At that time, an identity tag was nothing like the evenly finished objects of today.Bark from zelkova or pine cut in the mountains was dried and trimmed, then letters were carved with the tip of a knife. The cuts were shallow, and into those grooves a dark paste was rubbed—burnt charcoal powder mixed with pine resin and perilla oil. Only then did the characters emerge.
A small hole was pierced at the top of the tag. A thin cord was threaded through it and tied at the waist. It was proof of identity—and a marker meant to find a body after death.
Some called it a grave for a name.Others called it a living memorial tablet.
Carved into the wood were surname and given name, clan origin and age. Sometimes the place of service and the unit accompanied the name. Ordinarily, a tag was issued at sixteen, but Seongjin had been told to have one made early.
The moment he wore it at his waist, his blood and sweat were no longer his alone.
If he died, only the tag would return.
That was how people put it.
"The name came back."
At the end of Goryeo, to have one's name carvedmeant that the name had finished preparing to disappear.
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The boy held his breath.
For the first time, he was watching his own name being carved by a tool.
Until now, his name had lived in his mother's calling, had been tossed about in his brother's teasing. It passed only from mouth to mouth. But now it was different. It was cut into wood, becoming a state document, a military record.
The old man traced the grooves with his fingertips.He rubbed black paste into the shallow cuts—burnt charcoal, powdered resin, perilla oil mixed together.
"You have to seal it like this if you want it to last. Rain won't wash it away. Even fire won't erase the letters."
He muttered as he worked, smoothing the grooves with a worn pine needle in place of a brush.
Park Seongjin 朴成鎭Age Fifteen 十五歲Millyang 密陽
One by one, the letters came alive.
Within the minute tremor of the old man's fingertips, the boy's existence was recorded.
"Look up here."
The old man pointed to the top of the tag.
"You thread the cord through this hole. Wear it at your waist. Lose it, and you lose the body. You can hang it around your neck, too."
The boy nodded in silence.
Then, from outside, a bell rang.
Dong— dong—.Botongwon's dawn bell.
The old man set his knife down for a moment and listened.
"This bell isn't calling people. It's sending them off."
The boy did not fully understand the words.
He only looked down at the tag in his palm. It was light. Yet the longer he held it, the heavier it felt. The grain of the wood was warm, but that warmth slowly faded.
The old man moved to the charcoal brazier at the edge of the floor. Above it hung old identity tags. Some were scorched, their edges blackened by fire.
"Those all belonged to people who went and never came back. They never even made it onto the rolls, so they were left here."
The boy stared at them in silence.
Black shadows overlapped on each wooden tag. They looked like small graves.
The old man lifted the new tag and held it out.
"Here. Your name."
The boy received it with both hands.
At that moment, a single beam of sunlight slipped over the wood. The letters glimmered briefly. Then the wind stirred, the light vanished, and the wood returned to the color of shadow.
The boy tucked the tag into his chest.
It was no longer his name.It was the state's label—destined to die in place of his body.
In Botongwon's courtyard, slanted morning light settled in.Beyond the smoke from cooking rice, soldiers' armor caught the sun and glinted faintly. At every waist hung a wooden tag. When the wind brushed past, they knocked together, ringing like small wooden bells.
Living names struck one another, forming the procession of departure.
The boy stood among them.
In his hand was the freshly carved tag. As he traced the letters with his fingers, the grain of the wood rose rough and alive.
"Hey—Millyang Park Seongjin! Over there. Assigned to the Sungui Unit."
An officer who looked well past forty gestured. He was the one dividing the soldiers at Botongwon.
Park Seongjin bowed.
"Loyalty."
The officer studied him for a moment, then stepped closer and asked quietly,
"Park Jinsul… your father, right?"
The boy's eyes widened slightly.
"Yes."
"I fought with him. At the Battle of Angcheon."
His voice wavered.
"He was a good man. And your brother, too. Park Seongil. That boy never left his post to the end."
The boy could not speak.
The officer bowed his head.
"I'm sorry. They all went like that. I'm the only one who came back alive."
The words scattered like wind.
A drum sounded in Botongwon's courtyard.
Dong— dong—.
The ranks were dressed. Banners snapped. Dawn light flowed over the soldiers' shoulders. The boy lifted his gaze to the sky. Gray clouds drifted slowly westward.
Beneath that light, his father's name and his brother's face overlapped in his mind.
On the road they had walked, he now stood.
The officer patted his shoulder lightly.
"It's your turn now. Don't be afraid. You must come back alive."
The boy did not answer.
He only looked at the sky with clear, empty eyes.
There was no expression there.
And yet, somewhere in his heart, his own death was being quietly drawn.
Himself falling on a distant battlefield. A body sprawled in dust. The identity tag at his waist glinting in the sun. Someone picking it up, wiping it carefully, and saying in a low voice—
"The name came back."
At that moment, the bell rang again.
Dong— dong—.
The courtyard stirred. Soldiers began to move.
The boy stepped forward among them.
Against his chest was the wooden tag, still warm—holding the last warmth of a name,unaware yet of its fate, soon to become a mark of death.