762.In the war, that sword—I held it.
On the day the war ended, while the smell of blood still lingered over the fields, a name was called.
"To Moukarik—grant him Henan."
The tent stirred briefly.
The man whose name had been spoken knelt and bowed deeply.
Yet his gaze was already fixed on the land.
The length of the walls, the course of the river, the villages where taxes would gather—these arranged themselves swiftly in his mind.
It was not an order.
It was a grant.
At the place where spoils were divided, land rose in place of swords.
"This shall be made a province."
"Establish a princely court to govern it."
The words wore the language of administration.
The meaning was plain.
This land is your share, won by your blade.
No one asked about methods of governance.
No one spoke of central command.
There was only one measure.
Who had won.
Days later, other names were called in the same way.
Jiangxi.
Jiangzhe.
Huguang.
As each name was spoken, blank spaces vanished from the map.
They were painted over with the names of their new masters.
Thus the Central Plains became not imperial territory, but the portions of victors.
The provincial lords did not call themselves officials.
They were meritorious retainers.
They were masters.
Documents from the capital served as reference only.
They collected taxes—but determined the scale themselves.
They supplied troops—but chose the timing.
When commands came in the emperor's name, they answered with a smile.
"In the war, that sword—
I held it."
The imperial house tried to reclaim control.
It summoned the sons of princes into the imperial guard.
It held banquets to soothe them.
It bound them by marriage.
It repeated the word "empire."
But the moment had already passed.
For those who received land, it was not entrusted.
It was won.
So when war was needed again, the center demanded armies.
The provinces calculated.
"What does this war give me."
If the answer was unclear, they did not move.
Later, when the south was lost, it was the same.
The lords of Huguang, Jiangxi, Jiangzhe cried out.
"The empire's land has been taken!"
Others shook their heads.
"No.
What you received—
you have lost."
The words were cruel.
They were exact.
They had nurtured the seeds of rebellion.
They had failed to suppress them early.
They had remained silent when troops were mustered in the capital.
So when they wandered seeking aid, what returned was not armies.
It was memory.
"In the southern war,
we did not see you."
This empire had never been a single country.
It was a banquet hall built by victors.
When the feast ended, what remained were empty cups and separate calculations.
Thus Yuan was powerful.
Yet it could not fight again.
An empire bound by land would not bleed again for land.
The lands of the south had been divided in this way.
It was not administrative partition for efficiency.
It was feudal allotment.
Khubilai Khan had pressed it through with the consent of the keshik.
Perhaps he intended to reclaim it after war.
He never did.
The logic was simple.
Conquest.
Recognition of merit.
Granting of lands and rank.
Princes, imperial kin, meritorious generals, warlords—
to them were divided land, people, taxes.
It was not a charge to administer.
It was a declaration:
"This is your share."
Each province was not an extension of the central ministry.
It resembled a temporary viceroyalty.
Thus the Branch Secretariat stood parallel to the Central Secretariat.
The Central Secretariat governed the capital.
The Branch Secretariat governed the provinces.
They were not subordinate.
They were another Secretariat.
A provincial chancellor was not a local magistrate.
Within his domain, he was sovereign.
He controlled taxation.
Conscription.
Judgment.
Central commands resembled requests for cooperation.
It was not division of districts.
It was distribution of rule.
The princely courts were even more explicit.
Entire populations, tax bases, mobilization rights were handed to princes.
Interference was possible.
Direct rule was not.
In form they belonged to the empire.
In substance they resembled autonomous states.
This was Mongol tradition.
Conquer.
Divide.
Return merit in shares.
Land itself was spoil.
At the center of it stood Khubilai Khan.
The conquest of the Southern Song required the cooperation of princes and generals.
He prepaid privileges.
He promised rights.
He likely expected to reclaim them later.
He lacked the power.
He incorporated princely sons into the keshik to control them.
A device of political connection and restraint.
It failed.
The keshik became not loyalty, but a channel of power.
Princely courts and provinces drifted from the center.
Banquets soothed.
Marriages bound.
Temporary edicts patched.
Rebellions and coups repeated.
Thus Yuan was formally unified.
In substance it was a loose confederation of conquest nobility.
An empire divided as a memorial of victory.
That was why it could not retake the south.
Why mobilization remained words.
Why the quriltai hollowed.
More frightening still was this.
Even the Goryeo king's efforts could become meaningless.
Khan Toghon Temür knew it.
He knew why he was judged incompetent.
It was not a matter of personal ability.
He sat in a position that could not be competent.
This empire was not one state.
It was a union of princes and provincial lords holding their own swords and armies.
Edicts existed.
Obedience depended on calculation.
Imperial decrees were issued.
Execution depended on each man's will.
It was too vast to bind by political measures.
Appease one, and two grew angry.
Bind three, and four slipped away.
So he half-abandoned and maintained councils.
Banquets.
Wine.
Music.
Hunts.
Rewards.
If that could soothe, it was enough.
He no longer expected armies to move.
If they marched north, he knew he could not truly oppose them.
The armies were in private hands.
For their own lands, they would move.
For the empire's name, they had no reason to bleed.
If unity could be formed, war would not be difficult.
But the cause for unity had vanished.
Fear had faded.
Glory had faded.
Myth had faded.
With time, his thought leaned toward the Goryeo king's doctrine of peace.
Not because it was righteous.
Because it was possible.
War was impossible.
Peace remained.
And like the shadow of that possibility stood one figure.
Park Seong-jin.
The empress's reckless attempt had not erased him.
It had done the opposite.
Rumors of touching a master of the Transcendent Realm.
Stories of dozens, hundreds fallen in the palace.
Fear changed direction.
What was feared now was not Goryeo.
It was making Park Seong-jin an enemy.
Every day, people gathered before his tent.
They lingered without speaking.
They hoped to be seen.
They calculated what they might gain.
If he stood on their side, nothing would be frightening.
If they could gain that one man, even the Goryeo king would not be envied.
The khan watched this and smiled bitterly.
He was the ruler of an empire.
Yet people now looked not at the empire, but at one man.
In that moment he admitted it.
The Goryeo king was a politician.
Park Seong-jin was the age itself.
Without lifting a blade, he shaped order.
Without speaking, he compelled decisions.
The khan remained one who soothed a confederation.
The Goryeo king proposed balance.
Park Seong-jin made that balance real.
Toghon Temür understood.
In this empire now, no one remained who could begin a war.
Only those who could end one.
And that name was not his.
That day, too, he held a banquet.
He poured wine.
He shared laughter.
It was the last form of rule left to him.