"But fighting with words—I have no sense for it at all."
Morning broke.
With the talks approaching, the air of the camp had changed.
It was a stillness unlike the tension of the eve of battle—a strange quiet in which one must fight with words.
Lee In-jung stood before the tent, his armor set aside, dressed in a civil official's robes.
His hand gripped the scabbard, drawing the blade out and sliding it back in without thought.
The motion was familiar, but his mind was not at ease.
On the eve of battle his blood would boil; today, his fingertips were cold.
"Fighting with the body is simple," he muttered to himself.
"But fighting with words—I have no sense for it at all."
Inside the tent, Park Seong-jin was preparing for the conference.
He spread out paper and ink, silk scrolls, and copies of the credentials carried by the allied forces.
He reread each line, arranging it all again in his mind.
They had been shaken with silver; this time, they would be shaken with writing.
Then we will endure with justification.
His fingertips were delicate.
The scent of ink spread.
He wrote a few characters, wiped them away, then wrote again.
The sentence had to move ahead of the spoken word.
At that moment, Lee In-jung entered the tent.
"Already finished preparing?"
"Not preparation," Park replied quietly.
"I'm ordering my thoughts."
Lee In-jung snorted.
"That's the problem for me. I can't order things like that.
In battle, you know once you see blood—but in talks, you never know when it will be spilled."
"All the more reason for caution," Park said, lifting his head.
"They rarely come out bearing weapons."
"What's more frightening than weapons is the tongue."
Lee In-jung smiled, but the smile faded quickly.
"That fellow Zhang Shicheng—they say he's slick with words.
A merchant by trade. No one can match him when it comes to bargaining."
"If it's a bargain, we can handle it too."
Park paused, then added,
"When I was young, I worked with a merchant caravan.
I don't know how the master is faring these days."
He slowly set the brush down.
"If he comes for profit, we support ourselves with justification."
Lee In-jung crossed his arms.
"Justification. I can't get a grip on it.
A sword is heavy, blood is hot—but justification feels light and cold."
Park smiled.
"That is why you open the road with blood, General, and I will close it with words.
To know both opening and closing together—that is the completion of a fight."
Lee In-jung studied him for a moment, then nodded.
"Yes. Our teacher used to say the same."
He gave a short laugh and rolled his shoulders.
"Very well. When I go out, I'll grip the sword hilt.
You grip the hilt of words."
"Yes, Senior General."
Park bowed his head briefly.
A moment later, the two left the tent.
The sky was lightly clouded, the wind still.
As they passed, the soldiers quietly opened a path.
One bore the weight of armor, the other the weight of words—
different weapons, the same battlefield.
Zhang Shicheng's mind was his strategist, Wei Jin.
Wei Jin was a man of Gaoliang.
From a young age he loved books, was versed in the Classics and histories.
He worked as a clerk in Nanjing, but when the world fell into disorder he cast off office and went south to Jiangnan.
People called him a strategist—
one who helps others accomplish their ends,
one who moves the board through counsel.
He caught Zhang Shicheng's eye early and was taken on as a secretary.
Afterward, he handled counsel and correspondence alike.
Whenever Zhang Shicheng fought with words, it was usually Wei Jin's hand behind it.
He was gentle and quiet, but the hand that held sentences was faster than a blade.
"A victory won by blood lasts a moment," he once said.
"A victory won by writing lasts a hundred years."
That single line was what turned Zhang Shicheng's "war of silver" into a "war of documents."
That day, Wei Jin stood at Zhang Shicheng's side.
When the conference with the Goryeo army was set, he personally composed the texts and arranged the order of replies.
Before him lay several scrolls and a brush whose ink had not yet dried.
Zhang Shicheng asked,
"They will come with justification.
Silver and force won't work—so now it will be words alone."
Wei Jin bowed his head.
"If it is justification, we cover it with justification.
They believe in righteousness; we raise a greater righteousness."
"A greater righteousness?"
"The righteousness of bearing an imperial mandate.
Their struggle is loyalty; ours is loyalty in following the court's will.
When righteousness collides, the greater righteousness overcomes the lesser."
Zhang Shicheng smiled.
"That's why I summoned you.
There are many generals who wield swords, but few whose words hold together.
It's truly difficult. I don't know why it's so difficult."
Before long, the Goryeo delegation entered.
They came carrying nothing but words, yet that very composure was more unsettling.
Lee In-jung and Park Seong-jin stepped into the same place with different strides.
Ahead of them lay a silence heavy with weight; behind them, a dark tension.
Zhang Shicheng rose to greet them.
Behind him, Wei Jin stepped back half a pace.
A brush was in his hand, its tip still wet with ink.
Now the battlefield was to be opened with words.
The tent was large and quiet.
The flags on both sides swayed slowly, and between them stood a long table.
On it lay a single stick of incense, a brush, and two cups of tea, arranged as if by formality.
