595.Take off the outer robe first.
Song I-jeong stepped into the tent.
Under the lamplight, Park Seong-jin—still in blood-stained clothes—let out a long, heavy breath.
Song I-jeong asked, "Say the word.
Do you need anything."
Park Seong-jin spread both arms limply.
"I should wash this, but my hands are slow tonight.
My body feels like a thousand geun."
Song I-jeong smiled faintly.
"I'll ask Madam Im."
Park Seong-jin scratched his head.
"Madam Im—the woman we pulled out of that ship."
"Yes."
"We should settle her somewhere suitable.
What's she going to do, following the army camp."
Song I-jeong said gently, "Take off the outer robe first."
"Tell the magistrate and find her somewhere she can put down roots."
"By your command."
Song I-jeong carefully helped Park Seong-jin remove his armor.
As the outer robe came off and the battle garments loosened, the inner layers were soaked a dark, clotted red.
The weight and stench of blood settled in the tent like fate.
A man who takes up the sword cannot slip free of blood's weight.
Song I-jeong gave a short call toward the entrance.
Madam Im slipped in, lowered her head, and received the garments.
"The blood has soaked deep."
"It must be washed in cold water."
Park Seong-jin nodded.
"Yes.
Understood."
Madam Im withdrew like a shadow with the clothes in her arms.
When Park Seong-jin changed into fresh clothing, Song I-jeong wiped the stains on his shoulder with a handkerchief.
Park Seong-jin smiled, embarrassed.
"I'm caked in it."
Song I-jeong's gaze wavered for a moment.
"…Why did you do it, General.
Alone."
Park Seong-jin pressed his lips together, then spoke slowly.
"That's how they lose heart and pull back."
Song I-jeong spoke carefully.
"General, if you keep standing alone like that, the karmic debt of killing will thicken inside you."
Park Seong-jin slowly shook his head.
A clear loneliness settled on his face.
"It's already heavy enough.
Taking a little less won't change it."
He fell silent, then smiled thinly.
"If devotion moved your seat in hell, that would be nice."
"Ha…"
Song I-jeong's chest tightened.
It became plain: the burden this young commander carried was not strength or martial skill, but the weight of the heart.
"It isn't good for your cultivation."
Park Seong-jin nodded, agreeing.
"This kind of fight.
Afterward, the faces of the dying come back.
Faces tangled with resentment, fear, the hunger to live, and dreams."
Song I-jeong answered low.
"…Is that so."
Park Seong-jin gave a bitter smile.
"After you cut people down, they come at night.
Even if you hear something like a ghost, the body knows first."
A brief silence passed.
In a very low voice, Park Seong-jin said,
"…Still, I have to stand.
If I stand, others live."
He sat on the simple cot.
"Send out scouts and confirm their positions."
"By your command."
"Keep confirming when the thousand-man unit arrives as well."
Song I-jeong responded briskly.
"By your command.
If they had arrived, you wouldn't have had to do this alone."
Night deepened.
Outside Jinju Fortress's west gate, on soil still wet with the traces of battle, Park Seong-jin stood alone.
Each time the wind passed, the smell of the cut dead seeped into the cold night air.
The scent lingered as if it had taken root beneath the skin.
The more decisive the victory, the deeper the sensation of defeat sank in.
He felt bleak, sorrowful, and dulled by gloom.
The battlefield had gathered up its sound.
In its place, other sounds remained at the ear—
the blunt sensation of lives snapping, spreading through memory like a dark ripple.
When the sword was in his hand, movement had come first, and countless cuts had followed.
Now thought returned, filling his head.
Park Seong-jin let out a slow breath.
His eyes faced the dark plain.
Anger, fear, regret, and despair layered across his expression.
Those faces revived each night and slowed his breathing.
He took one step, then stopped.
Emptiness clung to his ankle.
Protecting the people and fighting for the nation were clear.
Yet on nights like this, that cause floated up lightly and would not stay in his grasp.
Words like legitimacy, loyalty, and great purpose lost their strength upon his lips.
The weight of those he had cut down stacked itself inside his chest.
A torch above the gate shuddered in the wind, drawing his shadow long.
That shadow looked lonelier than his body.
The questions he asked himself continued in silence.
For the people.
For the country.
For comrades.
So as not to be ashamed before his master.
Because this is the thing I do best.
The questions grazed his chest like cold steel.
A thread of wind brushed his hem.
He stood with eyes closed for a long time.
Those words were not meant for anyone else's ears.
He raised his head.
There were still people he had to protect.
Emptiness, fear, and anger sank into the deepest part of his heart.
Moonlight washed the yard before the west gate at a slant.
Between dirt and stone, the smell of blood rose faintly.
A sentry in the distance approached, stopped, and withdrew again.
Under the wall, clerks of Jinju Prefecture stood like an unseen fence, watching this way.
Whisper-like presences reached Park Seong-jin's ear with sharp clarity.
From afar, the sound of Song I-sul giving orders to soldiers drifted on the wind.
Under moonlight, even that voice spread like a distant lullaby.
Fatigue pressed down on his whole body.
His legs were heavy, his eyelids lowered on their own.
Even taking a single step demanded all his strength.
Park Seong-jin muttered low,
"They say even feeling fatigue is an action of the mind."
The space before the west gate was not wide.
Entry to the tents was strictly blocked, leaving the middle of the yard unnaturally still.
With his hands clasped behind his back, Park Seong-jin turned slowly in a half-circle.
Gravel crunched underfoot as he walked, dragging a long black shadow through the moonlight.
Behind the tents, an old tree stood in quiet solitude.
In the night wind, the tips of its branches swayed slightly.
A little farther on, the command pavilion overlooking the fortress interior stared down at him with cold authority.
He accepted that feeling as it was.
Walking was his discipline.
With each step and each breath, he found his place again.
After one circuit, the smell of battle, emptiness, irritation, and sorrow slowly found their order.
On the writing table, brush, ink, and paper lay in silence.
Without expression, Park Seong-jin ground the ink.
The sound of ink spreading joined the night's stillness, sharp and clear.
He began to write his dispatch.
"Report on the Situation at Jinju Prefecture."
His strokes were spare.
Between the lines, the desolation of the district and the returning temper of the Japanese seeped into the black of the ink.
At the end, he wrote,
"Part of the enemy has scattered in all directions.
Pursuit required."
When he set the brush down, a civil officer approached cautiously.
"…General, you are still awake."
Park Seong-jin smiled very slightly.
"Sleep comes slowly.
Send this dispatch tomorrow."
The officer bowed quickly.
"By your command."
Park Seong-jin folded the dispatch and handed it over.
The officer tucked it into his robe and ran off with a face still half-asleep.
His retreating figure wavered at the edge of the moonlight like a small flame disappearing into darkness.
Park Seong-jin lifted his head and looked once at the moonlight.
Then he walked slowly toward his tent.