168.
Returning to Hoeun Hermitage회운암回雲庵 on Mount Guwol구월산九月山
Winter was reaching its end, and spring was approaching.
Mist rose from the fields below the mountain, while a lingering chill still clung to the ridges of Mount Guwol.
Park Seong-jin led his horse slowly up the slope.
Once, this path had been climbed by a young trainee, his heart heavy and excited.
Now he returned as one who had crossed a battlefield, carrying the weight of a passing era.
The wind in the fields was warm, but as he drew closer to the mountain, his breath grew sharp and the air cold.
He did not mount the horse, but walked, holding the reins in his hand.
Dry pine needles rustled beneath his feet.
With each step, it felt as though something was being stripped away.
The smell of battle—blood, smoke, and shouting—settled little by little, carried off with his sweat.
Memories embedded in his body were sorted out through breathing.
By noon, as he followed the ridge upward, the roof of Hoeun Hermitage emerged beyond the mist.
It was a small hermitage.
Azalea blossoms were scattered along the stone wall.
The courtyard showed no sign of human presence.
He approached the wooden hall and bowed quietly.
At that moment, the door opened slightly, and a familiar voice flowed out.
"You have come."
It was Iwolgun.
His face was thinner, his gaze deeper.
Park Seong-jin brought his hands together.
"I have returned."
"How was the war?"
For a moment, words caught in his throat.
There was too much time, too many events, to release all at once.
He steadied his breath and chose his words.
Slowly, he explained what had happened, in order.
"It has ended. The Yuan armies failed to suppress Zhang Shicheng's rebellion. Internal strife led to the arrest of Chancellor Toqto'a, and the army was dissolved."
The endless stream of words—muttered, rambled, murmured—from the mouth of the once-young Seong-jin poured out, while Iwolgun listened with a relaxed smile.
He nodded.
The explanation was detailed enough that no further questions were needed.
It was sufficient.
The response of a mountain dweller, unbound by worldly affairs.
Silence followed.
A breeze passed, shaking the paper doors of the hall.
Iwolgun slowly turned and went inside.
"Then come in. We begin again, from the start."
Park Seong-jin followed.
Inside Hoeun Hermitage, there was no ornamentation.
On an old table stood a single folding screen, and before it lay a worn brush and a faded scroll, neatly arranged.
Iwolgun looked at him and said,
"Now that you have set down the sword, relearn your breath first."
"Yes."
With that single sentence, his place was decided.
Only then did Park Seong-jin truly feel that he had returned.
As evening came, mist rose from the foot of the mountain.
Birdcalls and the low sounds of spring insects filled the courtyard.
Sitting at the edge of the veranda, Park Seong-jin regulated his breathing, sorting the sounds of the world one by one.
The sounds did not disappear.
They were simply placed where they no longer reached his heart.
On the battlefield, every day had been stained with blood.
Here, time passed lightly, like wind brushing past.
Outwardly, nothing seemed to happen.
Yet within him, ceaseless collisions continued.
When idle thoughts were observed, they drifted away one by one.
Then drowsiness arrived.
More than once, he found himself nodding off.
Thinking it would not do, he slept more and returned to practice, but it was the same.
When breath faltered, the mind wavered.
When thought arose, stillness was disturbed.
Where blades once clashed, breaths now pressed against one another.
Where arrows once flew, memories emerged.
If the clashes of war had come from outside, the clashes here arose within.
He closed his eyes.
He inhaled deeply, and exhaled even longer.
At the point where inhalation and exhalation met, he faced the un整理된 self within.
Pushing forcefully made it rough; retreating only brought it rushing back.
He did not avoid it, nor did he push it away—he simply observed.
Standing at the center and breathing there was his study.
The wind brushed the eaves.
Mist rose beneath the veranda.
Stillness was not a shield that protected him.
It was another battlefield, where everything about himself stood exposed.
In the most peaceful scenery, the fiercest struggle began.
He inhaled again.
At that moment, within his mind, an era quietly went out.
Breathing · Formation of the Dan · Stabilization of the Mind
Days passed.
Each morning, mist covered the mountain ridges.
Park Seong-jin awoke to the dawn bell.
Life at Hoeun Hermitage was simple.
He rose, swept the veranda, swept the courtyard used as a training ground, drew water, and lit the fire.
The master remained silently present through all of it.
Where the sounds of battle had vanished, only his own breath remained.
That breath, rising within stillness, was unfamiliar at first.
When he inhaled, his chest tightened; when he exhaled, the texture of his mind shifted.
"When breath is clearly perceived, the path reveals itself."
That single sentence opened the gate of training.
Each day, Park Seong-jin sat in the same place.
He straightened his body, withdrew his gaze, and settled his movements.
A cough, the slightest tremor of his fingertips—everything was accepted as part of the flow.
With time, his breathing grew longer and more even.
At some point, the distinction between inhalation and exhalation blurred.
Rather than entering and leaving, a sense of continuous circulation settled in.
"Where are you abiding now?"
He could not tell.
When it seemed here, it was there; when it seemed there, focus revealed somewhere else.
"I do not know."
"Good. That not-knowing opens the way. There is no need to grasp the flow."
That night, Park Seong-jin spread a meditation cushion atop a rock and sat.
(*A cushion placed beneath one during seated meditation.)
Deliberately, he chose the outdoors instead of the veranda.
Moonlight trembled in the wind, and distant birdcalls reached him.
He felt warmth slowly gathering inside his chest.
Cold air entered, but soon turned into warmth.
That flow descended to his abdomen and circulated quietly.
It wrapped around his knees, seeped to the tips of his feet, and returned to the center.
The cycle completed, then repeated in the same way—an eternal pattern almost within reach.
There was a point where that flow lingered briefly.
That was the place called dan.
He did not try to create it.
He simply allowed the circulating, gathering flow to remain as it was.
The moment was not an accumulation of sensation, but an ordering of the mind.
"When thought settles, energy arises.
Where energy gathers, the mind brightens.
That mind is the dan."
Park Seong-jin bowed his head.
"Is this study?"
"Study has no boundary. There is only continued wakefulness."
He asked, and though he heard, the words sounded the same.
Explanation without division was difficult to understand.
Such learning had to be embodied.
After that, words grew fewer.
From that day on, he did not count his breaths, but entrusted himself to them.
A bird crossing the courtyard, sunlight brushing the eaves—his gaze held to stillness.
At night, the bell of Hoeun Hermitage flowed down to the villages below.
Within that bell sound, his breath lengthened further, and his mind grew transparent.
He felt it clearly.
The time of war had been fully resolved.