787.noodle-making.
In Zhang Jichen's eyes, Park Seongjin that day seemed a little unusual. He was a man who had returned from war, a warrior who had crossed the fate of the country. After the kurultai and the rebellion, the empress and queen, with so much blood still staining the world — he walked into a small village on the outskirts of Gaegyeong and stood calmly in front of a noodle pot. It was noodle-making.
Zhang Jichen was momentarily speechless. The warriors had set up camp on one side of the village. It was quiet, but the arrangement was never careless. Zhang Jichen and his fellow disciples from Jeonjin naturally focused their minds. This must be it. Ceremonies like coronations, or the rites at the Daedogwan, the passage rituals to the heavens—he thought there would be a proper procedure for a warrior who ascended to the present state. But nothing happened.
In the morning, he boiled water. Kneaded the flour, pressed it with his palm, and pulled the noodles thin. The knife looked heavier than the sword, and its tip was more cautious than on the battlefield. In front of the steaming pot, he was silent. More was embedded in his hand movements than in all the languages of the Daoists Zhang Jichen knew.
At noon, he served the noodles to the villagers. The quiet old man, the woman holding the child's hand, the travelers. None of them asked who he was. He didn't explain, nor did he leave his name. The noodles were plain, the broth not too strong. Neither salty nor bland, it tasted like someone who had returned.
As the sun began to set, he went to the back garden. Sitting under the light filtering through the trees, he stayed for a moment. It didn't look like meditation, nor did it seem like training. He simply sat. The wind blew when it did. The petals fell when they did. He did not hold them back.
Zhang Jichen then realized. This was his ritual. Not a passage to the heavens, not something unseen by others. It was about placing oneself into daily life. The path to returning to non-action. The Dao of the ruler was right there. In other words, it was everyday life.
Spring was in full bloom. The peach blossoms were in full swing along the village walls, and the children laughed in front of the noodle shop. The warriors stayed in the village like guards, but the swords were unseen. In the absence of tension, peace settled in. A yellow butterfly fluttered by like a dream.
Zhang Jichen quietly said to his companion one day, "We thought we came here to find the Dao, but it's already here."
That day, Park Seongjin said nothing. He rolled the noodles, washed the bowls, and by evening returned to the back garden. The war was over, and the world was still there. He neither left nor stayed. He just lived. To Zhang Jichen, that seemed deeper than any great court, quieter than any religious gathering.
However, when afternoon came, the scenery changed. Zhang Jichen could not describe the shift for the first few days. The noodle pot in the morning and the relaxed sunlight at noon vanished like a lie, and a different time opened up in the vacant lot behind the village.
It was harsh.
In the afternoon, the warriors' training was not just practice. They repeated one movement hundreds, thousands of times. The same footstep, the same wrist angle, the same breath. If someone made a mistake, they didn't stop. Instead, everyone went back to the beginning. The mistake was not the individual's, but the flaw in the flow.
Their training differed. Some held swords, others empty hands, and some held spears. But when they moved together, they were one. It was like a military formation, but more like the order of living bodies. The distance between the feet, the layers of air brushing the sword tips, and the height where the gaze rests. Even without words, it all matched.
It was beautiful because it had strength. When the sword wind stirred, it was short and sharp like a storm. The wind, filled with inner strength, bent the grass and cut through the dust.
Then, at some point, everything stopped.
The breathing of the warriors faded into a deep silence. It was as if the earth itself was holding its breath, and above the stillness, the spring sunlight gently settled, as if nothing had happened.
Zhang Jichen was more afraid of the stillness. It spoke of more than movement did. At first, he thought they were the same warriors. But they were different.
The martial arts he learned from Jeonjin was about showing, building, and breaking. Here, it was about emptying, aligning, and letting go. Before showing external strength, internal accumulation came first. The breath preceded the sword, and the flow of energy controlled the strength.
Before he knew it, the people from Jeonjin were pulled into this. No one gave orders. They simply observed, felt, and followed. At first, it was imitation. The posture didn't match, the breath was short. But the warriors didn't teach. Instead, they repeated together. The same motion, at the same speed. In that repetition, each person fell apart and rebuilt themselves.
Some of them discarded their previous studies. Some let go of the external techniques they had held for years and began again with their breath. At night, their arms and legs trembled, and by dawn, they could hardly breathe. But they didn't leave.
It was hard, but it was without falsehood.
The life was simple. They ate just enough and used just enough. The warriors also helped with the village work. They repaired collapsed legs, dug water channels, and carried the sick.
Strength was not only for the outside, it could also flow inward. They showed this with their bodies.
And then, as the end of the afternoon approached, it always came. When the noodle work was done, Park Seongjin always appeared at the edge of the training ground. No chaos, no warning. Before anyone noticed, he was already there.
The training didn't stop. He didn't stop it. He simply stood by and watched.
At first, Zhang Jichen thought it was indifference. But after a few days, he realized. His gaze wasn't scattered. From the moment one movement began to the moment it ended, he followed the smallest details—the shake of the feet, the point where the breath faltered, the gaps where the energy leaked out.
He observed the warriors' movements and guided them carefully. It was hard to tell if I was doing well or not. Park Seongjin's gaze was incredibly precise. Like someone with a magnifying glass, he focused only on the small, critical spots.
There were almost no words. Occasionally a gesture or a slight tilt of the head. That was enough. The corrections were brief, sharp, but they didn't linger.
No scolding, no praise.
"Again."
That was all, and when they started again, the same movement felt different. The energy that had been blocked before began to flow, and the strength that had been used now had room.
The warriors silently bowed their heads. Not because they were ordered to, but because they knew it was the right thing to do.
Zhang Jichen was no exception. I thought I was the chief disciple of Jeonjin, but I found that there were few here with a lower level of non-action than me.
Later, I learned. They were all masters of the same mountain.
Each time he was corrected, Zhang Jichen felt a chill run down his spine. This was not teaching. It wasn't about imparting knowledge or techniques. It was about making them reveal what they already had. It was a way of showing them their own gaps.
It revealed their limits. In some ways, it was terrifying. The reason I couldn't do it was because my ability only reached that point. It wasn't that I made a small mistake in something I was good at, but that I had given everything I had and reached my limit. How pathetic that felt.
As the sun set, the training ended. The sweat-soaked warriors quietly dispersed. Some sat on the grass to catch their breath, and some wiped their swords. Park Seongjin was already gone.
He was there without anyone knowing when or how he left. But his presence remained. In the flow of the training, between each movement, in the silence where their breaths matched, the warriors didn't grow stronger alone. They didn't strike each other down or step on each other. The one ahead opened the path, and the one behind widened it.
Strength didn't fall from above. It was shaped and grown together on the sides. Spring was deepening. The flowers fell, and the leaves grew. And the people of Jeonjin had, without realizing it, entered into that change.