was his second return.
Unlike the first, there were no tears, no welcome.
His family passed it off calmly—
"So, you're back again."
In that tone was an expectation bordering on belief:
that no matter the war, he would of course return alive.
Perhaps even returning from death can become familiar.
Park Seong-jin, reborn a second time, accepted that attitude naturally.
That indifference was not something to resent—it was a way of life.
Still, his senses had changed.
On the battlefield, once he gripped the sword, thought became simple.
Survival alone was the measure.
But after returning home, countless matters pressed in at once—
the family's livelihood, the village's concerns, a single meal, a single garment.
Those small things felt heavier than before.
At night, sleep did not come easily.
On the battlefield, closing his eyes meant immediate rest;
now, thoughts awoke first.
In peaceful time, embers of thought lingered longer.
He murmured quietly,
"So this… is another kind of fight."
Peace did not arrive gently.
Everyday life shook the heart with countless small sounds,
and that trembling continued to stir his inner self.
Meanwhile, the court at Gaegyeong was no quieter than the battlefield.
It was because of General Lee In-jung's decision.
He had distanced himself from the Yuan and led his forces home.
With many auxiliary troops already withdrawn, the Goryeo army's return followed naturally.
The Jiangnan campaign had been undertaken at Yuan's request—
and that request had now lost its force.
Yuan's weakening stood plainly before them.
"Yuan is no longer the empire it once was."
Those words spread through the court.
Some called the decision dangerous; others saw foresight in it.
The king spoke little, yet a clear sense had taken root within him,
for those who returned from the battlefield had seen and reported it themselves.
"Yuan's armies are scattered, and commands no longer reach the lower ranks."
Still, the officials were divided.
"As long as the Son of Heaven remains, the empire endures."
The phrase was repeated like an incantation meant to cling to order.
It was spoken as though in hope—
fearful of change, or rather of losing entrenched privilege through change.
That incantation only made the coming transformation more distinct.
Zhang Shicheng's envoy was proof of it.
The delegation was received generously, conveying a respectful wish to open the next era together.
The Goryeo court entered deliberation over how to accept that intent.
The Buwon faction strongly opposed it, yet the political current had already shifted.
(Buwon faction: a group that relied on Yuan, deeply intervening in Goryeo politics and pressuring royal authority.)
There was hospitality, but decisions were deferred.
The court measured its direction carefully—
Yuan's interference had lasted too long.
Fear and pride moved together.
Hearing the news, Park Seong-jin smiled quietly.
"They say the war is over… but this is where it really begins."
His gaze lifted toward the distant sky.
After the battlefield, he now saw a board wider than the court itself.
His vision had broadened; he could see the grain along which the world moved.
Beneath that sky, courtly conflict and people's anxieties were preparing once more to shake the world.
The era shaped by Yuan's interference was slowly drawing to a close.
An age was setting.