His mind was calm.
And he governed that calm.
When stillness settles, the grain of thought reveals itself first.
He asked himself quietly,
"What is Heaven's Flow?"
If, as Song Yi-sul said, there was a current that upheld heroes,
then where did that current arise from?
From human will?
From the configuration of the world?
From a heaven that moves without regard for hardship?
He closed his eyes.
In that instant, his hearing seemed to open and expand.
The sound of wind passing through the trees felt like the flow of a great river.
It was not the wind itself, but its direction.
He thought,
"So this is flow.
Is this what Hyung called Heaven's Flow?"
"If I tried to kill Zhu Yuanzhang… would some unseen force protect him?"
Heaven's Flow was not merely a matter of stronger or weaker qi.
It could be the immense direction created by people and people, event and event—
a massive inertia.
Because it cannot be resisted, it is called Heaven.
Because it cannot be grasped, it is called Fate.
It saves some and destroys others.
It pushes one toward success, another toward erasure.
It has no goodwill.
No human standard.
Right and wrong only hold meaning outside of that current.
Park Seong-jin drew in a slow breath.
"Am I someone large enough to defy that flow?"
If he cut Zhu Yuanzhang down tonight, how would the world change?
He had no answer.
But one thing became clear.
Cutting down a single man with a blade is easy.
Reversing the direction in which Heaven itself moves cannot be reached by steel.
A blade can kill one human being.
It cannot sever the vast current created by humanity itself.
He felt that killing everyone who stood in his way simply because it was possible was wrong.
This was not a matter of martial pride.
It was something that required deeper study—
yet war allowed no time for that.
He looked down at his palm.
The lines were thin and narrow.
The qi flowing beneath them was no longer what it once had been.
The sense of suppressing momentum, reading the wind,
and recognizing the instant when a human heart moved—
This was not something reached through technique alone.
Nor could it be contained by the word "martial skill."
It was a path toward freedom,
one that loosened the constraints binding him, step by step.
He murmured softly,
"Perhaps fate is the boundary between the paths I can walk and the paths I cannot."
He recalled Song Yi-sul's words.
To break the Heaven's Flow that supports a hero requires an even greater loss.
As he weighed that meaning, Park Seong-jin lowered his head.
If he shook Heaven's Flow with his current strength,
the backlash might shatter him first.
The thought pressed down like a command to endure the world for a long time—
like a declaration that free will itself was an illusion.
And yet, another realization rose alongside it.
"Fate is not something to flee from.
It is something to accept when its time comes."
He exhaled quietly.
The wind felt lighter.
One day, he might raise his blade against Heaven's Flow itself.
But that day was not today.
Today's blade was a blade to guard the battlefield—
not one meant to defy the heavens.
He lifted his head and watched dawn light begin to rise in the east.
"Heaven is moving."
"So am I."
"Today, I walk alongside the flow."
He stood and returned slowly to the encampment,
calming his breath as he prepared for another battlefield assigned to him.
The Beginning of a Secret Council
Behind the Taiping front.
Though it was night, the lights in Zhu Yuanzhang's main camp did not go out.
There had been the annihilation of reconnaissance units.
The failure of the second deployment of the Zhenwu Squad.
Testimonies from captured martial artists.
"The Korean expert crushed us with momentum before ever drawing his blade."
Those words echoed endlessly in Zhu Yuanzhang's ears.
That night, he summoned only Yu Baiwen—
his most trusted advisor.
The other generals were not informed.
Even the guards were reduced by half.
The moment only the trusted remain is the moment danger deepens.
Zhu Yuanzhang knew this—and proceeded anyway.
This was no longer a military matter.
It was a matter of power.
Zhu Yuanzhang placed his hand on the table.
"We have lost reconnaissance units to that expert three times."
"We lost Chang Yuchun and Xu Da to him."
Silence fell.
"There is no effective countermeasure."
"So now, we will use a different path."
Yu Baiwen's eyes trembled.
"…General. Surely you don't mean—"
Zhu Yuanzhang nodded slowly.
"Yes."
"Martial artists of the Jianghu."
"We will summon them to kill him."
The moment the words fell, the air inside the tent sank once more.
War is filthy.
And when war becomes filthier, it is not only because of blood and refuse.
It means the rules have collapsed.
And once rules collapse,
any act can find an excuse.