The pavilion was silent.
In the middle of the courtyard, the little boy — barely three years old — held a stick far too large for him, waving it clumsily as he mimicked the soldiers he had seen training. His laughter rang out, light and free, echoing against the severity of the stone walls.
Yi Sun-sin approached. His tall figure cast a shadow that swallowed the boy's. The child froze, lifting his eyes toward this father he barely knew, yet already feared and respected.
Yi's deep, stern voice broke the silence:
— "That stick is not a toy. If you hold it, it is a weapon. And a weapon does not tolerate weakness."
The boy lowered his head, intimidated, his small hands gripping the stick tighter. A brief pause. Then Yi Sun-sin bent down, took the stick, set it upright, and guided the child's hands into place. His movements were firm, yet not harsh; his voice calm and measured:
— "Hold it like this. Feet grounded. Even small, you must learn to stand straight."
The child nodded, focused. His legs trembled, but he held the stance. Yi watched him, his face stern, but in his eyes flickered something fleeting — pride, restrained and silent.
He released the stick and straightened.
— "Continue. Every day. As long as I breathe, you will learn not to yield."
Then he turned away and left the courtyard.
The boy remained, arms tired but eyes bright. Behind the window, his mother watched, moved. She saw what her son could not yet understand: that within that sternness, within that guided gesture, there had been a rare light — that of a father who, without saying a word, was proud.