baesu-jin. -fighting with one's back to the river
A military strategy where troops are positioned with a river or obstacle behind them, leaving no route of retreat, forcing them to fight with absolute determination.
Just past noon, the forest path ended.
The view opened wide.
A small, rounded hill rose like a gate.
Below it, in a shallow hollow, five hundred Wa pressed their backs to the slope and held.
Swords, spears, and bows were aligned.
It was a proper battle line.
Park Seong-jin muttered,
"Another baesu-jin."
Song I-jeong clenched his teeth.
"They've abandoned the will to run."
Park nodded.
The first to fly were the Wa arrows.
Swish—swish—swish—swish.
Short, tight impacts.
The range and penetration were lacking.
Goryeo arrows answered.
Piyung—!
Hwiik—!
Thud—thud—thud—!
Three men in the Wa front rank fell at once.
A Wa commander shouted,
"Back! Fall back!"
The entire enemy line stepped two or three paces uphill along the slope.
They were trying to correct the range.
It still didn't reach.
Park said,
"Aimed fire."
"Understood!"
The Goryeo archers raised their bows as if practicing.
Without any volley signal, arrows went out one by one.
Scattered kills dropped the enemy steadily.
The Wa were pushed back helplessly.
Their arrows lost strength in midair and stuck into the ground.
Park's voice settled low.
"Prepare."
Hundreds of arrowheads tilted toward the sky.
"Fire."
Having confirmed the range with the opening shots, the Goryeo arrow rain poured down like wind and rain.
Crack—!
Shaaak—!
The formation below the hill wavered.
Men rushed in from behind to fill the fallen gaps.
The line held.
It could not hold forever.
Faces that could no longer block began to shake.
They had resolved to die, and fear showed alongside it.
The Wa commander screamed hoarsely,
"Hold! Hold the line! Don't give ground!"
The front could not advance even half a step.
The difference in range decided the course of the fight.
The Wa blocked, were pushed back, blocked again, and were pushed again.
Each time, Goryeo stepped closer and fired again.
The cycle repeated.
Song I-jeong said,
"General, we're spending a lot of arrows."
Park replied,
"They chose this ground. We'll recover them."
As more arrows fell, a howl burst from the Wa front line.
"Aaaargh! At this rate we die! Charge!"
The formation shook.
Iron, leather, and wood collided.
At one point, fifty or so men burst out.
Faces smeared with blood.
Broken spears.
Armor straps hanging loose.
They charged with the desperation of men with nothing left.
Song I-jeong shouted,
"General, the enemy is breaking through!"
Park lifted his spear from horseback.
"They're coming."
His eyes caught the next motion.
"So they finally come out."
---*
About fifty Wa charged like madmen.
Bloodshot eyes shook.
Teeth chattered in ragged breaths.
It was not an army, but a wave of starving beasts.
"Uooooooo—!"
Park barked,
"Lances—form!"
The spear points on horseback tilted to the same angle.
Steel tips caught the sunlight, linking into a single line of light.
The breathing of both forces swallowed the air.
The distance collapsed all at once.
Thirty jang.
Twenty.
Ten.
Park said,
"Charge!"
Hooves struck first.
Dozens followed.
The vibration spread.
Dudung—!
Dudung—!
Dududududung—!!
The Wa flinched for an instant.
They couldn't stop.
They collided.
Thud—!
Crack—!
Before the sound of flesh tearing, the sound of shells breaking came first.
The front-rank Wa were hit by spear points and folded at the torso.
Short bodies were lifted into the air.
When they fell, arms and legs bent at unnatural angles.
Those behind trampled over them and fell.
Each time a spear struck, blood burst.
Blood splashed over armor.
One Wa, impaled on a spear, still lunged forward.
A cavalryman slammed his horse's flank into him, knocking him aside.
He hit the ground—thud.
A returning hoof crushed his back.
Bang.
The torso caved in.
The difference between heavy cavalry and leather armor was overwhelming.
About thirty surviving Wa forced their way in.
The cavalry immediately cut speed.
They choked up on their spears.
The flow shifted into close combat.
It was not that they were poor at it.
From Liaodong to the Central Plains to Jiangnan,
they were, if anything, well practiced.
One Wa rolled beneath a horse, slashing at its ankle.
The horse reared and stamped the man's face.
Bones collapsed.
The sound ended first.
He fell to a spear.
Was trampled by hooves.
Slipped in a comrade's blood.
Scattered like dust before the charge.
They held.
With the resolve that their deaths would let those behind live.
From the rear, another roar erupted.
"Oooooooo!!!"
The second wave filled the space left by the first.
They hurled themselves into the furnace of death.
Song I-jeong screamed,
"General, their line doesn't end!"
Park's spear tip flicked.
He stabbed one.
Turned and shoved two aside.
Dragged the shaft back and cut the third man's throat.
He did not sway in the saddle.
Only cold concentration remained—
the focus of someone tidying up a fight.
Park said,
"Push. If we push, it ends."
The cavalry roared as one,
"Puuuuush—!"
With that single surge, the Wa's frenzied assault line snapped—
and collapsed in a heap.
When charging, they were mad beasts.
Once broken, they were less than stray dogs.