On the day of farewell, the sea of Kyushu was as it always was,
sending the departing ships off with calm indifference.
Park Seong-jin stood at the bow of the flagship and watched the waterways.
He retraced the route by which they had come.
Past Iki Island, skimming Tsushima—
and by the time the color of waters near Geoje began to show,
his mind had already returned halfway home.
Sailing along the southern coast,
he set down one contingent after another—
the naval units and county troops that had been gathered for the Wa campaign.
He called their names,
and opened the road for their return.
The ships that scattered toward their homelands grew lighter.
What remained of the fleet recovered its order.
When they entered the West Sea, the waves changed.
The sea was broad and slow, and the sky felt low.
The ships slowed.
They rocked gently sideways with the swell.
The scraping sound of oars faded,
the sails were furled,
and the wind emptied out.
The returning armada formed a single line before a southern harbor
and reduced speed, little by little.
Waves tapped the hulls,
and from beneath the ships rose the smell of old salt and blood.
A sign that the war had ended.
First, the smaller vessels peeled away.
They carried the county troops—
men who had gathered from each district
and now returned to each district again.
When they had sailed out, their faces had been unfamiliar.
When they sailed back, they knew one another's names.
Each ship bore spoils:
spears and armor from Wa, torn banners, valuable goods—
loaded fairly, portioned without disorder.
Park watched to the end
as the ships entering the harbor turned one by one.
Then, from the rearmost ship, movement stopped.
Oars halted.
Men emerged onto the deck.
Someone knelt first—
and then all followed.
Silent, orderly.
That ship was the command ship.
The one Park was on.
Those departing raised the military salute toward it.
They bowed their heads deeply.
Long. Very long.
No one made a sound.
Only the water remained.
He had seen those backs countless times on the battlefield.
Men he had trusted with his rear to survive.
Men who had offered their backs and gone forward.
Park stood on the deck,
posture held, eyes forward.
This farewell was neither order nor ceremony.
It was a final greeting both sides understood.
The ships began to move again.
Oars cut the water and entered the harbor.
Someone wept. Someone clenched their teeth.
That silence was something shared
by those who had crossed a battlefield and lived.
After that, work continued.
At the distribution of spoils, Park had them write separately.
They recorded the dates and places of battle.
They listed without omission
those who had stood in front
and those who had guarded behind.
They left the names of the dead and the living alike.
Their merits were compiled into formal reports.
Generals read them one by one and nodded.
On the final page, signatures followed—
brush tips pressing paper, names forming lines.
Those documents went to Gaegyeong.
War was tied off on the ground.
Records were completed at court.
Park knew that order.
The share of those who fought remained as memory.
To leave that memory behind—
that was the duty of those who returned alive.
Daily life seeped back into the harbor.
Yet that day, the southern sea was unusually quiet.
The gazes watching the departing ships
did not easily fall away.
Park remained there, too—
until the ships vanished completely from sight.
Only then did he slowly turn.
The Returning Soldier
The sun was tilting over the West Sea.
Red light spread long across the water,
resting on every ripple.
Waves were low.
Wind had calmed.
For a moment, the sea looked as if it had hidden the traces of war.
Park's ship dropped anchor near a harbor.
They could have gone farther,
but that day's voyage ended there.
The dusk scenery was gentle.
He did not pull his gaze away.
On the battlefield, colors were different—
blood, smoke, the glare of iron had covered everything.
Now that red entered his vision whole again,
and with it came a sensation
as though something at the center of his chest had been emptied.
It felt closer to hollowness than relief.
A void left after tension drains away.
Below deck, the wounded were catching their breath.
Arms wrapped in bandages.
Legs that limped.
They steadied themselves
on the fact that they had returned alive.
Even if victory was great, wounds remained.
The price of war was always there—
felt first on the way home.
Park recalled faces one by one.
The faces of those who did not return surfaced first.
Moments followed in which names were called
and no answer came.
Memories surged—
hands held, yet released in the end.
The ripples spread slowly,
like the dusk sea.
The battle had ended,
but his mind still lingered there.
Scenes flashed up without warning.
Angles of arrows.
The sound of blades colliding.
The weight of a horse collapsing
still lodged in his body.
He let that flow remain.
He gathered his breath
and turned his eyes to the sea before him.
Home came to mind:
the house left empty too long,
alleys,
shadows of trees overlapping.
That place would have changed.
People and scenery alike
would have moved by the length of their own time.
He knew he alone would stand at a different speed within that change.
Battlefield time is fast and fierce.
Village time loosens and drifts.
