266.dark crimson pall still lingered in the sky.
Aftermath of Battle, Dawn over Hwajŏ — A Record of Scars
Night receded, and dawn arrived.
Above Hwajŏ, a dark crimson pall still lingered in the sky.
The flames had died down, yet smoke and the stench of blood pressed heavily within the walls.
When the morning wind blew, burned rooftops creaked and sagged.
Torn banners hung from the ramparts, swaying.
At the end of that grotesque battle, there was almost no sound.
The silence stretched long, as if trembling with fear.
Soldiers moved quickly, but without words.
What they had faced defied understanding.
They gathered scattered bodies and separated weapons.
Forms pierced by arrows, severed heads, figures collapsed face-down with breath gone—
they lay everywhere.
Where the poisoned mist had seeped, black stains remained on the stone floor.
Blood followed the grooves, drawing thin lines.
"I've never seen a fight like this."
A warrior spoke quietly.
His gaze passed over the corpses and lingered in empty air.
"They were closer to shadows than to men."
Park Seongjin stood beside him in silence.
Soot marked his face; his armor was torn.
Warmth still lingered in his palms.
Lee Injung looked down from beneath the ramparts and exhaled.
"We trained for battle, but a night like this—
it was never in our calculations."
Fatigue pooled in his eyes.
"The unit held."
Song Isul, after clearing the place where the poisoned mist had spread, was performing purification.
As his hands brushed away soil and spread ash, they paused.
A short dagger was revealed in the ground—
a hidden blade wrapped in black silk cord.
An engraved mark lay on its hilt.
A shadow.
"Yeongwi."
Someone spoke low.
Nothing more needed to be said.
The name alone was enough.
Grudges bound in blood endure for a long time.
Perhaps that is why they say one must never sow hatred among men.
As the sun rose, Seongjin climbed the rampart.
Red light crept along the walls, illuminating the traces of night.
He stood there for a long while.
"This will linger."
His words scattered into the wind.
Below, the unit worked busily at purification—
carrying the wounded, collecting the fallen's weapons,
recording the names of the dead, marking their bodies.
Even with time, the smoke did not fully settle.
It drifted slowly along the walls, holding its place.
From that day on, Hwajŏ began to breathe at a different pace.
Moments when they had been helplessly overrun overlapped in memory.
Within Seongjin's chest, anger rose slowly.
It had been precise.
Numerous, persistent.
Even when blocked, the waves continued.
That was what provoked him most.
They sent what could not succeed.
They sent it again, until it did.
An old phrase came to mind—strike at the origin.
Knowing it would fail, they sent more.
If blocked, they changed methods; if broken, they pushed again.
It was not a single contest, but endless attrition.
Hundreds of hidden weapons flew.
With armor donned and shields raised, one could endure—
so they avoided that moment.
They waited until clothes were changed, breath steadied, vigilance loosened.
They struck at the gaps of living.
The poison spread.
It chose no target.
Not only him, but nearby—
the harmless, the unrelated—lost their lives.
People collapsed simply from breathing.
That sight angered him all the more.
To kill, they did not hesitate to let the innocent fall.
It was indifference—
a gaze that treated lives as obstacles to be cleared away.
The existence of such a gaze gave birth to his rage.
Was the organization the problem?
Or the one who gave the orders?
His thoughts stopped there.
Easy answers make thought light.
Lightened thought cannot give weight to the sword.
Using unseen hands to preserve power was nothing new.
The longer those hands endure, the more blood they summon.
If I fail to resolve hatred and live as though I have forgotten,
others may think me easy to strike, easy to harm.
So perhaps I make a show of vengeance,
a silent declaration—I am this kind of man; do not touch me—
and live by it.
Seongjin envisioned the end of that current.
Cutting does not finish it.
Breaking does not erase it.
Strike the head and the body remains;
sweep the body and the head is born again.
The Empire was shaking—
tilting, splitting, pushing against itself, yet still standing.
Upon its wreckage remained those who could not endure without leaning on one another.
Seongjin faced that contradiction squarely.
And he accepted the fact that he could not yet cut it down.
He could not cut down the Empress of Yuan.
There was no method, not now.
For the moment, endurance was the only choice.
Like waves without an end in sight, this would continue.
He would prepare for the day when the very manner of this struggle would change.
After several exchanges of envoys, the Goryeo court secured the necessary terms and decided on deployment.
Commanders seasoned in fighting the White Lotus were selected, and the names of Lee Injung and Park Seongjin were placed on the roster.
This campaign differed in one crucial way.
Seongjin went not as a lone warrior, but at the head of Hwajŏ's local forces.
Three units of the Six Guards, reinforced by northern militias, gathered at Sŏgyŏng as spring waned—ten thousand Goryeo troops in all.
There was another change: the unit of martial specialists.
They had always moved without fixed allegiance, dispersing according to mission,
but this time they assembled beneath Hwajŏ's banner.
All came under Seongjin's command.
With mixed formations of Jurchen and Goryeo troops added, the grain of the army hardened.
Supplies personally overseen by Lee Injung supported them from behind.
As a result, the Hwajŏ force became the strongest formation among those sent to war.