Yi Hui did not climb the mountain at once.
Instead, he retraced the path they had first taken up, combing through the original campsite from the beginning.
He checked the spot behind the boulder where they had once held their feast, rode back up to the manor gate, then descended again.
He could not afford to wander the mountain blindly.
If the Grand General had stayed somewhere, there had to be a trace.
So he began by retracing every step they had already taken.
But retracing soon turned into urgency.
He dismounted, then mounted again.
He swept his hand across the soil.
Even where footprints overlapped and vanished, he knelt and bent low.
He pushed aside fallen leaves, overturned stones, pressed his fingers into damp earth by the water.
He searched for the smallest remnant that should have remained if a man had lingered there.
At the campsite, he kicked apart the place where firewood had once been stacked.
He scooped up cold ash in his palm and crushed it.
There was no warmth left that could possibly reignite.
He knew that—yet he turned the ashes over once more, as if hoping some hidden heat might still survive.
In Harlan, this would have been easy.
Yi Hui knew the Grand General's habits when he went off alone.
He would choose a secluded place, pass a night in quiet reflection, or position himself at the nearest vantage to the enemy to study the terrain.
Where water was scarce, he always sought a stream.
A place where he could be alone—that was the standard.
So Yi Hui rode toward a ravine where water might be heard.
He descended into the valley and peered into every crevice between rocks.
At the slightest sound of wind brushing grass, he turned his head.
If a branch stirred in the distance, he rushed toward it.
When a startled animal leapt out, he let out a hollow breath and climbed again.
The men balanced steadily in their saddles, but Yi Hui's back remained rigid.
His grip tightened on the reins.
Every turn along the mountainside, his gaze swept between ground and ridgeline.
When he saw a summit, he wondered if it was there.
When he saw layered rock casting shadow, he guessed perhaps inside.
There was no certainty—yet he could not stop.
"This way."
His voice was short.
It was closer to hope than conviction.
The men followed without question.
Climbing through steep passes, he would suddenly change direction.
Would the Grand General have chosen this path—or that one?
He pulled memory after memory from his mind, testing habit against instinct, temperament against terrain.
The mountain was vast; the trace of a single man was small.
That vastness began to press in on him.
Had he already missed him?
Had he passed close enough to brush shoulders without knowing?
His thoughts churned.
He halted, closed his eyes, listened—as if he might hear the Grand General's breath itself.
There was nothing.
He turned the horse again.
This was not wandering, he told himself.
It was pursuit.
Yet his pace quickened, his gaze grew sharper, more relentless.
He was no longer searching the mountain—he was clawing into it, trying to seize one man's life or death.
He looked toward the summit.
If there were a wide, open place to clear a suffocating heart, it would be there.
He reined in where the horse could go no further.
The animal's breath came rough; roots and stone tangled the earth too tightly for hooves.
He left Fatty and Gunmyeong below and took three men upward on foot.
Soun followed lightly behind.
The climb was no path at all.
They gripped rock with their hands, drove their toes into soil to drag themselves higher.
Each stone that tumbled sent his heart plunging with it.
At every snapped twig, his eyes froze—had someone passed here already?
His breath grew harsh, his throat dry as dust.
Still, he did not stop.
When he reached the summit, he fell silent.
A wide plateau—room for twenty men to sit.
The wind passed freely from all sides.
Layer upon layer of mountain ranges stretched far into the distance.
The sky was uselessly clear.
If anywhere—then here.
He circled.
Bent low, searching for footprints.
Parted grass.
Scraped at soil.
Nothing.
No fire ash.
No flattened patch of grass.
No scratch of blade against stone.
One circuit.
Then another.
His steps quickened.
Nothing.
He walked to the edge and looked down.
The wind alone answered.
For a flicker of an instant, a terrible thought struck—had he fallen?
His eyes sharpened.
"There's nothing here," a subordinate called distantly.
