walked into a quiet forest behind the camp.
As night deepened, Park Seong-jin walked into a quiet forest behind the camp.
It was a place untouched by the countless lights of the encampment—
where only the wind passed through, and the sounds of voices and the smell of blood faded thin.
Song Yi-sul was there, sitting alone.
His eyes were closed as he regulated his breathing, his form wavering in the shadows as if barely anchored to the world.
Lately, Song Yi-sul had been training with unusual intensity.
He had seen Park Seong-jin cross a threshold,
and the frustration it stirred had driven him to push himself harder.
Park Seong-jin stood for a long moment, quietly observing the path of that breath.
In truth, he did not need to look closely.
The state revealed itself plainly.
Those stronger than him were impossible to read, no matter how hard he tried.
Those weaker were immediately clear.
After a pause, he spoke carefully.
"Hyung… General Chen Youliang made a request today."
Song Yi-sul opened his eyes.
There was no firelight, yet his pupils gleamed—
eyes that reflected the night before anything else.
He spoke as if drawing the answer out rather than asking.
"…Assassination?"
To a man with Song Yi-sul's experience, it was obvious.
Park Seong-jin hesitated, then slowly nodded.
"…Yes."
Song Yi-sul's response was immediate and firm.
"Ridiculous."
He waved his hand as if brushing away old dust and continued,
"Men who raise themselves as warlords always pretend to be harmless on the surface. They act approachable. Beneath that, they lay down defenses so strange and layered you'd never imagine them. Only fools say things like 'just fly in and cut him down.'"
Park Seong-jin recalled Chen Youliang's words—
spoken lightly, almost jokingly.
He also recalled the unseen momentum of the guard warriors standing behind him.
Even the greatest expert could not easily match that kind of accumulated experience.
Song Yi-sul scratched his back with one hand, as if digging into memories buried in his bones.
He spoke low.
"People like that keep secret protections even their closest aides don't know about. If you see two guards, there are three shadows. And guarding those shadows is another presence entirely—one that feeds on qi."
He looked seriously at Park Seong-jin's young face and continued,
"With your current martial skill, you could suppress the soldiers in front and the experts at the rear gate. But unseen force is not something the eyes can perceive. It's bound to the flow of heaven and to fortune."
Park Seong-jin asked quietly,
"…Heaven's flow?"
Song Yi-sul chose his words carefully.
He slowed his speech—not to translate words, but to carry their weight.
"Those who shake the world are upheld by currents beyond themselves. We call that Heaven's Flow. Good or evil, no hero stands alone. He may have personal ability, but there is wind that surrounds him, fortune he has sown, momentum that gathers around him. The aspirations of tens of thousands support him. Can such a person be easily assassinated? The backlash is greater."
His voice hardened.
"If your soul is not large enough to bear that weight, you cannot face them."
Park Seong-jin listened in silence.
Song Yi-sul concluded, as if snapping a scabbard shut,
"To suppress Heaven's Flow with a single petty blade invites inevitable recoil. Very few in this world can pay that price."
He spoke with certainty.
"That's why even villains can walk openly under the sun. The flow of heaven sustains them."
Park Seong-jin gave a low laugh—
a sound that never quite reached laughter.
"I felt uneasy the moment I heard it. It sounded like the shallow psychology of someone searching for an easy shortcut."
Song Yi-sul nodded.
"That's normal. And that's proof you're not an assassin's blade, but a warrior's. We are warriors. We don't deal in assassination. That pride is how we've protected our country and its people."
Park Seong-jin asked softly,
"Hyung… do you think it's possible, with my strength?"
Song Yi-sul shook his head.
"If you ask whether it's possible, then perhaps it is. But if you ask whether you should—then don't."
His gaze did not waver.
"Your blade is one that illuminates the battlefield. It is not a blade meant for darkness. Once you step onto that shadowed path, it's hard to return."
Yet a young heart does not fold so easily at a single firm sentence.
If the war could end that way—
if so much blood could be stopped—
shouldn't it be done?
What law exists in war?
What rule survives in this hell of slaughter?
War is a place beyond law and common sense.
Night settled slowly.
Behind the encampment, beyond the reach of light, Park Seong-jin sat alone, resting his head against a shield.
In the distance, a horse whinnied.
Torchlight wavered, reflected thinly on water.
The mingled sound of human breath drifted through the dark.