263.
The Envoy Returns — A Promise in Public, an Order in Shadow
The envoy from Dadu(大都 北京)* arrived again after fifteen days.
*The winter capital of the Mongol Empire during the Yuan dynasty.
So urgent was their business that they had organized replies to every disputed point from the last audience and brought them neatly in hand.
They were dressed more formally than before, and their speech was courteous—yet their eyes were as sharp as blades.
The palace forecourt, still damp after the rain, clung to the air with a heavy humidity, and red banners trembled faintly in the wind.
The chief minister of the mission entered the royal presence, knelt, and spoke.
"Your Majesty, Dadu sends its request once more.
We express our deepest regret for the discomfort caused previously.
However, the situation is exceedingly urgent.
The empire's internal war has expanded, and the security of Liaodong and neighboring regions stands in grave peril.
Goryeo's cooperation is essential."
The king looked at him without speaking.
Beneath the envoy's careful lips, calculation lay plainly.
The words were mild, but the intent was unmistakable.
When the king gestured slowly, the envoy drew out a document and unfolded it.
The terms of dispatch were written in dense, tight script.
"In this operation, we will approve independent operational command for your forces.
Command will be entrusted entirely to Goryeo generals, and all grain, supplies, and equipment will be borne by the empire.
Logistics and provisioning will likewise be handled in full, and we promise—by written guarantee—to secure your army's freedom of operation."
The senior ministers held their breath.
Yi In-jung accepted the document and read it, line by line, without haste.
On the surface, it was an offer that could wash away past humiliation and restore autonomy to the army.
Yet the envoy's eyes—his tiny pauses, the slight turn of his mouth at each sentence's end—told a different story.
"And what of the past wrongs?" the king asked.
"Not a single word?"
The envoy lowered his head.
"That matter, too, carries the intention of proper recompense."
The king's voice did not rise.
"By your tongue alone?"
"Your Majesty—"
"If you refuse," the king continued,
"then should you not at least write it down, set your seal, and sign—
that your neck may be taken if you fail?"
"Your Majesty."
Yi In-jung spoke low.
"On the surface, they offer command and provisions.
That means we can wage this war in our own way.
But beneath the surface lies another intent.
If the Shadow Guard's hand moves again, cracks will open within us.
Their covert orders of passage and assassination have not yet been withdrawn.
We must weigh cooperation with utmost care."
The king watched the envoy for a long moment, then finally spoke.
"I must preserve the realm.
I know what it will cost, whom we may lose, who may turn their back.
But I can no longer bear the blood of the people."
He took a breath, then made his words unmistakable.
"We will dispatch.
We accept the conditions—on one term: all covert orders are withdrawn.
If not, then I will have no choice but to cut down the families of your people who remain within our borders."
The envoy stiffened for a heartbeat, then rose with a thin smile.
"It will be so.
We thank Your Majesty for this wise decision.
The empire will pledge it again in writing."
Yet at the corners of his eyes, a hard light remained.
The moment the envoys withdrew, a sealed confidential dossier moved through the dark palace corridors.
Already stamped, already finalized, it was delivered at once to the head of the Shadow Guard.
Dadu seemed to keep the forms of diplomacy, but its intent had already entered the stage of execution.
That night, Yi In-jung and several ministers continued their deliberations deep into the hours.
Outwardly, they had secured operational command and comprehensive support—military initiative, in name and ink.
But the threat beneath it meant only one thing:
Goryeo was stepping deeper into the continental maelstrom.
Meanwhile, peace still seemed to hang over Hwaju's battlements.
Park Seongjin rode the fields beyond the gates, directing the militia's drills,
while Yi Wol-gun sat at one corner of the rampart, a book open in his hands.
No one knew yet.
But soon, word would come on the wind—
that somewhere in the northern sky, a black falcon had taken flight.
Someone would hear footsteps beyond a window in the dark.
Someone else would meet a shadow reclaiming an opportunity long lost.
The Shadow over Hwaju — A Foreboding Presence Returns
On the surface, early spring in Hwaju was calm.
More carts passed through the gates, and laughter spread in the market.
The winter snow melted, swelling the streams, and a young scent of earth rose from newly turned fields.
The land breathed evenly, alive.
Yet within that calm, Park Seongjin felt a chill he could not explain.
The wind, which should have warmed, ran faintly cold.
The grain of the air did not sit right.
At dawn one day, he climbed the rampart alone.
Moonlight was thin, and beyond the distant ridgeline a heavy fog lay pressed down.
The wind came from the east, broke apart, and scattered—
yet within the fog the current flowed in the opposite direction,
like an unseen hand sweeping down from above.
Strange.
He closed his eyes.
His sensing sharpened, keen as a honed edge.
From afar came the lowing of cattle, the crack of bark splitting on old wood—
and between them, a fine tremor caught in his awareness.
The sound of metal vibrating when drawn exceedingly thin.
When he steadied his breath, the surrounding sounds dropped away at once.
The silence was too clean, too arranged.
If it were nature's flow, sound would have continued regardless of him.
But here, everything seemed to halt together.
As the night deepened, the sensation grew clearer—
a gaze resting somewhere nearby.
Over the following days, the air of Hwaju undeniably changed.
Dogs barked at night for no discernible reason.
Horses kicked at their stalls, agitated, snorting hard.
At the militia outposts, reports came in that were difficult to put into words.
"A resonance was detected in the distance.
Not sound—more like vibration."
"It felt as though the mountain was holding its breath."
The soldiers exchanged glances and gave short, uneasy laughs,
but the laughter faded quickly.
Park Seongjin received the reports without dismissing them.
He unfolded a map and traced the region around Hwaju—
mountain ranges, rivers, old burial grounds.
Then his gaze stopped at the northern vicinity of Baekryeon River.
That place was where the wind always curled back upon itself.
Old Jurchen had called it a well of souls.
The next night, he rode there alone.
It was a night without even moonlight.
When he reached the riverbank, the fog twisted slightly and changed its flow.
From the soil rose a damp scent—and a coldness without a name.
He knelt and seized a handful of earth.
The dirt was cold, and within it was a distinct metallic chill.
Something deep beneath seemed asleep, and the sensation touched his fingertips.
Then wind pressed in from behind.
He turned at once.
The air was empty, yet the pressure of a stare was unmistakable.
"Who is there?"
Only an echo returned.
His hand closed tight on the sword hilt.
The night air trembled for an instant, and within the fog a shape—almost human—briefly emerged,
then dissolved back into the flow.
At dawn, Park Seongjin summoned Song Yi-sul.
"The currents around Hwaju are misaligned.
The land reacts, and the wind runs against itself."
Song Yi-sul's smile disappeared.
He nodded slowly.
"It may not be wind at all, but a ripple of intent.
Still—your sense is not something to cast aside.
So another assassin has come.
They truly never tire."
After weighing his words, he added in a low voice,
"At times like this, hands that are not human move first."
He pointed north.
"It may be best to seal Baekryeon River again."
"Seal it?" Park Seongjin asked.
"It is a place where Yuan shamans once performed rites.
There are old accounts that they left a shadow behind when they departed."
Park Seongjin's eyes sank.
"A shadow…"
"The Shadow Guard's shadow.
When they lay hands upon a place, the earth answers before the wind does.
They use strange arts—perhaps through shamans.
Not jiangshi, yet something equally grotesque."
That night, one light vanished at the southern gate outpost.
At dawn, the sentry's body was found.
There were no wounds.
His eyes were wide open, staring up at the sky.
It looked as though he had stumbled upon them while scouting.
From that day on, an oppressive shadow began to descend over Hwaju, little by little.