655.Sashiki Castle 佐敷城
When he came down into the castle town and stopped at the inn, a letter from Kawano Jirōemon (川野 次郎右衛門)was waiting.
It was packed with long explanations—what had happened where, who had done what to whom—
but the names were unfamiliar, so none of it stuck in his head.
Park Seong-jin decided only his next destination, slipped the letter into his chest, and left it at that.
The runner who had brought it remained at the doorway.
Not waiting so much as wearing "Bring me your answer"on his back.
"What."
"They told me to find out where you're going next."
Park Seong-jin unfolded the letter again and tapped the place name with his fingertip.
But—whether he was half-literate, or simply stumbled for a moment—the name did not come smoothly off his tongue.
"…Sashiki Castle in Sashikita village."
"Loyalty!"
The boy answered like a soldier, dropped to one knee, and pressed his forehead to the floor.
Park Seong-jin handed him travel money.
"No trouble there?"
"Several Goryeo ships came in. It's busy."
Park Seong-jin thought for a moment, then said,
"Next time you come, tell me who exactly arrived."
"Reported!"
At that excessive etiquette, the innkeeper's wife shot him a sidelong look and blinked.
The innkeeper still didn't know who Park Seong-jin was.
He still didn't know who had burned the castle above.
No matter how ugly things got, as long as hestayed safe, it was fine—
that was their culture.
Only after sending the boy away did Park Seong-jin finally eat.
Only then did he notice hunger.
Even as he chewed, a metallic taste lingered in his mouth.
Afterward he heated water and washed.
No matter how careful you were, blood got on you.
The worse part was how slowly it came out.
What soaked into skin rinsed away.
What soaked into cloth took time.
He held out his clothes to the innkeeper.
"I don't have spares. There's a bit of blood on these. Soak them in cold water, then wash them."
The moment the word bloodhit the air, the wife's face hardened like ice.
Her pupils quivered.
Her breath cut for a beat.
"Ah… yes."
She bowed, but her gaze slid upward—toward where the castle stood.
She didn't say anything, but her expression said she had guessed what happened.
After handing the clothes to a maid, she hurried outside.
She looked up at the hill.
Asked passersby a few quick questions.
Then she returned as if nothing had happened—
but her face had already changed.
From not knowingto knowing.
In that short time, the air around the inn changed too.
People thinned out visibly.
Some withdrew thirty, forty paces and watched from beyond fences.
No words passed, but the atmosphere did.
Someone hurried their steps.
Someone shut a door.
A group ran toward the castle.
People who had ties to it.
People who ate from its shadow—trading under its name, protected by its name.
And then the thought came.
No—
maybe it would be better for them if the castle were gone.
A castle protected, and a castle bound.
Where there was a castle, there was power.
Where there was power, there was extraction.
Without it, things would feel unsafe overnight—
but given time, someone's throat might finally loosen.
Someone would cry.
Someone would find a way to live.
Park Seong-jin rubbed his wet hair roughly with a towel and sat.
Outside was noisy, yet the room was strangely quiet.
The smell of blood slowly settled with the water.
And it wasn't only blood that washed down.
It felt as if the weight of the day drained away with it.
When the innkeeper appeared again, his manner was completely different from the day before.
From the threshold he folded at the waist, bowing deep.
He couldn't meet Park Seong-jin's eyes.
He had realized too late.
This guest wasn't a traveler—
he was a demon who brought blood calamity.
He was afraid, and trying to keep distance.
But something larger than fear sat underneath:
Worry.
A single wrong move, and hishead might fly.
So every gesture became careful.
His voice lowered.
Even his breathing smoothed itself.
Without being asked, he set down a drink and left.
Warm tea.
When Park Seong-jin lifted the steaming cup and wet his lips, the wife stepped back and asked carefully,
"Will you stay one more night?"
Park Seong-jin shook his head.
"No."
Her shoulders trembled, almost imperceptibly.
