343.
Night Study — The Time of Stillness**
The Taiping front was quiet.
Yet that quiet resembled a whirlpool turning beneath deep water.
Park Seong-jin sat alone, with only a single lamp lit.
At his fingertips flowed not ink, but something like energy.
From crown to sole, blood, breath, and intent merged and circulated as one.
True qi trembled faintly above the open book.
When he inhaled, his mind flashed bright.
When he exhaled, sweat ran down his spine.
Then, from the darkness, footsteps approached.
It was Song Yi-sul.
"Hey—take it easy once in a while."
Park Seong-jin did not startle.
"You're here? You should be sleeping."
Song Yi-sul snorted.
"How could I sleep when your qi is sloshing around like that?"
There had been no exchange of words, yet he had felt the surge.
Park Seong-jin's eyes widened.
"You can… feel it?"
Song Yi-sul laughed shortly.
"Of course. I stopped right around there."
"…Ah."
Park Seong-jin held his breath.
That single sentence was both a confession and a boundary.
That his senior had stopped there.
Whether that halt was failure—or survival—he could not yet tell.
Only this was certain: that the limit lay there.
Before pain, people become humble.
Song Yi-sul sat by the fire.
The flames made his shadow sway.
"In what they call my life," he said slowly,
"how many times do you think I failed and stopped?"
He rolled the words at a pace like tracing an old scar.
"Life is woven out of those stops, like a grid.
A history that runs straight from success to success—does that even exist?
Haven't you heard the saying that disaster and fortune are one?"
Park Seong-jin quietly studied his face.
Long fatigue rested at the corners of Song Yi-sul's eyes.
That gaze said clearly: detachment was not granted, but drawn up from exhaustion.
"All those times I stopped—for this reason or that.
Qi blocked, mind blocked, intent broken."
Song Yi-sul smiled bitterly.
"There are far more failures than successes.
'Use failure as a mirror'? That's something said by people who've never failed.
Try failing. You won't even dare to try again.
That's where I stopped. The farthest I could go."
Park Seong-jin spoke softly.
"…I see. So that's how it was."
Song Yi-sul nodded.
"Don't rush. Even if it surges—never rush."
The words fell with weight.
"Even if it feels like it's time, endure.
Endure again.
After that comes the realm of transformation."
He stared into the flames, neither smiling nor crying.
"Do you know how many masters ever reached hwagyeong?
Cut an era in half—one or two would already be many.
Even then, being in Goryeo means the road is closer.
There were more ages with none at all."
Park Seong-jin nodded.
"I understand."
Song Yi-sul's mouth curved upward.
"I rushed and broke myself.
I touched the upper dantian too soon—might as well say I turned stupid."
Park Seong-jin laughed awkwardly.
"But… you seem fine now."
Song Yi-sul slowly raised both arms.
"Does this look fine to you?"
Park Seong-jin could not continue.
He could not presume to judge what "fine" meant by standards he did not know.
A sense that he must not speak carelessly sealed his mouth.
Song Yi-sul's voice sank lower.
Park Seong-jin bowed his head.
"I'm sorry. I didn't realize there was pain there."
Song Yi-sul shrugged.
"Nothing to apologize for. Why would you?"
He laughed softly.
"Only those who've failed at the threshold know that pain."
For a while, neither spoke.
The lamp flickered.
A dog barked somewhere far away.
Park Seong-jin closed the book and shut his eyes.
He traced where breath rose and where it stalled.
A subtle vibration stirred at the center of his chest.
Song Yi-sul said,
"Qi rising is a good thing.
When the mind climbs onto it—that's when it becomes fire.
If you've noticed that already, you've passed one hurdle."
He pressed the air down with his palm.
"Now you wait.
Don't try to cross.
Wait to the very end—even if that uses up all the time left in your life."
Park Seong-jin asked quietly,
"Then… did you stop at that hurdle?"
Song Yi-sul smiled.
That smile hurt more than words.
"I didn't stop.
I'm still living there."
He added, gazing at the fire,
"Stillness is also a realm.
People just call it failure."
Park Seong-jin asked again,
"Are you still waiting?"
Song Yi-sul paused, then slowly nodded.
"Knowing it won't happen—does it still make sense to say I'm waiting?"
Those words lingered long in the chest.
Park Seong-jin spread his hand beneath the firelight.
A faint tremor ran between the lines of his palm.
It was the pulse of qi—and the vibration of the heart.
"If this tremor never stops," he murmured,
"then I may never finish my study."
Song Yi-sul rose slowly.
"Study isn't something you finish.
You always begin again from the place you stopped."
As he stepped outside, he added,
"Don't fear stopping.
That's where the heart starts to show itself."
Then, even more quietly, as if to himself:
"If all you do is advance, anyone can do that.
We walk together because we can walk together.
Who goes first or last doesn't matter.
What matters is standing on the path."
After he left, Park Seong-jin remained seated alone.
The qi within him gradually settled.
Between inhale and exhale came a moment when thought broke off.
In that instant, the sounds of the world vanished.
Outside, the eastern sky was faintly brightening.
That light seeped across the canvas of the tent.
Park Seong-jin opened his eyes.
A calmer vitality than before rested in his gaze.
He murmured inwardly,
"To stop… is the breath taken in order to walk again."