727.
The Beginning of the Rebellion
It happened in a single instant.
No spark flew—
yet the night ignited at once.
A signal rose.
A single beautiful flare cut across the sky and climbed upward.
The whispers ended.
Blades were drawn all at once.
The sound of metal slicing air spread in chains.
They no longer concealed themselves.
They ran.
Toward the heart of the palace—
the royal chambers.
Footsteps overlapped.
Breathing grew rough.
There was no longer reason to stop,
no path left to return.
A desperate current drove them forward.
The royal guard was nowhere to be seen.
Fallen or scattered—
it could not even be judged.
Resistance was scarce.
Doors opened more easily than expected.
Corridors lay empty.
In an instant, they reached the royal chamber gates.
Dozens gathered before them.
They steadied their breath
and hurled themselves at the doors.
That was the moment.
Bang.
An unseen wall erupted before them.
Bodies were thrown backward.
Some struck the doorframe.
Some pillars.
Some fell atop one another.
There was not even time for screams.
Something was inside.
"Strike!"
Those remaining rushed again—
without hesitation this time.
A single ragged gesture moved.
The current reversed.
Air lost its direction.
Before blades could land,
bodies were pushed away.
The air acted like steel.
The assassins halted mid-charge
and fell one by one.
Only then did a figure become clear.
Park Seong-jin.
When he had arrived did not matter.
How he had entered meant nothing.
He was already there.
Only then did the king draw breath.
At the edge of death,
relief seeped in.
When he stood beside him,
the battlefield did not waver.
Park Seong-jin's hands moved.
Fluid.
Without scatter.
The assassins charged relentlessly.
Steel traced silver combs through the air.
His toes moved first.
His body followed.
One step grounded,
the other already in air.
Space folded and unfolded between them.
His touch seemed to search for paths—
yet in truth erased them.
The first motion ceased—
the man charging froze.
No contact.
Yet his chest collapsed inward.
Breath choked.
His eyes rolled back.
He fell forward.
The second cut in from the side.
His blade traced a half-circle—
yet Park was already outside its arc.
He twisted,
brushed past the steel,
and his palm struck the ribs lightly.
The contact was brief.
The man folded at the waist
and fell.
Steel scraped stone.
The third and fourth came together.
Blades flashed moonlight between overlapping shadows.
Park's hand entered that gap.
Left hand pushed.
Right hand pulled.
No force added.
Their momentum shifted direction—
into each other.
Thud.
Shoulders collided.
Bone struck bone.
Both exhaled and dropped.
Little blood flew.
Steel glinted across stone.
Orange lanternlight and moonlit shadow layered together.
At the center,
his movement flowed
like a line drawn upon water.
The force ahead was released.
The force beside was dropped downward.
The surge from behind was thrown into emptiness.
Blades cut air.
Men cut one another.
Some stumbled over the fallen.
Some lost grip and struck nothing.
Steel clattered again and again.
Each time,
his hand paused—
Tap.
Tap.
Light contact at the fingertips.
Balance vanished.
Gasps—
"huh—"
"ugh—"
Vision inverted.
Bodies ceased obeying.
Coordination shattered.
Screams rose,
but sound failed.
A suffocation-like agony shook the air.
Blades were unnecessary.
Shouts were unnecessary.
In moments, the courtyard filled with bodies.
None stood.
None moved.
Eyes open.
Bodies unresponsive.
One final man staggered forward.
He brushed Park's shoulder.
Park pressed a palm to his forehead.
Tok.
Brief contact.
The man fell backward.
His back struck stone.
Only then did Park cease moving.
Dozens lay scattered.
All breathing.
None dead.
The fight was over.
He exhaled long.
As his breath spread,
the rigid air loosened.
Night returned to night.
The king stepped forward, legs weak,
and looked at him.
His lips trembled.
"This… is why I sought your aid."
Park did not bow.
He spoke quietly.
"Be at ease."
It was confirmation—
a closing of what had already ended.
The Second Wave
When the first wave broke,
a brief stillness followed.
Before breath fully settled,
a second wave crashed in.
Again, no hesitation.
Those behind pushed.
Those ahead shouted.
Dozens charged at once.
Like moths leaping into flame—
they could not see clearly,
but the target was certain.
The king.
Blades flashed.
Steps tangled.
They shoved one another forward.
Park moved.
Not hurried.
Not broken.
Continuous.
His body flowed like water.
Like a swell carried by wind.
Like one wave passing over another.
It was closer to dance.
The first thrust came.
Before the blade touched,
his hand brushed it aside.
The wrist bent.
Steel struck stone.
The man pitched forward
and tripped over another's foot.
Second and third came from both sides.
He did not retreat.
He turned half a beat.
Shoulder brushed.
Back touched.
The current reversed again.
No one flew through the air.
They simply could not stand.
Knees buckled.
Waists folded.
Bodies lost their own will.
Some fell forward.
Some slid sideways.
Some collided and tumbled together.
Blades remained in hand—
but could not be used.
Bodies would not answer.
He did not seize.
He did not twist.
He merely changed direction.
No force added—
yet force vanished.
Attacks poured in by the dozens—
all buried in empty air.
Steel split wind.
Men scraped stone.
"Why won't he die—!"
A shout ended in locked jaw and collapse.
Almost no blood.
No dead.
But none rose again.
Breath continued.
Eyes remained open.
Yet the option of fighting
had been erased from their bodies.
The last few swallowed screams
and charged.
Park drew a deep breath.
Then released it.
As that breath passed,
those before him collapsed together.
They fell like a wall of grain.
All alive.
Only the fight had ended.
The courtyard was filled with men.
Only Park stood.
He had not drawn a blade.
He had not shed blood.
He alone blocked every path
toward the king.
The king stood speechless.
It was not slaughter.
It was not battle.
It was overwhelming presence.
Power that pressed the world downward.
Like a dance ending,
the second wave too
settled quietly into stillness.