272.Lee In-jung pushed Seongjin's vanguard deep forward.
Upon reaching the outskirts of Yangzhou, Park Seongjin deployed two detachments and spread the line wide.
Each detachment was composed of five wu, with fifteen officers and two hundred soldiers assigned.
Five such detachments formed a single yeong, and in battle they were operated in units of a thousand.
Lee In-jung pushed Seongjin's vanguard deep forward.
Yangzhou lay just ahead, and the surrounding region was firmly within the sphere of influence of Zhang Shicheng, whose power rested on the salt merchant guilds.
During the march, a junior officer muttered in a low voice, unable to contain his unease.
"We're too close. If we're ordered not to fight and still advance like this—"
The corner of Park Seongjin's eye lifted slightly.
He turned his gaze just enough to look at the officer.
The man immediately lowered his head and avoided his eyes.
Faults could be found if one wished to find them.
Such words usually came first from those who failed to read the situation.
Seongjin raised his fingers briefly to his lips, signaling silence.
Then he widened his awareness.
The sound of the wind, the rhythm of footsteps, the faint tremor of earth underfoot overlapped and flowed into his senses.
The objective of the engagement was unclear.
For a commander, there were few conditions more uncomfortable than this.
The enemy stood before them, yet the order was not to fight.
That did not mean to stand and be struck—but unless one understood the difference, both lives and formation would scatter together.
Seongjin steadied his breath and raised his hand.
The unit halted without a sound.
The wind brushed past the hill.
Yangzhou was close, and beyond it lay the weight of another war already spread across the land.
The wind stopped.
The texture of the air changed.
Seongjin drew in the reins.
Now he could see without looking, feel without thinking.
A pressed-down presence came from ahead.
Several dozen paces forward, beyond a shallow rise, a spearpoint briefly caught the light.
"Enemy scouts,"
reported the left-side officer who had ridden ahead.
Seongjin nodded.
Zhang Shicheng's troops.
They were already aware of each other.
One step farther would turn this into battle.
Seongjin guided his horse forward at an unhurried pace.
Two cavalrymen followed behind him.
From the opposite side, a small group of horsemen advanced as well.
They stopped with several dozen paces between them.
Hands tightened around grips.
Even breathing grew taut.
A tension hung in the air, sharp enough that a blade seemed ready to leap out at the slightest gust.
Seongjin lifted his hand—then slowly lowered it.
"Lower your spears."
The command was low and precise.
Behind him, the soldiers lowered their spearpoints in unison.
A sign of non-aggression.
The motion was steady, without disorder.
The enemy's gaze wavered for a moment.
Seongjin angled his horse's head slightly, widening his field of view.
The scout unit numbered about thirty.
Two stood at the front; the rest fanned out in a semicircle.
Their posture was sharp, their movements those of men accustomed to rapid maneuver.
They faced one another like that for a time.
The silence stretched, as if time itself had lengthened.
Then Seongjin turned his horse and took a single step back.
The soldiers behind him moved at the same pace.
The enemy did not react.
After a moment, an officer on the far side turned his horse.
His unit began to withdraw, slowly.
Only then did Seongjin release his breath.
"Withdraw."
At the short command, the soldiers moved quietly.
To an outside eye, it looked as though nothing had happened.
Yet that moment of silence weighed as heavily as battle itself.
No fight had occurred.
Instead, a fatigue deeper than combat remained.
Enduring without fighting was also a form of battle.
Seongjin accepted it as such.
For a while, no one moved.
The wind slept, and even dust failed to rise.
Seongjin tugged lightly on the reins.
His horse shifted, and that minute movement rippled across the entire line.
The spearpoints behind him wavered once, then settled back into place.
They were keyed to the slightest motion of their commander.
At that moment, an officer of Zhang Shicheng's force drew his horse a single step back—
a movement smooth as glass.
Seongjin turned his horse in response.
In the next instant, both groups moved almost simultaneously.
Same speed.
Without the slightest contest, both withdrew in perfect order.
Only the sound of hooves pressing into earth stood out in the stillness.
The wind brushed past, stirring the banners.
It was impossible to say who moved first.
As if by prior agreement, they maintained even spacing as they fell back—
three steps for the horses, five for the infantry.
Spearpoints lowered together, the gleam of armor slowly receding.
Within that measured distance lingered a strange presence.
No blades had crossed, yet it was a silence that acknowledged each other's force.
Seongjin watched the enemy's backs as they withdrew.
They, too, never turned their heads, disappearing from sight without showing their backs.
Only then did the tension loosen.
Behind him, soldiers released their breath in low exhalations.
Seongjin turned his horse and climbed the hill.
When he looked back, Zhang Shicheng's banners were fluttering in the distance, caught by the wind—
waving quietly, like a greeting exchanged between those who had survived.