789.
The next person was a carpenter. He was called upon to oversee the work of the temple. He was renowned as the best carpenter of his time, having built palaces and large temples before. The king's orders were brief. Not too grand, but not humble either. A scale neither overwhelming nor lowering itself. A house that neither confines those who stay nor holds back those who wish to leave. That would be the most difficult task.
The carpenter walked along the mountain, following the directions given by the geomancer. He looked for places where the wind stopped, where sunlight lingered, and ridges where rain wouldn't leave scars. He drew the lines for the building, but did not begin construction immediately. First, he made a blueprint. This was unusual in this place. The blueprint was handed over to Park Seongjin, who studied it for a long time. He didn't measure the size, nor did he pay attention to decorations. He simply examined what this place was for.
His place of cultivation, the students' learning space, the place for offering prayers to the heavens. And one day, a place for many to come and stay before leaving. It was not a house, but a dojo (道場).
Park Seongjin called Song Iseul. The two spoke little, but the lines were changed many times.
"This is unnecessary."
"This place is too exposed."
"Let's not cut the mountain, let the mountain flow as it is."
They removed the ornate decorations. They reduced the costly procedures. They used the stones that were already there and moved the trees instead of cutting them. They didn't build roads straight but let them curve according to the land's natural flow. People shouldn't stand on nature but blend into it.
The training hall was not in one place. There were separate spaces for sword use, breathing, and emptying the mind. These spaces were not far from each other but were distinct enough so that they wouldn't interfere with each other.
The students' lodgings were long, not as rooms but as continuous spaces for breathing. Even if one person left and another entered, the flow wouldn't be interrupted. The place for offering prayers to the heavens was not too high or too low. Looking up, the sky would open, and when you lowered your head, the mountain would be visible.
The king quietly allowed all of this. He never withdrew what he had already decided. Park Seongjin didn't object. He didn't hide his intentions either. He spoke only what was necessary and fixed only what needed to be. The dojo was built like this.
It was calm to call it a place for the extraordinary, and quiet to call it the base of warriors. But standing there, one could understand. Those who stayed would be purified, and those who left would be lightened.
The king added barracks and a training ground for the soldiers. He didn't publicize it. It wasn't even recorded. On the surface, it looked like a dojo. Deep inside, it was the dry ember that would sustain the country's breath. The king didn't trust the military officials who wielded power. When someone holding a sword tastes power, they no longer aim at the country but at their own seat. The more military power they hold, the more they covet, and the more they covet, the more they suspect. The king remembered this cycle deeply.
So, he chose a different path. Not to forbid power, but to make it refine itself. Not to block desires, but to let the desire to seek it become ashamed of itself. Those with the correct mindset were rare. The king knew that even those with old family lines often couldn't fulfill their duties, no matter how much they knew. They could enjoy things but didn't know how to endure. He also knew that forcing them to change would only cause greater resistance. But, if they were kept close, perhaps they could change.
If someone like Park Seongjin is by their side, without needing words to teach, their body would learn it naturally. The king's hope reached that far. He did not give orders. He simply set the board.
The king once told him to go visit. But he didn't go. Instead, he asked Song Iseul.
"Just don't go too far off track."
Song Iseul went first. When he came back, he said:
"It's a very good place."
It was a rare, firm certainty for a soldier to say. But there were more thoughts he didn't express. Song Iseul was both a warrior and a mountain hermit. Hermits usually start a journey together, a few matching their wills, and when the time comes, they scatter. When they need to go deeper, they retreat alone into the hidden paths. That was the old way of the hermits in Goryeo.
But this time was different. Many people came, stayed, and studied together. Servants, merchants, women, and officials all came and went, and the secular energy never ceased. Could true study happen in such a place?
That was the concern that weighed on Song Iseul's mind. If things went wrong, the dojo would become a marketplace. When people gather, words increase. And as words increase, the meaning becomes diluted. When meaning dilutes, the sword, the breath, and the heart become dull.
