651.At fifteen, he entered military service.
It struck him, suddenly, that he had once been a soldier.
It had been when his father fell in battle, and the older brother who went in his place never returned from the front.
At fifteen, he entered military service.
There was no other choice.
Only by joining the army did a stipend come.
Only then could his household endure.
To be attached to the state meant that one's family would eat.
That was the structure.
That was why Goryeo's soldiers fought without looking back.
The sense that one need not worry about one's family becomes strength on the battlefield.
Even if I fall here, the state will carry my family into the next day.
That thought lightens the feet.
In that sense, it is hard to say Goryeo is entirely different from this land.
The difference is that here, defeat means unemployment.
Death means the family left behind becomes wandering people with no livelihood.
Beggars.
They live a kind of warfare where defeat severs life itself.
Their swords are not for honor alone.
Not for loyalty alone.
They are swords drawn so that a single household's meals are not cut off.
That is why the look of their fighting is different.
Goryeo's soldiers stand first with an acceptance of death.
The warriors here move first to avoid it.
At the moment of death, it is not only oneself that ends, but the lives of those left behind that collapse as well.
The current Park Seong-jin had come far from that place.
Even without being a soldier, he had no difficulty living.
He possessed land and stipends sufficient to support his family for life, and the rewards he had earned in war overflowed.
He had already stepped beyond the sensation of wielding a sword in order to survive.
That was why his understanding had come late.
And because it came late, blame had tried to rise first.
On battlefields where only friend and foe existed, Park Seong-jin had at last begun to see the warrior class—and the economy beneath it.
Winning a war and killing everyone was not the end.
Without grasping the structure that bordered on a wartime economy, one could not see the land of Wa clearly.
That truth began to take shape in his hands.
And there was more that troubled him.
Here, he had yet to encounter even a single master of the inner path.
In Goryeo, nearly all elite warriors had laid at least the foundations of inner cultivation.
Regardless of how high or low their level, they knew how to load internal force into a blade, how to circulate even a basic microcosmic orbit.
They understood internal power with their bodies.
When a sword bearing internal force clashes with one that does not, the latter breaks and is sheared away with ease.
It is not a blade that can be blocked.
From the moment of contact, the outcome is decided.
Yet here, their depth of cultivation was shallow.
All the same.
They clung to external strength, holding martial arts as nothing more than techniques of fighting.
Was it because being a warrior was a profession?
Because the sword was their livelihood?
Was that why subtle techniques were treated as a joke?
Martial arts are, at their core, products of concentration.
Their essence lies in the realm of the mind.
The higher the realm, the more the mind precedes hands and feet.
If the sword is one's means of survival, then depth should matter even more.
Even that path alone leaves no time to spare.
Yet these men loiter through villages, letting time slip away loosely.
Park Seong-jin did not claim ignorance of their circumstances.
Even so, from his own position, he had tried to measure them.
And so what leaked out first, within his heart, was blame.
That he had come to this land resolved to cut them all down, yet stayed his blade once he understood who they were—at least that was fortunate.
At that moment, the farmer spoke cautiously.
"Where do you come from?"
"Goryeo."
"Oh… a man of Goryeo."
"Did you come from far?"
"Karatsu, Hirado, and here."
The farmer pointed to a small thatched hut nearby, its roof pitched sharply upward.
"If you don't mind… I would like to host you for a short while."
Park Seong-jin waved his hand.
"Ah, there's no need for that."
He said so, but his steps were already turning in that direction.
The house stood at an ambiguous boundary—on a low rise or the edge of a field, between forest and rice paddies.
From afar, it looked pressed down into the earth, low, with a roof that seemed overly large and heavy.
The thatch was layered thickly.
To block snow and rain, and to endure flying embers.
The slope was steep so rain would not linger, and the eaves hung low, wrapping the house.
When the wind blew, the thatch whispered softly against itself.
Walls and pillars were made from a few thick timbers set as they were.
Many were untrimmed logs, some still bearing bark.
The walls were earthen—mud mixed with straw and plastered on.
They seemed as if they might dent under a push, yet the structure held.
In winter they blocked the wind; in summer they absorbed moisture.
There were many gaps.
Through them drifted smoke, wind, and insects alike.
There was only one entrance.
A hinged door woven from wooden planks.
No lock—only a wooden bar.
At night, a log was braced from inside.
