261.
Yi Wol-gun's Foreboding — The Shadow of the Age Seen by the Master, the Future Awaiting the Disciple
Late spring in Hwaju.
The training ground beyond the walls lay empty.
There were no orders today, no trumpets.
The entire corps had gathered of their own accord in the middle of the field.
Waiting made no sound, yet everyone knew—
Yi Wol-gun was about to speak.
An old man with dust settled upon his long robe.
Yet his steps did not waver in the slightest.
As he passed, the soldiers bent at the waist without thinking.
It was not discipline that bowed them, but a respect that moved before the mind.
Park Seongjin stepped forward.
"Master. We are still lacking in learning. We have gathered today to listen."
Yi Wol-gun nodded.
"Good. Then ask."
A soldier spoke cautiously.
"Master. We walk the path of battle.
Why, then, do you tell us to halt upon that very path?"
Yi Wol-gun touched the ground with the tip of his staff.
Tuk—a small cloud of dust rose.
"Because this soil is alive."
Speaking of war, and suddenly he spoke of earth.
He paused, then slowly swept his gaze across the fields.
"This land must be guarded with blood.
But it cannot be kept by blood alone.
The sword opens the road, yet seeds must be sown upon it.
That is the use of wu."
His voice was low, unshaken.
"This place stands at the boundary of north and south,
at the threshold between an old empire and a new state.
Before long, the world will turn over."
"Turn over…?"
Words of the future always stir people.
Hope and unease rose together.
A low murmur spread through the ranks.
Yi Wol-gun looked toward the distant sky.
In his eyes reflected a time not yet arrived.
"The empire will not endure much longer.
Power built on silver and blood eventually gnaws at its own master.
The silver gathered at its founding is spent.
The granaries are empty.
In that gap, the south will rise,
the steppe will tremble,
and Liaodong will once again call for blood."
The air over the field grew heavy.
"And at the center of it all stands Hwaju.
A crossroads where three currents collide.
From here, a road will open."
Park Seongjin swallowed.
"Must we… walk that road?"
Yi Wol-gun nodded.
"Someone must.
Guard the road with the sword,
but light it with the heart."
At those words, almost like a prophecy, the wind rose.
The grass of the field rippled like waves.
Yi Wol-gun closed his eyes for a moment.
"I will not see this place for long.
But you will remain.
Hwaju will one day become the womb of a nation."
When the prophetic words ended, the warriors rose one by one.
They did not salute.
They set their swords down, brought their hands together, and bowed in silence.
Among them, Park Seongjin lowered his head as well.
Heat surged in his chest.
"Master. We will not forget these words."
Yi Wol-gun smiled.
"Do not forget.
The world collapses, and in its place a new bird alights.
When that time comes, the one who builds the nation
is not the one who grips the sword,
but the one who grips purpose.
See clearly. Act rightly.
Rush headlong into battle, and you will surely fail."
That evening, Yi Wol-gun stood alone, gazing at the western sky.
The afterglow slowly darkened to black.
So softly it was nearly inaudible, he murmured,
"One age is setting.
But these children… are the gate of the next."
The Flames of Liaodong — Prophecy Becomes Reality
That summer, the color of the sky changed.
Clouds hung low and heavy, and the wind shifted direction each day.
From the edge of the continent came a scent—
iron, blood, and fire.
At first, it was rumor.
"They say the armies of Hebei have collapsed."
"In the south, the Red Turbans have risen in force."
"Zhu Yuanzhang has taken the center—wasn't he once under Guo Zixing?"
"The Great Khan's banners no longer cover the realm."
"If the Central Plain is lost, the empire is cut in half."
Within days, rumor hardened into fact.
The cavalry of the Yuan—once a name of terror—
was crumbling by the day.
Silk and grain from the south were cut off,
and Liaodong's supply lines were thrown into chaos.
They still fought.
Defeated, yet they did not withdraw.
Scattered, yet they did not vanish.
Leaving burning cities behind, tens of thousands dispersed across the continent.
It was not flight, but the beginning of new wars.
The shadow of war fell over Liaodong as well.
The Great Khan's forces executed generals blamed for defeat
and conscripted any available troops to fill the void.
Yi Wol-gun's words rang again in Park Seongjin's ears:
"The empire will not endure.
The south will rise, the steppe will shake, and Liaodong will drown in blood."
At first, they had sounded like prophecy.
Now the prophecy had already become reality.
In the south, the Red Turbans revolted.
On the steppe, a new khan coveted the old throne.
The generals of Liaodong claimed the Great Khan's banner in name,
but in truth, each marched under his own.
The khan had held the provincial lords together with silver and feasts,
and brought things this far—
but that, too, had reached its limit.
The man who had done it was Toqto'a.
From the walls, Park Seongjin gazed toward the northern sky.
Snow there had not yet melted.
Below it, smoke from encampments rose,
and beyond the hills, nameless armies lay in formation.
Beside him, Yi Wol-gun spoke quietly.
"They have come. The wind I spoke of."
Park Seongjin nodded.
"There is no avoiding it now."
"What cannot be avoided is Heaven's affair," Yi Wol-gun said.
"But what you choose within it—that is human."
At those words, Park Seongjin closed his eyes.
A continent in flames spread across his mind.
At its heart stood the name of Goryeo.
That night, the sky above Hwaju was stained red.
The wind blew from the west.
And from far away came the sound of drums,
shaking the continent.
It was the sound announcing the wars of a new age—
the sound of the world's heart beginning to beat again.