569.
At the moment the last samurai of the command group fell beneath Park Seong-jin's blade, the air of the battlefield changed.
The battlefield stopped.
The clash of steel, the thunder of hooves, even the frantic footsteps of those trying to survive—
all of it sank, as though pressed beneath a thin membrane, slowly settling into silence.
A single image burned itself into the eyes of the surviving Wa troops.
Their commander, their strongest samurai, veterans who had survived decades of warfare—
all cut down by one man.
That man did not stand atop a horse.
He wore no heavy armor.
With a single blade, he split their formation.
One Wa soldier dropped his sword.
Clatter.
Clang.
The small sound rolled clearly across the battlefield.
The Wa were a regular army.
They wore the face of bandits, but inside stood on samurai tradition.
They had only one measure.
Was their lord still standing?
If the lord stood, they would hold formation even when pushed into hell.
If the lord fell, the wick of the formation went out.
Across the battlefield, the Wa turned their heads toward one another.
"…The oyabun… is dead…"
"…It's over… it's finished…"
Hands gripping swords trembled—then went still.
Strength drained away, and one by one they sank down.
Park Seong-jin found the sensation unfamiliar.
He had often seen armies rush forward in fury when their leader fell, charging the enemy in blind vengeance.
But these were different.
They craned their necks to watch the commander's breath—
and the moment it stopped, they stopped with it.
Park Seong-jin placed his gaze briefly on the corpses of the command group, then slowly turned away.
A drop of blood fell from the tip of his blade.
—Tuk.
At that instant, the entire Wa force collapsed toward him.
It was not prostration.
It was as though strength had drained from their legs, dust rising as they crumpled.
Thud—thud—
the sound of armor striking armor rang out together, like something massive breaking apart from within.
One man shouted,
"Mōsuyo!!"
(Surrender!)
Voices overlapped behind him.
"Surrender!"
"We surrender!"
"Mōsuyooo!!"
They dropped to the ground, pushing their swords forward and throwing them down.
A few samurai still had their blades raised—
but from behind them, already kneeling comrades grabbed their arms.
"Stop… you'll die…"
"The oyabun is dead… our hands are loosened…"
A sword slipped from a hand.
Thud.
The face that lost its weapon froze like ice.
The soldiers of the Cheon'gi Unit walked forward slowly.
Not with the steps of executioners, but with the steps of collecting the surrendered.
The Wa did not resist.
They bowed their heads deeply, loosening the straps of their armor with trembling hands,
then raised their hands before the Cheon'gi Unit—
the sign of surrender.
Park Seong-jin spoke quietly.
"Drop your weapons and kneel. It ends here."
Before the words had fully landed, dozens folded to their knees at once.
The scene revealed exactly why they had fought—and why they had stopped.
A battlefield built on the structure of a regular army folded in a single motion when its head was cut off.
Cheon'gi soldiers took up ropes and began quietly binding the wrists of those lying prone.
Over the lifeless formation, only the hands tying knots continued to move.
Victory's shout did not last long.
Before the Cheon'gi soldiers could even strip off their blood-soaked armor,
a new report pressed down on the command tent.
"General! The nearby towns… all of them… burned…"
Park Seong-jin took the document.
His fingers paused for a moment.
The edge of the paper seemed dusted with ash.
He led twenty cavalrymen into the first village.
Hooves crushed half-burned wood.
Crack…
Crack…
Crunch…
Mud, ash, and splintered timber scraped against one another.
Along the roadside, piles of ash rose to the height of a man.
Only rafters remained of the thatched houses; the walls had collapsed.
Household goods lay tangled together, strewn about.
Cooking pots lay overturned, blackened with soot.
The chicken coop behind one yard had lost its door.
There were no chickens.
No dogs.
No people.
"They… reached even here."
Park Seong-jin's words thinned and scattered in the air.
A soldier pushed open a door.
A charred scrap of hemp cloth fluttered weakly.
The jars in the kitchen yard were all shattered.
Crack—crack—
Shards caught at the soldiers' boots.
"They could've just opened the lids…
they smashed everything."
Park Seong-jin picked up a shard of pottery embedded in the ground.
Black ash stained his fingertips.
He closed his eyes once—then opened them.
His jaw set, just slightly.
In the next village, a scout called out,
"General—here… look."
Behind a thatched shed lay a heap of wool, chicken feathers, and dog bones mixed together.
The wind stirred, scattering feathers.
A soldier said quietly,
"They must've caught and eaten them… there was no food left."
Park Seong-jin lifted his head.
"Any sign of people?"
"They seem to have fled to the mountain fortress."
He exhaled slowly.
His shoulders lowered by the smallest margin.
The Cheon'gi Unit moved from village to village.
Burned thatched roofs.
Blackened jar stands.
Clothing ripped from drying lines.
Broken mats.
Empty sheds.
Water pooled in wells.
Dug-up stables.
Tangled farm tools.
Severed ropes.
Torn doors.
A bamboo tray lying in the road.
One soldier bit his lip.
"Is this… what war looks like?"
Park Seong-jin did not answer.
He placed his hand slowly atop a collapsed jar stand.
The broken ceramic was cold against his palm.
Officers handling post-battle matters hurried over.
"General! Most weapons and armor have been recovered!"
"Supplies?"
"We've sorted what can still be used. The rest has been handed to Imokim."
"Good."
Park Seong-jin stepped forward again, ash crunching beneath his feet.
Passing the northern exit of the village, the Cheon'gi Unit looked back once.
Ash drifted.
Broken pillars leaned at an angle in the setting sun.
Black soot lay scattered across each house site.
Park Seong-jin mounted his horse.
He pulled the reins and looked over the cavalry.
He raised his hand, indicating direction.
"We go to the next town."
The Cheon'gi Unit moved out slowly.
Hooves receded along the ash-covered road.
Behind them, only the wind remained,
passing once over the burned scent before moving on.