There were few windows, and even those were no larger than a palm.
Light entered only when the door was opened.
Inside, everything could be seen at a glance.
Partitions were vague.
The floor was packed earth, leveled and covered in places with straw mats.
There was no tatami.
When dampness gathered, odors quickly seeped in.
At the center was an irori—a hearth dug into the ground.
A square cut into the floor, filled with ash, used for heating and cooking.
Smoke drove off insects.
It escaped through a partially opened ceiling beneath a double roof that kept out rain.
Thus the house always smelled faintly of soot.
Above the hearth hung a blackened pot.
Beside it lay a long ladle and a wooden spoon.
On one wall hung farm tools:
a sickle, a hoe, a small flail.
In houses descended from warrior families, or those who had once served a lord, a rusted sword rested near the ceiling.
Unused, yet never discarded.
In one corner, straw sacks held small amounts of millet, barley, and foxtail grain.
Beside them hung dried radishes and a few fish.
The interior was always dim.
Even on bright days, sunlight entered at a slant, diffusing through smoke.
People spoke little.
Their smiles were small, and even while smiling, they soon closed their mouths.
This house was not a place of rest, but of endurance.
Waiting for war to pass.
For the next tax to be lighter.
For a son not to become a rōnin.
All those wishes were pressed beneath the low roof.
When Park Seong-jin stood at the threshold, he understood at once.
This house was not shabby because it was poor.
It looked this way because it had endured for too long.
In that society, hosting a guest was less hospitality than a way of handling danger.
A guest was not fortune, but a variable.
He could be a rōnin.
An official.
A pirate.
Kindness was shown, but entanglement was avoided.
Park Seong-jin still wore his sword, but his speech was not rough.
His gaze did not waver.
His manner was composed.
The host seated him near the hearth.
The host's family was nowhere to be seen.
A basket held barley rice mixed with millet.
"Would you like some?"
"Thank you."
The host scooped rice into a wooden bowl and ladled miso soup from the blackened pot.
A small dish of pickled vegetables was set beside it.
That was all.
It was not even a proper three-dish meal.
Yet that single bowl looked like a meal that proved one was still alive.
Food for those who endure is like that.
Not food for taste, but food to keep going.
The farmer asked a few things indirectly.
"Was the road difficult?"
"I came by paths without people."
"People are frightening. Roads are fine."
"And the sea?"
"Was it unsettled?"
Park Seong-jin lifted his sword slightly.
"I have strength enough to protect myself."
The farmer laughed softly.
His gaze lingered briefly on Park Seong-jin's hand, then at his waist.
It stopped not on the blade, but on the trouble the blade could summon.
"You may leave your sword by the entrance."
The words were polite.
But beneath them, a thin tremor of fear took shape.
This was not hospitality.
It was a farmer's method of safety.
Family safety. Food.
The anxiety of not knowing what might happen.
That caution wore the name of courtesy.
Park Seong-jin flicked his wrist.
The sword flew, lodging neatly where clothes were hung near the entrance.
A rare skill—but what mattered was that the sword was now away from his body.
The farmer's shoulders eased, just slightly.
Park Seong-jin found the safety measures embedded in their courtesy uncomfortable.
The longer one stayed, the more variables arose.
He shoved the rice into his mouth, chewed the vegetables with it, drank the soup.
Karatsu's post town had been comfortable because everyone knew exactly who he was.
This place was different.
Not knowing becomes the root of fear.
Fear that is known can be prepared for.
Fear that is unknown swallows entire villages.
When Park Seong-jin stood, no one stopped him.
No one urged him to eat more.
Their wish was simple: that he leave quickly, without incident.
"Thank you for the meal."
"I see you're uneasy. I'll be leaving shortly."
"Travel safely."
"There's water that way."
Even guidance was kept to a minimum.
This was the greatest kindness they could offer.
A farewell never followed by reunion was the safest outcome for both sides.
To them, Park Seong-jin was a strange guest.
He did not threaten.
He did not demand.
He did not linger.
He did not weigh people lightly.
It must have been rare.
As he stepped out, Park Seong-jin raised his hand.
The sword slid back into his grasp as if drawn by an unseen thread.
An unconscious motion.
Fortunately, the farmer did not see.
It would only have unsettled him.
At least he had gained something—an understanding of the rōnin.
That alone was profit enough.