The harbor boiled into chaos.
Japanese ships, spotting the Goryeo fleet too late, hurried to take troops aboard.
They loaded men, cut anchor lines, and pushed oars, but every motion was slow.
The ships were on the sea, yet the bodies on deck still carried the habits of land.
Feet tangled as they climbed.
Spears snagged on shields.
They were soldiers trained for battles on ground.
Forming ranks on a deck was unfamiliar work.
"Cast off! Cast off!" a naval commander roared until his throat gave.
"Form up! Line abreast—line abreast!"
Lords ran out in person and shoved men forward.
Each ship crammed in more bodies.
If an empty space showed, it was filled again.
This time, the resolve not to retreat rose clearly on every face.
The fact that the enemy had come out first stung their pride.
The harbor was narrow.
Ships scraped each other's bows as they moved.
The oars fell out of rhythm and the hulls rocked.
A ship shoved from behind rammed the stern of the one ahead.
Shouts and curses tangled together.
The order to hold formation was repeated again and again, but the more ships there were, the harder alignment became.
Meanwhile, Goryeo held its place.
In the center of the strait, Goryeo warships already bound themselves into a broad line.
They rowed deep and seized the waterway.
The current rushing through the strait shoved at their flanks, and if the lead ship drifted by even a little, the entire line would start to sway.
Tendons rose on the rowers' forearms.
On both sides, the ships had passed a hundred.
The sea was packed with hulls, and the strait looked so narrow it could hardly breathe.
Ōuchi had launched everything they owned.
They loaded troops to the brim and set their will—this time they would show it.
The time of watching was over.
Now it was time to go forward.
"The enemy has few ships! Sink them all!"
At that cry, morale surged.
Soldiers raised spears on deck.
Shields knocked together and made noise.
Visible numbers drove judgment forward.
A feeling spread: with this, a shove would end it.
But order could not beat haste.
A few ships lunged out first.
They rushed toward the strait's center.
Others followed.
Merit came before formation.
Into that gap, the current bit.
Water knifed between hulls and widened the spaces.
The line began to shake.
Ships moving at different speeds crossed each other's paths.
Goryeo still held position.
The port fell quiet.
The sea seemed to draw breath.
Now the silence was ready to split.
The harbor churned in an uproar.
Japanese ships rushed to load troops.
They cut anchors, drove oars, tried to raise sails, but their movements were broadly sluggish.
The ships were on the sea, yet the men still carried land's habits.
Footing tangled on deck.
Spears caught on shields.
They were men used to stepping down and fighting.
To form ranks atop a deck was foreign to them.
"Cast off! Cast off!" the naval commander screamed until his voice tore.
"Form up! Line abreast! Line abreast!"
Lords themselves ran out and shoved soldiers forward.
They loaded more men on every ship.
If an empty space appeared, they boarded another body.
This time, the thought that they could not retreat was sharp on every face.
The enemy had come out first.
Then they must teach them a lesson—so the certainty spread.
The harbor was narrow.
Ships moved while scraping each other's bows.
Oar strokes failed to match, hulls wobbled, and ships shoved from behind slammed into the sterns ahead.
Shouts and curses blended.
Orders to align kept coming down, and the more ships multiplied, the harder it became.
Meanwhile, Goryeo waited.
In the center of the strait, Goryeo warships had already taken their place.
They stretched across the waterway, blocking it, and rowed deep to hold position.
The current was rough.
The flow through the strait pushed at their flanks, and if the lead ship drifted even slightly, the entire line would begin to sway.
Tendons stood out on the rowers' arms.
They clenched their teeth to avoid being carried off.
On both sides, the ships had long since passed a hundred.
The sea was full of ships, and the strait looked narrow enough to choke.
Ōuchi launched every ship they had.
They loaded troops to the brim and set their mind: this time they would prove it.
They had stepped back before.
They had watched before.
Now it was their turn to advance.
"The enemy has few ships! Sink them all!"
At that cry, morale surged.
On deck, soldiers lifted spears.
Shields struck each other and rang.
They could see the numbers.
There was a difference in force visible to the eye.
They were men who had never understood the order to wait.
With this, it looked like charging would end it.
"Not yet!"
A shout burst from behind.
Hands gestured to stop.
But some ships did not obey.
The hunger for merit drove their oars harder.
A few hulls jumped forward first.
They surged toward the strait's center.
Others followed.
Haste came before order.
The current drove into that gap.
Water slipped between ships and widened their spaces.
The line began to unravel, and ships moving at different speeds crossed each other.
Goryeo still did not move.
The port stayed quiet.
The sea seemed to hold its breath.
The silence had finished preparing to split.
Japanese ships poured forward.
Momentum came before order.
Formation existed only in name, and each ship ran at a different speed.
Some surged ahead.
Others were shoved from behind.
The strait's current drilled into the gaps and twisted hulls.
Bows crossed.
Oars struck each other and the rhythm broke.
"Forward! More forward!"
The shouting continued.
Some faces already carried certainty of victory.
In the narrow center of the strait, Goryeo's ships looked few.
The forces behind them were left out of the calculation.
A judgment rose: what is visible is everything.
Goryeo did not move.
Oars gripped the water hard, and hulls held the same spacing.
Even when the current shoved their flanks, the line did not break.
Soldiers on deck did not lift their heads.
Gunners held their breath with the gunports still covered.
No command had been given yet.
The Japanese ships drew closer.
Close enough to make out spears and shields.
A few more hulls leapt forward.
Toward the strait's middle, as if ramming themselves into it.
Then it happened.
A flag rose from Goryeo's lead ship.
A short, clean signal.
Wooden side-boards lifted.
Gunports opened.
Black mouths were bared toward the sea.
The first cannon blast tore the strait.
Water and air burst at once.
A shot skimmed the water and struck the leading Japanese ship.
A moment later came the sound of wood ripping.
The hull's flank split, and water rushed inside.
Another blast followed.
Kkwa-gwa-gwa-gwang.
The line of Goryeo cannon ships, stretched across the strait, began to spit fire in sequence.
Flame burst at each muzzle.
Smoke laid low over the water.
The shots did not spare formation.
They struck the ships that had surged out first, one after another.
Men bounced up from Japanese decks.
Oars snapped.
Shields dropped into the sea.
Ships listed and soldiers grabbed at each other.
The ships behind tried to stop, but the current and their own speed were already pushing them forward.
There was nowhere to dodge.
"Stop! Back!"
The shouting came too late.
Wreckage from the shattered ships slammed into the hulls behind.
Oars caught.
Ships collided.
And into that gap another shot drove in.
Goryeo did not advance by even an inch.
Holding the strait's center, they broke the ships that entered.
The current seized broken hulls and men and carried them back toward the harbor.
Kyushu ships waiting there cut across that flow.
They seized the ships that tried to flee and latched onto those slow to turn.
The Japanese momentum visibly snapped.
Ships that had been surging forward stopped.
Ships behind lost direction.
The numbers were still greater.
But at sea, numbers did not become strength by themselves.
The narrow strait, the violent current, and prepared cannon split them apart.
Through the smoke, the sea showed again.
Broken ships floated.
Soldiers scattered on the water screamed.
The fight would continue.
But the flow had already changed.
The first wave of the war had broken right there.