Zhang Shicheng rose first and offered courtesy.
"You have come from afar. Has the heat of blood settled?"
His voice was gentle, but his eyes were already weighing his counterparts.
Lee In-jung replied briefly,
"You are Zhang Shicheng."
"Yes. I am also called the King of Wu, though if my name is easier, you may use it."
"King. A title you took for yourself?"
"When the world is in chaos, names waver as well.
The emperor has not enfeoffed me—so it is self-styled. Ha."
He did not bristle at the challenge to his title.
Rather, the King of Wu laughed.
A brief silence passed between them.
Zhang Shicheng poured tea and continued,
"We have already seen your army's valor at Yangzhou.
Since all is known, why contend further in arms?
We have lost. There is no need to struggle further through battle.
But the people of the south are exhausted—
is it not time to govern rather than to fight?"
Lee In-jung held his teacup without lifting it.
"Is that your will, or your fear?"
Zhang Shicheng smiled.
"Wisdom called fear, General.
Even the victor in battle must feed people when the fighting ends."
At that moment, Park Seong-jin spoke quietly,
"If the way of feeding people is silver, that silver will soon become another kind of blood."
At the word "blood," Zhang Shicheng's gaze shifted to him.
"You are young."
Lee In-jung introduced him.
"Middle Commandant Park Seong-jin, who fought in the vanguard."
"Ah. That man.
Five hundred who wiped out our three thousand."
At the mention of three thousand, Park's expression hardened.
He recalled that the report had said two thousand.
Lee In-jung glanced sideways at him.
Zhang Shicheng lifted his cup, then set it down.
"Do you doubt the Emperor's mandate?"
Park raised his head.
"If it is the Emperor's document, the Emperor's hand must have touched it.
That document bore the traces of a merchant's hand."
A brief stillness crossed Zhang Shicheng's face.
Behind him, Wei Jin flinched almost imperceptibly, brush still in hand.
Zhang Shicheng quickly recovered his smile.
"A merchant's hand.
Merchants always deal in truth. Precision is their life.
Sell falsehood, and you perish."
"Then," Park said, narrowing his eyes,
"is your war also a business?"
A long silence swept through the tent.
The smoke of incense slowly dispersed in the air.
Beneath the table, Lee In-jung's hand unconsciously touched his scabbard.
Zhang Shicheng spoke softly.
"War, too, is a transaction. Who loses, who gains.
I fight not to lose this land; you fight not to lose the imperial mandate."
Park answered calmly,
"Then let us make a deal.
A deal without falsehood."
"What do you want?"
"Say it with your own mouth.
What is it that you truly want?"
Zhang Shicheng's gaze wavered for a moment, then hardened.
"Peace. And the right to keep that peace."
Park nodded quietly.
"We know that such peace would be for the sake of the next betrayal."
The affair of Yang Wanzi came to mind, and Zhang Shicheng's face stiffened briefly.
In this place, that single name carried meaning enough.
Zhang Shicheng lifted his cup and drained it.
His voice grew low and deep.
"Young General, there is no peace without blood in this world.
We only seek a path where less blood is spilled."
Park did not answer.
Lee In-jung slowly rose from his seat.
"We have heard today's words.
If you wish this connection to endure—"
At that moment, the strategist Wei Jin stepped forward and addressed him.
"We wish to know what you hope this land will become.
Have you not suffered under Yuan oppression as we have?"
Lee In-jung sent his gaze to Park Seong-jin, and Park received it.
"We desire a peace like that of the Song dynasty."
"The Song?"
Wei Jin's eyes narrowed.
"A balance of three powers.
The Song suffered, but the realm was at peace."
Park nodded.
"That is why we can come to the table like this."
The air in the tent grew heavier.
Zhang Shicheng's smile thinned to a line.
Park continued,
"We will decide the hegemon of Jiangnan."
They left the tent.
Outside, the wind had risen, and the flags snapped violently.
Zhang Shicheng watched them for a long while, then spoke low to Wei Jin.
"That young man—what was his name?"
"He said Park Seong-jin."
Zhang Shicheng's gaze deepened.
"His eyes are sharp.
He means to divide the hegemons of the Central Plain, the north, and Jiangnan,
and to lay a hundred-year design for Goryeo's peace."
Wei Jin asked,
"What will you do?"
Zhang Shicheng thought for a moment, then murmured,
"Silver won't work now. Nor documents.
Then it's time to shake people themselves."
His eyes glinted coldly.
A negotiation does not end a war.
If the fighting drags on, it only serves Zhu Yuanzhang and Chen Youliang.
"Go every day and negotiate with them.
Argue why we must be the hegemon of Jiangnan.
Speak of cause and righteousness, of the people, of the prosperity of Wu—
until it works."
"Loyalty."
It was not swords, but hearts, that the next war would seek to move.