There was a clear reason assassination could not take hold.
His realm had already crossed beyond the category of human.
First was perception—kigam.
He sensed it before seeing it.
Before footsteps reached.
Before a gaze could settle.
Before movement of the mind even became action, it arrived.
Killing intent does not truly hide.
It rises before the blade, and flows before words.
The more they smothered their breathing in silence, the clearer it became.
Like wind brushing through grass, the killing energy spread through his senses as ripples.
Direction, distance, number—those revealed themselves naturally inside the flow.
Next was the body.
The outward shape looked the same.
The weave and density were not.
A blade without real force bounced away.
A hurried thrust slid off the surface.
The moment inner power flowed, flesh hardened and bone became a brace.
Call it Diamond-Body, call it some other name—it did not matter.
What mattered was this.
A moment exists in reality where you stab and do not reach.
In that instant, the attacker was already subdued.
Then came the gaze.
Hiding the body meant nothing.
Behind a wall, among people, inside shadow—the flow continued.
He did not read shapes.
He read the direction of intention, the tilt of the mind, the rhythm of breath entering.
The concept of "a hidden strike" had already been dismantled in front of him.
The ending arrived before the attack could begin.
Last was speed.
Even movements that bragged of lightning were, to his eye, split into scenes.
A lunging arm.
A lifted shoulder.
A toe receiving weight.
Each caught in sequence.
He walked between them.
He did not dodge in panic.
He did not hurry.
He moved only as much as needed.
That was why assassination could not stand.
They hid and still touched the flow.
They stabbed and still failed to cross.
They accelerated and were already read.
The very idea of targeting him entered his perception.
Among Unmak's killers, a phrase began to circulate.
The moment you aim at him, you are already inside his sight.
Unmak's killers, not knowing this, took positions along the route to the relay village.
They waited—without realizing that the instant they chose to strike, they had already exposed themselves to him.
---*
The alley was ordinary.
For winter, it was a good day.
A day fit for activity, fit for movement.
On a sunny hill with little wind, a thought drifted through—sleep like the wind.
People passed.
Loads bumped.
Sounds mingled.
Inside that flow, the first motion began.
The ground jolted.
A crack opened between stone slabs and a body sprang up.
A killer who had been lying flat twisted his waist and drove a blade upward.
At the same time, from under the eaves of a shop on the left, another body slid out.
Two blades, from two angles, aimed at Park Seong-jin's waistline.
Nearly the same instant.
(That instant looked like this, and it ended like this.)
The ground jolted again.
At the moment the stone slabs parted enough for a finger to slip in, the killer lying beneath twisted upward.
The waist turned first, then shoulder and arm followed.
The blade rose like something slipping—upward from below.
Its angle was just under a man's navel line, angled toward the ribs.
In the same sliver of time, beneath the shop's left eaves, another body flowed out with the shadow.
The distance was measured without the heel touching the ground.
An elbow folded, and the blade snapped out short.
A trajectory meant to wrap the waist and cut it.
Two blades crossed at different heights and angles.
An attack from front and side at once.
Then Park Seong-jin's foot moved.
Half a step.
A movement of the right length at the right speed.
His toe slid sideways and the weight transferred.
The waist turned and the shoulder folded.
His body flowed one inch to the side.
The blade rising from below brushed his hem.
The blade descending from above cut only air.
Park's hand touched first.
Not the blade—his wrist.
He pressed the attacker's wrist in a short motion.
A low sound of bone locking in place.
The killer's fingers loosened and the blade fell.
At the same time Park's elbow folded inward, then snapped out.
Thud—short and heavy.
The killer who had burst from the ground was driven in the chest.
Feet lifted into air and the body flew backward.
Back and shoulder slammed into a wall.
Breath emptied in one burst.
He slid down the wall and collapsed.
The killer who had sprung from the side continued the motion.
The first slash missed, and instantly he twisted his wrist into a second thrust.
This time: under the flank, a path toward the liver.
An attack entering from outside Park's direct view.
Only then did Park's sword move.
The draw made almost no sound.
The blade, freed from the scabbard, traced a half-circle.
The spine of the sword struck first—above the elbow.
The killer flinched, and in that beat the edge changed direction.
A short cut.
Almost no spray.
The killer clutched his belly with both hands and staggered back.
Steps tangled.
A knee hit the ground first.
Above them, shadows overlapped again.
The black ridgeline of the roof collapsed at once.
Not even the sound of roof tiles stirring could be felt.
Four hidden figures hurled themselves down in nearly the same moment.
Height, weight, gravity—everything combined into the strike.
Two spears, two blades.
An angle meant to drive from above into below.
A tearing sound followed—air split.
The speed was extreme.
The falling attack carried a calculated ending.
Park held his head up, gaze forward.
His toes pressed into the ground.
His waist moved first.
The sword lifted short, then stood as if it stopped—then came down.
