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The Prisoner Who Was Sent Back
Before the dust of Nanchang had even settled,
Han soldiers dragged a bound man into the main camp.
He was drenched in blood,
yet his back remained straight,
and in his eyes lay the clear, austere resolve of one who had already accepted death.
“Zhu Wenzheng, commander responsible for the defense of Nanchang!”
At the report, every general inside the command tent turned at once.
As Zhu Wenzheng was hauled forward,
Chen Cong, Zhu Deming, Yao Zhang, and Wang Ren all sprang to their feet.
Park Seong-jin tilted his head slightly.
He was fine earlier. Now he’s in pieces.
Did I deal with him already?
The thought flickered and vanished.
He was not one to linger on minor matters.
When he listened inward, the outside world often blurred.
“Give the order! What shall we do with him?”
Zhu Wenzheng did not sigh, nor protest.
He stepped forward on his own and knelt calmly before Chen Youliang.
The air inside the tent froze.
“I await judgment.”
That single sentence rang louder than the shouts of thousands.
Voices erupted.
“Execute him.”
“As long as he lives, Zhu Yuanzhang will fight to reclaim the city.”
“He’s the one who killed the most of our men at Nanchang!”
Some reached for their swords.
Others leapt from their seats.
Then Park Seong-jin stepped forward from the rear of the tent.
He looked once at Zhu Wenzheng, narrowed his eyes, and let a faint smile settle on his lips.
“A defeated commander…”
he murmured softly.
“belongs to us now.
A man to be used.”
Before the room could even grasp his words,
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Chen Youliang raised his hand sharply.
“So be it.”
Everyone froze.
Chen Youliang stepped forward until he stood before Zhu Wenzheng.
“Untie him.”
“Your Majesty! That cannot—”
“It is an order.”
Chen Youliang’s voice was firm.
“What can a man already broken accomplish?”
Yao Zhang clenched his fists and closed his eyes.
Zhu Deming failed to hide his shock.
But the soldiers obeyed.
As the ropes fell away, Zhu Wenzheng’s muscles trembled briefly.
Then he bowed deeply.
“You spare my life—how am I to repay such grace?”
Chen Youliang waved a hand.
“There is no need to repay it.”
At that, Park Seong-jin’s smile deepened slightly.
He knew men like Zhu Wenzheng.
They hold loyalty until the moment they die.
But if they return alive—
that loyalty fractures, twists, corrodes.
It breeds suspicion.
Becomes a political obstruction.
And circles back to Zhu Yuanzhang as a new variable.
Park Seong-jin murmured so softly that no one heard:
“A defeated commander always does exactly what we need—
once he goes home.”
Chen Youliang spoke quietly.
“Send him back.”
The tent erupted again.
“Your Majesty! He is Zhu Yuanzhang’s nephew—his second!”
“If he returns, he will seek revenge!”
“We cannot simply release him!”
Chen Youliang cut them off.
“That is precisely why we send him.”
The air grew heavy.
Zhu Wenzheng closed his eyes briefly, then knelt once more.
“One day, I will repay today’s mercy.”
Park Seong-jin gave the faintest nod.
(Yes. You will return—and tighten the noose around your uncle’s neck yourself.)
At dawn the next morning,
Zhu Wenzheng was sent south on a single horse, dressed in pure white.
There would be those who doubted he had truly returned unharmed.
Whispers would follow—
that he might have cooperated with the Han,
that something unseen bound him now.
No matter what position he rose to as Zhu Yuanzhang’s right hand,
that shadow would never fade.
Chen Youliang turned the decision over with his advisors for a long time.
It had looked impulsive.
The more he thought, the more intricate its consequences became.
Before the cruel hope hidden inside that choice,
he found himself unable to lift his head.
When Zhu Wenzheng returned, the camp did not cheer.
No joy.
No relief.
No mourning.
Only an uneasy silence greeted him.
He dismounted before the gates wearing white instead of armor—
less like a general returned from battle,
more like a man coming back from a funeral.
One soldier knelt first.
Then another.
But no shout rose.
“…You came back alive.”
The words were spoken low,
neither praise nor accusation.
Zhu Wenzheng nodded.
He offered no explanation.
He simply walked on.
Behind him, eyes overlapped.
Unspoken questions.
Postures half-withdrawn.
Hands that never left their sword hilts.
“Why did he return alone?”
“Could a prisoner look that clean?”
“Nanchang fell—yet the general returns?”
The whispers spread like wind,
never quite becoming sound.
Before Zhu Yuanzhang’s tent, Zhu Wenzheng stopped.
After a moment, a low voice came from within.
“Enter.”
Zhu Wenzheng stepped inside.
Zhu Yuanzhang rose silently and looked at him.
No words passed between them—only eyes.
Zhu Yuanzhang studied his face,
as if checking for wounds, for fractures, for change.
“…You’re alive.”
It was closer to confirmation than joy.
“Yes.”
Silence stretched.
As it did, the feeling outside the tent subtly shifted.
Zhu Yuanzhang asked,
“What of Nanchang?”
“It has fallen.”
No excuse.
No explanation.
Zhu Yuanzhang’s hand trembled slightly,
but he did not raise his voice.
“How did you escape?”
“They released me.”
The air tilted.
“Who?”
“Chen Youliang.”
The wind brushed the tent.
The canvas shuddered once.
Zhu Yuanzhang did not speak for a long time.
His gaze rested on Zhu Wenzheng’s white robes.
“…Their conditions?”
“None.”
“The price?”
“None.”
Zhu Yuanzhang could not smile.
He lowered himself slowly and said,
“Then why let you live?”
Zhu Wenzheng lifted his head.
“I have not yet grasped their reason.”
That honesty itself became suspicion.
Outside the tent,
faces began to change even without words.
“Released without terms?”
“Is Chen Youliang that kind of man?”
“Could there be a pact we don’t see?”
From a distance, Liu Bowen watched.
He did not approach.
He did not bow.
Only thought:
(It begins now.)
The most dangerous moment in war
is not defeat—
but when a defeated commander returns alive.
That night, the camp still stood under one banner,
yet for the first time,
people’s hearts pointed in different directions.
The moon rose above the tents.
Its light was even.
But beneath it,
the shadows were no longer one.
