The noodle shop owner remained silent for a long time.
After extinguishing the fire and closing the doors,
he went to an inner shelf and brought out two objects wrapped in cloth.
One was a knife.
The other, a rolling pin.
Both had been used for many years.
They gleamed with wear, the places touched by hands polished smooth.
"This is the knife for cutting noodles."
He offered the blade first.
It was neither large nor ornate.
But it was straight and neat.
Ground so many times that it had grown thin.
"When it's time to cut, you must not hesitate.
Leave it long and it tangles.
Delay, and everything is ruined."
Then he handed over the rolling pin.
The wood grain had worn down finely.
It felt heavy in the palm.
"This is for rolling.
Not a tool to apply strength—
but to distribute strength evenly.
If you rush, it tears.
If you grow greedy, the thickness warps."
Park Seong-jin looked at the two objects in turn.
They bore no resemblance to the sword he used on the battlefield.
Yet strangely, once held, they felt familiar.
"I will give you both."
The owner spoke quietly.
"If you know only how to cut, you grow cruel.
If you know only how to roll, you cannot decide.
They must remain together."
Silence lingered.
Park bowed—
deeply, but without excess.
"They are too much for me."
"No."
The owner shook his head.
"This is not technique…
It is a way of living.
You already know it.
You simply never named it."
Park carefully held the knife and rolling pin to his chest.
In hands that had cut down men,
for the first time rested tools that fed them.
Before he stepped out, the owner said,
"If ever you forget—
when you hesitate whether to cut, remember the knife.
When you grow impatient about whether to roll, remember the pin."
Park smiled.
"I will not forget."
But both of them knew.
"I will not forget" often meant "I will not return."
The nightly footsteps that had come and gone in silence stopped,
and thus the study ended.
A military camp without incident is the most peaceful place in the world.
Because to preserve that peace, people busy themselves with even more peaceful tasks.
There were no more urgent footfalls in the camp.
No trumpets at dawn.
No tense nightly rotations.
Only the wind brushing the edges of the tents.
No clatter of armor or blade.
Men wandered into the forest.
It was too leisurely to be called hunting.
They set traps.
They inspected branches where birds might perch.
The animals did not flee deep into the woods.
Even beasts seemed to know there was no need to run from the scent of men.
One rabbit.
One pheasant.
Enough.
Fires were lit low.
The wood did not crackle harshly.
It burned like a slow breath.
One man skinned the animal.
Another took out salt.
Seasoning was minimal.
There was no need for more.
Meat turned slowly on skewers.
Fat dripped, flaring the flame briefly, then settling.
The thin flesh of birds cooked first.
Smoke rose lightly.
The scent carried on the wind.
Those sitting far away drifted closer.
No one called them.
A circle formed naturally.
Cooked meat was cut and shared.
No rank.
No hierarchy.
Large portions went where hands were many.
Small pieces traveled with laughter.
Someone produced bread.
Another, dried fruit.
Little wine.
Much water.
Few words.
No tales of war.
No boasts of merit.
They watched the fire.
Chewed their meat.
Looked up at the sky.
Through drifting smoke, the sky seemed unusually high.
Clouds moved slowly.
For that time,
it did not matter who came from where
or what had been lost.
Looking at the same fire,
sharing the same meat—
that was enough.
The peace of the camp lay there,
without words,
yet unmistakable.
Shoulders once hardened by tension loosened.
Laughter replaced speech.
Spring settled first among the people
before it touched the land.
Peace came to Wa.
Peace came to Goryeo.
Reports requesting return were sent to the court.
Local magistrates were hastily appointed to key regions.
The Sun-gun Manho-bu dispatched officials to oversee security.
County command offices were established.
Order returned to roads and ports.
Night no longer carried the same fear.
Taxes were adjusted.
Lords could no longer command troops at will.
They held their seats under royal decree.
Some strategic posts received magistrates sent directly from Goryeo.
The order once upheld by swords and banners
shifted to documents, ledgers,
and the sound of patrol steps.
One could not easily declare that war had ended.
But at least for now,
there was time when men did not have to kill.
Within that brief and precious gap,
people began to breathe again.
Spring arrived without announcement.
On mornings still touched by cold,
grass tips loosened,
plum blossoms opened first.
Around that time, Park made his decision quietly.