One motion.
The first spear struck the sword.
The weight of the drop was broken.
The spearpoint kicked sideways and lost its line.
The attacker lost his center in midair, waist twisting.
In the fall, Park's blade cut across that waist.
The body folded and smashed into the ground.
The second was a blade.
It changed the angle mid-drop and aimed for the neck.
Park's sword spine met it first.
Shock climbed the attacker's arm.
The recoil flipped the body in the air.
In the instant he tried to correct posture, Park stepped in half a pace.
The blade brushed short.
The waist folded and strength drained away.
The remaining two arrived almost together.
Spear and blade crossed as they fell.
Park lowered his body.
His sword drew a horizontal line.
Both waists—carrying the falling force—broke at once.
Center vanished in midair.
Bodies rotated and dropped.
Thud, thud.
Tiles shattered and fragments flew.
Dust rose.
All four hit the ground.
Movement ended there.
Park lowered the sword.
His gaze stayed forward.
The roof returned to quiet.
Next came the net.
The alley darkened in a single blink.
Two from the roof, two from either side of the alley.
Black nets opened at once.
Overlapping in midair, they descended.
A placement meant to cover above, block the front, seal the back.
A heavenly net and an earthly net—cheolla-ji-mang, 天羅地網—cast to cage movement.
Wire and tough cord nets closed across the sky.
At the same time, hidden weapons flew from all directions.
Most were cross-shaped, wheel-like shuriken.*
*Cross-shaped iron plates edged with blades.
They poured in from every side.
From wall and roof, over shoulders, under eaves—like rays.
Thin short metal shards cut the air.
The sound was faint; only the glint of trajectory flashed.
Arcing shuriken overlapped with straight-flying ones.
Net and steel closed together.
Park lifted his fingertips.
Hand first, before sword.
He raised a fingertip as if marking a point in the air.
Slowly, he drew a wide circle.
The flow of air followed.
Before the first net could touch, its path twisted.
It folded in midair and shot aside.
Snapping sounds burst—wire breaking in succession.
The second net met the sword first.
A half-circle swing cut through it.
Tough cord and wire were severed together.
The torn net spilled down.
The other two closed almost simultaneously.
Park rotated his body.
One full turn.
Sword and hand moved together.
The nets lost direction midair.
Their incoming force broke and scattered sideways.
In that moment, the hidden weapons surged.
Front, side, back—at once.
Park's sword drew another circle, balanced in speed.
The blades grazed the sword spine and deflected.
Some pinned into the ground.
Some rebounded into the air.
Dozens of sharp cries overlapped—metal shrieking.
The returning weapons sank into the throwers' arms and throats.
Hidden killers toppled where they had been holding breath.
As that happened, four spearmen burst from the ground.
They seized long spears laid down in advance.
Bodies low, spears tucked beneath the armpit, they charged—whole bodies thrown into the thrust.
Park stepped back one pace.
He twisted the angle, only slightly.
Spearpoints slipped off line.
The front spear scraped the one beside it.
The rear spear shoved into the front.
Four trajectories collapsed into each other.
A single instant.
Spears pierced flesh—friendly flesh.
Blood burst.
Running force stopped.
Two fell.
The remaining two lost balance.
Park's blade passed through that gap.
Short, exact cuts followed.
The charge was finished on the spot.
In the alley remained only torn nets, broken spears, and scattered hidden weapons.
Air began to move again.
Park continued walking.
The main road swallowed its breath.
Alleys on left and right opened at once.
Doors swung.
Windows shoved outward.
Bodies rose over railings.
Archers in three ranks drew bowstrings in the same instant.
Twee—twee—twee-tweetweetweet—
A burst of short, sharp tearing sounds at once.
Over a dozen arrows flew in identical height and spacing.
The center of the road became a corridor in a blink.
People's screams erupted late.
Park moved forward.
Just before the first arrow touched, his sword lifted.
A short lift, then a chop.
The arrow kicked aside and buried into a pillar.
The second he twisted and let slide past.
Fletching brushed his shoulder.
The third and fourth came together.
His blade traced a half-circle and knocked them away.
Each time his foot pressed the ground, an arrow missed.
One step, one parry, one twist—linked precisely.
A second volley followed.
Low arrows reached first.
High arrows covered after.
Park increased speed.
He drove his body into the space between arrows.
The sword moved left and right.
Then distance disappeared.
His blade drew large.
It formed the shape of the character 爻—two slanting strokes crossing.
One diagonal cut, then the opposite diagonal.
The sword-lines split the air.
The dense line of archers collapsed at once.
The first rank was cut.
The second rank split after.
Bodies on the railing tangled and fell.
Bows slipped from hands.
People struck each other and rolled down.
It took only a short time.
Park kept walking.
The sword point angled down.
Footsteps continued.
On the main road now remained only arrows and broken bows.