At the edge of the forest, Seongjin was alone, moving with a small knife held in reverse.
And then—without him noticing—Hwang Hyunpil, the squad commander, was standing behind him.
The sound of hooves and the last embers of night had drifted far away. Between the two of them, there was only the wind scraping through leaves.
Hwang Hyunpil watched in silence for a long moment, then let out a long breath and finally spoke.
"Where did you learn this?"
Seongjin, panting, turned his head.
"Back with the merchant guild… little by little."
Hwang Hyunpil's gaze dropped to Seongjin's hands.
Seeing the backs of them—mud and blood mixed together—he gave a small laugh.
"I see. But the shape isn't alive yet."
He pinched the small knife between his fingers and flipped it over. The short tip caught the moonlight and glimmered faintly.
"Hold it in reverse. You already know that much.
Tip down—but don't kill your wrist."
He took Seongjin's arm and corrected the angle.
"Wrist firm, arm loose.
When you're locked up with someone, you don't endure with arm strength. You win with your hips and legs."
He lowered his body and tugged at Seongjin's center.
"The knife is small. That's why you have to use your whole body.
A man who trusts only his hand dies first."
Seongjin followed, 그대로.
Holding the blade inverted, he pushed and pulled—and the power rose from his waist.
Hwang Hyunpil nodded.
"Good. Now the thrust."
He pointed at a tree.
"Drive it in—and immediately twist and let it flow.
What matters isn't a killing thrust. It's a thrust that breaks the center."
His voice dropped.
"When the center collapses, what comes next isn't a fight."
As Seongjin continued the motion, Hwang Hyunpil pressed at his foot with his hand and corrected it.
"Feet first. Use what you learned from wrestling.
Break them with one foot—push them out with the other."
He paused to catch a breath, then went on.
"And when you're tangled."
He lifted the small knife again.
"Don't swing it.
This isn't a blade for cutting wide. It's a blade for stabbing, for pinning, for pulling inward."
He mimed flipping his wrist.
"Don't choke the grip. Reverse hold—use it like you're drawing it toward your body.
A blade that goes outward leaves your back open."
Seongjin, breathing hard, asked,
"Can I… really do it like that?"
Hwang Hyunpil's expression loosened slightly.
"The fact you asked that is the answer."
He laughed once—short.
"If you've got no fear, you're a madman.
If you've got only fear, you're already dead.
A soldier moves in between."
A brief silence passed.
"One last thing. Remember it."
Hwang Hyunpil spoke low.
"Don't learn how to kill people—learn how to survive.
Killing intent isn't a state of mind. It's the rhythm of breath and body."
He looked straight at Seongjin.
"Don't lose your breath.
When your breath breaks, your skill ends."
Seongjin gripped the small knife again.
Under the moonlight, his hand looked a little firmer.
"Thank you, sir."
Hwang Hyunpil said nothing. He only thumped Seongjin once on the back and walked into the dark.
Seongjin remained, steadying his breathing, linking the newly learned movements one by one.
This was no longer practice.
It was breath—for staying alive.
When he returned to camp, the wind had already turned cold.
By a stove where only embers remained, Oh Jinchul sat with his back against something hard. Dust was caked on his face, dried blood stained him like a blot—yet his eyes were clear.
When Seongjin approached, he only turned his head a fraction.
"Sleep."
His voice was hoarse.
"Resting's the way you win."
He flicked his finger as if pointing at empty air.
"You gotta rest a lot. In a fight, the one who sleeps wins. If your body doesn't rest, your blade breaks first."
After a breath, he added quietly,
"When I was young, I didn't know that."
Seongjin couldn't answer.
The sensation of the small knife still clung to his fingertips. Each moment he had held that short blade, his heart had pounded—and the pounding hadn't yet settled.
Oh Jinchul closed his eyes, then smiled faintly.
"Don't go too far. A man's gotta sleep to live."
For some reason, that line stayed in Seongjin's chest.
He lay down slowly. Above, instead of firelight, faint stars blinked.
When he closed his eyes, the smell of blood and soil rose inside his ears like a tide.
Before sleep took him, he thought one last thing.
Today, I lived.
The next morning, the Grand General himself climbed up into the camp.
Armor flashed in the sunlight, and the shadow of his great axe-crest fell long over the soldiers. He slowly swept his gaze over the crossbowmen lined behind the formation, then lifted his voice.
"You are the finest firepower in the Goryeo army!"
The praise rang clean and carried far.
Soldiers moved without thinking, hands to their chests in salute. Seongjin bowed as well.
But his face did not brighten.
Yesterday's battle returned to him—
the waist offered, the bait thrown, the blade dropped with perfect timing.
That choice hadn't been luck.
The thought wouldn't leave him.
And it turned, little by little, into anger.
If there's a next time—then next time, I want to see clearly who becomes the bait.
The Grand General added one more line.
"Now we go to Liaoyang Fortress."
A murmur passed through the ranks.
Resupply. Rest. Tending the wounded. Words everyone needed to hear.
But inside Seongjin, another sound was beating.
Why did you decide that—shouldn't there be at least an explanation?
Action should have reasons.
He could not offer blind loyalty to a man who gave up the waist and took victory without even naming the price.
And yet the Grand General's tone and expression carried a strange persuasiveness.
One corner of Seongjin's frozen mind softened—only for a moment, but unmistakably.
He forced it down.
Anger and distrust, relief and exhaustion collided inside him.
He made a vow.
Next time, I'll come back alive—and judge it then.
He didn't speak it aloud, but the decision was clear.
While the echo of the Grand General's praise still lingered in his ears, Seongjin's gaze had already turned north, toward the open plain.
If he was called out again—
who became the bait,and who lived—
this time, he would confirm it with his own eyes.
Later, he would learn:
making a full circuit of the battlefield before an advance was the general's specialty—
and his most terrifying habit.
He watched. He learned.
One day, Seongjin thought, I will have to do that too.