The night is heavy with tension. His wife's cries echo behind the screens. Yi Sun-sin waits outside, standing motionless, his hands clasped behind his back. The courtyard is silent; the servants do not dare to raise their eyes. Their three-year-old son sleeps, entrusted to a nurse, unaware of the turmoil.
Then, at last, a newborn's cry cuts through the night. A midwife steps out and bows deeply.
— "General… it's a girl."
His face remains expressionless. He simply nods. Yet his eyes darken with a new, unspoken gravity. After a moment of silence, he orders:
— "Show me."
He enters the chamber. His wife lies exhausted, her forehead beaded with sweat, but her eyes gleam with a strange mix of pride and weariness. In her arms rests a fragile little girl, wrapped in pale cloth.
He steps closer, his towering shadow falling over the bed. His gaze moves from the child to his wife. He extends a hand, hesitates for a heartbeat, then brushes the baby's cheek. His finger, rough and calloused, trembles slightly.
In a low, deep voice, he murmurs:
— "A son to bear the sword. A daughter to carry the line. You have done more than I could have asked."
His wife looks up at him, moved, and whispers softly:
— "Is that… your way of saying you're proud of us?"
He doesn't answer. His stern gaze stays fixed on the child. Yet his hand comes to rest briefly on his wife's shoulder—heavy, firm, a gesture of stone that carries more than his words ever could.
Then he straightens. Turning toward the servants, he commands sharply:
— "No weakness is to be tolerated. The mother and child must live."
He leaves the chamber, his steps echoing down the corridor. But this time, he doesn't walk toward the courtyard. He stops before the door, closing his eyes for a second. His hand tightens against the wood, as if holding back a weight he will never name.
Then he moves on, his face once more turned to stone.