442.Their desire was study.
After the Battle of Poyang Lake had ended and the war had settled, Jiangnan grew louder rather than quieter.
The center of that noise was not the Goryeo army as a whole, but a single young man—Park Seong-jin.
Yi In-jung wrote letters every day.
On the basis of those letters, he drafted diplomatic documents to be sent to other states.
He composed new requests.
He worked until his body wore thin.
People joked that if he had fought with even half that diligence in battle, he would already have been a Supreme General.
In truth, the days of war had been happier.
Among Jin Youliang's commanders, Yi In-jung was not the only one who drew attention.
Their eyes kept drifting toward Park Seong-jin.
"We have come to pay our respects to Commander Park Seong-jin."
One visitor became two, then five, until the number exceeded ten.
Before long, even renowned figures of the martial world began appearing at the camp.
None of them came empty-handed.
Silk, ornaments, rare jujube wood prized in this region, even suits of armor offered as trophies of war.
Simply returning these gifts consumed entire days.
"As a serving officer, I cannot accept gifts."
"I belong to the military examination corps…"
"Please return them."
"Yes… again…"
The soldiers muttered behind him.
"When you get famous like this, it must be a nuisance."
"At least there's plenty to eat."
"They say he sends everything back."
"Apparently it costs more just to return the gifts."
Park Seong-jin had entered the realm of Hwagyŏng, and as he grew accustomed to it, his martial skill advanced visibly.
His body felt lighter.
He could see the flow of qi.
His sword strikes became more precise.
At times, he could even sense the direction of things yet to come—what might be called the future.
That man will stumble if he keeps walking like that,
and moments later, the man would fall.
Tomorrow the weather will turn foul. There will be rain.
Even such forecasts proved true.
Within a few days, the king will come again.
He will come to discuss military affairs.
Even the course of human actions unfolded before him.
Still, he said nothing aloud, even to himself.
The sensation resembled that faint, itching intuition he used to feel on the battlefield—
the sense that something was about to happen.
As time passed, another change emerged.
When he listened to people speak, he no longer heard only their words.
He saw what lay beneath them.
He had studied the sword, not divination, yet people's inner thoughts lay open before him.
He could distinguish truth from falsehood, and even sense the reasons behind them.
What once felt like a vague impression hardened into certainty.
There was no need to ask questions.
His conversations grew fewer.
He could sense how spoken words and muttered thoughts formed their own currents,
how those words settled in the chest and what shapes they took there.
This was not understanding.
It was the direct seepage of qi, breath, and emotional grain.
Within it lay greed and envy, anxiety and concealment, the misalignment between speech and intent.
The world was harsh and turbid.
Seeing so much left Park Seong-jin unable to speak.
Even his resolve to withhold judgment wavered again and again.
So he turned away.
He entered the ranks of the warrior corps.
It was a place where action was firmer than words, where conduct was clean and direct.
A place of simple hearts.
The desires held by the warriors were clear and plain.
Their desire was study.
To refine their martial arts.
To purify and discipline their qi.
To wield the sword more correctly.
To save their comrades, even at the cost of falling themselves.
Other desires were scarcely visible.
There was no trace of power, deception, or calculation in their breathing.
The existence of such simple people in the world filled Park Seong-jin's chest.
So he stayed among them.
Without words—simply because they were clean.
Whenever he entered the warriors' tent, he heard the same remarks.
"Ah, Commander, don't come empty-handed."
"Bring something at least—horse meat, maybe."
"What trophies would I be carrying around?"
"Aren't gifts pouring in for you?"
"It costs more just to send them back."
"Then give us that money at least."
And then Song Yi-sul.
"That sword technique you mentioned before."
"I don't know it. It doesn't exist."
"The one where you cut the breath during the wing-strike from the left pivot—explain it again."
"I'm not sure myself. I just learned it through doing…"
"I've swung a thousand times. Why won't it work?"
Park Seong-jin wept once, inwardly.
It was meant as a figure of speech, but something truly surged up inside him.
He really had swung a thousand times.
The warriors found Park Seong-jin troublesome, and Park Seong-jin found the warriors troublesome.
Yet within that mutual annoyance, this place felt the most normal.
Because they carried no other desires.
In a way, they were people gathered by the purest form of longing.
That longing was called self-completion.
When work arose, they moved first.
When labor ended, they left last.
When supplies arrived, the better portions naturally went to the warrior corps.
They were the ones who bled the most.
They never spoke of this treatment.
Their silence was not resentment, but the silence of those who understood what was proper.
One night, Park Seong-jin thought quietly.
What supports the world is not strength or eloquence alone.
It is because people who reduce desire, who do not deceive, whose front and back are the same, bear its weight at the bottom.
The scarcity of such people made his chest ache.
That was why he liked this quiet place.
Why he liked these people.
Among them, the noise in his heart grew still.
That stillness felt like a rest deeper than victory in war.