The Great General's Ancestral House
Yi Hui stationed the local militia around the outer perimeter of the estate.
Men with broken legs and dislocated arms stood gripping their weapons with whatever limbs remained steady.
It was a pitiful sight.
He set three squads along the outer ring, fifteen men to each watch.
With the remaining thirty-five, he advanced toward the main house.
Those who had come to seize them now found themselves serving as an escort.
Clutching injured arms and limping on damaged legs, they looked like captured remnants of a defeated army.
It was precisely the spectacle they had intended for others.
Yi Hui drove that humiliation with him all the way to the gate.
In Anyang County, if any place was more renowned than the government office, it was the Great General's household.
For generations it had produced commanding generals.
It was no exaggeration to call it the foremost military family of all Henan.
Set upon a low rise in the middle of a broad plain, it could be seen from afar at a single glance.
The rise itself had been hardened by long years of study and martial training.
The house was not tall, but it was expansive.
The walls drew the eye first.
Stone and packed earth had been layered and tamped together, roof tiles laid low along the top.
Outside the wall, a shallow channel diverted water to form a moat-like ring.
The gate stood between two heavy pillars, bearing thick wooden doors.
The doors showed marks of repeated reinforcement; iron nailheads had darkened with age.
The center of the threshold had been worn slightly hollow.
It was a groove carved by decades—perhaps centuries—of boots, straw sandals, and horses' hooves treading the same ground.
Above the gate hung a plaque bestowed by the Emperor.
"Foremost House of Henan (河南第一家)."
The gold characters on black did not glare.
Under light they deepened, the weight of aged gilt.
The beam that held the plaque was no new timber.
Its grain was alive, thick wood long cured; wind and rain had weathered it, yet it had never warped.
Beyond the gate opened a wide courtyard.
A broad yard of packed earth.
The ground had been firmly tamped, layered with sand and gravel so that even rain would not turn it to mud.
It was an open training ground.
Shallow drainage channels lined the edges, stones set carefully to guide the flow of water.
Along one side stood a long rack for weapons.
The wood was dark with oil and touch; where hands had rested most often, it shone smooth.
Grooves for long spears were evenly spaced, crossbeams for bows set at shoulder height.
Bamboo targets and straw bundles stood nearby.
The soil beneath them was darker, pressed by years of use.
The halls enclosed the courtyard without ostentation.
Eaves stretched low; the tiles did not shine.
Blackened tiles, weathered by rain, bore thin moss.
Water stains traced the edges in fine lines.
The pillars, matured by time, were not bright like new wood; handprints, smoke, and years had deepened their color.
Though nothing strained upward in height, a solemn weight pervaded the place.
Its dignity came from restraint.
As the household grew, additional wings had been built outward.
The layout was irregular, yet never disorderly.
The lines of the walls and the axis of the yard flowed naturally, so that the paths of movement—walking, training, holding rites—were clear at a glance.
It did not feel like a mere house.
It felt like a lineage laid upon the earth.
When the party reached beneath the plaque of "Foremost House of Henan," two young men guarding the gate stepped forward to block their way.
They were young and strong.
There was something in their faces, in their bearing, that faintly resembled the Great General.
"From where do these soldiers come?"
Their eyes were tense; something had clearly happened before.
Yi Hui drew his reins and halted.
He lowered his voice and tempered his tone.
"We return from the northern plains of Haran. I am Yi Hui, commander of the Baekryongdae, subordinate to Great General Jin Mugwang."
He stood firm, yet not coarse.
His honorifics were precise; his movements disciplined.
Unconcealed respect lay within them.
None of the arrogance of the militia lingered in him.
Surprise flickered across the young guard's face.
The two exchanged glances; one hurried inside.
The other remained.
"Please wait. And dismount first. We have heard of General Yi Hui. Word reached us that you bring the Great General's personal effects."
Yi Hui released a short breath.
This was a place where they should have returned together, welcomed in triumph.
Instead, only the relics had come.
That truth weighed on his chest.
"We are ashamed. We failed to protect the Great General."
Moisture gathered at the corner of his eyes.
He dismounted, holding the reins, and knelt on one knee.
The thirty-five behind him dismounted as well.
Facing the still unopened gate, they knelt in unison.
Someone would emerge.
Before that happened, they wished to bow their heads to the earth.
Rather than dress their guilt in words, they would bear it with their bodies.
Before the gate of the Great General's estate, they remained motionless.
They wept.
Soundless tears of soldiers fell upon the ground.
The young man who had run inside returned, leading the household.
An elderly man, hair white as frost, stepped forward leaning on the shoulder of a boy of perhaps fifteen.
A bent old woman was carried on the back of a young servant.
All could tell they were the General's father and mother.
Dozens followed behind them.
Each upright, each composed.
Not roughened by the world's harshness, but marked first by the dignity of their house.
Yi Hui drew a long breath.
He pressed down what surged within his chest.
He did not wipe his eyes.
He lifted his head with steady gaze.
Straightened his back.
Placed his feet at measured distance, hands aligned before him.
The discipline of the army, ingrained by years of war, settled naturally upon his frame.
A moment of stillness passed.
Wind brushed the pillars of the gate.
From within came the muffled sound of someone suppressing a sob.
Only then did Yi Hui speak, low and clear.
"Jeongbuk Expeditionary Army, Baekryongdae leader Yi Hui and his men present ourselves before the honored father of the Great General."
Before the final word ended, his right knee touched the ground.
Then the left followed.
The packed earth bore his weight.
He bent deeply, lowering until his forehead nearly touched the soil.
Behind him, the thirty-five moved at once.
They released their reins and stepped back.
Feet aligned.
This posture was not for a superior officer—but for the house of their fallen commander.
Silence descended.
Even the faint contact of scabbard against armor ceased.
The rings of their cuirasses no longer chimed.
Then, as if guided by a single breath, thirty-five knees struck the ground.
A dull echo rolled across the courtyard.
It was unity born of training.
They bowed low.
Hands to earth.
Foreheads lowered.
No one had yet crossed the threshold.
Still, they knelt first.
Before anyone stepped forward, they wished to confess their failure.
Prostrate before the gate, they did not move.
The air grew heavy.
Men who had waded through blood on the battlefield now wept in silence.
Tears fell onto the soil.
Thirty-six backs lay lowered in a single line.
It was not surrender.
It was the final tribute of an army that had lost its commander, offered at the door of his home.