669.
At first, he did not believe it.
It was true that the formation had been shaken.
The bombardment was more precise than expected, and the soldiers were startled.
But he had seen such scenes dozens of times.
A formation can be rebuilt.
Men who are pushed back can stand again.
They must stand again.
"Intervals—
restore the intervals!"
He shouted until his throat tore.
But his voice did not return to him.
It scattered into the smoke.
It was pressed down by the cannon and fell to the ground.
Then it happened.
The earth shook.
Not a sound, but heavy ground carrying speed as it came.
He turned his head.
To the side of the formation—
the space hollowed out by the bombardment.
Horses emerged from there.
At first he could not count them.
Because they did not appear as one.
They were split, moving, approaching not as a line but as a flow.
"C-… cavalry!"
He shouted, but it was already too late.
Arrows came.
Not from the front.
Not from above.
From the side.
Before arrows fired while running along the flank, shields were useless.
He knew that fact in his head.
This was the first time he felt it in his body.
A soldier holding a shield fell without making a sound.
The arrow burrowed in beneath the neck.
It did not even allow time to speak.
"Turn the shields—!"
But shields were heavy.
And the men were already being pushed.
He realized it then.
A formation has meaning only when it can face forward.
Now the soldiers did not know where to look.
Ahead, shields and spears were tangled.
At the side, arrows were flying.
Behind them, someone was falling.
The horses kept moving.
They did not stop.
That movement split the formation apart.
Then the cavalry stopped.
Or seemed to.
The bows were lowered.
In that instant, his spine went cold.
"Lances…"
Someone muttered.
He knew the word was correct.
The cavalry lowered their bodies.
The horses' necks dropped.
The riders' shoulders pitched forward.
It was a practiced posture.
Not improvisation.
"Back—!"
He shouted.
But behind them was the sea.
In this place, the word "back" had lost its meaning.
The charge made no sound.
He could not catch it.
When the hooves struck the ground, he abandoned calculation.
The lances came.
At terrifying speed.
It did not feel like being stabbed.
The entire formation was shoved.
One man flew sideways as if thrown.
The soldier behind him collapsed where he stood.
A horse trampled over bodies.
He tried to retreat.
But his foot caught.
On the body of a fallen soldier.
In that moment, a cavalryman crossed his field of view.
He saw the horse's eye.
It was not startled.
Not excited.
Just calm.
That eye passed by.
He fell face-down onto the ground.
The cavalry did not stop.
They passed.
And then they returned.
Only then did he understand.
They do not break through.
They sweep.
They do not plunge deep into the formation.
They scour only the most shattered places.
That was why it was more frightening.
The sense that they would "come again" created terror.
His last thought was this.
This is not a fight.
We have already lost the form of battle.
Before the thought could finish, he heard hoofbeats again.
And then he understood.
There was no longer any need to give orders.
Because there was no one left to hear them.
Later, those who survived said:
"We did not lose.
We collapsed."
*He did not die.
That fact was the first thing he could not understand.
He had wanted to die, but he did not.
When he opened his eyes, the smell of blood was absent.
Instead, the scent of medicinal herbs struck his nose.
He was inside an unfamiliar tent.
And it was quiet.
His wrists were not bound.
There was no sword.
No armor.
But he knew immediately.
This was not freedom.
"Can you stand?"
It was an unfamiliar language.
But he understood the meaning.
Because an interpreter stood behind the speaker.
He raised himself.
His legs trembled, but he did not fall.
The Goryeo commander nodded.
"We decided to spare you."
The words were neither threat nor mercy.
They were a decision.
What being in the world could decide my life and death so simply?
He became a prisoner.
But he was not dragged.
A horse was given to him.
His wounds were bound.
Water and dried rations were issued.
"We are going to Kyoto."
The words continued.
"We need someone to report to the shogunate."
The word "need" became the rope that held his life.
The procession was small.
Only a few guards.
At night, they lit fires.
By day, they rode.
Only then did he realize.
This road did not lead to execution.
When they crossed the sea, he saw Hakata.
The smoke had cleared.
The harbor still stood.
It had not burned.
It had not collapsed.
It was the harbor he knew.
And yet it was no longer the harbor he knew.
The fact that it still "stood" felt strange.
The closer they came to Kyoto, the heavier his heart grew.
He was not reporting a defeat.
He was reporting a method.
How they fought.
Where they collapsed.
Why they could not stand again.
He knew.
Among those who heard his words, someone would say:
"Still, if we gather numbers, we can fight."
That was the statement he feared most.
Because he knew it would bring another catastrophe.
On the day he entered Kyoto, he was washed.
Clothes were given—
not rags.
It was treatment excessive for a prisoner.
Only then did he understand.
This was not humiliation.
It was a warning.
Not to show "your condition,"
but to make us see "ours."
Before the gates of the shogunate, he looked up at the sky.
And thought:
Now I must speak not of a battle we lost,
but of a war we failed to understand.
The doors opened.
He walked inside.
Knowing that the reason he had returned alive
was waiting there.