Yi Hui did not respond.
Something collapsed inside his chest.
If even here there was nothing—
Then, below his line of sight, something pale flickered.
Behind a boulder, among fresh sprouting grass, a foreign brightness.
His eyes widened.
His body moved before thought.
He leapt down the slope, nearly tumbling in his haste.
His hand shot out.
Cloth.
Yi Hui snatched it up.
The texture was unmistakable—coarse fabric, slight wear at the shoulder seam.
The Grand General's outer robe.
Below it lay the iron sword, set neatly in place.
The blade drank the light and rested in silence.
His boots, too, were arranged with care.
The robe was folded precisely, weighed down by stone.
Weapon.
Robe.
Shoes.
Yi Hui knew at a glance—they were his.
And yet there was no relief.
Finding them did not lift him—it opened a deeper precipice.
The man was gone.
Only the objects remained.
They were too orderly.
No struggle.
No haste.
No violence.
Yi Hui's hand trembled.
The longer he had searched, the crueler this discovery became.
He had torn through the mountain to seize something—only to grasp absence.
The wind stirred the hem of white cloth.
It fluttered like a final farewell.
He could not move.
There were no signs of death.
No sign of force.
The grass lay undisturbed, as if willingly parted.
To the southeast—the direction of Henan, the General's homeland—the grass had been laid flat, neat and deliberate.
He had sat there long, facing that direction.
Left objects.
A vanished man.
It spoke more clearly of departure than death.
Soun collapsed onto the spot.
His knees gave way.
His hands gripped and released the dry grass.
His fingers trembled.
"General…"
His voice broke.
Since his father's death, that name had been his pillar.
He had learned the sword, the breath, the world itself under that man's gaze.
Now the support was gone.
His chest hollowed.
Yi Hui decided to camp.
They could not descend yet.
He had to think.
To weigh the meaning of what had been left behind.
The sword.
Had he set down the path of a warrior?
The white robe.
Had he shed the outer shell of the world?
The careful folding, the stone placed atop—it was no coercion.
It was a decision.
Not death.
Withdrawal.
A step beyond the fine boundary between loyalty and rebellion.
Night deepened.
The southeastern constellations rose—toward Henan.
Soun still sat upon the grass.
He wept, stilled, then wept again.
"It's my fault…"
Yi Hui turned quietly.
"What do you mean?"
"Once… he asked me what loyalty meant. I said… it would be better to leave both sides behind. Neither emperor nor rebellion. I said there must be another path. I said that… and now he's gone…"
His words crumbled.
He pressed his forehead to the grass.
"I spoke carelessly. I shook his heart. If not for me…"
Yi Hui gripped his shoulder.
So small.
Still so young.
"Life's decisions belong to the one who lives it."
His voice cut through the night.
"He would not move by your word alone. He may have considered it—but he did not choose because you told him to. If he returns home, his clan dies. If he aids the princess, he becomes a traitor. He stood at that crossroads long before you spoke. Do not think you pushed him."
Soun swallowed.
"But I spoke of that path…"
"To speak of a path and to walk it are different."
Yi Hui's grip tightened.
"He wrestled with this long before now. Perhaps he found a road that is neither this nor that."
Soun wept until his tears thinned.
"A place without emperor or rebellion… not even home… I want to believe such a place exists."
Yi Hui looked up at the cold stars.
"Then let us send him off willingly."
His voice was low.
"You stay here. Guard this place. If anyone approaches—stop them."
Those who would use the Grand General might come.
Those who would interpret these objects.
Those who would exploit absence.
Yi Hui took Gunmyeong, Dongil, and Fatty and descended the mountain, scanning for pursuers.
Under the moonlight, four shadows stretched long.
Above, upon the summit, the iron sword, the white robe, and the flattened grass facing home remained.
And there Soun stood alone—
tear-streaked face, sword in hand—
a young warrior guarding the place where someone had chosen to disappear.