barricade.
On the forest path leading toward the village, the road was suddenly blocked.
From ahead came the heavy crash of a falling tree.
It had already been cut.
The great trunk lay across the road with its roots exposed, branches and smaller roots tangled together, sealing the passage.
It was too high for a man to pass through easily.
A makeshift barricade.
The calculation was clear.
They meant to halt his step, even for a moment.
Behind it, the forest moved.
The sounds of bowstrings overlapped in succession.
Low, short twangs spread from within the trees.
Arrows poured through the leaves.
Some plunged from above.
Some came slanting from the side.
Others crossed diagonally.
Archers hidden between trees divided angles and fired.
The entire forest had been arranged as one firing ground.
Leaves were sliced.
Branches snapped.
Arrows thudded into trunks without pause.
Park Seong-jin maintained his stride.
His speed did not change.
He walked straight toward the fallen tree.
One arrow grazed past his eyes.
Another tore the air beside his shoulder.
His sword moved low.
He chose deflection.
The incoming arrow's direction shifted slightly and buried itself in wood.
He reached the trunk.
His blade cut once.
A horizontal stroke of proper depth.
Bark split and pale inner wood showed.
He cut once more in the opposite direction.
The crack widened.
A tree that had endured centuries began to fracture.
He pressed his body into the split.
The trunk groaned as it gave way.
As he passed through, the tree sank lower under its own weight.
The rain of arrows continued.
But the target had already shifted.
Arrows struck the split trunk and the ground.
Only the sound of impacts remained in the forest.
Park entered the woods.
His steps brushed leaves.
In the place he passed, only disturbed air lingered.
Hidden archers looked at one another.
None drew their bows.
They could not decide where to aim.
The forest returned to stillness.
Only the trunk, arrows, and broken branches remained.
Moments later, screams began deeper inside.
Those who realized failure scattered and fled.
Park followed the gap.
He severed movement one by one.
The form of battle thinned.
Only the cuts remained distinct.
Deeper in the forest, the air changed.
A thick presence.
The smell of wood, soil, sweat, and fear lingered at his nose.
The signs of retreat continued.
Footsteps running without looking back.
Breath swallowed in panic.
The forest was wide.
There were not many places to truly hide.
Press against a trunk.
Lower the head.
Lie flat in a hollow.
Still, presence remains.
Presence leaves trace.
Fear reveals direction.
Park ran.
His feet struck the earth lightly.
His body cut between branches without hesitation.
The backs of those fleeing did not stay long in his sight.
The sword moved.
Breath ended.
Some short cries burst out.
Some left no sound at all.
Fallen bodies lay where they dropped, as if part of the forest.
There were some who hid and endured.
Behind rocks.
In the shade of thick trunks.
Inside shallow pits.
They held breath, gripping blades, waiting.
A flicker of hope—if they endured to the end, they might live.
The sword touched.
Bodies stiffened.
Eyes widened and froze there.
There was no expression on Park's face.
His features were set.
What must be done was already inscribed in his body.
To live, he must cut.
To pass, he must clear.
The world always offers its choices late.
One man stumbled while fleeing.
He clawed at the ground, trying to crawl.
His legs trembled.
His breath thinned.
Park stood behind him.
He paused a moment.
The sword descended.
Short.
Pain did not last.
The forest grew quiet again.
Birds took flight.
Wind stirred leaves.
Where people had stood moments before, only bloodstains, broken branches, and churned soil remained.
The forest accepted them without protest.
Park steadied his breath and walked again.
No sorrow altered the rhythm of his steps.
For him, this was passage.
To live in this world had always been a succession of such things.
It was brief.
Breath settled along the alley and forest path.
What remained were shattered tiles, torn nets, arrows embedded in the ground.
Park dusted his hem and continued on his way.