312.
The Night of Chang Yuchun常遇春*
*Chang Yuchun was one of the great founding generals of the Ming.
His courtesy name was Borin (伯仁), his sobriquet Yanheng (燕衡).
A native of Huaiyuan County, Fengyang Prefecture in Southern Zhili
(present-day Huaiyuan, Anhui), he was the general Zhu Yuanzhang trusted most.
It began with a smell.
Not the scent of burned wood or damp sailcloth,
but the smell that comes just before steel moves—
the odor that seeps in before blood is spilled,
when a blade is about to be drawn.
Chang Yuchun opened his eyes on his bedding.
His body awoke before his mind,
and his awareness followed a breath later.
The tent was silent.
Even the footsteps of the sentries were neatly spaced, almost too orderly.
The stillness was unnaturally clear.
He slowly moved his hand and grasped the hilt of his sword.
The blade was not cold.
The warmth of his palm had already soaked into it.
They've come.
He did not look for a reason.
No messenger appeared.
No disturbance stirred.
No report had arrived.
Yet the certainty was absolute.
It was a sensation his body had accepted first, again and again, across dozens of battlefields.
The density of the air had changed.
The wind had stopped, yet his skin felt pressure first.
It was as if another layer of darkness had settled.
His vision was unchanged,
but the world had stepped one pace closer.
He drew a long breath.
The air passed through his lungs and sank straight down below his navel.
His body aligned itself naturally into a combat stance.
Then Chang Yuchun realized—
This is not the aura of an army.
There was none of the crushing weight that comes when a host moves.
No clamor, no pressure, no exposed mass.
Assassins?
No.
It was clear—too clear.
He looked beyond the tent.
Fog lay low, and torches were sparse, set at wide intervals.
From the river came almost no sound of water.
No hint of oars cutting the surface.
The water is still.
At that moment, a sensation brushed the nape of his neck, sharp and distinct.
Water, the calmer it becomes, the more it holds.
Chang Yuchun rose, sword in hand.
Whoever was approaching did not move by sound.
The instant he stepped out of the tent, the ground felt different beneath his feet.
The earth was the same as in daylight, yet its texture was not.
Soil pressed many times, then smoothed again—
the grain left after footprints have vanished.
Fifteen… no, fewer.
He did not count.
His body grasped the scale first.
They were few—
but sufficient.
A faint smile touched Chang Yuchun's lips.
It was neither fear nor joy.
It was the expression that comes naturally
when one finally meets an opponent long awaited.
This… is a general.
Not the aura of soldiers.
Not the cut of assassins.
Not the scent of tactics.
They came for me.
Then the wind stirred, just barely.
One torch went out, as if pausing for breath.
Darkness stepped one pace closer.
Chang Yuchun raised his sword upright.
He felt clearly that his heart was beating in a slow, even rhythm.
There was no thought of retreat, no reason to withdraw.
"Good,"
he murmured, so softly no one could hear.
"If my duty is never to retreat once I have recognized my lord,
then the one who has recognized me tonight
will not retreat either."
He stepped forward.
At the same moment,
within the darkness, the flow of blades began.
The night was splitting.
Park Seong-jin climbed the wall first.
His fingertips found the gaps between the bricks with precision,
his toes discovered their path without a sound.
His body was light—
a body that had set down all unnecessary weight.
As a sentry atop the wall turned his head,
an arrow pierced his throat.
No scream rose.
Blood filled the airway and smothered sound.
The sentry lost strength and collapsed where he stood.
The instant Park Seong-jin crested the wall,
his blade traced a half-circle.
As if light itself were cut, two sentries fell together.
The sound of their collapse was short and low.
The faster death comes, the fewer traces it leaves.
Once inside the walls, smell arrived first—
cooled blood, liquor, oil, iron, all mixed together.
It was the smell of a place where men had gathered and lingered for long.
The warriors dispersed.
Their routes had already been fixed in the mind during daylight.
If you do not carry the paths within your body,
the night devours without mercy.
Park Seong-jin spoke softly.
"To the heart of the fortress.
Finish before the firelight flares."
His voice was lower than the wind,
yet it reached everyone clearly.
They were already listening in the same way.
A sentry before the main tent sensed something and turned.
What entered his vision was only shadow.
Slice.
The blade slipped beneath his jaw and severed the root of the tongue.
Breath jammed in his throat; only air escaped.
His lips parted, his hands clawed at emptiness, then released.
His knees buckled first, and his body tipped sideways.
Blood spread thinly, wetting the instep of a boot.
As the second sentry felt the disturbance and turned,
a bowstring sang.
The arrow tore into the flesh beside his neck, splitting the carotid.
He took one step forward, then dropped where he stood.
Foam-like blood bubbled at his mouth.
The more he tried to inhale, the deeper the blood seeped.
After a brief shudder, he fell still.
The next instant, the tent flap ripped open.
Outside air poured in, and the lamp flame wavered.
Park Seong-jin entered first.
Song I-sul and Dohyeon split left and right.
Two more seized the threshold behind them.
To block the sound of approaching footsteps,
they dragged a sentry's corpse and laid it beside the entrance.
The dull thud of the falling body sank into the canvas,
shrinking into silence.