She asked again.
"Then… where are you going?"
There was no will of her own in that question.
Someone had told her to ask.
To find out, if possible.
If it were merely her own wish, she would want him gone fast—
she wouldn't care where he went.
Park Seong-jin knew that.
"Sashiki."
At the short answer, she didn't ask more.
She bowed deeply.
There was no reason to linger.
Now she would carry that word to someone.
And somewhere else, another someone would begin preparing.
He had to leave before that.
Park Seong-jin widened his sensing.
He followed her presence.
Behind the house.
She was speaking quickly to someone.
A whisper.
A nodding shadow.
When Park Seong-jin stepped out the back, the shadow startled and ran.
Down an alley, over a rise, into another alley—
Hop.
In the blink of an eye, Park Seong-jin was standing in front of him.
The man shrank in on himself, lips moving without sound.
"Why."
Park Seong-jin's voice was low.
"Why did you ask. Where I'm going."
"Ah… no. I'm… sorry."
He spoke in a trembling voice.
"They said they'd pay me if I brought the answer."
"Who."
"Someone called… Ichirō…"
"Where is he."
With shaking fingers the man pointed toward the river.
A thin boat floating on the water.
A boatman at the bow and another at the stern.
Not moving, but always ready to move.
"Go tell him and take your money."
"Th-thank you."
It wasn't even strange anymore.
Too many people had begun tracking his movement.
Park Seong-jin walked straight to the riverbank and called the man on the boat out.
When he asked whose man he was, the boatman resisted for a moment—
then, realizing resistance was pointless, dropped to his knees.
The messenger had run to him and come back immediately.
The inference was easy.
"From Sashiki."
"Why."
"We thought you'd come there first."
Park Seong-jin nodded.
"I'll go now."
"Understood."
"Tell them to be ready."
"Yes."
The words were odd—be ready.
The boatman probably didn't fully understand what that meant.
But he didn't run.
That was the difference from Goryeo.
In Goryeo he would have fled already.
Here, they did not flee.
They endured inside their own castle.
They hid in the deepest places.
And there they held the line.
They believed: if the lord lived, everyone lived.
If the lord died, everything ended.
It might be loyalty.
It might be how they survived.
It was certainly loyalty.
And still, Park Seong-jin tilted his head.
In a land where loyalty was routine, why were rebellions so frequent.
Striking down a lord and becoming lord yourself was called gekokujō—the lower overthrowing the higher.
But after the rōnin uprisings, gekokujō had already become common.
What they guarded wasn't loyalty—
it was the continuation of a job.
Interests.
Livelihood.
He knew sweeping generalizations blurred real understanding.
Still, he could feel it:
Even their loyalty stood atop calculation.
A world unlike his.
In Goryeo there were warrior bands who went to war without bargaining.
Not truly without conditions, no—
but not economic conditions.
Not a matter of rank as wage.
Closer to an attitude toward life.
In that sense, the lords of Wa had it easy.
No need to chase.
No need to hunt.
They were in their castle.
Kill the lord, and everything ends.
Simple. Clear.
Stack the walls high.
Twist the climb into a maze.
Set first gate, second gate, third.
To Park Seong-jin, they were rites of passage.
He could have skipped all of it and leapt straight to the Honmaru or the very top of the keep.
But he chose to pass through the gates.
And as he passed, he neutralized them.
Not killing—
breaking.
So they could never hold a sword again.
A cruel method.
Yet for him the point was one thing:
Make them never draw a blade again.
In the end, those left alive became rōnin.
Rōnin became someone's samurai again.
And samurai in Kyūshū—
sooner or later—would head for Goryeo again.
That had to be cut.
The rumor spread.
Anyone who had gone to Goryeo even once could not escape.
If you could prove you hadn't gone, you would suffer no harm.
That rumor outran the sword.
Call it resolve, perhaps.
In Kyūshū, few men who held a blade had never crossed.
They had come in that great a number.