That gap shook the heart.
Family and friends could not fully carry his story.
Not because of explanation,
but because of distance.
The spacing of a sword's passage,
the weight of a breath cut short—
those could not be moved into words.
So he would keep his distance, by instinct.
Isolation was not a choice so much as a comfortable state.
Even small sounds made his body react first.
Feeling that reaction, he smiled.
The sound of rope and wood touching
woke his senses before thought.
His body had not yet left the battlefield.
The sun was setting,
but the fight inside did not stop.
The fact that he had returned alive
was the heaviest thing.
Among those who fought with him,
some remained in the sea.
Some remained only as names in records.
Within that order,
the share of the living
could weigh more than medals.
Cause and legitimacy had power on the battlefield.
After returning, they did not wrap directly around a man's chest.
One by one, harbor lamps lit.
In the village, evening was already being prepared.
The free, loose scenery felt strangely unfamiliar.
On the battlefield, everything had been fixed.
Here, each person's time moved on its own.
That difference brought both anxiety and calm.
Park accepted it as it was.
He was, before being a master of Hwagyeong,
a soldier who had come home.
The sea added nothing.
The sun sank below the horizon.
He watched the scene to the end—
as though holding within it
the share of those who did not return.
When they reached the southern harbor,
the first thing felt was the density of the food.
The number of side dishes differed.
Bowls were small and shallow,
yet seemed endless.
Stir-fried anchovies and grilled corvina,
thin-sliced abalone salted fish,
seasoned seaweed,
mustard-leaf kimchi,
green laver salad,
shredded dried fish mixed with seasoning,
and seasonal greens—
dish after dish.
None were overly salty, none bland.
It was the hand of Jeolla's coastline:
a table from a land
where sea and paddies live together.
The moment he lifted his spoon,
the sensation of returning
came first to the body.
The dining hall by the harbor was not large,
but tables ran long.
Park sat facing his officers.
He still held the rank of Jungrangjang.
Yet the force he had led out
had exceeded a thousand by far.
Two thousand county troops
and a thousand sailors had joined—
nearly five thousand in total.
He could have stood as a Yeongui General
or a Grand General without strain.
Yet he never rose above Jungrangjang.
Not for lack of command,
but by his own choice.
There were Jungrangjang under him.
Since he too was Jungrangjang,
the hierarchy was awkward.
Four men.
All were Jungrangjang,
yet their roles and positions differed.
On paper they were equals,
but in truth they followed Park
as though he were their commander-in-chief.
Drink went around.
Makgeolli was thin,
soju rough—
yet all suited the mouth.
One man refilled a cup the instant it was emptied.
Another reached for a side dish
and stopped mid-motion.
At first, there were few words.
The first drink for those returned from war
was always like this:
they focused on eating,
on chewing,
as though confirming with the tongue
that they were alive.
After a while, someone spoke first.
"Yangju outskirts—do you remember?"
Park nodded.
This man had fought beside him in the Central Plains.
Even the noble private troops gathered this time
were led by the same commanders from then.
"When the enemy's left wing collapsed,
you stepped to the front yourself."
"That was when the wind changed."
"The wind stayed.
It was the people who changed."
Low laughter flowed—
laughter mixed with regret.
"Juseong's north gate assault."
"I will not forget it."
"If we'd been even one day late,
the fortress would not have held."
"That night—
if we had not stopped the fire attack,
the outcome would have been different."
Their voices fell quiet.
Someone set down chopsticks.
Someone lifted a cup
and could not bring it to the lips.
"There was also the sea battle."
"When the Wa ships advanced in formation."
"The decision to put the navy forward
and attach the county troops immediately—"
"It was a gamble."
Park answered briefly.
"But it was necessary."
At that, all lowered their heads.
Inside the word "gamble"
were faces that did not return.
After several rounds, speech became more honest.
Who had been wounded where.
Who never made it back.
Which judgment had been right.
Which moment had weighed most heavily.
No one cornered another.
Everyone present knew:
there had been no other road
but the choice taken that day.
Park lifted his cup.
He did not raise it high.
Only above the table.
"Returning alive is merit to the end."
A short sentence.
"The dead have already fulfilled their share."
At that, the four Jungrangjang lifted their cups at once.
The clink was small—
only the sound of contact.
Outside, the sea heaved.
Harbor lamps lit.
The hall remained busy.
More dishes kept arriving.
Time passed
as if nothing had happened.
But those seated at the table knew:
this meal rested atop countless deaths.
Park lifted his spoon.
That day, through food,
he felt in his body that he had come home.