They were swept away.
At the far end of the gentle ridgeline stretching north of Jinju stood a small mountain fortress that had been used since the early days of Goryeo.
In ordinary times it was little more than a ruin, a "discarded fort" with only traces left.
But this autumn, it had become Jinju's last breathing hole.
As Park Seong-jin's party began climbing toward it, the grain of the wind changed first.
Unlike the rotten smoke and burned ash that lay over the coast, unlike the reek of fish and shellfish left to spoil, this place carried the thin scent of human bodies that had stayed too long.
Hunger and fear tangled into a trapped smell, rising faintly from the cracks in the stone wall.
The gate was shut.
Spear tips jittered on the watchtower above.
"Th—Goryeo troops!"
An officer blew a horn twice.
A cautious voice drifted down from the tower.
"Truly… truly, you're not Wa…?"
"I am Park Seong-jin, Middle Commander of the Cheon-gi Unit. I've come to verify the evacuees and discuss logistics."
Silence held for a moment.
Then the clank of a latch dropping echoed along the stone.
The gate opened a slit, and the stacked stones piled behind it were moved away with care.
Even a small gesture, even a single breath, showed how long fear had been accumulating.
The moment they pushed inside, the soldiers swallowed their breath.
Within the fortress, rough huts pressed together like a low tide frozen in place.
Children crouched beneath candlelight under a rock overhang.
A small cauldron simmered thin rice gruel, barely water.
It was not a place to demand supplies.
It was a place where what existed had to be opened and given, just to keep people alive.
Elders in frayed clothes, faces dried and dulled, leaned against the stone.
Bodies lay in layers, asleep with their strength emptied out.
A woman holding a child looked up at Park Seong-jin.
She had the face of a washerwoman you could see on any hill in any village.
Her eyes were inflamed red.
"Truly… soldiers…? Those aren't Wa garments… are they…?"
Park Seong-jin nodded slowly.
"We are Goryeo troops. The Wa have been pushed back inland, and the coastal bands are being hunted down."
At those words, the woman collapsed to the ground.
Still holding her child, she began to cry without sound.
That crying spread.
Children, elders, grown men—then the entire fortress trembled as if shaking in a single breath.
A middle-aged man, said to be the fortress's spokesman, stepped forward.
His clothes were in rags, his back bent and stiff.
"Middle Commander… we are ashamed. We could not stop them by fighting. We fled and ended up here."
Park Seong-jin asked, "How long?"
"…A month and twenty days. At first we thought they'd withdraw in half a month. But this time they won't leave. They've been rampaging too long. They burned the houses, and even those who survived were taken. Outside the gates, screams and the crying of horses could be heard all day."
"The coastal villages?"
The spokesman lowered his head.
"They were swept away. While Jinju's troops could not go out, the people fled. Few remain. Even if we return, there's nothing left to salvage."
Eyes inside the fortress gathered on Park Seong-jin's face.
Resentment swelled up to the throat but did not become speech.
They were the eyes of people who knew what retaliation followed the moment blame was named.
And yet, simply seeing an army brought a faint breath of hope, like a thin draft passing through.
Park Seong-jin walked to the center.
People parted to either side.
Children peeked from behind, showing only their faces.
He climbed onto a high rock.
"All of you here—survivors—have held on," he said.
"That alone is a mercy."
The evacuees held their breath.
"The Wa will be driven out soon. We will take the villages back."
"Those who lost their houses will build again."
"Those who lost their fields will plow again."
He closed his eyes once, then opened them.
Somewhere among the crowd, small, dry clapping began.
It spread into a sound mixed with sobbing, and the air inside the fortress loosened little by little.
That night, a camp was raised on the plain beneath the fortress.
Evacuees and soldiers sat around the same fires and shared food.
The troops divided fish they had caught.
Women passed warm porridge to children.
Those whose voices had dried out at last let out long breaths.
Park Seong-jin sat alone on a rock, looking down at the fortress in the dark.
"We have to hold," he murmured. "No matter what."
His hand, without thinking, rested on the hilt of his saber.
The pressure in his fingertips deepened, and resolve settled like stone.
He could not lift his head beneath the misery strewn everywhere across this land.
There had to be a measure.
If it became this way at every harvest, how could anyone keep a livelihood, build a household, raise a family.
The next morning, drumbeats—rare within Jinju's walls—rang out.
People stepped aside.
Men swept and cleared the roadway.
Word spread that the magistrate was holding a feast for the punitive force, and the whole town stirred.
That stirring was less welcome than trembling—fear mixed with flattery.
Outside the walls was ruin, but inside there were still tiled roofs.
