529.
That night, Seong-jin unpacked his gear in the quarters assigned to him.
He deployed the martial detachment throughout Manwoldae.
For internal identification, he secured Gyeonryong Guard attire, but most delayed wearing it.
Instead, they unified their markings with cords tied at the shoulder.
Outside, the sound of iron armor brushing together rang out at irregular intervals.
The palace maintained the appearance of calm.
Yet the air trembled faintly, like a thin film of ripples on water.
Change was imminent.
Once inside the palace, Park Seong-jin did not remain in one place.
He quietly swept through the guard zones assigned to the Gyeonryong Guard.
As he approached, their eyes flickered ever so slightly.
Without a word exchanged, tension surfaced on their faces.
They know who I am.
At that moment, Seong-jin lightly opened his presence.
There was no sound.
Pressure spread, as though the surrounding air sank downward.
Several guards lost the rhythm of their breathing.
Those with weaker resolve stumbled back, losing their balance.
Perhaps this is how it feels when a tiger from the plains walks among small dogs.
They tucked their tails and shrank between their hind legs.
Seong-jin moved toward the center of Manwoldae.
He walked along the main axis from Sinbong Gate through Janghap Gate to Hoegyeong Gate.
Descending from Hoegyeongjeon to Janghwajeon and then to Wondeokjeon,
he imprinted at a glance the soldiers' positions, momentum, eyes, and the name tags hanging at their shoulders.
"I'll check again at the shift change."
He murmured this while inspecting the western sector as well—
the area entrusted to Song I-sul.
The western side of Hoegyeongjeon was effectively a living zone.
He linked Buyeo Palace, Gyelim Palace, and Jeokgyeong Palace into a single line and stationed personnel accordingly.
Some were dispersed toward the eastern Chunggung and Dongji areas.
The palace was vast.
Even with the elite warriors Seong-jin had brought, gaps inevitably formed.
Until the rear detachment arrived, they would have to hold.
Once reinforcements came, they would rotate immediately, sending rested personnel back to the main camp.
"Where will the headquarters be?" Song I-sul asked.
Seong-jin pointed to the highest ground.
"The Forbidden Garden is suitable."
The northern headquarters was set in the Forbidden Garden behind Wondeokjeon—
deep within the palace, yet able to deploy immediately to the east, west, or north.
When Seong-jin requested several tents from Yoon Dam, Yoon shook his head.
"With all these halls, tents of all things…
That's no small trouble."
Seong-jin did not smile.
A hall was the palace's space.
A tent was the battlefield's space.
At this moment, the distinction was clear.
By the time deployment was finished, the sun was slanting low.
Palace shadows stretched long, and the sky's color cooled rapidly.
It was the season when days shortened.
The sooner night fell, the sooner events moved.
Seong-jin said to Yoon Dam,
"You may begin now."
"Move boldly."
"Ha ha ha."
It was laughter ill-suited to the hour or the situation.
Yet Yoon Dam asked nothing further.
In the most delicate moments, Seong-jin wore that expression.
Paradoxically, it steadied the heart.
Yoon Dam trusted Seong-jin completely.
In every difficult moment, he had been there.
Where Seong-jin stood, the weight of worry grew lighter.
That day, Yoon Dam summoned all key officials to the palace.
When the order came to submit resignation letters, the entire hall erupted.
"What have I done wrong?"
"This is absurd!"
Complaints burst out everywhere.
Yet when they heard that everyone must submit, hands hurried to brushes.
Some tried not to stand out.
Many simply watched others' reactions.
This, of all things, went smoothly.
Once one person wrote, a line formed behind him, passing through in order.
That very smoothness was what made it chilling.
It was not loyalty that formed the line, but survival.
The king looked down coldly from the throne.
No one dared raise their voice further.
One man resisted to the end.
"I will not write!"
The king immediately declared,
"Dismiss him."
As those who refused were summarily removed, the air froze.
The officials' eyes darted between one another.
No further resistance emerged.
Everyone understood: the letters would be collected first, then selections made.
Dismissal was worse than resignation with a sliver of hope.
There was also the gambler's thought—
It's a blanket resignation. Maybe I'll be fine later.
Officials of the Ministry of Personnel under the Secretariat and censors from the Office of the Inspector-General sat side by side.
Stacks of resignation letters piled up on the table.
They opened dossiers and personnel records, matching names, posts, charges, and service histories one by one.
Even as night deepened, the line did not shorten.
Submitting a resignation became a test of loyalty.
Some pretended they had not received word and vanished.
Some turned back at the palace gate.
Others slipped away and hid in city teahouses.
Rare in the army—common in bureaucratic society.
Flight was not an attempt to dodge a blade,
but an instinct to avoid responsibility.
Hong Sa-gyeom of the Directorate of Armaments held out with Choe Sang-do.
"Your Majesty."
"We have committed no wrongdoing."
"We cannot submit resignations."
The king commanded firmly,
"Dismiss them for insubordination."
Before the words fully fell, Choe Sang-do picked up his brush.
A resignation letter appeared.
Those who held out had calculations.
Those who broke had fear.
The king sat unmoving upon the throne, gazing down at the scene.
No trace of emotion crossed his face.