790.
An unprecedented peace began. From Liaodong and the steppes, to the Central Plains, the southern regions, and even Japan, there was no war. Not even a minor skirmish or a border clash occurred. The time during which swords stayed in their scabbards had never lasted this long. At first, people couldn't believe it. They thought it was merely a brief pause. But as the seasons changed once, then twice, without any news, they realized it was not by chance. Was it because of Park Seongjin's simple prayers? Or was it because the fear of fighting to the death spread even beyond the borders? What was clear was that, after long years of war, this dreamlike time was cherished by the people themselves. No one wanted to break it.
He passed by occasionally, saying a few words:
"The tax rate is too high. Try changing perspectives. Then you may survive."
"If you don't change it, even the state will rise against you."
Some took his words as advice, some as warnings, and others as threats. But at the end of each sentence, there was always an unfinished one: "Otherwise, I will leave." He never said it, but everyone understood. Strangely, it had an effect. The tax rates slowly decreased, and the granaries were filled with grain. People no longer hid or ran away. The fields were plowed again, and markets reopened. Prosperity quietly seeped in. Whether peace invited prosperity or prosperity kept peace was unclear. But one thing was certain: there was an invisible pressure behind it all. A presence more certain than a sword, even though it did not wield one. It was the presence of Park Seongjin, the warrior who stopped the war. Some called him the warrior of the Hwakyung (a metaphorical reference to a mythical or legendary place). Others, who believed he had surpassed that realm, didn't know what to call him. There were rumors that he was about to leave this world and ascend to heaven. Some in the Central Plains even began to refer to him as "the Ninth Immortal," placing him alongside the Eight Immortals of Taoism, famous figures in Chinese mythology.
At Hwangwangsa, they reportedly moved a hall, Jangyeonggak, for use. The royal temple's library was no longer just a building that housed books, it became a place for people. Similarly, Hyunhwasa gave up its hall. What used to be a place to read was now a place to breathe, wield a sword, and train the heart. There were many hands involved in the process. This wasn't something that could be achieved by just one person. While moving one hall, dozens of hands, each working with reverence, contributed in their own way.
And then the strangest thing happened. It wasn't a new building, yet it looked newer than any new one. It wasn't because it was new, but because it was something that had been disassembled and returned to its rightful place. It wasn't broken, it was reborn. That was the true nature of the work.
The carpenters came first. They raised their eyes before their hammers. They walked around the hall, touching the pillars with their palms and listening to the wood. There was no decay, only spots that had been pressed down. "We can move this," one of them said.
Disassembling was not about destroying; it was about turning a house into writing. Every pillar, beam, and rafter left a small, neat mark. The markings were hidden, only visible in the parts that fit together inside. East and west, south and north, and matching pieces. The house, from that moment on, became a record. It was a sentence to be read again later. The tiles were removed by hand, one by one. Broken ones were separated, and the intact ones were tied together.
As the rafters were exposed, the smell of aged wood settled in. Dust swirled, and sunlight first touched the insides of the house. When they released the tension, they all held their breath. The supports were set up, and the braces were removed one by one. They didn't pull with force. They waited until the tension was released. The old wood would snap if rushed.
The final pillar remained. The pillar wasn't pushed down, it was lifted. When it was raised slightly from the foundation, the house was completely separated. The stone was also moved. The stone was the memory of the house. The materials were not placed upright immediately. They were dusted off, varnished, and only lightly shaved where they were damaged. They didn't try to make them look new. They simply returned them to what they once were.
"Don't shave it more," the carpenter said. "This is the wood of this house."
On the road, the materials were set to rest. The pillars were supported in the middle to prevent wobbling, and the stones were placed on top of wooden frames to absorb the shock. The noise was reduced, and the movements were slow. The first thing placed on the new ground was the stone. Gravel was laid in the place designated by the geomancer, and the stone was settled. They didn't fill it with dirt. The aim was for it to never go out. The pillar was set. No, it sat down. The moment the center of the space was formed, everything else began to fall into place. The beams were put in, the rafters were placed, and the walls were finished. With each piece, the hall's elegance returned. The moment the rafters were placed, the light changed. The shadow was organized, and the sound of the wind passing through changed.
Finally, the tiles were put back. The house had regained its place in the sky.
At Hwangwangsa, they gave up one of the halls, Jangyeonggak. The place that used to house books was now a place for people. Similarly, they gave up one of the halls in Hyunhwasa. The place where people read would now be a place where breath, swords, and hearts would meet. Many hands were involved. But no one left their name. This house was not the work of one person.
And then the strangest thing happened. It wasn't new, yet it looked newer than any new building. Not because it was new, but because it was something that had been disassembled and returned to its rightful place. It wasn't broken, it was reborn. That was the true essence of the project.
The king was unusually hasty. He chose the fastest route. He knew well that moving the building would be much faster than constructing a new one. He didn't explain why. He had a feeling that if he spoke, it would vanish. A moment of carelessness, and it would disappear like the wind. The king's heart grew restless with the thought that this wasn't because he had a simple nature but because he might be preparing to leave. Having already accomplished everything, could he be preparing to leave?
That was why he sent people, made arrangements, and reports came up, telling him where each hall would be moved and where the wood would be taken from. The reports didn't sound like orders. Yet, the meaning was clear: Don't entertain other thoughts, this has to move forward.
Thanks to this, the king was able to stay still and still understand the entire flow. The ground was decided, the pillars were placed, and the roof was dismantled and moved. The news was detailed enough that he could almost picture it in his mind. People's attention had grown burdensome. Now, everything was over, and it seemed like he could blend into the stillness, slowly sinking into the deep night that resembled death.
But small connections still clung to him, not letting go. The reason why the king hastened, he now faintly understood. An unknown intuition, one that couldn't be explained but wouldn't fade. He might leave. What does an accomplished sage do? He ascends to heaven, doesn't he? The place called the Three Mountains, a boundary untouched by human feet. It already felt like he had crossed half of it. So the king tried to hold on. Not with orders, not with grace, not with buildings. He was quietly, desperately reaching out, asking him to stay just a little longer in this world.