780.
Kim Yong was a special figure to the king. Before becoming king, during the time he was in Yuan, living as a hostage, Kim Yong had been by his side. When his elder brother ascended the throne, and later his nephews took the throne one by one, the king had remained alone in the Yuan court. It was a time when he couldn't call anyone, nor could he return. For those long years, among the people who stayed by his side, the one who remained till the end was Kim Yong. So, when the king ascended to the throne, appointing him was not a favor, but a natural choice. It was a reward for the time they had endured together, and a confirmation of trust.
Kim Yong was skilled in military affairs and spoke little. He was accustomed to anticipating the king's will. Even when given key roles in the royal guard, handling royal commands and military affairs, he never objected. Most importantly, there was no reason for him to betray. He had already gained what he needed, and there was little room for further advancement. Among those who had spent time together in Yuan, he had received the greatest reward. So, when his name was reported, the king did not think of suspicion. "That's impossible," was the thought that first came to mind.
The king was momentarily speechless when he heard the name. Kim Yong. The name was not one that could be casually brushed off in the report. The ringleader of the rebellion, the one who closed the gates, the one who shook the palace—none of these words easily fit with the name. The king's gaze drifted involuntarily to the past. His time in Yuan. The time when he was nothing. He didn't even know the date he would return, let alone the name of the king. Back then, Kim Yong had always been by his side. Unobtrusively, but never absent. He spoke little, never asked questions, and knew how to remain silent when the king was silent. The king remembered him as such. Not someone who sought opportunities, but someone who endured time.
And so, as soon as the king became king, he called on him. He never doubted or tested him. The time they had endured together was proof enough. "That person won't betray me," the king thought. It was more of a certainty than a judgment. Or perhaps he hoped it was. The king knew well. His rise to the throne was a series of coincidences, and the throne could be shaken at any moment. That's why he wanted to exclude from this instability the people who had endured with him in Yuan. But Kim Yong had calculated differently.
He had not forgotten his time in Yuan either. But the direction of his memories was different. For Kim Yong, that time was not time endured, but time endured with patience. The king had returned and had become king. Kim Yong returned with him, but he did not become king. The king's trust was great, but that trust was only allowed within the king's will. Kim Yong had seen it. The more the king spoke of reform, the more the king's position shrank. The power of the ruling families turned their backs, the old order collapsed, and the new order had yet to come. In that gap, Kim Yong calculated. Now was the time. While the king was still unstable. While the word loyalty still had power.
He wasn't trying to betray the king. He only sought to replace him. Under the pretense of protecting the king, he sought to push the king out. To Kim Yong, this was not betrayal. It was preemption.
But the king could not see that calculation. No, he didn't want to see it. When that name was called along with rebellion, the first image that came to the king's mind was not suspicion. It was the long winter in the Yuan court. The nights when no one spoke to him. The one person who stood silently by his side. The king whispered to himself, "That boy wouldn't do this." "Not him."
And so, when the gates were closed, the king was a beat too late. That one beat—was the king's tragedy. The king realized only then that trust is not about binding people but perhaps about slowing them down. And what was even more tragic than realizing that trust was wrong, was realizing that trust was an understandable calculation.
The king pressed his lips tightly. He thought he now understood why Kim Yong had done what he did. And so, he could say no more. So, he could not be angry. The king just thought, If I hadn't been king, would that person have stayed by my side until the end? He never found an answer to that question.
Before the king made his decision, dozens of arrows flew at once. The sound came first. A thin, sharp hum that tore through the air. Only then did the arrows become visible. A barrage of arrows shot out simultaneously. As the general was pulled and dragged along, it seemed that some other signal had been given. The battlefield was always like this. Time does not wait for hesitation.
Park Seongjin's hand moved first. It wasn't thought. It wasn't judgment. It was a reaction his body already knew. His sword cut through the air. It wasn't the blade, but the gap he created that opened first. He swung his sword in an arc. Bang. It wasn't a sound—it was pressure that exploded. The air folded and was pushed out, and the wind from the sword spread like a wave.
The arrows that had been flying toward them seemed to shake as if they had met invisible waves. The mass of dark arrows, falling in an arc, lost their straight trajectory. Like a school of fish suddenly changing direction, dozens of arrows simultaneously turned mid-flight. It wasn't individual movement. The collective will seemed to bend, and all the arrows turned and flew in unison. The returning arrows rained down on the soldiers who had shot them. Only then did screams erupt. Brief, broken, overlapping sounds. The screams came too late, and the bodies fell first.
People collapsed, shields fell, and figures twisted and collapsed as they sat down, still with arrows in their bodies. In the center of all this, Park Seongjin remained unchanged. No surprise, no anger, no intoxication with victory. Just the face of a person who had been through countless battlefields.
It looked like a miracle, but to him, it was not. He didn't stop the arrows, nor did he send them back. He simply redirected the path the arrows were supposed to take in this space. And that decision was faster than lightning and ahead of the sound.
"Retreat." It was a short command. There was no time to wait for the king's orders. He knew this battle could not be finished here and now. The enemy was not the enemy. It was the army itself. This was the sorrow of a civil war. It takes more time to understand people's hearts than to wield a sword.
The king's hesitation was not out of fear. It was not out of doubt either. It was the thought that perhaps he hadn't done it yet. It takes time to accept that trust has been broken, more than it takes to gather evidence. Especially when that trust has been built over many years.
Park Seongjin turned around. The king's face was hardened, and his gaze was still lost, not yet touching reality. Distrust forms quickly, but the time to reassess blind trust is always one beat too slow. That one beat. In that gap, the arrows flew, blood was shed, and a decision was made in place of indecision.
Park Seongjin didn't ask further. He didn't explain either. He already knew it wasn't time to fight but time to retreat. He lowered his sword and turned his body. This fight was not over, but now it would be a matter of choice, not trust.
Park Seongjin mounted the captured man and headed toward Heungwangsa. As they moved, he neither threatened nor urged. The other person already knew who was before him.
"Speak," Park Seongjin said calmly.
The man nodded, took a breath, and almost resigned himself to speak. He was a high-ranking officer from the royal guard, once suspected of being involved in a rebellion and exiled because of it.
"He was… anxious. He seemed to feel that the king no longer trusted him the way he once did. Though outwardly given a central role, he saw that at crucial moments, Park Seongjin and General Lee Injoong were always called before him... He thought he had been pushed aside."
Park Seongjin nodded. He could understand that. For someone who had risen to such a high position, it wasn't hard to command troops. But the real issue was not power but trust, the trust that would protect one's position.
"He had served closest to the king. Back in Yuan, he was the one who stood in for the king, wielding a sword. That memory... now feels like a burden."
Park Seongjin was silent for a moment. The special relationship with the king. The position he rose to because of that relationship. And the wound left when that bond was severed. Exile. That one punishment had changed everything. He had been recalled and reinstated, but deep down, he must have felt that trust could never be regained.
"Once he judged that the king no longer trusted him, he must have thought that if he didn't act first, it would be over."
The explanation was sufficient. The logic was clear. But Park Seongjin already knew. This explanation wouldn't reach the king. The king still couldn't accept it.
No, he didn't want to accept it. When that name was associated with rebellion, the first image that came to the king's mind wasn't suspicion. It was the long winter in the Yuan court. The nights when no one spoke to him. The one who had silently stood by his side.
The king whisper