381.
Footsteps Above the Clouds
It was a quiet morning, before the wind had fully risen.
Park Seong-jin's feet were already treading the air.
He moved across the battlefield like drifting clouds, leaving no footprints behind.
Without touching the ground even a span ahead, he crossed empty space several zhang above it, carving a path through the air itself.
His body had entered a stage where strength no longer led—momentum did.
Watching from afar, Song Yi-sul spoke quietly.
"…This is a state where intent walks as if dreaming."
Park Seong-jin's shadow brushed past the edge of the enemy camp.
No trace remained—only a thin veil of blood mist hanging in the air.
Had he gone too far ahead?
At the perimeter of the Ming camp, sentries screamed.
"There!"
"It's him!"
"Above us!"
Park Seong-jin had already shifted three body-lengths away.
He placed one step lightly, and the air rose naturally to meet him.
Enemy eyes chased after him.
"A man… moving like that… in midair…?"
The Ming archers loosed a volley toward him.
Shraaaa—!
Arrows fell thicker than rain.
Park Seong-jin flowed backward like a tide, opening distance—not retreating, but slipping away along the current.
He slid through the air, maintaining just enough space for the arrows to pass.
As he lowered his body, dozens of shafts sliced through the space beneath his feet.
The Ming soldiers clenched their teeth.
"Don't let him close!"
"Shoot!"
"Fire!"
Red banners shook.
Hundreds of archers re-formed their lines.
Park Seong-jin, who had withdrawn, stepped forward again.
A single step carried him across more than ten zhang through the air.
A minute shift.
Tap.
That one step became the starting point where the texture of space itself changed.
"He's coming in!"
"Stop him!"
The archers fired in unison.
The sky darkened.
At the instant the arrows flew, Park Seong-jin slowly drew his sword.
The pale blade left a gentle curve in the air, as if opening the wind itself.
Its tip traced a figure-eight, like a sacred seal.
The moment the pattern completed, the structure of space changed.
Silence fell.
Suuuu—
The arrows twisted from their paths.
"…What—?"
Faces went pale.
Screams followed.
Hundreds of arrows that had been aimed at Park Seong-jin surged back like a massive wave.
They struck first at soldiers with weak defenses, then slipped through gaps in armor.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
"AAAH!"
"Help!"
"Shields—!"
Shields could not hold against that density.
A red haze exploded across the enemy front.
The Goryeo warriors watching from afar were struck silent.
Jong-hee muttered under his breath.
"…What is this?"
Song Yi-sul answered quietly.
"A boundary."
A line Park Seong-jin had once repeated in training surfaced in his mind.
When the heart is like an empty valley,
the flow of energy forms its own river.
What he was doing now was writing that sentence with his body.
Facing the blood-soaked front, Park Seong-jin swept his sword once through the air.
That single motion was enough to settle the scattered currents.
He whispered low.
"…Now I can see the flow."
Front Line Collapse — Hell Where Arrows Return
Each time Park Seong-jin skimmed through the air, the Ming archers reflexively fired again.
Shraaaa—!
But the arrows no longer flew in a single direction.
With a single stroke of Park Seong-jin's sword through empty air, their trajectories twisted.
In a moment without wind, space itself bent slightly.
After a dull, crushing silence, the arrows lost direction—
and returned.
Hell began there.
If they fired, their own men died.
But they could not stop firing.
At first, they thought it coincidence.
The second time, strangeness.
The third time—it became terror.
A Ming officer screamed.
"Don't fire!"
"Stop—!"
"The arrows are coming back!"
Too late.
The moment Park Seong-jin rose into the air, the archers could not help but loose their shots.
If they did not attack, the gray afterimage would be upon them instantly.
Fire—and die.
Don't fire—and die faster.
With trembling hands, the archers drew their bows.
Then again—the sword tip swept through the air.
Hundreds, thousands of arrows hesitated, as if striking an invisible wall.
Then rebounded.
Thup! Thup!
Thud! Thud!
They were pierced by their own arrows—through torsos, necks, heads, arms, slipping into weak seams of armor like rain.
Screams erupted across the front.
"AAAH!!"
"Run!!"
"The arrows are killing us!!"
"Monster!!"
"That's not human!!"
The archer lines collapsed backward like a breaking wave.
Commanders shouted, but control no longer reached them.
As the formation began to crumble, Ming generals roared.
"Hold the line!"
"Step back and you'll be executed!"
Cavalry lashed their whips, forcing archers forward, shoving the front ranks upright.
At that moment—
Park Seong-jin shifted two points through the air.
His gray robes scattered like clouds.
Soldiers turned in unison, screaming.
"He's here again!!"
"What is that!!"
"Where is he?!"
And again—hundreds of arrows flew.
They returned.
This time, the infantry formation behind the archers took the full impact.
Arrows pierced armor, shattered bone, buried themselves in flesh.
Blood sprayed.
Someone whispered.
"…Don't shoot."
"This isn't a battle."
That whisper marked the start of collapse.
Fear spread instantly.
The chaos at the front rolled through the entire army.
Rear infantry saw the front ranks drown in blood.
"If we shoot, our own men die!!"
"That martial artist reflects arrows!!"
"That thing flying in the sky isn't human!!"
Thousands of soldiers turned at once.
And fled.
First ten.
Then a hundred.
Then thousands.
An army always breaks from a small crack.
That crack had already torn wide open.
Zhu Yuanzhang rushed to the front too late.
There was no way to stop it.
Generals cried out in desperation.
"Your Majesty!"
"The front has collapsed!"
"Our arrows are killing our own men!!"
Zhu Yuanzhang did not believe it until he saw it himself.
From horseback, he looked down.
He saw his soldiers falling to arrows they themselves had fired.
He saw a single martial artist in gray, drifting through the sky like clouds.
Below him, the entire army tangled in disorder, fleeing.
Zhu Yuanzhang's lips trembled.
"…That…"
"…Is that even human…?"
If he shouted for them to hold, he would be trampled to death by the retreating flood.
This was fear.
Fear of existence itself.
Like a man standing at the end of a valley facing a stampede, Zhu Yuanzhang spoke low.
"…Withdraw.
If I stay, even I may die."
He turned his horse and vanished to the rear.
After him, only the gray afterimage of Park Seong-jin continued to carve through the battlefield.
Guarding the Boundary
Suspended in midair, Park Seong-jin did not tighten his grip on the sword.
He already knew that if he did, he could go farther.
…If I step beyond this.
The moment the thought surfaced, his energy tried to move forward by half a step on its own.
He immediately lowered his breathing.
The sensation was unmistakable.
The battlefield lay spread out like a single board,
and the movements of people appeared as lines and grain upon it.
With one more push, it felt as though he could step beyond the edge of that board.
So he stopped.
This is not strength.
If I cross it, coming back will take time.
More than the fact that he had grown stronger,
he was aware first of something else—
that the version of himself at this moment was dangerous.
He suppressed the faint impulse of his sword tip to carve through the air.
The energy obeyed, but he did not grant it permission.
The battlefield is where I stand.
What lies beyond it… is not yet.
Park Seong-jin took one steady breath,
and stepped back into the place of a soldier.