330
The Envoy's Return
The road back to Yingtian was long and quiet.
Low river mist lay over the banks, and only hoofbeats split the night.
The envoy did not look back even once from the saddle.
By the time he reached the capital, dawn was close.
The doors of the administrative hall opened.
Liu Bowen sat beneath lamplight.
The instant he saw the envoy's face, he did not ask for preliminaries.
"Speak."
The envoy dropped to his knees.
He drew a breath—wearing the look of a man determined not to omit a single syllable.
"The Supreme General of Goryeo, Lee In-jung, spoke as follows."
Without lifting his head, he recited word for word.
"'A reason? What reason would there be—when people choose to cooperate.'"
Liu Bowen's hand stilled over his brush.
The envoy continued.
"'If you ask why Chen Youliang, and not you—should you not have given us the chance?'"
The air in the room grew heavier.
After another breath, the envoy went on.
"'Even among villains, can one not choose the lesser evil?'"
Liu Bowen's brow twitched—just once.
The envoy continued.
"'Chen Youliang is a man who grows excited by blood. Such a man can be predicted.'"
Then he carried the last part lower, as if lowering it made it safer.
"'But Zhu Yuanzhang moves by calculation.'
'Those who calculate always move for themselves.'
'We lived beneath such men for many years.'"
When the envoy finished, no sound remained in the room.
Only the faint hiss of the lampwick burning.
For a long while, Liu Bowen said nothing.
His head was bowed, eyes fixed on the floor.
After some time, he asked—very quietly,
"Was he angry?"
The envoy shook his head.
"No, my lord. He did not smile, and there was no rage.
His voice was calm. His eyes did not waver.
He looked like a man who already knew the outcome."
Liu Bowen gave a low laugh.
It held neither pleasure nor mockery.
"Then they have not named us as enemies."
Then he pressed his next words down.
"Only—
they have judged us as those who cannot be trusted."
The envoy added cautiously,
"He said this as well:
'We have taken Chen Youliang's hand, but even I don't know when that hand will turn into a blade.'
'So do not trust us, and do not doubt us.'
'We are simply seeking a way to survive.'"
Liu Bowen repeated the phrase slowly, as if tasting it.
"A way to survive."
He rose and walked to the window.
The eastern sky was beginning to pale.
"That man is not a diplomat," Liu Bowen said, low but clear.
"He is a man who sees the end of war in advance—
and calculates where he will stand afterward."
After a long pause, he added,
"And such men… last."
"Because they prepare for the time beyond."
The envoy bowed, not fully grasping the weight of it.
Liu Bowen took up his brush again.
But he did not write at once.
A long silence passed before a single line formed.
"Lee In-jung's words are Park Seong-jin's words."
He murmured it to himself.
"And Park Seong-jin…"
The brush tip touched the paper.
"…is no longer someone we can control."
In war, the most frightening man is the one who sees what comes next before anyone else does.
When night deepened, Park Seong-jin remained alone.
Dozens of inked lines tangled across the map like veins.
He set his brush down and traced the lines with his fingertips,
rechecking the enemy's posture and his own deployments.
"Zhu Yuanzhang…" he said softly.
"You claim you will build a nation by gathering the people."
He paused.
"I believed I fought to protect the people.
But now I don't know."
"Who truly protects them?"
His eyes turned toward the darkness beyond the window.
The lights of Jiju Fortress shimmered far off over the river.
He began to predict the flow of battle, drafting several branches of a plan that would guarantee his side's victory.
He drew, and drew again, until the possibilities collapsed into three or four viable routes.
The ink dried.
His hands grew damp again.
The lamp trembled again.
At daybreak, soldiers began hauling barrels of gunpowder down to the riverbank.
Park Seong-jin climbed aboard a vessel on the water, shield in hand.
Waves struck the hull, throwing up black ripples.
Looking down at the river, he gave the order slowly.
"Move all powder through the Cheongnyong River channel."
Thunder rumbled in the distance.
Park Seong-jin lifted his eyes to the sky and said quietly,
"Soon we'll see whose side Heaven is on."
Yingtian — A Shaken Interior
Inside Yingtian, it was quieter than usual.
This quiet was proof that people were swallowing their words.
On the gates, sentries tightened their grip on spear shafts whenever the wind rose.
The breeze off the river always carried a raw, fishy tang.
They spoke of peace, but only wore peace like a mask.
The brackish smell of the Yangtze mixed with the stench of blood from the front.
Within the central command, Zhu Yuanzhang stood before a map.
Walls and waterways, granaries and homes—Yingtian was drawn in dense detail across a great sheet spread over the floor.
No one spoke first.
The longer the silence stretched, the heavier the air became.
"Supplies," Zhu Yuanzhang said at last.
A single word.
An adviser stepped forward.
"Grain coming in through the southern waterways has decreased."
"Compared to yesterday?"
"Less than half."
Zhu Yuanzhang's hand moved across the map.
The mouth of the Cheongnyong River, the southern docks, the western bridges.
He did not need a brush—lines formed clearly in his mind.
"The north?"
Another commander answered.
"The merchants won't move."
"Because of rumors."
"The story of Jiju Fortress."
At those words, the room's atmosphere sank again.
Zhu Yuanzhang did not lift his head.
He only asked, low,
"How far has it spread?"
"Throughout the city."
"Children sing it in rhymes, and in the markets prices change twice a day."
"And among the soldiers…"
The commander stopped.
Zhu Yuanzhang raised his head.
In his eyes was not rage, but cold calculation.
"Speak."
"…When Park Seong-jin's name comes up, the soldiers avoid each other's eyes."
Someone swallowed.
Zhu Yuanzhang inhaled slowly.
Then exhaled evenly.
"The blade hasn't reached us yet."
"And yet the cracks are starting from inside the walls."
He did not fold the map.
Folding it felt like a signal of defeat.
"How long can the grain inside the city hold?"
"If we ration—two months."
"And if unrest breaks out?"
"…A fortnight. That is the limit."
Zhu Yuanzhang nodded.
No surprise crossed his face.
The calculation had already been finished.
"The people?"
"They're anxious."
"More are demanding to leave the city."
"Some even say they'll go to Zhang Shicheng."
At that, Zhu Yuanzhang's hand stopped.
"Do not open the gates."
His voice was low, but it was a clear command.
"If they leave, they won't return."
"And if they can't return, those left inside will begin to shake as well."
A civil official stepped forward carefully.
"Your Majesty, if you squeeze too hard—"
Zhu Yuanzhang looked at him.
He paused, then added,
"For now, neither soothe them—nor strike them."
"Just endure."
"To endure is to fight."
Silence fell again.
Then a single drum sounded from the direction of the walls.
Not a battle drum—only the drum of a patrol смена, a смена of the watch.
Even that simple sound made a few generals' shoulders twitch.
Zhu Yuanzhang did not miss it.
"They react even to that sound."
"That means the fight has already begun."
He rolled the map up in his fists.
The paper crumpled with a harsh sound.
Outside, Yingtian's night spread out.
There were many lights, yet little brightness.
Fires burned, yet warmth was thin.
Zhu Yuanzhang climbed the ramparts and looked toward the river.
A sensation seeped in—someone unseen tightening a noose around the city.
He murmured,
"If Seodal were here… how would he see this night?"
No answer came.
Yingtian held its breath low, enduring the night that was drawing near.