Back to the Camp
Not far away, near the river where the fog still lay thin,
the Goryeo camp was already clearing the battlefield.
Some scraped blood-soaked soil into piles.
Others bound the surviving Jiangnan martial artists, preparing them for questioning.
Many more gathered around wounded comrades, working quickly to treat them.
"Stay still. The bleeding hasn't settled yet."
A warrior groaned, clutching a bloodied arm.
The martial artist beside him pressed down on his shoulder to stop the flow.
"Don't move."
"The muscle's been cut."
"If you strain it, the bleeding will start again."
Instead of reaching for his sword, the man unfolded a needle case.
He checked the pulse along the bruised arm, then placed the needles precisely—
tap, tap.
The bleeding slowed. The spasms eased.
"…I can breathe again."
The wounded warrior let out a long breath.
A comrade standing nearby said,
"Half our fighters are battlefield medics."
"What we learned stays in the body."
The words were light,
but the pride beneath them was unmistakable.
Nearby, several uninjured martial artists stood in silence,
their sheathed swords planted upright in the ground,
replaying the fight they had just survived.
"To think his footwork there—"
"The center wavered in that chained palm technique."
"You could see where his breathing sped up."
The short exchanges became corrections—
marking both success and weakness.
The battle was over, but their study continued,
burning hotter atop the blood-stained earth.
"We may face them again tomorrow."
"What we felt today, we fix now."
They all nodded.
Further inside the camp, soldiers were preparing food.
It was the most human moment the fighters waited for.
When the lid was lifted from the pot, steam rose,
and the scent of warm greens and barley rice spread
between the smells of blood and soil.
The soldiers watched the martial unit carefully.
"They might enter cultivation right away."
"Should we serve now?"
"Wait."
"No—better to eat together."
More than anyone, the soldiers knew this:
for those who survived battle, a timely meal mattered as much as martial skill.
The Goryeo camp after the fight held a strange balance.
In one place, broken legs were being splinted.
In another, movements from moments ago were being dissected.
At the edge, Song Yi-sul steadied Park Seong-jin's back, calming his qi.
Further in, soldiers stirred the pot so the rice would cook evenly.
Blood and earth.
Smoke and warm food.
The hum of inner cultivation and low jokes between comrades.
The battlefield was a place of fear—
and, at the same time, a place where people kept each other alive.
One wounded warrior called out when he saw Song Yi-sul.
"Hyung."
"This side's finished."
"The bleeding's stopped. The needles worked."
Song Yi-sul smiled as he answered.
"Good."
"Those who place needles well usually handle blades well too."
Laughter rippled through the group.
"On the battlefield, we cut with steel—
and we save with it too."
It wasn't a flippant remark.
It carried the pride of Goryeo warriors—
fighters who learned death and life together.
This battle had been a clear victory.
Yet no one made a show of it.
A few warriors were quietly gathering the bodies of fallen Jiangnan fighters.
"They were warriors too."
"We won't leave them like this."
They covered torn robes over the bodies, hands moving calmly.
Victory belongs to the living—
and those who know that also learn not to boast.
When Park Seong-jin finally rose and walked back toward the camp,
the soldiers' movements slowed without anyone saying a word.
There was no cheering.
No formal bows.
Only looks of respect, awe, and relief followed him.
"At that age…"
"He crushed the Jiangnan martial artists."
Someone murmured,
"Look at his face."
"He's still standing in the battlefield."
The air of combat still clung to him—
a quiet gravity found only in those who had mastered war.
Seong-jin checked his comrades first,
confirming casualties one by one.
His instructions were precise, unadorned—
the manner of someone whose life had risen from the bottom,
and whose attention naturally reached even the lowest rank.
The smell of rice spread through the heavy scent of blood.
Between the groans of the wounded,
martial artists continued their review.
At one side, cultivation finished,
Park Seong-jin walked slowly.
A brief peace resting atop the battlefield.
Even as they prepared to fight again,
they savored this quiet as the most precious moment of the day.
The morning sun was rising.
Its light was clear and bright—
as if touching the earth for the first time.