When the review ended, the Great General lowered his buweol.

  At that instant, the drums sounded.

  Dong—dong—dong—.

  The packed earth of the courtyard trembled.Heavy air stirred.Iron, horses, leather—their smells spread together.

  Everyone moved at once.

  Horses lifted their heads.Carts creaked.Soldiers’ feet struck the ground in unison.

  The march began.

  Dust rose and climbed into the sky.Within the red haze, banners snapped—red, blue, black—the colors of each detachment tangling in the wind.

  “Sungui Unit, Second Detachment—move out!”

  Hwang Hyeon-pil’s voice cut across the yard.

  “Forward!”“Forward!”“Forward!”

  Hooves moved together.The sound was deep—like a heart beating beneath the earth.

  From the saddle, Seongjin gripped the reins.

  The horse shuddered, then stepped forward.

  By instinct, he turned his head.

  Behind them, Botongwon’s roof caught the fading light.Before the gate, the banners of the hall still fluttered—sun and moon, lotus blossoms, flying celestial figures.

  Monks stood at the entrance.

  Were they praying?Chanting sutras?

  Or perhaps they spoke no words at all.

  Only sunlight clung faintly to their joined fingertips.

  Seongjin looked at them for a long moment.

  The days spent there,the wooden tag in his palm,the bell, the smoke—

  all rose together, then scattered.

  The horse moved on.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  Wind brushed his cheek.

  He looked back again.

  Botongwon’s roof was now half swallowed by dust.Above it, three crows took flight—westward, as if following the column.

  “If we come back…”Seongjin murmured softly.“Will we see it again?”

  The squad leader beside him replied,

  “No one knows.But everyone leaves believing they will.”

  Strangely, the words sounded like comfort.

  Seongjin turned forward.

  The western sky burned red.That light swept across the soldiers’ armor as it passed.

  The drums did not stop.

  Dong—dong—dong—.

  Horses, carts, and men stretched into a single line of shadows.In the dust, golden armor gleamed faintly in the distance,the light thinning as it dissolved into the sky.

  Seongjin looked back one last time.

  The gate of Botongwon was closing.

  Slowly—but unmistakably.

  Dust seeped through the narrowing seam.A single beam of sunlight vanished.

  He closed his eyes.

  Iron and leather.The breath of horses.The pulse of drums.

  Overlapping in his ears.

  He knew then:

  he might become a name that would never return.

  Even so, the horse kept moving forward.

  Seongjin rested his body against its back,steadied his breathing,and lifted his gaze to the far western sky.

  “Loyalty.Son of Park Jinsul,younger brother of Park Seongil.”

  The fire-control officer rode up at a gallop.

  “Park Seongjin?”

  “Loyalty.Son of Park Jinsul,younger brother of Park Seongil.”

  He had repeated those words too many times already.

  His father’s name.His brother’s name.And the phrase younger brother.

  Each time they left his mouth,he felt less like a person—more like the residue of a lineage.

  The officer nodded.

  “I fought with him in the last war.”

  Seongjin’s lips trembled—just slightly.

  Why was it only my father who died?

  The question rose, then sank without sound.

  “He was a formidable man,”the officer said.

  After a pause, he added,

  “He died without a scream.”

  “Thank you.”

  Seongjin did not look at him.

  He stared toward the far northern fields.If he did not, he felt he might collapse.

  Emotion comes later.For now, he is a soldier.

  “I want to hear,”Seongjin said quietly,“how my father died.”

  The officer was silent for a moment.

  “All right.”

  His voice lowered.

  “The Red Turbans crossed the Nok River. Unexpectedly.They called themselves an Army of Righteousness.”

  “An army becomes bandits quickly,”he continued.“As soon as they crossed, they pillaged.”

  “We advanced.They circled.”

  “Before our lines settled, they struck the flank.Arrows—dozens, hundreds—at close range.”

  “There was no time to block.No time to return fire.”

  Seongjin’s hand tightened on the reins.

  “What was the fire-control officer doing?”he asked.“Why couldn’t we respond?”

  The officer’s face twisted—just for an instant.

  “We thought the dust was a feint.”

  “We misjudged the timing.They waited until our first volley ended.”

  No apology.No regret.

  Only explanation.

  As if that were all war ever allowed.

  Within that cold account,his father existed not as a life—but as the result of a tactical error.

  The officer added, belatedly,

  “Death is always close on the battlefield.”

  “Before you waste time blaming others,protect your own life.”

  “Loyalty.”

  Seongjin’s reply was brief.

  He drew the reins and faced forward.

  The officer watched him for a moment longer,then rode away.

  Wind lashed Seongjin’s face.

  Dust and sunlight blurred together.He could not tell whether it was sweat or tears.

  The horse’s breath burned hot.

  The drums sounded again.

  Dong—dong—.

  The column moved west.

  Seongjin knew it then.

  Something inside him had cooled again—quietly,irrevocably.

  Daejanggun (大將軍) and Sangjanggun (上將軍) were core military offices of the Goryeo central army, organized as the Two Armies and Six Guards (二軍六衛).

  Buwol (斧鉞) was an axe symbolizing full authority, bestowed by a ruler to grant absolute power over life and death (生死與奪權).

  Most commonly, it was conferred upon a supreme commander before going to war.