322.
Dawn, When Fire Rose
At dawn, Xu Da's camp was dyed red.
The light was not the sun—it was torches.
Thousands of flames rose at once, and the drums thundered.
Discipline loosened in the ranks, and rage surged.
"Park Seong-jin!
Today I tear down your city!"
Xu Da's shout cut across the plain, swallowed by drums and roars.
The soldiers hurled themselves into the blaze of anger, burying yesterday's fear.
That—precisely—was the moment Park Seong-jin had been holding.
Then the gates of Chizhou opened—slowly.
Xu Da froze.
The enemy opening its gates while he prepared to attack—
the sight looked like an invitation. Come in.
"Has he cleared the way in fear?"
Xu Da laughed.
"Good. Whether lure or trick, I'll sweep it all away today!"
The cavalry vanguard charged for the gate.
On the walls, all signs of life vanished.
As the hooves closed in—
thump—
the ground gave way.
The earth outside the gate was hollow.
Stone covered the surface, but beneath it a vast pit had been dug.
The first horse fell, then ten more plunged after it.
Horses shattered; soldiers screamed.
Below, stakes stood like awls, and bundles of brush soaked in oil lay waiting.
At impact, sparks leapt—and fire bloomed.
"Fire! Fire—!"
The stench of blood and oil shot skyward with the screams.
As the infantry pressed toward the walls, Park Seong-jin's order fell, short and clean.
"Now."
Panels on the wall snapped open.
Steel lines spilled down—wire traps glittering as soldiers tangled and fell.
At once, fire-arrows rained in.
The wires caught flame; men and horses rose together as burning masses.
Xu Da bared his teeth.
"Reform the line! Turn the flank!"
But on the city's left, a small northern wall moved.
From where men had been hidden, bamboo tubes and sacks of earth burst, whipping up a sudden gale.
They were wind-chambers—Park Seong-jin's design.
The blast funneled through narrow passages, lifting the flames and throwing them back—
the fire below surged into Xu Da's ranks.
Heat licked faces; eyes burned; lips cracked.
Xu Da gathered what remained and drove forward again.
Then came a crack—not bowstrings, but wood screaming.
A section of wall collapsed.
What rolled out was not stone, but great masses of iron—wrought metal mixed with slag.
Chunks the size of horses crashed down, crushing men.
Blood sprayed; bones broke.
Xu Da looked up.
There—on the wall—stood a man.
Park Seong-jin.
Their eyes met.
The distance was great, but the gaze was unmistakable.
Park Seong-jin's mouth opened slowly.
His voice rode the wind:
"今日有生運也."
Today is the fortune that I live.
The words ended—and thunder answered.
From the north and west of the city, explosions erupted together.
Buried charges detonated in sequence, splitting Xu Da's formation apart.
Fire swallowed the sky.
Xu Da reeled in the saddle and shouted,
"Fall back to the camp!"
In the blaze, soldiers collided and fell.
Dawn's light mixed with blood and smoke, bleaching the field pale.
From the wall, Park Seong-jin watched in silence, his robe hem reddened by the flames.
After a moment, he murmured,
"Rage is the strength that grips the blade.
Lose direction—and the edge finds its own body."
The wind carried blood-stink and ash.
That dawn, Xu Da's army lost half its strength.
Chizhou remained—a fortress of fire, a living trap.
"General, the ground collapsed.
We stepped and found nothing beneath.
The pits look shallow, but they're deep.
There's the smell of iron."
"Everywhere is traps."
Xu Da closed his eyes.
That single line completed the picture.
"They wait—
they change the water, hide the pits,
and from inside, wait for us to jump first."
He raised his head to the sky.
Dark clouds pressed low.
"Tomorrow, we spare the blade.
In two days, when the wind turns south to north, we open a path.
Until then, dismantle the traps—one by one."
An aide blurted, "If we wait that long, won't the enemy prepare?"
Xu Da answered only with a thin smile.
Night deepened.
In his tent, he spread the map and traced the river with his finger through the sand.
He followed lines, not words—where the river began, where it stopped.
They mean to hold the water.
I must break the water.
He kept the thought inside.
From far off came the sound of wind brushing ripples—low, deep—
like drums beating under the earth.
He closed his eyes and finally said,
"Chizhou's night is long.
This war has already begun.
We've simply not yet chosen where to draw the blade."
Dismantling the Traps
Xu Da reined in the headlong fury.
Back in camp, he spread the map with blood-stained hands.
"At this rate, we pile corpses before we ever touch the wall.
Strip the traps.
Inches at a time—like plowing a field."
Orders fell.
Soldiers advanced with hammers, shovels, iron hooks.
The plain before the city was still smeared with blood;
burned arrowheads and splintered bamboo lodged between bootprints.
They pried stones, cut wires, and dug—carefully.
If a shovel bit a little too deep, it clicked.
Each click moved something hidden.
Men hunched, holding breath.
"Careful! Touch it and death comes in sequence!"
Someone shouted—but too late for one man.
A suspended cord snapped; a buried charge burst.
Fire roared; a trap-cover flew up and tore another man's face.
From the wall, Park Seong-jin looked down without emotion.
Men working gingerly, men flinching at every breath of wind.
A brief smile crossed his mouth.
"Even in fear," he said softly, "death arrives."
A hand lifted.
On the wall, bow-frames bent in unison.
Hiss—!
One line, two lines—hundreds—of arrows poured down at once.
The field before the city became hell in an instant.
A man digging fell backward where he stood;
another clearing traps impaled himself on the stake he'd uncovered.
Those who tried to hide slipped into gaps between traps—
gaps that Park Seong-jin had turned into hidden lanes of killing.
Grass stirred; unseen blades brushed past.
Before a scream could rise, a throat was taken.
When the arrow-rain stopped, Park Seong-jin said low,
"Hold the bows. Send in the mountain-men."
From tunnels beneath the wall, fighters crawled out—
men trained for night.
They flowed through shadows between traps, cutting down Xu Da's soldiers one by one.
Each touch of steel brought blood—but little sound.
Soon, only the grass trembled.
From a tall watchtower, Xu Da saw it all—
the arrows, the smoke, the men who no longer moved.
He swallowed his rage and turned to his officers.
"If we press now, we become his feed.
Pull back."
The officers stood frozen.
Some ground their teeth; some wailed as if tearing their throats.
At last, the flags turned.
Drums sounded, and Xu Da's army withdrew—slowly.
Bodies lay unrecovered, snagged among the traps:
hands severed while cutting wire;
men stiff where arrows couldn't be pulled free;
birds settling on burned armor.
From the wall, Park Seong-jin looked down quietly.
"As long as they touch it," he said, "I do not lose."
His eyes were cold.
An aide asked, "General—shall we pursue?"
"They've already lost the fight," he replied.
"Now their night will be long."
The wind rose.
Chizhou's banners snapped, reflecting firelight.
Beneath them, the enemy's blood had not yet dried.