652.
Ōmura Bay was unusually clear that day.
In the shallows the water spread in a jade tint, and as it deepened it darkened, as if blue ink had been poured in.
Whenever the small ripples broke the sunlight into fragments, even the grains of sand on the seabed showed plainly.
Far out at sea, fishing boats slid along at a slow pace.
Near the harbor, dried nets and oars leaned neatly in place.
The wind tasted of salt, but it was not harsh.
The waves, entering the inner curve of the bay, seemed to press their own strength down.
It felt like a bay holding its breath.
Park Seong-jin did not go straight into the harbor.
When he asked the way to find the Matsura band, people told him the direction without hesitation.
They acted as if there were nothing to hide, nothing to conceal.
That made him more cautious.
When words come easily, they travel easily.
This sea did not only have water routes.
It had rumor routes, message routes.
Above all, rumor routes were faster.
This time, he did not go straight in and start cutting.
He came down into the village and became a traveler.
He asked like someone who needed help, listened like someone who knew nothing.
He drank water, sat in the shade to catch the breeze, and watched for gaps in speech.
What he watched was not a map, but people's tongues.
In this land, roads always opened first from human mouths.
The inn was one alley in from the harbor.
A wooden sign hung under a low eave, and the floorboards were worn smooth with age and shine.
When he opened the door, the smell of miso, liquor, and wet wood mixed and hit his nose.
The smell of people living.
The smell of debt, taxes, and anxiety, fermented.
In places like this, information sits beside the sake cup.
Park Seong-jin took a seat and ordered tea.
He wrapped the teacup in both hands and spoke like a man who had lost his way.
"I'm trying to get to Homu Castle, to Yoshitake-jō."
The landlady's hands paused for a moment.
A few glances in the inn flicked his way.
Then an answer came back, as if nothing had happened.
"Yoshitake Castle, you mean."
"The Ōmura clan's main stronghold."
Park Seong-jin nodded.
The landlady continued.
The southwest entrance was called the Tiger's Mouth, she said, and a signpost stood at the chokepoint.
The honmaru was a broad, flat compound.
To the west, stone ramparts were piled hard and tight.
To the north, an earthen embankment ran long as a brace.
To the south, the stonework dropped one tier and then continued again.
A castle's strength was not its height but its layout, she added, and once inside it was easy to lose direction.
"And the men?"
"How many warriors are there?"
"How's the defense?"
His questions ran ahead of him.
A teacup made a small sound as it touched the table.
Somewhere in a corner, someone swallowed a laugh.
Park Seong-jin felt it.
These were no longer a traveler's curiosities.
They were the questions of someone measuring a fortress.
"Why…"
"Why are you asking that."
The voice was low and dry.
It came from behind.
He turned.
An Ōmura warrior stood there.
The sword at his waist sat quiet, but his eyes were sharper than steel.
The air inside the inn stiffened a beat late.
A hand pouring sake stopped.
Chopsticks stirring soup hung in midair.
Park Seong-jin looked at him for a moment, then smiled instead.
His face said he had judged concealment to be useless here.
"I'm a traveler who lost the way."
"I just wanted to see the castle."
"If I asked wrongly, I apologize."
The warrior stepped closer.
Unexpectedly, he nodded.
"Good."
"Ask me."
The landlady's eyes widened.
The warrior dragged a chair and sat.
He reached out, ordered sake, and spoke as if it were nothing.
"You'll find out soon enough anyway."
"Our castle doesn't have many men."
"But the roads are rough, and the entrance is narrow."
"There's a reason we call it the Tiger's Mouth."
"Plenty come in."
"Few go out."
"They go out dead."
It was less explanation than intimidation.
Park Seong-jin lowered his head and kept the posture of listening.
The warrior calmly laid out the chokepoints, shift changes, the differences between night and day.
He even spoke of the strong places and the weak ones.
His words loosened, as if speaking to someone he had known for years.
He had been exposed, and yet he was hearing more.
Park Seong-jin lifted his cup and thought.
Without forcing a door open, a tongue opens it by itself.
Like the water of this bay, in the shallows everything reflects.
The warrior swallowed once, a beat late.
The force with which he had been measuring a man sank away, and his face slowly turned ash-gray.
The inn grew strangely quiet.
Hands and chopsticks remained frozen where they were.
"…That Park Seong-jin."
Park Seong-jin nodded.
A name was enough, when it was time.
The warrior's lips moved, then he swallowed the sound.
It was the name at the center of the stories that drifted through Hirado, Karatsu, Iki, Tsushima—every port.
The kind of story you tried to laugh off and failed to finish.
"…So it's true."
"You really came to kill everyone."
"If they're pirates."
"If it's their trade, then all the more."
The warrior swallowed dryly.
Only now did the context seem to lock into place in his head—what he had done, what he had said, to whom he had said it.
A boast that began as swagger being converted into the price of a life.
"Wait."
"Just wait."
A palm lifted.
"Not everyone called Matsura is the same."
"There are plenty who just hang the name and move on their own."
"That's why it's worse."
"They gather only when they want, and when they scatter they act like peasants."
The warrior's eyes dropped to the floor.
His words jammed.
A moment later he shoved his chair back and stood.
He retook Park Seong-jin's face in a quick sweep.
That it did not resemble the monster of rumor made it more frightening.
"…I'm sorry."
That was all.
He opened the door and ran without looking back.
Footsteps scattered into the alley.
The people left inside stared blankly after him, then slowly turned their eyes toward Park Seong-jin.
The air began to move again.
The innkeeper asked carefully.
"Who… are you, exactly."
Park Seong-jin raised his cup and took a sip.
The bitterness of Ureshino tea lingered on his tongue.
"I'm Park Seong-jin."
The innkeeper let out a hollow laugh.
"Hiyu."
"So something's going to happen again, is it."
Someone lowered their head.
Someone else slipped quietly out.
No one asked aloud.
Once you had heard the name, asking more only made danger larger.
Park Seong-jin looked out at Ōmura Bay.
The water was still clear, and the waves still broke as if nothing had happened.
But he knew where the warrior's fleeing steps were headed.
The time for asking with words was ending.