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Meeting Park Cheol-gu
As he stepped out, he saw him.
It was Park Cheol-gu, Chief of the Dragon Guard.
A face that stirred the urge to strike for no reason at all.
He survived by betrayal, by transformation, by changing faces.
There were moments one wished he would simply die and be done with it,
yet no one had finished him.
So he rose again, like something that would not stay dead.
Park Seong-jin's breath settled at once.
He had believed this man handled long ago.
Not even worth killing—
left behind without feeling the need to end him.
A man who made treachery his method of survival.
Before his master he lay flat.
Before others he swelled with bluster.
If profit appeared, he sold his comrades.
If danger loomed, he pushed subordinates forward.
Why was he here?
The question came first.
As Park strode toward him,
Park Cheol-gu's eyes widened.
He stepped back like a startled beast.
There was no doubt he was tied to tonight's upheaval.
When the distance closed, Park Cheol-gu drew his blade.
It was a sword swung by the instinct to live.
Park brushed the flat aside with a finger-sword.
Steel rang once.
His left hand struck the ribs like a blade.
Thud.
The body folded.
Clutching his waist, the man rolled across the ground.
Park nudged him with his foot.
Thok—
The body rolled beneath a pillar.
A hollow thought came first—
why were there so many like this?
A man who sold comrades and subordinates for gain.
Park asked,
"Why are you here?"
Panting, Park Cheol-gu shouted,
"What wrong have I done?"
"On a night of rebellion, circling the palace requires confirmation."
"I did nothing!"
An excuse.
His life had always continued on that phrase.
Built on lies, layered upon lies, deceiving himself.
Further questions wasted time.
Park struck pressure points.
Tap. Tap.
The body froze.
Only the eyes trembled.
Park turned and called the guards.
"Hand him over to General Lee In-jung."
The soldiers dragged him away.
The scraping across stone cut through the night.
As Park turned, he thought—
More than those felled tonight,
men like this still filled the world.
A kind that does not end when struck down by a blade.
They appear on every night of rebellion.
One speaks of living together in one world—
must such men also be embraced?
The question remained in his chest.
Park Seong-jin's Solitude
Leaving Manwoldae, Park did not head home at once.
His steps turned naturally toward the market.
It was a path he had long walked by habit after affairs of state.
Beyond the palace walls,
the night air lightened.
In place of royal stillness,
the breath of ordinary life seeped in.
Half-lit stalls and merchants closing shop
mingled their voices.
He entered the pork alley.
One soup shop still held a lamp.
The door stood half open,
and the scent of long-simmered pork bones spread deep into the street.
He sat without speaking.
The owner asked nothing,
placing a bowl before him.
At this hour, customers seldom spoke.
It had always been so.
He lifted his spoon.
He tasted the broth first,
then mixed in the rice.
Slurp. Slurp.
Swallowing came before chewing.
It was good.
A firm comfort settling upon solitude.
The long night at the palace descended with the hot broth into him.
There was no room to choose flavors.
Only the clear sense of something settling in his chest.
He emptied the bowl
and drank the broth to the last drop.
Nothing remained.
Only then did he feel human again—
returned from warrior to ordinary life.
He had killed no one tonight.
Yet his heart felt heavy.
If resentment gathered from those he felled,
how would he bear it?
He left coins and rose without a word.
The owner nodded.
Outside, the market slept.
Lights went out one by one.
Wind brushed the alley.
A night like an empty stomach.
He walked again.
Tonight he had saved the king,
preserved the nation,
and struck down dozens.
Now he was only a man
who had eaten a bowl of soup
and was heading home.
That image mattered most.
No matter what ties bound him,
he would not lose himself.
That afternoon, Lee In-jung came to the noodle shop.
It was between customers.
They sat across a low table by the kitchen.
Lee spoke as if giving a report.
Some were subdued on the spot.
Some were flogged.
Some were imprisoned.
Tracing the masterminds produced a string of names.
Who conspired.
How much they received.
Who the target was.
The target had been the reforming king.
His words were careful.
Yet the air in the shop hardened.
Even without listening,
people sense the weight of a room.
At that moment, his sisters Mapun and Eunbun appeared.
Without a word, they grasped his arm
and led him from the kitchen.
"Brother, a moment."
"What is it?"
"Choose the time and place."
They walked into the spring fields.
Young grass had just sprouted.
Sunlight lay low across it.
Water flowed softly through the paddies.
Park spoke first.
"His Majesty visited days ago.
He asked me to guard him."
Lee nodded.
No surprise.
"The political winds are tangled.
Those pressing reform and those resisting it
are pushing each other to the brink.
The time for gentle negotiation has passed."
He paused.
"They stand where neither can step back.
So resistance erupts."
Silence followed.
Water flowed in the fields, clear and steady.
"There must be pain," Park said.
"But I will not enter office."
Lee did not press further.
"I know."
They stood watching the spring fields.
No more words passed.
Each thought moved quietly within.
On the way back, Park reflected—
His task had not changed.
Not to lift the sword,
but to tend the fire
and roll the dough.
He stopped by the shrine hall again.
The events of last night had not settled in his heart.
The rebellion had ended.
The reasons for it remained.
What drives men back to the blade?
If the nation trembles,
peace becomes a slogan.
The louder the cry,
the clearer the emptiness.
The problem was plain—
it lay beyond what he could bear alone.
It required a king's decision
and the time of institutions.
Not something a single warrior's skill could reach.
In the quiet of the shrine,
he thought of the ancients.
They spoke simply—
Encourage the good, punish the evil.
Yet history showed otherwise.
Good and evil were clear,
but profit between them was concrete.
Land. Money. Labor.
All desired. Always scarce.
Politics decides who holds how much.
A matter of distribution backed by authority—
and often by blood.
This rebellion had been no different.
An attempt to preserve one's share
by removing the king.
Not justice—
but fear of loss.
The question of how to solve it
belonged to the king and the system.
The question left to a warrior was different.
How to live
upon land that remains unsettled.
To draw the sword?
To lay it down?
To remain silent, or to depart?
The wind moved slowly through the shrine.
He had been taught to step back.
Yet that was not the whole of it.
His master had not hidden forever in the mountains.
Trees spoke no words.
Stone gave no answer.
Yet he understood.
A warrior's task is not to fix the world.
It is to guard the place
where people may return
when the world trembles.
When politics divides the land,
the warrior must keep hearts from breaking.
In an age where good and evil do not move cleanly,
someone must endure their weight in the flesh.
He did not hurry toward a conclusion.
One truth settled quietly—
The more the ground shakes,
the quieter the warrior must become.
The moment of not drawing the blade
may weigh heavier than battle.
Park Seong-jin left the shrine.
There was still no answer.
But the question had become clear.