232.
On the Road Back — Two Diverging Resolutions
Baeksan fell away behind them.
Park Seongjin guided his horse at an unhurried pace.
The sky was overcast, and an early spring wind swept the fields—cold, yet mixed with the scent of earth long pressed down through winter.
He lingered on the northern sky.
Somewhere beyond it was Gi Cheol.
Gi Cheol was still alive.
Alive and moving, alive and stirring the ears of the empire, alive and tightening his grip on the heart of Goryeo.
Park Seongjin loosened the reins and spoke low.
"He has to die."
It was a soliloquy, yet once spoken the resolve had already set.
Even if the king forbade it, even if Yi In-jung cautioned him, even if Song Isul said that power burns itself out and dies—his thinking was different.
The world he had seen was a world of blades.
His justice was simple: moving evil is not left as it is.
"We do it the way they did," he whispered from horseback.
"No plan, no traces. Just make him vanish.
Into the winds of the empire, into sickness, or into the darkness they themselves created."
With that thought, he turned onto the road back to Hwajou.
On the way in he had ridden like a madman; on the return, he moved slowly.
The pace of one who had decided.
Meanwhile, the sky over Gaegyeong was soaked with rain.
The king sat alone in the audience chamber, his hand resting on a map.
Red marks ran from Hwajou to Simju, on to Liaoyang and Cheollyeong.
Wherever his gaze paused, troubles overlapped.
"Outwardly we try to balance the Three Kingdoms," he said softly,
"and inwardly we seek to divide the land and set the foundations…
Yet pulling out rotten roots is harder than making the country strong."
Yi In-jung answered carefully.
"Your Majesty, the people still lack strength.
The powerful families have not disbanded their private armies, and the land remains in the hands of a few lineages."
"That is why I ordered the private armies abolished," the king replied.
"But if we take away those blades, who will defend the realm?"
"Those blades must be turned into the nation's blades.
Only when private force is erased will Your Majesty's command truly reach."
The king closed his eyes for a moment.
"So difficult."
One name surfaced in his mind:
the young officer who had hunted down Gi Cheol's remnants,
who had walked a road of blood yet kept a clear gaze.
"Where is that boy now…?"
"He should be on his way back."
The king knew it well.
Park Seongjin had never once disobeyed a royal command.
Yet after enduring so many attacks, what resolve he now carried back—
that was unknowable.
Yi In-jung spoke low.
"Can a man who has been struck again and again truly refrain from raising his blade?"
The king did not answer.
He knew that he himself was included in that "man."
The lamps in the audience chamber trembled.
A light rain fell, and droplets from the eaves formed a steady rhythm—
the only order within the silence.
At last the king spoke.
"In the end, one must trust people."
A sigh followed.
"There is no one left to deliberate with me.
The officials who should discuss state affairs calculate only the yield of their own lands."
He went on.
"There is not a single minister who does not own large estates.
They are the very root of this country's land problem.
Soldiers, officials, even monks—everyone owns land.
That land becomes power, and power takes on the name of righteousness."
The king twisted his lips.
"This country… is a good place for the rich to live."
Yi In-jung bowed his head.
"Your Majesty, this country has soaked too long in abundance—
abundance enjoyed without sweat.
Thus poverty is not feared, and justice is deemed a nuisance."
The king closed his eyes.
"Even so, I will try to change it.
To divide the land, reclaim the private armies, and cut away corruption."
Yi In-jung's voice hardened.
"But Your Majesty, that means cutting into this country's own flesh.
Goryeo cannot destroy itself.
Reform—will ultimately fail."
The king's fingertips trembled.
A drop of ink fell from the brush he held, spreading as a black blot over the red map.
"Even land reform amounted only to shaving off portions of the great families," the king murmured.
"And abolishing private armies—those blades would return under different names."
He spoke quietly.
"Yi In-jung, you know it as well.
Goryeo began long ago to nourish itself on corruption as blood."
Yi In-jung bowed without a word.
The king walked to the window and looked out at the rain-soaked palace.
Drops slid slowly along the old eaves—like old blood.
A thought struck him.
On one side, a single man was preparing to raise his blade by personal justice.
On the other, institutions stood still, unable to move on their own.
