364.
Song Yi-sul spoke first, firelight flickering across his face.
"How many, you think?"
Park Seong-jin tapped the tip of his scabbard.
"If one brings ten disciples, that's thirty.
If twenty… sixty."
Song Yi-sul chuckled.
"Fast math."
Seong-jin shrugged.
"Nothing special."
The smile between them faded quickly.
They both felt it—
that first encounter had only been the beginning.
The next night, a new presence appeared at the edge of the plain.
The night after that, three.
Then seven.
Then twelve.
It felt like a martial tournament assembling itself.
Each carried a different inner signature.
Cold blades.
Heavy fists.
Wind-walkers.
Killers who hid hunger instead of intent.
Seong-jin understood.
Zhu Yuanzhang knew exactly how to summon the martial world.
Masters came for coin.
Sects survived on profit.
Those who trained for gain became craftsmen—not true seekers.
Which was why true masters were rare.
Soon, Zhu Yuanzhang's camp built a raised martial platform.
Secret duels followed.
Cheers echoed through the night.
"I won!"
"Did you see that?"
"That strike split the air!"
Soldiers gambled.
Meat roasted.
Wine flowed.
Drums thundered until dawn.
Song Yi-sul frowned.
"They're raising morale."
Seong-jin nodded.
War was no longer blood and death.
It was being sold as spectacle.
Traps appeared at the camp entrance—
horse pits, antler stakes, barrier spears, caltrops.
Not defense.
Exhibition.
"They copied everything," Seong-jin said.
"That means someone's pushing them," Song Yi-sul replied.
"A strategist."
Days passed.
Seong-jin felt it twisting inside him.
He wanted to move—
but every path felt blocked.
They were stacking their board piece by piece.
He was circling outside it.
That waiting gnawed at him.
Late at night, he walked the camp with his sword.
Do something, his blood urged.
Then Yun Dam's words returned.
Not yet.
Do not touch Heaven's flow.
The blade that shakes fate must wait.
Tonight, those words weighed heavy.
"I'm standing still," Seong-jin muttered.
"And they're building."
His heart burned.
His mind stayed cold.
The imbalance bred impatience.
Song Yi-sul stepped into the firelight.
"Seong-jin."
"…Am I that obvious?"
"When your inner power wavers," Song Yi-sul said,
"the air feels it first."
Seong-jin exhaled.
"I'm restless.
But I'm curious too.
Part of me wants it to begin."
Song Yi-sul studied him, then said quietly,
"They look busy.
But they're light inside."
"Light?"
"When intention is excessive, it loses weight."
He gestured toward the dark camp.
"They're decorating because they're in a hurry.
Duels. Rewards. Wine. Noise."
Then, firmly:
"They want to be seen."
Seong-jin smiled faintly.
"So all they've managed so far…"
"…is shaking your mind," Song Yi-sul finished.
The impatience inside Seong-jin settled.
Just a little.