Outside Gaegyeong's western gate, it was dawn, and the mist of the west had not yet lifted.
Along the wide field before the gate, the low tread of soldiers' feet echoed softly. The rasp of leather armor brushing against itself, frost shattering beneath horses' hooves, the iron rims of supply carts scraping stone—each sound spread in turn. They alone were waking the breath of the city still asleep.
Beyond the fog, the tiled roofs of Botongwon emerged faintly. It was less a temple than a vast relief hall. Low walls enclosed it on all sides, and above the main gate hung a single, weathered plaque.
Botongwon.
Time had washed away half the lettering, and before the threshold countless weary footprints lay layered upon one another. The starving poor, wandering merchants, envoys from distant roads—and now soldiers as well. This place had never turned people away. It had once offered food and shelter to any traveler or destitute soul, and whenever troops departed from Gaegyeong, it naturally became their camp and point of assembly.
There was no better place to organize provisions, repair equipment, raise banners, and dress the ranks.
He lifted his head.
Through the mist, the slope of the mountain hovered indistinctly, and below it—where wall and field met—the roofs of Botongwon lay damp with a silvery sheen. Beneath the eaves, a few crows had settled, quietly shaking their feathers. Sunlight had not yet reached the place, yet light leaked out all the same. The cauldrons' fires had not gone out through the night.
"Enter from the west! Tie the horses at the paddock!"
The commander's shout cut through the dawn air. The soldiers broke formation and entered in three lines. In Botongwon's courtyard, several cauldrons were already hung, steam billowing upward. The smoke of cooking rice, torchlight, and the sharp smell of horses mingled together. A few crows cried out and scattered from the sky. The sound was like a song of parting.
One young soldier stopped without meaning to.
At the edge of the courtyard, dew pooled on the shoulder of a bodhisattva statue, spreading as it caught the light. In that moment, the spear in his hand trembled slightly.
He ran his fingers along the shaft. If he returned alive, he wanted to hang this spear on the wall and set a meal before his mother. Yet somewhere in his heart he already knew: beyond today's road, there might be no spring, no rice, no home waiting.
The gates of Botongwon opened.
The drum sounded three times, and the ranks began to move. He stepped forward with his head bowed. When he glanced back, a single monk stood at the gate, hands pressed together, lips moving quietly. A prayer, no doubt.
The cauldrons continued to boil. The scent of rinsed rice and the rich smell of fermented soybean paste blended into the morning air. The monks said nothing as they ladled rice and poured hot soup. One young soldier burned his hand lifting his bowl.
"Ah—hot."
A brief ripple of laughter spread, then vanished. Everyone ate, then rose in silence.
For a moment, he wanted to hear the end of that prayer. But his steps were already kicking up dust on the road. Pinned to his back was a name tag—just a scrap of worn cloth. The inked letters were faint, yet it was a name unlike any other in the world.
As he eased his hunger with rice soup and looked around the courtyard, banners were being raised one by one not far away.
Seongjin searched for a blue banner. There it was—the Sungui Unit. It was a name he had heard since childhood. His father had always spoken of the Sungui Unit's blue banner with pride.
Mist settled again over Botongwon's yard. On the muddy ground, soldiers' footprints layered upon one another. Those standing in line spoke no words. A mule carrying rations snorted, and wooden tally tokens clinked together inside a pouch. That sound alone tapped against the sleeping sky.
It was his turn.
Fifteen years old. Barely reaching an adult's waist. At his belt hung a small talisman, tied there by his mother.
"Reporting. I am Park Seongjin, son of Park Jinsul."
The officer recording names looked up. His eyes sharpened.
"Park Jinsul?"
"He was killed in battle."
The officer's brow twitched slightly.
"And Park Seongil?"
He seemed to remember the elder brother's name.
"I was told he went missing in the last battle."
The officer shifted his upper body aside and scanned the boy from head to toe. After a moment, a blunt voice fell.
"You're too small."
The boy lifted his head.
"Only in height."
"How old are you?"
"Fifteen."
At the brief answer, the officer's face stiffened for a moment. A hint of a smile flickered, then disappeared.
"Your brother… no word at all?"
"I was told last year that he went missing."
He's probably dead.
The officer muttered inwardly. Those who never returned from the front were usually handled that way. No identity tag returned, no body recovered. In the records, only the words missing in action remained.
"You're really fifteen?"
"Yes."
The boy's voice was calm. An age with nothing to prove—and nothing left to lose. The officer studied his face for a moment, then gestured quietly.
"Go over there and have an identity tag made. Park Seongjin, fifteen. Household: Haeju. Millyang Park clan, right?"
"Yes."
"Come back after you've made the tag."
The boy bowed.
"Loyalty."
As he stepped away, the officer lowered his head. At the edge of the courtyard, a cauldron sent up steam once more. The boy's footprints disappeared into it.
A moment later, the bell rang.
Dong— dong—.
The bell of Botongwon. Hearing it, some silently called the names of those who would never return.