A few vendors sat scattered in the market alley.
The fish at the stalls had dried out.
The hands of an old man selling straw shoes were slick with seeped sores.
The clothes of children by the roadside smelled of rice-bran gruel.
The city looked alive, but only the way a face looks alive when it tries not to collapse.
The magistrate of Jinju rushed into the courtyard wearing a red official robe, a black headpiece, even a fish-shaped badge at his belt.
The attire carried the shine of an exaggerated dignity.
He rubbed his hands together and pasted on a smile.
"General, you have labored greatly in battle. The people of this town will not forget your grace. Please honor us, even if the feast is unworthy."
Park Seong-jin answered low.
"It is wartime."
The magistrate hurried to add,
"The influential families pooled funds."
A beautiful lute sounded.
Entertainers sat in a crescent and danced.
Local clerks and powerful men from nearby districts sat at the banquet.
Their laughter was thin.
Their eyes gleamed with calculation.
"With the punitive force here, Jinju is secure."
"If we see the General's face, the Wa will flee in fear."
Each line carried the smell of flattery.
Words that scattered responsibility drifted lightly above the wine.
In the magistrate's gold cup, clear medicinal liquor trembled.
Park Seong-jin did not lift his cup.
Before him rose yesterday's mountain fortress.
The burned foundations.
Children too dry even for tears.
The hands of elders dividing boiled greens and thin porridge.
A singer's song brushed his ear coldly.
The commanders lifted their cups, but only wet their lips.
The feast's merriment sank heavy, like the hollow weight of a funeral.
When a cold wind rattled the papered door, the door burst open.
"Magistrate—report!"
The food on the table seemed to stop breathing.
"What is it?"
A messenger, soaked in sweat, said,
"The enemy approaches from the west. Stragglers from Paeju and Seungju are gathering along the fields. Their numbers are not small."
The magistrate's face drained white.
"On foot…?"
The messenger nodded.
"Those who lost their ships have attached themselves to the land."
The magistrate sprang up.
"Secure the gates first!"
His voice cracked.
Park Seong-jin spoke low.
"A gate alone will not stop them."
The magistrate's eyes had already lost their way inside fear.
The feast collapsed like a room whose candles had gone out.
The entertainers froze with fingers on their strings.
The powerful men rose and watched one another's faces.
Park Seong-jin stood slowly.
Winter wind slipped through the doorway and shook the lamps.
"Magistrate," he said,
"now we must give the fight its shape."
He stepped outside.
Behind him, meat and wine cooled in the cold air.
Toward evening, a pale band of dust stretched across the western fields of Jinju.
It was not the dust of hooves.
It was the dust of thousands of feet grinding dry earth.
Each time the wind shifted, broken shouts spilled through the dust—hunger and rage tangled together.
Park Seong-jin climbed onto the wooden platform and stared at the horizon.
"Scout leader."
"Yes, General."
"Split in pairs and seep in. Confirm their number and condition. Then return."
"Understood."
Scouts in black clothing melted into the shadows of the city.
Their footsteps vanished like down feathers.
By dusk, the first pair returned drenched in blood.
"Medic!" someone shouted.
One scout's shoulder was torn open.
The other gasped, his face smeared with mud.
Park Seong-jin asked, "Numbers."
The scout said with trembling lips,
"Thousands."
As the second pair arrived, the report continued.
"Stragglers from Paeju and Seungju have tangled together into a single mass. There are too many banners; distinctions blur. They're moving to find food."
The third pair added,
"They have no horses. All of them walk. They're persistent. They move as if licking the fields clean."
Officers and commanders inside Jinju spread a map.
Song I-jeong spoke first.
"That group is what remains of those who survived the battles."
A commander clenched his fist.
"Our force has many naval troops—"
Park Seong-jin raised a hand and cut him off.
"This is not the time to divide ourselves."
All eyes turned to him.
He pointed at the western fields on the map.
"That mass has no reason to retreat."
The air in the room hardened.
The magistrate said in a shaking voice,
"If we close the gates and endure…"
Park Seong-jin shook his head.
"A hungry mob will chew through walls."
Then, in a voice that left no gap, he said,
"We go out first."
"We break their marching feet."
That night, soldiers inside the city tightened their formations.
Naval troops strapped on unfamiliar infantry gear.
They gripped spears.
Archers tightened bowstrings again.
Commanders prepared cloth to cover their faces from dust.
If it came to it, there was a way to flee by ship.
Jinju's people pulled hard on that temptation.
As the night deepened, the sound from the west drew closer.
Park Seong-jin said quietly,
"Tomorrow, Jinju's fate is decided."