think of life itself as a journey.
The merchant unfolded the bamboo slips again.
As if comparing, he flicked a glance at Park Seong-jin.
At first glance, Park looked like a man with an easy smile—
someone who had finished a bowl of broth and stretched out on tatami,
a relaxed traveler passing through.
But the way he had answered earlier lingered.
"I was only smiling," he had said.
"I wasn't mocking you."
That tone was rare in this land.
The cadence at the end of his words was soft.
The choice of vocabulary carried weight.
The sentence structure belonged to someone long trained in letters.
The merchant asked again.
"…Are you a traveler?"
Park Seong-jin answered briefly.
"I am."
"I tend to think of life itself as a journey."
Short.
Plain.
Yet even in that plainness, a trained resonance remained.
The merchant's eyes narrowed slightly.
A Hirado trader—
a man who had sailed and bartered for decades,
one who could weigh a person's worth at first glance.
Inside, he muttered.
—This man has held a sword for a long time.
The tendons on the back of his hand.
The calluses along the inner arm.
Those were the marks of training.
His movements were too light.
His breathing steady.
A fighter carries battle posture even while seated.
When that thought landed, cold sweat formed along the merchant's back.
He opened the bamboo slips again.
Notes on Hakata officials.
Hirado guild leaders.
The speech patterns of samurai who had crossed into Karatsu.
Mixed among them—
information labeled "Goryeo warrior."
"…Strange," the merchant said slowly, looking at Park.
"But your manner of speaking—"
Park straightened his upper body.
Only his posture changed.
Yet it felt as if the center of the room had shifted.
The merchant's throat trembled.
Song Yijeong's gaze changed.
A hand settled near his waist, behind his back.
The air in the udon shop froze.
The merchant inhaled carefully.
The man who overturned this land had come.
The one who took Iki Island and Tsushima had come.
People always said the same thing.
"When your eyes meet his, your breath stops."
The merchant was feeling it now.
Breath flowed—
then cut.
Park Seong-jin neither mocked nor guarded.
He was calm.
A storm hid inside that calm.
"…Perhaps," the merchant's voice trembled.
The old man stopped his hands and looked at him.
Song Yijeong stepped one pace forward.
"…Perhaps, you—"
The merchant's lips moved.
The words did not come.
Park Seong-jin's eyes narrowed slightly.
It was not intentional.
Just a natural gaze.
For the merchant, that was enough.
He was certain.
—This is the most dangerous man in this land.
The merchant bowed his head.
"…You're from Goryeo, aren't you?"
Park Seong-jin gave a short chuckle.
"I said I was a traveler."
That answer tightened the merchant's chest even more.
Song Yijeong nodded—just barely.
The merchant closed the bamboo slips quietly.
"…May I offer you a drink?"
His voice trembled like a shipmaster confessing after a storm.
Park Seong-jin folded his legs and sat back on the tatami.
"What is it you want to know?"
The merchant answered without thinking.
"My trade makes me curious by nature."
"I'm a broker."
"Information is money."
"If so—
to whom does information become money?"
His eyes blinked too often.
He pulled out the thin bamboo slips again.
Black ink lines wavered across them.
One section bore a name, written thickly.
Park Seong-jin (朴成鎭)
The merchant traced the description.
Age.
Eyes.
Hands.
Gait.
Clothing.
Sword.
Presence.
Then he looked up again.
"…It's too similar."
His throat convulsed.
Song Yijeong glanced at a few lines and twitched his lips.
They've written nonsense frighteningly well.
He rose quietly and walked toward the veranda.
At the boundary between tatami and wood, he put on his shoes.
He glanced at the merchant's cheeks.
It wasn't a move to block escape—
it was a move meant to feelblocked.
Silent signals passed.
The general's appearance is written here.
Interesting.
Shall we take him?
Let's watch.
It'll get dangerous.
For him.
Song Yijeong's mouth curved, just barely.
The merchant felt pressure without a word spoken.
Cold ran down his spine.
The hand gripping the bamboo slips trembled.
The udon shop looked peaceful.
The old man boiled noodles.
Blue steam rose beneath the pot lid.
Park Seong-jin set his bowl down and finished the last of the broth.
But the merchant's heart began to beat irregularly.
—These men aren't normal.
He rolled the bamboo slips and tucked them deep into his clothes.
Then he noticed a small exit behind the old man.
He slid his bowl aside and placed a hand on the floor.
"Hey, what's wrong?"
"Where's the latrine?"
"Back there, the exit."
"Thank you."
The merchant stepped down as naturally as he could.
But strength gathered in his toes.
—Now.
He lowered his body.
Reduced his presence.
Slipped toward the exit.
Once outside, turn right into the alley and disappear.
No one seemed to care.
As he crossed the threshold—
Song Yijeong was standing there.
No one had seen him move.
He wasn't crossing his arms.
He wasn't touching his sword.
He was simply standing in the doorway.
That alone froze the merchant's legs.
"Where are you going?"
"The latrine."
"That's not the way."
Each word tightened around the merchant's breath.
Instinct told him—
If he forced his way now, he would die.
Running meant nothing before this man,
who hadn't even drawn a blade.
From inside, Park Seong-jin set his bowl down.
"Song-gong, let him be."
The voice was light.
Command sat inside that lightness.
Song Yijeong stepped aside slightly.
The merchant's breath burst out—
Then froze again at the next words.
"You seem very curious."
The merchant bowed quickly.
"…Forgive me."
He tried to step away, but his legs shook.
Song Yijeong adjusted his belt and sent a silent message.
He's trying to run.
I know.
Shall I stop him?
It'll get dangerous.
For him.
Park Seong-jin smiled faintly.
The merchant's knees bent on their own.
Thud.
They hit the tatami.
The udon shop fell silent.
Only the bubbling of broth sounded beneath the pot lid.
The merchant pressed both hands to the floor and bowed deeply.
"…Please spare me."
"I only gathered information for business."
"No daimyō ordered me."
"I have nothing to do with the Bakufu."
"I didn't know it was a crime worth death."
"Please."
Song Yijeong looked down, unmoved.
There were many like this.
Too many.
Park Seong-jin spoke leisurely.
"What is your name?"
"Hirado—Hata Sabe'e."
"Sabe'e."
Park Seong-jin walked over.
Each footstep struck the merchant's heart.
Standing before him, he said calmly,
"You did not do something that deserves death."
The merchant looked up sharply.
"I thought a Goryeo general would kill me."
Park Seong-jin shook his head.
"Gathering information is not a crime."
"For a merchant, it's natural."
Tears formed in the merchant's eyes.
Then the next words hardened him again.
"I decide who is enemy and who is ally."
The merchant was speechless.
Park Seong-jin stepped back.
"Stand up."
The merchant lifted his head, trembling.
"Thank you."
"One condition," Park Seong-jin said, without a smile.
"All the information you carry—
you hand it over to me."
The merchant swallowed.
"…I will."
With shaking hands, he pulled the bamboo slips from deep within his clothes.
The sound of the bamboo slips hitting the floor rang unnaturally loud.
Clack.
With that sound, the merchant had handed his own neck to Park Seong-jin.
Park Seong-jin flipped the slips open.
"Why did you come here?"
The merchant swallowed.
Then, at last, he spoke from one level higher.
"Your disposition, General—
there is great curiosity about it."
"Who?"
"…The Shogun."