334.
The Night at Taiping — Wine and the Heart**
The way a person becomes drunk on victory reveals the size of who they are.
How one indulges in victory is, in itself, the measure of a person.
Hands could be joined when necessary, but Park Seong-jin had no intention of seeking salvation for his own existence in another man's character.
He bound himself firmly with that resolve.
And yet, a corner of his heart felt hollow.
There was regret, and a quiet sorrow.
That emptiness could not be filled by the noise of the banquet or the glare of torches.
Why is it that we wish those beside us were just a little better, a little more admirable?
When expectation collapses, even victory turns weightless.
As he moved farther from the banquet hall, torchlight wavered in the distance.
Within that flickering glow stood Song I-sul, grinning, a bottle of clear liquor in one hand and a cup in the other.
His smile was always light—
and for that very reason, heavier than most.
"So," Song I-sul said, "why are you here?
Go enjoy yourself where the important people are."
"There's too much pretense," Park replied.
"It doesn't reach me."
Song tilted the bottle and laughed.
"They say you earned the greatest merit in this battle."
"I wanted to check on the soldiers."
Song swirled his cup.
"The Goryeo troops didn't suffer much.
Nothing worth worrying over."
Park shook his head.
"The unit led by the Supreme Commander took losses."
"That wasn't your fault."
"Fault aside," Park said quietly,
"my heart isn't at ease."
Song set his cup down and looked at him—
the joking gaze gone.
"Don't try to carry everything."
"Of course," Park replied.
He let out a low breath.
"…But this war—this one—I want to take responsibility for it."
Song cut him off without hesitation.
"If you can't live in their place, don't say that.
That kind of responsibility is a luxury."
"…I see."
A short sigh escaped him.
In a world where no one can die in another's place, even the urge to grieve must be folded away.
The desire to take responsibility so easily tilts toward bearing another's death instead.
Even if the intention is kind, death does not become lighter.
"Pour me a drink," Park said.
Song frowned and laughed.
"Strong words."
"Exactly."
"You used to say you didn't drink."
"I'll accept it if it's from you, brother."
Song poured reluctantly.
The sound of liquor striking the cup rang unusually clear.
Park accepted it with a bow.
"Thank you."
"For an empty heart," Song said, "nothing works like alcohol."
Park hesitated, then spoke.
"Truly…
I don't even know what madness this is—fighting in another man's country.
Sometimes I just sit there, stunned by how absurd it all feels."
Song laughed without a sound.
"When you climb high too young, it hits harder."
He raised his cup, as if pointing at the night.
"The next stage of cultivation is the heart.
You have to look after it carefully.
Most people fail there.
Some lose their minds.
Most simply give up."
Park drained his cup and asked, half mockery, half sincerity,
"Then where is the heart?
The head? The chest? The hands?"
Song didn't answer at once.
Instead, he pierced the tone of the question itself.
"Pointless resistance blocks cultivation too.
Let's just call it the upper dantian.
Think about how things changed when your middle dantian opened.
This is several times beyond that."
At the mention of cultivation, Park unconsciously adjusted his posture.
He folded his legs and sat properly.
Torchlight painted his face red.
Like someone stepping out of a cave into the open after long solitude,
he exhaled deeply amid the noise of the battlefield.
"Then," Park asked, "did you master the cultivation of the heart?"
Song laughed.
"Not really."
He shrugged.
"Everyone stops somewhere.
This is where I stopped.
I'll probably leave the world from right here."
Park asked carefully,
"I've heard you deliberately avoided promotion and high office."
"For cultivation," Song replied calmly.
"It seemed better that way.
The things people call 'good'—
they don't help cultivation at all.
They're poison."
"I see," Park nodded.
"I suppose… I'm similar."
Song jumped in protest.
"Hey—don't say something so empty."
He waved a hand.
"You'll reach where I did easily.
After that, you have to go farther."
Park smiled, but it didn't last.
"What difference does it make—farther or not?"
He said softly,
"It's all study in killing people."
Song's smile faded.
"That's heart-demon talk.
Don't let that self-mockery drag you down."
He lowered his voice.
"Even with a vast and upright spirit, it's barely enough.
That kind of thinking is an illness that darkens the heart."
Song pointed at the torch.
"Look.
That fire—
it's burning inside you right now."
Park nodded slowly.
"Yes."
His voice dropped even lower.
"I've seen things I shouldn't have."
In an instant, death flashed before his eyes—
slaughter on the battlefield,
faces burning away,
soldiers trampling one another in their desperate will to live.
Those images scorched his throat before the alcohol did.
Song continued quietly,
"Getting past that isn't easy.
You need time—
time to see reality as it is, without being dragged by emotion."
"Reality as it is…" Park repeated.
"Is that even possible?"
"We always think we're seeing it that way," Song shook his head.
"But we're really just looking at shadows reflected in a mirror shaped by circumstance."
"Shadows in a mirror."
He tapped the surface of his cup.
The liquor rippled.
"We mistake those shadows for our will.
The real heart lies deeper.
Deeper than what we already call the bottom."
After a brief pause, he added,
"Until you can pull that up, silence is better."
"Swinging between joy and sorrow leads nowhere."
"…I see."
Park stared into his cup.
The self-blame and resistance he'd thrown out so easily were a gamble—an attempt to escape reality.
Once you see clearly, there's nowhere left to run.
Song tilted his cup.
"We're all beings thrown into circumstances."
He narrowed his eyes.
"What matters is how the human spirit endures within them."
"Keep cultivating," he said.
"Right here."
Park bowed his head.
"Brother…"
"There's an old brother like this too," Song replied.
The two shared a quiet smile.
Park looked up at the sky.
It was a cloudy night—
not a single star visible.
Not because there were no stars,
but because this night refused to allow them.
He murmured softly,
"These lights too…
will disappear someday."