A Night in the Hills
They said that living itself was a continuous act of cultivation.
In the Compendium (總覽) it was written that everything a person does is practice.
Studying is practice.
Speaking is practice.
Martial arts, too, are practice.
Even the thoughts one treasures in the heart are part of that discipline.
Soun had believed those words without reservation.
While traveling, he regulated his breathing.
While laboring, he observed his own mind.
Even while eating, he regarded it as cultivation.
That was how he matured so quickly.
He reached a realm he had not expected, far earlier than he had imagined.
But now he questioned himself.
Was today's mass slaughter also cultivation?
If this too was an act (行), could it be called part of practice?
If so, could crime itself be considered practice simply because it is an act?
No.
Surely not.
Among the countless actions that appear continuous, there must be a boundary—
a line where practice ends and something else begins.
Actions may look flat and equal on the surface, yet within them lie layers and order.
He wanted to find that boundary.
Freedom meant not forcing oneself to avoid something, because one's actions naturally accord with the Way (道).
Yet what he had done tonight would not leave his chest.
Could it have been avoided?
A profound emptiness seized him.
There was nowhere to go.
Still gripping his sword, he mounted and rode away from the battlefield without direction.
The surrounding hills and fields were filled with fleeing men.
There must have been hundreds.
Many had run at the beginning of the fight; even more scattered once it ended.
Lee Hui had ordered that those who fled were not to be pursued.
Along the path Soun encountered soldiers hiding in the brush.
They were less enemies than human beings consumed by fear.
If their eyes met his, they flinched violently.
They fled into the grass like startled animals.
It was the frenzy of survival.
Without realizing it, Soun returned to the very spot where he had first observed the enemy.
He wanted to think from there again.
Standing atop the ridge, he looked down at the battlefield.
Smoke rose in scattered plumes.
Burned-out tents and shattered carts stretched without end.
It was a desolate sight.
An unproductive result.
He had fought fiercer battles in the desert of Haran.
But this felt different.
There, the enemy had been invaders.
If they were not repelled, his homeland would be trampled.
If they were not killed, his people would die.
Today's enemy was different.
They were compatriots acting under orders.
They could have been household heads from the neighboring village.
The weight of guilt was heavier.
Even if that guilt was the luxury of the victor, he mourned the dead sincerely.
He questioned whether something had gone wrong.
His chest felt cold.
He sat in an open space and steadied his breath.
He drew his sword again.
He performed the familiar first form of Sweeping a Thousand Armies (橫掃千軍).
He did not know whether to call it execution or simply drawing a line.
Perhaps drawing was closer.
Without a target, it was different from what had occurred on the battlefield.
Had he cut only flesh?
Or had he cut space itself?
What had been that sensation of dividing above and below?
He wished to understand the substance of that feeling.
He swung the sword again, seeking to enter a state of no-self (無我).
Perhaps in that state, an answer to the question tormenting him would appear.
Could what had no answer in this world be answered there?
He sincerely hoped so.
It was a matter that must be confronted with the mind at its highest clarity.
To crouch and merely grind one's thoughts would only breed darker imaginings.
He reasoned systematically.
Rite (禮) is the standard of the human world.
Law (法) is the standard of the state.
Heaven (天) is the order above.
Then what governs the battlefield?
Killing (殺)?
Annihilation (滅)?
He shook his head.
Neither sufficed.
A strong wind passed his ears.
It felt as though he had emerged from a long tunnel.
He realized something:
he now stood at a position where simple standards no longer sufficed.
Those who fought below required clear rules.
But one who had crossed into the realm of transformation (化境) must live by a different measure.
If a person who holds power lives by the ordinary standard, the world collapses.
He asked himself:
How must I live?
What standard governs one who has stepped beyond the common boundary?
Is my very existence a transgression (不法)?
No answer came.
It was something he must discover himself.
Pre-made answers do not exist.
What people call truth is often deeply subjective.
Gagyeongpil, mindful of Soun, sent a few men to remain nearby.
They settled where Soun had stopped.
The battle had been fierce.
The Baekryongdae had suffered losses.
The disparity in numbers had been great.
They had won, but many were wounded.
Lee Hui sent patrols along the perimeter to secure safety.
He dispatched riders through the night to report victory to the Jin estate.
While Soun sat turning his sword in slow arcs, several men lit a fire and hung a small pot.
They needed to eat something.
They had not missed meals, but warm food had been rare.
They had survived on jerky and ground grain while fighting.
Now they needed warmth.
Yang Johwi took the lead in building the fire.
There was no longer any need to fear flame.
The meadow, dotted with short grass and sparse trees, felt open and cool.
As the campfire rose, the men drifted toward it almost unconsciously.
There was light.
There might be food.
There were the faces of comrades, clearer in the glow.
No one explained why they gathered.
They simply followed the memory of warmth and came closer to the fire.