The two resolutions resembled each other.
Both were right.
Both were dangerous.
The king murmured softly.
"What choice will that boy make?"
The rain continued to fall.
Before the Gate of Qimen Dunjia* 기문둔갑(奇門遁甲)
*Qimen Dunjia is a system of divination that uses time and space (the Nine Palaces) to predict fortune and misfortune and to formulate strategy.
The name originates from the idea of hiding and protecting the king, Jia (甲), within Wu (戊).
In the past, it was employed as a military and strategic art; in modern times, it is mainly used to judge luck, direction, and the auspicious or inauspicious nature of decisions.
The road was long.
The horses walked slowly beneath a sky of thin clouds.
It was the return after battle—no urgency, no need to hurry.
While adjusting his saddle, Park Seongjin drew his horse closer to Song Isul's.
"Sir."
"What is it."
"In a case like this—what should one do?"
"What case."
"When one is told not to kill, not to act… yet must kill."
Song Isul glanced at him sideways.
"Who—Gi Cheol? Or the Empress?"
"Not as far as the Empress."
"Hm. Yes. If it's Gi Cheol, you'd want him dead."
"Yes."
"But there's no method. That's what chafes you."
"That's right."
For a while Song Isul did not speak.
Only the steady sound of hooves over snow continued.
"There is a stratagem called borrowing another's blade to kill," he said.
"To kill using someone else's sword?借刀殺人之計*"
** One of the Thirty-Six Stratagems (三十六計), the fourth stratagem:
"Borrow another's blade to kill" — that is, do not fight directly; instead, make use of others to strike the blow on your behalf.
"Exactly."
Song Isul laughed softly.
"Knowing stratagems is easy—read them, recite them.
Using them is different.
For that, you need an eye for timing."
Park Seongjin nodded.
"And how does one know that 'time'?"
Song Isul looked briefly at the sky.
Light slipped between clouds, then vanished again.
"There is something called Qimen Dunjia."
He spoke slowly, choosing his words.
"It's not a name to be spoken lightly.
For now, there is no better term."
"Qimen Dunjia?"
"It isn't an occult scripture."
Song Isul shook his head.
"The world always seems to wear the same face.
But sometimes, a gap opens.
Enter while it's open and you pass through; arrive late and it closes."
He looked at Park Seongjin.
"You don't read it.
Standing before it—that is Qimen Dunjia."
He turned and called back.
"Yi Jiseon."
From behind, a young man dressed as a groom rode up—the same one who had spoken of spirits before.
He dismounted and bowed deeply.
"Yes, senior."
Among the adepts they called one another "senior"—
a title for those who had seen the road earlier.
"He knows Qimen. Speak."
Yi Jiseon did not answer at once.
He fiddled with the reins, checked the wind once, then said low,
"Qimen is not something you read."
"You wait for it."
Park Seongjin looked at him.
"For what?"
"Until the gate opens."
Yi Jiseon took a breath and continued.
"It isn't about dates or hours.
When wind and direction, the land's stirrings and human breath overlap—
only then does a path appear."
"Then it would be possible to remove a man or two."
Yi Jiseon did not smile.
He only nodded.
"Only on a day heaven permits, through a gap heaven has not yet closed."
Park Seongjin asked the question already in his heart.
"Then Gi Cheol?"
Yi Jiseon lifted his head.
"Not yet."
"And the day the gate closes?"
Yi Jiseon traced a very short line in the air with his fingertip.
"When the wind changes, and water finds its own course."
He paused.
"That is the day the gate shuts."
Song Isul nodded.
"Wait. When you raise your blade that day, it won't be your hand that cuts—
it will be heaven."
"Or," he added quietly,
"the blade will move first, and you'll simply be standing there."
Park Seongjin gazed at the distant sky.
A faint ray of sunlight slipped through gray clouds.
After a long look, he murmured,
"So when words circle back like this, it means there's no answer yet."
Yi Jiseon replied calmly,
"Because it's the future."
Park Seongjin nodded.
"If it's the day heaven closes the gate, then until then,
I only hope there will be no great harm."
Hoofbeats flowed again across the plain.
The wind still carried no scent of spring.
The world seemed to be holding its breath before a gate—
waiting for the moment it would open.