He didn't speak this worry aloud. He didn't want to cloud the meaning with unnecessary thoughts. Instead, he made a suggestion. Separate the upper and lower. Divide east and west. Separate the areas where people come and go from the spaces for studying. Separate the areas for physical use from those for mental training. Put the training hall lower, and the place for prayers higher, but where they wouldn't see each other. Separate the roads. The path from the outside and the path inside should be different. Let those who stay remain, and those who leave do so quietly.
He said this, not too far off, but clearly.
He understood. This dojo was not for one person but for the many who would come in the future, testing them. If used well, the way of the hermits would reopen. And so, he said it plainly:
"It's a very good place."
And with that, he silently took on the responsibility of it.
Song Iseul also visited. He said less:
"Best place."
He didn't add anything more. What comforted him most was that it wasn't far from the teacher's old legacy. Not too far from the land where he had learned and trained. A place where the past and present could continue. That was enough.
Each person had their own stronghold, their own beginnings, and they envied the dojo near Gwoel Mountain's Pyeopsa. Though it wasn't visible on the outside, those who stayed longer would understand it was a place where the depth increased.
Finally, the king called for the sorcerer. To keep it hidden from the world. So that the name wouldn't spread, and rumors wouldn't find their way. Those who came would have to find their own path, and those who stayed would remain without speaking.
That place was prepared like this. It was a place not called for, but waiting. A place not held, but wishing to keep those who did not leave.
The king's consideration never became a command.
As spring passed, summer approached. The seasons changed silently, and Park Seongjin's study also changed. Outwardly, not much was different. He still woke up at the same time, made noodles, mixed with people during the day, and walked around the training ground in the afternoon. At night, he would return to the garden, regulate his breathing, and when the stars rose, he would fall asleep.
He didn't add any special practice, nor did he explain new realms with words. But it was clearly deepening. If spring's study was about "letting go," then summer's study was closer to "settling." The energy no longer rose, and the sword did not cut through the air. The movements lessened, but the weight increased. Even without using force, his center didn't shake. He was still a warrior and a soldier. But it didn't show upfront. The memories of battle remained in his body, but his body didn't seek battle.
He only moved when needed, and when not, he stepped back. Like the summer river, it was swelling but not noisy. As the sunlight grew stronger, his presence actually lowered. Even in the heat, his breath was steady, and though sweat came, there was no impatience.
When the warriors in the training ground threw their bodies into action, he simply stood in the shade and watched. Words were fewer, and gestures shorter. But one nod of his head was more precise than a hundred words.
People, over time, stopped calling him "the teacher." They simply knew that if they stood with him, their bodies would be set right. If they stood in the same place, their breathing would align.
He began to be seen not as a hermit, as he was still in the center of the secular world. Nor as a warrior, since his sword no longer led the way. He did not define himself in either way.
Summer had begun. The mountain became denser day by day. The leaves that were frail in the spring had stacked on top of each other, creating shade, and the grass by the road grew again after being cut. The sounds increased, but they were not noisy. The cicadas still waited for the right time, and the bugs' cries were low near the earth.
All living things received their share, but they didn't strive to climb higher. The water slowed. The stream that had swollen in the spring seemed to find its place and rested, neither overflowing nor drying.
The sunlight was deep but not sharp, and the shadows grew but did not feel oppressive. Nothing rushed out, yet the world continued to maintain itself.
In the meantime, Park Seongjin's study also changed. Externally, nothing had changed. He still woke up at the same time, did the same work, and walked the same path. But the place he stood in had deepened. The energy no longer surged upward, and the movements slowed, but the center became firmer.
Before, the sword would respond first, and the body would follow. Now, if the mind didn't move, the body didn't move. The sensation of building strength had faded. Like the summer tree, it didn't try to grow more, but inside, the rings of age quietly grew.
The warriors in the training ground couldn't explain this. But if they stood by him for long enough, their breathing would lengthen, and the unnecessary tension would fade. The movements had lessened, but the sword had become more stable.
It was like entering the dense forest. One couldn't help but lower the noise.
Summer was not a season to reveal. It was already enough outside, and there was no need to add more. What mattered was what ripened slowly and invisibly.
Park Seongjin's study was like that. It ripened but didn't show. It grew but didn't overflow. His summer was deepening like this.