697.
Akamagaseki.
An old name.
Red (赤), between (間), barrier-gate (関).
A name that means a threshold—a gate between waters.
Later ages called it Shimonoseki (下關).
It sits at the end of Honshu, looking down on Kyushu.
This place is a port.
It stands beside the Kanmon Strait, positioned as if the sea's flow were held in the palm.
The strait is narrow, and the current is fast.
Each time the tide turns, the sea changes its face.
To the west it opens toward the Korea Strait and the East Sea.
To the east it opens toward the Seto Inland Sea.
Ships must pass through this throat.
It was a key point in maritime trade linking China, the Korean Peninsula, and Japan.
People and goods gathered here and scattered again.
Grain and silk, iron and salt, books and rumors moved together.
The port warehouses were always half full.
In the alleys by the wharf, foreign accents mixed in.
In antiquity it belonged to Nagato Province (長門国).
By the Muromachi era it had fallen into Ōuchi hands and flourished as a gateway of foreign exchange.
A land where the court's gaze and the sea's profit both reached.
Power and commerce tangled naturally here.
The scenery was plain.
Sea wind blew with salt in it.
Waves were not high, but they never rested.
Low wooden piers lined the waterfront.
Fishing nets and anchors lay without speech.
In winter, the sound of knives handling fugu came often.
The hands that separated flesh from poison moved with the coldness of a livelihood.
Akamagaseki was not splendid.
But every road passed through it.
The Battle of Akamagaseki.
Park Seong-jin rode with his generals toward Mojikō.
It was a vantage that looked straight across at Shimonoseki, with the Kanmon Strait between.
In the distance, ships from afar were docking one after another in the harbor behind Funajima (船島).
The guard seemed lax.
Troops poured down, and supplies kept coming without end.
The nature of the loads had changed.
Not merchants' cargo, but spears and armor, provisions and horse feed.
Because only a strait lay between, they felt safe.
They rated low the chance that an attack could reach from the Kyushu side.
A rumor spread that the Ōuchi house had pushed hard for this campaign to begin here.
What do you gain by starting a war on your own land.
Not everything in the world can be measured by profit and loss, but measuring it that way makes understanding faster.
The calculation—to secure the postwar seat—was clearer than any public show of loyalty.
A claim came to mind.
That they were descendants of Baekje's King Seong.
That an "Imseong Crown Prince" crossed to Japan and reached Tatara-hama (多々良浜) in Suō, called the fortress Tatara-ra, then later settled at Ōuchi (大內) village and changed the name.
That long genealogy did not explain their present posture.
If anything, their excessive hunching-down stood out.
Nabeshima Motonari raised a hand and pointed to the northern shore.
"They're already gathering.
We must look like the side on defense.
They come and go from the harbor without restraint."
"Where will they land?"
Motonari pointed east.
"A little farther and you have Mojikō.
The port is deep, and approach is easy."
Park Seong-jin halted his horse and tilted his head.
When he did that, Song I-jeong knew something was rolling in his mind.
"What are you thinking?"
"Whether to hit them before they cross, or end it after they cross."
Song I-jeong swallowed a laugh.
The lords following behind stiffened in the saddle.
Song I-jeong added an explanation.
"The Jungnangjang asks questions like this and weaves tactics.
It's better to wait until the shape of the numbers is complete."
On horseback, heads began to nod slowly.
A Karatsu scholar, Shiba Masanori, offered an opinion with care.
"They have cannon.
If we break them at sea at the moment of assembly, we can bind their movement."
Park Seong-jin nodded.
"Right.
But then the place for the fight disappears.
In the end, we must cross."
Nabeshima Motonari exhaled low in agreement.
In this man's thinking, there was no option called "stop them."
Only the difference between chasing to break them, or crossing to break them.
Shiba answered evenly.
"Then we cross."
"If we sink them all while they're boarding, that would be cleanest."
A laugh leaked out.
He was not worried about winning or losing.
He was thinking about how to win.
They gathered in a rough circle on horseback and traded views.
Currents and wind, the loading limits of warships, the range of cannon, even post-landing supply.
The conclusion had not arrived yet.
But one thing was becoming certain.
This is not a war that stops at the strait.
It is a war that must cross, and see the end.
And the weight of that choice was gathering, more and more, onto one man.
Shimazu Yoshitoshi spoke first.
His manner was cautious, his content decisive.
"The enemy is many.
We can't guess how many tens of thousands will gather.
It's better to strike and trim them each time.
Numbers always exceed our imagination.
Ten and a hundred are different, and a thousand and ten thousand are different again.
It could easily pass a hundred thousand.
We must cut them down before they collect."
When he finished, Nabeshima Motonari nodded at once.
"There's sense in that.
That way we can reduce our losses."
That single phrase stayed in Park Seong-jin's ear.
Reduce losses.
By temperament, he would have chosen one sweeping turn to finish it.
Fast, simple, with a clear result.
But that way always presumes much blood.
He looked out at the sea for a moment.
On the strait the currents were colliding, pushing against each other.
Before other opinions could continue, Park Seong-jin lifted his head.
"Then let's do it that way.
If we can reduce losses, that's the better side."
The words were short.
The decision was fast.
The air on horseback changed.
The discussion moved from whether to how.
Strike before they gather.
Trim them while they're split.
Reduce the numbers before they even cross.
In that instant, the shape of the war was set.
Planning and attack followed immediately.
The target was clear.
Break the ships gathered in Shimonoseki harbor.
That alone cuts the crossing.
They can't carry troops over, and the troops already gathered remain pinned to the sea.
That night, under lamplight, the plan was drafted at speed.
Goryeo cannon ships take the front.
Japanese ships without cannon close and bind enemy hulls.
Goryeo vessels stretch crosswise across the strait, and on the flanks Kyushu's fleet locks in.
They row deep and hold so the current can't sweep them away, and in the direction broken ships drift, Japanese vessels wait and slam in.
Block, break, and let them be carried off.
A simple, rough, certain picture.
They chose dawn.
The hour the tide flowed inward.
When the sea draws breath, when water pushes into the throat.
Before sunrise, the harbor moved.
Oars sank into water with low sounds, and sails stayed furled.
To reduce sway, they moved by oar alone.
On the cannon ships' decks, powder was loaded, and the muzzles aimed at the sea from inside the dark.
The ships moved in one line, in one motion.
In an instant the sea became crowded.
Even from the far side, the sight was clear.
Shimonoseki jolted.
"They're coming out!"
The shout cut through the harbor and spread.
The assumption—Kyushu would never cross first—collapsed.
There had been threatening maneuvers before.
But it was rare for every ship to move at once toward the strait.
Dudum—dudum—dudum—dudum.
Drums struck the harbor.
Soldiers ran, and in the darkness you could still see men scrambling to board.
Orders flew across decks, and hands on oars grew frantic.
But they could not push out of the harbor.
Because the Goryeo fleet, riding the current, had already seized the strait's throat.
The ships bearing the flow on their backs closed fast.
The mouth of the harbor narrowed in moments.
The hulls blocking the way adjusted their gaps and held, and behind them Kyushu's ships pressed tight.
The sea allowed no escape.
Japanese ships with the harbor at their backs huddled inside, while outside Goryeo warships shut the waterway.
The sea turned into a battlefield.