flame and smoke.
"Don't just stand there staring. We start again."
The gun captain drove them hard.
"Bore cleaning—now. Prepare the powder charge. Prepare the shot. Twice the speed. No mistakes. Not one."
The cleaning rod went back into the barrel.
The paper-wrapped charge followed.
From the gun beside them, another cannon roared.
KWAAANG—!!!
The entire bay of Seungju was swallowed by flame and smoke.
The Japanese ships struck by shot began to list one after another.
A Goryeo gunner, teeth clenched around the lanyard, growled,
"I'll fire again."
The Daehan master gunner gave a short laugh.
"Good. Today, let's fire until the only reason we stop is that there's no ship left to shoot."
In Seungju's crescent-curved bay, dozens of Japanese ships floated deep inside.
The Goryeo–Daehan allied line, with Haechil at its head, pivoted quietly into a broadside line.
Their port flank opened toward the enemy like one enormous black mouth.
Along each ship's port deck, cannon muzzles gaped in a row.
Two great guns.
Four heavy guns.
Three light guns.
Nine in total.
Behind each breech, loaders, igniters, spongers, and ammunition hands knelt at their stations, one knee down, breath held.
The fire-control commander was reading the wind, the waves, the range, and the enemy's formation.
In front of the muzzles, wind-screens were fixed in place, pressed down so no light would leak.
Only two things moved.
The captain's voice—and the controller's.
The controller's low call rolled across the deck.
"Port battery—stand by."
All gun crews moved at once.
The barrels adjusted by a hair.
A sharp kik— sounded from the deck.
The spongers pressed the barrels down and locked them.
The loaders rechecked the shot's seating.
"Charge confirmed."
"Confirmed."
"Wadding confirmed."
"Confirmed."
"Shot seated."
"Seated."
Short, razor replies flowed under the deck like a current.
"Aim."
Enemy targets split into categories—belly, mast, rudder.
Each gun mouth held its own point of death.
The artillery adviser muttered,
"That ship—about ninety jang. That one—one-twenty. Wind northeast, three pun. Maintain assigned elevation."
The barrels trembled faintly on leather-strapped rests.
The crews sank lower, matching the deck's sway.
The controller gripped a red flag.
Every gaze pinned itself to it.
The flag rose, slowly.
Wind brushed the frayed edge.
"Fire."
The flag reached head height.
Breath severed across the line.
"Fire."
The flag snapped down.
In that instant, thunder detonated across the entire port side at once.
KWAAAAAAANG—!!!
KWA-KWA-KWA-KWA-KWA—!!!
White smoke and flame speared out from the muzzles.
Nine guns in a line exhaled fire like a single giant dragon.
The hull shoved hard to the left.
The deck lurched.
Barrels kicked back, slamming the carriages with a brutal clang.
Every crew braced into the recoil, feet and knees biting the deck.
Far ahead, shells tore wood and bone before water could even splash.
One ship's belly split—seawater surged in at once.
Another lost its mast—samurai on deck fell straight into the sea.
Another burst at the stern—its rudder shattered—then it pitched like a creature breaking its neck.
Water columns and timber shards erupted high into the air.
Screams tangled with shouted orders.
Some ships began to lean on the spot, as if bowing into death.
The enemy line lost its formation in a single breath.
"Reload!"
The controller barked.
"Port battery—full reload. Speed is priority."
Crews seized the cleaning rods and drove them back into the barrels.
Spongers lock the muzzle.
Powder-men insert the charge.
Ammo-men ready the shot.
Igniters clear the vent.
Not a single gun fell out of step.
They turned together like a windmill.
The Daehan adviser said quietly, almost satisfied,
"Now you look like a fleet."
From a higher point, the fire-control officer shouted again.
"Port guns ready. Fire."
KWAAAAAANG—!!
The entire crescent bay shook.
The first shell struck the center of a moored Japanese ship.
Wood exploded into splinters like fireworks.
The mast snapped.
Fragments rained down like a storm.
The ship tipped.
The sea swallowed it.
Pirates on deck flailed like ants, limbs churning.
Those who tore off armor swam.
Those who clung to armor sank.
"Second salvo."
KWA-RRRRUNG—!!
Two ships burst at once.
Flame shot up like lightning, licking through rigging.
Burning oil spilled into the water.
On the surface, scales of fire spread outward.
Eyes froze.
Bodies froze.
In the smoke, there came that moment when the enemy's dying became visible.
After the guns spoke, the bay filled with white smoke.
The wind here was weak—yet the Japanese ships caught fire quickly.
Even inside the smoke, Park Seong-jin held the enemy's shape.
What reached him first was not sight—it was sound.
The aftershock of the blasts struck the bay walls and returned as a low woong, carrying the tremor of water and wood.
His body measured that tremor—its size, its direction.
A shell punched through a ship's belly.
A dull, heavy breaking followed.
A short, sharp scream stopped mid-breath.
There was the sound of a deck sinking.
That order was the order of sinking.
A little later, the wind slid sideways and the smoke thinned.
Park Seong-jin confirmed the silhouettes.
One ship leaned left.
Its yardarm dropped toward the water.
The rigging, gouged and torn, spun like a whirlpool.
A finished ship.
Another ship's stern vanished for a beat—then wham, a water pillar rose.
A shell had smashed the stern.
Without a rudder, the ship shuddered.
An irregular convulsion remained on the surface.
Control had broken.
Then he saw what came next—masts wavering behind the smoke.
Some angled for escape.
Some spread oars, desperate to regain balance.
His eyes read the smallest tremors.
If a mast tilted up and left, it meant the ship was trying to catch wind.
If the mast dipped once, it meant men were rushing in a mass to one side.
And there was one ship whose sail barely moved at all.
A commander's ship.
Its motion had frozen.
That freeze was fear.
The wind pushed again, peeling the smoke away.
The enemy's center appeared.
The central great ship was listing.
Two ships on either side collided and tangled.
Ships behind tried to flee—but in the narrow bay they blocked one another's path.
Park Seong-jin drew a long breath.
Not yet.
The enemy line had collapsed.
But the remnants still moved.
If he pressed now, the routed men would scatter and run ashore.
The coast would drown in blood.
If he slowed now, they would recover balance.
A wave slid under their hull.
The ship lifted—just slightly.
He read the change in weight.
Now.
"Starboard—reform, then advance. Cut in on a diagonal."
He said it low.
The captains were already moving.
Before his words could even finish turning into "orders," the ships were already taking their angles.
In the smoke, a man reading death by its shape—
Park Seong-jin stood exactly there.