There was no need to prolong it.
"In two days, we march north. Prepare."
The order was short.
But the camp stirred.
At first, disbelief.
Then cheers.
Then a strange silence.
They had gazed north each day, thinking of home.
Yet once departure was fixed,
the ties formed here tugged at the heart.
Shared fires.
Shared meat.
Shared wind.
They lingered more deeply than expected.
That evening, Park visited the noodle master for a final farewell.
Few words.
No long explanations.
The master nodded with a smile.
Park glanced once more at the noodle knife and rolling pin—
as if memorizing the motion of those hands.
Back at the camp, guests had already arrived.
Lords from across Kyushu.
No one knew who had summoned them.
Yet news had traveled faster than wind.
Horses lined before the tents.
Retainers withdrew quietly.
Park did not greet them with formal banquet.
Instead, he tied on an apron
and stood before the fire.
He rolled, folded, and cut the dough
exactly as he had learned.
He boiled water, lifted the kelp,
cut the flame, added bonito flakes.
No one spoke.
They watched not a general—
but a man preparing food with his hands.
Bowls were set before the lords.
They still wore their swords,
but lifted chopsticks carefully.
The sound of slurping rose.
Some bowed their heads.
Some smiled.
The noodles spoke farewell in place of words.
After the meal came gifts.
At first modest offerings of courtesy.
Soon, they piled like a small mountain.
Fine swords of Wa.
Named smiths' katana—
thickened and reforged for real battle.
"Return alive."
The blades seemed to carry that wish.
Regional specialties.
Dried seafood.
Fragrant timber.
Silks and dyes.
Ceramics and tea—
all labeled for delivery to the Goryeo court.
Craftworks in silver and bronze.
Not as tribute of war,
but tokens of bond.
One offered the deed to an estate on a high hill overlooking the sea.
"If ever you return, reside there."
Park exhaled like a sigh.
"These I cannot claim.
They will go to the treasury."
Yet he did not refuse outright.
One cannot reject the heart of the giver.
Finally, he bowed.
"Without you, we would not have come this far."
That was enough.
The lords did not try to detain him.
On a hill where spring flowers had just begun to bloom,
they accepted that he would leave.
In two days, Goryeo's army would march north.
Yet that night, beneath the tents,
the fires burned long.
After preparing to depart,
Yan approached quietly.
"I too will soon go to Goryeo.
Open the road for me."
The words were polite, without hesitation.
He knew there was no reason to remain here.
As a final gift, he presented something wrapped in cloth.
At first glance, it was an ordinary piece of iron.
Long and slender.
Slightly thicker than an adult's forearm,
extended like a spear.
Park showed little interest at first.
He had seen enough cannons.
Nothing seemed new.
"It is a breech-loading cannon.
It does not load from the front.
It loads from the rear."
Park's gaze sharpened.
Yan continued.
It had been mounted on ships.
Instead of loading through the muzzle,
the rear opened.
Pre-made cartridges—
powder and shot combined—
were prepared in advance.
After firing,
remove, insert, fire again.
Only the spark needed transferring.
"The loading speed differs."
Yan demonstrated.
Lower the cannon.
Open the rear.
Insert the cartridge.
Seal.
Fix.
Ignite.
Boom.
Before the smoke cleared,
the rear opened again.
The next cartridge was already in hand.
The second shot fired
before the echo of the first had faded.
Park said nothing.
He calculated.
Speed.
Breath.
The tempo of battle.
Until now, artillery required waiting—
cooling, cleaning, reloading.
This was different.
No waiting.
The rhythm of combat shifted.
One could fire again
before the enemy responded.
"This…"
He let the word trail off.
Yan nodded.
"On ships, we needed this more.
Before enemy vessels closed,
we could fire two or three additional rounds."
At last, Park smiled—briefly.
"Another history will change."
At first, he had not liked it.
Too slender.
Too long.
Nothing like existing cannons.
But after watching the motions—
load, fire, repeat—
the judgment was complete.
This was not a tactical adjustment.
It altered structure.
Less dependent on individual skill.
Reducing the meaning of sheer numbers.
Turning time itself into a weapon.
Park spoke.
"We will take it.
And guard it carefully."
That was enough for Yan.
He did not repeat his request to go to Goryeo.
He already knew it had been granted.