The officer in charge of fire control mounted his horse and galloped back and forth across the field.
A standard-bearer ran alongside him, flag raised high. At each shouted command, the flag rose and fell. As hooves tore into the earth, columns of dust surged upward, and sunlight shattered within them, glittering like scales.
"Two hundred fifty paces! North–northwest!""Three hundred paces! West–northwest!"
Seongjin repeated the numbers and directions to himself.
It was a habit learned long ago, at his father's side. The moment he heard a command, his body aligned before thought followed. Distance, bearing, angle—everything overlapped naturally in his mind.
Oh Jinchul, once a squad leader, saw this and snorted softly.
"Trained well. Kids these days are all like that. Learn by trailing their fathers at home—come to the army and they're useful right away."
Seongjin straightened his shoulders without a word.
The system of the Goryeo army was cold.
When a family inherited military duty, manpower never ran out. Even if an army of "a hundred thousand" vanished at once, another hundred thousand would be born to fill the gap. That was how the country endured. Cruel—but stable.
Seongjin drew a breath.
If he didn't ask now, he felt he never would.
"Do you… know how my father died?"
They had served in the same unit.
If anyone knew, it would be him.
That single answer might lighten his heart—or weigh it down even more.
"I do."
Oh Jinchul's voice was flat.
"How was it?"
"Meaningless. He was caught in a rain of arrows."
Something split quietly in Seongjin's chest.
"There was no body."
"There wasn't time to recover one."
Oh Jinchul went on.
"The enemy flanked us and hit the middle ranks. We had to retreat immediately."
At that moment, the fire-control officer cursed at a passing standard-bearer.
"Go check it, you yellow-tailed bastard!"
The rider cracked his whip and spurred forward, the flag snapping violently.
Seongjin's gaze followed the officer.
Oh Jinchul said quietly,
"You won't see him once the fighting starts."
"Sir?"
"That's only during drills. In real combat, he disappears somewhere, then crawls out after it's all over."
"And that's tolerated?"
Seongjin's voice held both anger and an attempt at understanding.
"I killed one like that."
Oh Jinchul clicked his tongue.
"And they sent someone even worse."
Seongjin pressed his lips together.
In battle, mistakes are not forgiven.
A single error costs dozens—hundreds—of lives. That was why discipline was harsh and punishment immediate.
Oh Jinchul spoke again.
"That's the Goryeo army. Even a kid like you understands combat, but some bastard who's been around for decades sits above us without knowing a thing."
He paused.
"Passing it down through generations—that's both the strength and the flaw."
At the end of his words lay resignation, cold clarity, and an old grief.
Seongjin turned them over in his mind and leaned back against the horse's neck.
The wind rose, and the flags swayed. Beyond the distant horizon, dark outlines were slowly gathering.
His father's face surfaced, his brother's silhouette overlapping it.
But soon those names were reduced—to flags, to numbers, to directions.
Two hundred fifty paces.North–northwest.
The march had already begun, and the sound of hooves was gradually losing its rhythm.
Quietly, Seongjin tightened his grip on the wooden tag in his palm.
Now his name, too,was entering the world of numbers and directions.