307.
Stillness of a Spring Day — "The Home of One Who Crossed the Wall"
Yangzhou's spring was still and warm.
Traces of war remained, and fresh grass rose over them.
Laughter returned to people's faces.
No matter how the world turned, the space around Park Seong-jin stayed gentle and peaceful.
He had broken through and crossed the 銀山鐵壁.
Silver and iron signify what is firm beyond piercing, and mountain and wall what is too high to climb—
an image often used as a symbol that reveals the ultimate meaning of a hwadu (話頭).
Many devote their whole lives and never come close to it, yet a young man crossed that realm.
He stepped into what people called the domain of a true master.
Not merely "skilled," but a martial man of an entirely different order from other高手.
Park Seong-jin had stepped one pace away from the clamor of long war.
At the edge of the city—down an alley few people used—stood a tiled-roof house with a collapsed wall.
It was a place Yi In-jung had arranged for him.
Yi In-jung said,
"Even for a little while, don't you need quiet?"
There was less authority in his tone than a fellow disciple's care.
Park Seong-jin lowered his head.
"Hyung-nim, thanks to you, I can finally catch my breath."
Yi In-jung gave a wry smile.
"Hyung-nim, you say."
At night, Park Seong-jin lit an oil lamp and wrote.
Ink seeped and spread quietly across an old wooden desk.
「武止於心 — Martiality rests in the heart.」
His gaze held no blade's edge.
Instead, a deep, gentle current—like water—dwelt within it.
He thought to himself,
"When fighting vanishes, victory also loses its place."
A few days later, Yi In-jung came by.
He leaned against the threshold and watched Park Seong-jin in silence.
Then he spoke slowly.
"Your face has changed these days.
Your eyes are so calm it's frightening."
Park Seong-jin smiled.
"Fighting has grown distant.
Now I only see the wind move."
Yi In-jung nodded.
"That is the gaze of one who has crossed the wall."
After a pause, he spoke with disarming honesty.
"To be frank… I envy you.
I held a sword my whole life and never reached that place.
Still, seeing you there puts my heart at ease."
Park Seong-jin smiled and lowered his head.
"If not for you, senior brother, I would never have seen this road."
Yi In-jung laughed.
"Hah. That's you trying to comfort me."
Then he added,
"Still—thank you."
For a while, they sat side by side without speaking.
The wind scattered peach blossoms.
Beyond the wall, children ran and played.
Yi In-jung said quietly,
"You crossed the wall, and I am still before it.
Even so… it's a relief, somehow, that we walked the same road."
Park Seong-jin answered,
"The road is one.
Only the steps differ."
Yi In-jung rose with a smile.
"Right. Someday we may have to draw steel again,
but when that day comes, I'll remember your heart."
As he left, he added,
"I hope this peace lasts a long time, Seong-jin."
When the sun set and the city's noise receded, Park Seong-jin stood in the small yard and looked at the peach tree.
One petal, then another, fell and drifted on the water.
He murmured to himself,
"The fighting inside me has quieted.
What remains is only the heart."
The words scattered on the spring wind.
They were disciples of the same master.
Brothers facing different walls.
One knocked upon the wall.
One melted the wall with time.
A Person on the Road — "A Way That Cannot Be Taught"
As spring deepened, more visitors came.
Rumors spread swiftly through the city.
"They say Park the Jungnangjang crossed the wall."
"They say he breaks a man's heart even when you can't see his blade."
Hearing this, martial men arrived one after another.
They wanted to meet swords with him.
Every day, unfamiliar shadows stood before his Yangzhou residence.
Men who had been brave on the battlefield—
Goryeo warriors who had never yielded to anyone in swordwork.
But here, all wore the face of learners.
They asked,
"How can one cross that wall?"
"How does one cast away strength?"
"How can you face the enemy and still not fear?"
Their eyes were earnest.
They were men who had awakened through blood—
and that blood still blocked their road.
Park Seong-jin sat them down and spoke quietly.
"I cannot teach it with words."
He bowed his head with humility.
"All I can do is show the road I have already walked."
He took up his sword instead of speaking.
The spar was not instruction but conversation.
Not a contest of strength, but a time to confirm where the heart had come to rest.
When the tips brushed, the other man's breath wavered.
Within that wavering, the truth showed itself.
When the bout ended, Park Seong-jin always said:
"You are gripping it too hard, for now."
"When the body goes first, the heart cannot follow."
These were not tricks of technique.
They were counsel about the breath of living.
He always added,
"I have no talent for teaching anyone.
But I can tell you the roads on which I was wrong."
He did not know the art of teaching.
His equanimity became the road first.
Each martial man, standing before him, found his own road.
Those who stayed for days left changed—little by little.
Their shoulders loosened.
Their gaze softened.
Gentle, warm care became his teaching.
Wordless awakening.
Sparring without fighting.
Yun Dam watched from afar and recorded it:
「道不傳於言, 武不成於力」
— Dao is not transmitted by words; martiality is not accomplished by force.
Yun Dam added,
"He did not teach. Yet everyone learned."
When day fell, Park Seong-jin became alone again.
He gathered the fallen peach petals beneath the tree and let them drift into the river.
His mind did not sway.
He watched all ties that came and flowed away as water.
"He had no disciples—
yet the world came to him, asking to learn."