===**
The riot, desertion, and defiance of the Special Unit spread through the Ming camp like rot.
Zhu Yuanzhang finally made his decision.
"Park Seong-jin."
He spoke the name as if crushing it.
"Remove him.
And this war becomes mine again."
He summoned what remained—
gold-chasing wanderers, blood-hungry assassins, sect outcasts, and those who still believed imperial authority could shield them.
His promise was simple.
"Bring me Park Seong-jin's head.
You may have whatever you desire."
Greed ignited.
Bloodlust spread faster than orders.
The news reached Park Seong-jin through those who had already turned away.
"They're coming," he said.
Song Yi-sul clenched his jaw.
"There are dozens. And more gathering."
Park Seong-jin shook his head.
"This is where the path opens," he said.
"I'll treat it as a duel."
There was no hesitation in his voice.
Before Dawn
Just before dawn—
the hour when darkness thins and energies twist.
Along the Ming perimeter, shadows peeled away.
Footsteps light.
Killing intent restrained.
To Park Seong-jin, every one of them rang clear.
"They're here."
He raised his hand.
"Archers, back.
Deploy the fire net."
Fifty bows.
Ten heavy crossbows.
SHRAAANG—
A storm of arrows tore through the blue-gray air.
Only then did the attackers realize the trajectories.
"Dodge—!"
Too late.
A curved-blade warrior was pierced through the chest.
A sabre wielder collapsed with his thigh nailed through.
An assassin fell as his legs gave out.
Six were gone in the opening breath.
"At this distance…?"
"These aren't arrows. They're iron spears."
Park Seong-jin redirected fire with calm precision.
"East-southeast.
One hundred paces.
Fire."
More bodies fell.
Approach was possible.
Breakthrough was not.
With direction locked, darkness meant nothing.
One step forward meant entering a storm they could not endure.
The Charge
They made their choice.
They ran—
straight toward the densest rain of arrows.
Park Seong-jin raised his hand again.
"Archers, withdraw."
The Goryeo archers fell back in perfect order.
Only the martial unit remained.
"From here on," Park Seong-jin said,
"this is a battle of martial artists."
The soldiers withdrew without disorder.
The ground trembled.
A northern giant strode forward, axe raised.
"Park Seong-jin—!"
Click.
The blade slid out half a palm.
SPANG—
Blood burst from the man's ankle.
"My… foot…?"
He collapsed.
"When did he draw?"
"I didn't see it."
Three assassins lunged together.
Park Seong-jin deflected, turned—
and Song Yi-sul was already there.
Two shoulders pierced in a single motion.
"Behind!"
Park Seong-jin didn't turn.
Steel rang once.
Blood bloomed from a neck.
The tempo changed.
This was no longer an assault.
It was a reckoning.
The Fixed Point
They slowed—not by choice, but instinct.
This wasn't a man.
This was a line.
A boundary.
Park Seong-jin stepped forward.
Not fast.
Not slow.
Every counter arrived half a beat late.
Where he stood, air tightened.
Where he moved, intent aligned.
"This isn't swordsmanship meant to defeat us," someone whispered.
"It's meant to end us."
They tried to spread out.
They failed.
Because space itself no longer belonged to them.
One leapt from above.
Park Seong-jin looked up.
Balance shattered mid-air.
Bone cracked.
Song Yi-sul intercepted a blade with his forearm and laughed.
"You picked the wrong morning."
Coordination collapsed.
This wasn't a hunt.
It was a collapse.
"…This isn't a battlefield," a master whispered.
"This is a fixed point."
Dawn broke.
And with it, understanding.
They hadn't come to kill Park Seong-jin.
They had come to learn
why Zhu Yuanzhang feared him.
The Duel Within the Storm
The axe fell again.
Seong-jin slid aside—
and severed the leg in a single beat.
Three from Sichuan attacked in perfect combination.
Seong-jin rotated.
Silver light spun.
One wrist gone.
One chest split.
One body fell stiff and final.
A needle cut the air.
He struck without looking.
Ding—
The needle case shattered mid-air.
Four curved blades closed in.
Seong-jin drew power from the earth.
One chest collapsed before contact.
One fell gasping beneath the arm.
Two died by each other's blades.
At the center stood Song Yi-sul.
"Elbows before techniques," he said quietly.
Momentum shattered.
Bodies fell.
"What masters fear," he continued,
"is movement without hesitation."
The last attacker charged.
Crunch.
Shoulder strike.
He did not rise again.
One Rhythm
Steel rose at the same moment.
Seong-jin stepped.
Song Yi-sul pressed the earth.
They didn't look at each other.
They didn't need to.
Sword opened space.
Fist filled it.
Sword descended.
Fist broke momentum.
One beat.
One rhythm.
"That's not two people fighting," someone whispered.
"It's one tempo."
When Seong-jin stopped—
Song Yi-sul stopped.
Silence fell.
The battlefield breathed as one.
Around them, the martial unit aligned.
No orders.
No signals.
Just rhythm.
Stand.
Yield.
Advance.
One was enough.
"This isn't command," someone murmured.
"It's a board we're standing on."
There was no military law here.
Only a line not to cross.
And a tempo that never broke.
Aftermath
The Central Plains assault shattered.
Fear replaced fervor.
"This is beyond peak mastery."
"One sword held the entire field."
"Now I understand why Zhu Yuanzhang fears him."
Twenty minutes later, the field was theirs.
Park Seong-jin wiped his blade and sheathed it.
"Today," he said,
"my sword climbed another step."
Song Yi-sul laughed through ragged breaths.
"You're terrifying, Seong-jin."
"Yes, hyung," he replied calmly.
"And now—
they won't mark me as an assassination target again."