551.
The farther south they rode toward the sea, the first thing to sting the nose was not salt, but the smell of burning.
The hooves of a thousand horses cut down the road like wind, yet the scent reached them faster than their speed.
The smell of war.
A mixture of brine, burned timber, and oil—distinct even from afar.
The first harbor Park Seong-jin's force reached was entirely charred black.
The pier had lost its shape.
Ships had been dragged onto land and burned.
All the fishing nets were reduced to a few strands of blackened thread.
The only thing left intact was the smell of scorched ash carried on the wind.
Miraculously, there were no civilians in sight.
Song Yi-jeong had investigated first and reported back.
He was Song I-sul's younger brother, recently joined after returning from the distant north.
Since Song I-sul himself could not come, he had sent his brother to accompany Park Seong-jin.
"They all fled to the nearby mountain fortresses. Everyone survived."
Park Seong-jin let out a long breath.
That people had survived felt like a miracle atop these ruins.
But the land did not hide its devastation.
Farther south, another harbor appeared in ruins.
Here, the damage showed less burning and more destruction.
Window frames were punctured as if stabbed with awls.
Doors were split by axes.
Long drag marks—dozens of them—scored the ground,
as if people had run with every last ounce of strength to escape.
Yet Song Yi-jeong reported again.
"Here too—no people. They all went into the mountains."
The coastal folk had lived with waegu raids for generations.
They had learned to flee the moment the raiders appeared.
Because of that survival instinct, villages burned—but people lived.
That alone was something to be grateful for.
Life would be hard, but they had survived.
Still, what remained behind had not survived.
Boats flipped over like dead sharks.
Posts severed by blades.
Cauldrons torn apart.
Empty jars.
An apricot tree cut down, roots exposed.
War does not have to kill people to kill their lives.
The third ruin was worse than all the others.
It was buried not in sand, but in ash.
The sea itself had turned black.
The gentle waves carried not saltwater, but ash-stained slurry.
Fragments of fishing nets and broken pillars were scattered along the shore,
as though the sea itself had become the village's grave.
Some of the soldiers of the New Army swallowed dryly.
Even those who had lived by the sword as former private soldiers had never seen destruction on this scale.
Park Seong-jin spoke in a low voice.
"As long as the people lived, that's enough.
We'll restore the rest."
At those brief words, the soldiers' backs straightened slightly.
As the ruins continued, Park Seong-jin's perception sharpened.
Scattered energy.
Broken energy.
Energy cut off unjustly.
And threading through it all, like cross-hatched lines, was a single, razor-edged presence—
the aura of the waegu rising from the sea.
Park Seong-jin halted and looked out toward the distant water.
"We'll meet them soon."
The thousand warhorses drew in breath, forelegs braced,
as if they too had caught the scent of war.
The ruined southern coast told him one thing clearly:
Next, it's our turn.
A Black Shadow Driven into the Sea
Late afternoon—
as the boundary between sky and sea blurred,
the intelligence officer reined in hard and galloped up in a cloud of dust.
"Commander. Enemy ships confirmed on the coast twenty li south."
Park Seong-jin's eyes shifted slightly.
"How many?"
"Exactly one. But the way it's anchored isn't normal."
One ship.
Which was precisely why it demanded caution.
The waegu often sent a single small vessel first—for reconnaissance and initial landing—
with the main force following afterward.
Park Seong-jin turned his horse at once.
"I'll lead. Full speed—everyone."
The thousand hooves thundered toward the coast.
Once past the cliffs, gray sea fog rolled in.
At its center floated a single black dot, unmoving.
"That's it," the intelligence officer said, pointing.
Park Seong-jin's perception reacted instantly.
Within the sea wind, faint but honed—
a familiar yet foreign killing intent.
The presence of men who knew how to take lives.
It flowed from that ship on the water.
"It's an enemy vessel," Park Seong-jin said shortly.
The ship lay anchored, as if declaring there was no need to hurry.
Its sails were lowered.
No oars were visible.
But its form was unmistakable.
Helmet crests set along the sides.
Wooden hooks for hanging shields.
A ladder dangling beneath the hull.
Clear signs of organized disembarkation—
the waegu's standard landing posture.
They were already arranging the order of descent inside the ship.
Park Seong-jin watched in silence for a long moment, then murmured,
"We wait until they come down."
The timing of battle is not decided by us—
it is decided when the enemy emerges.
He moved the cavalry beneath the coastal cliffs and quietly deployed the formation.
When the wind shifted to blow from the ship's north side, the tattered flag aboard fluttered faintly.
At that moment, a few silhouettes stirred on deck.
Park Seong-jin lifted his gaze.
"There'll be about a hundred on that ship."
The intelligence officer exhaled tensely.
Even a hundred waegu, once landed, could drown a harbor in blood.
But Park Seong-jin did not rush.
"Let them land."
Song I-sul asked,
"Commander—will you receive them head-on?"
Park Seong-jin replied without moving,
"They disperse as they disembark. That's when they're weakest.
We don't fight at sea. We break them on land—decisively.
But we let enough come ashore first.
If we strike too early, they'll retreat by ship."
"Understood."
The soldiers settled into position.
The air froze, as if even breathing had stopped.
At last, the ladder on the enemy ship lowered toward the water.
They began to come down.