419.

  At the mouth of Poyang Lake—Hukou.

  The waters of the Yangtze were calm.

  Yet the shadow of war had already sunk beneath the surface.

  The stillness belonged only to the surface.

  In the depths, the current had already changed direction.

  Upon receiving word that Nanchang had fallen, Zhu Yuanzhang drove his great fleet forward at once, dozens of warships pressing into Poyang Lake.

  The moment the report arrived, drums sounded, oars split the water, and rigging was drawn taut.

  Across the gray river, the ships lined up like a vast formation of migrating geese.

  Thousands of banners snapped in the wind, spreading the pressure of an imminent decisive battle.

  The wake raised by the lead vessels slid beneath the hulls of those following.

  That path of water stretched straight toward Hukou, as if someone had drawn it with a fingertip.

  The advance was made at the hour of si.

  The sun still stood high, yet momentum had already begun to bend.

  At such a time, it was not horses but water and wind that told the battlefield’s hour.

  The forest at Hukou was silent.

  No birds cried.

  No wind stirred.

  It was a quiet so complete it swallowed even the faint sound of leaves brushing together.

  That silence stretched long, down to the riverbank, mingling with the mist over the water.

  The Ming ambush force began fortifying the moment they landed.

  Barricades rose along the shore, watch rotations tightened.

  Ground was leveled, stakes driven, ropes pulled taut.

  Footprints in the sand soon overlapped by the thousands.

  Pits were dug to conceal long spears, shields set to block lines of sight.

  Quivers were aligned.

  Preparations were complete.

  Yet over all of it drifted an unease that could not be hidden.

  An unexplained stillness clung to every step like a thin film.

  One officer whispered,

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  “Isn’t it unusually quiet today?”

  Another replied,

  “There’s no enemy nearby.”

  When the words ended, the silence only deepened.

  There was no commander visible, no council, no orders issued.

  The soldiers did not know this.

  To their eyes, the command tents stood intact.

  Preparations appeared flawless.

  Banners flew, patrols rotated, barricades stood firm.

  Nothing seemed disturbed.

  Yet inside the tents lay corpses without a single drop of blood spilled.

  They lay in a silence untouched even by wind.

  Even the light seeping through the seams of the canvas was unnaturally neat.

  The one who had killed them was Park Seongjin—alone.

  As a result, the Hukou ambush force became an army with a body but no head.

  Limbs moved, but the center that bound the flow was empty.

  Like a beast stripped of its eyes and brow, left with only muscle.

  Inside Poyang Lake, Zhu Yuanzhang’s fleet advanced—slowly, yet immense.

  The ambush he had prepared and trusted was already no different from an empty stone tomb.

  A tomb is solid on the outside, but holds no living breath within.

  Only the name of “ambush” remained.

  The will to move had vanished.

  Thousands of troops landed at Hukou, completing their positions.

  From the outside, there was no flaw.

  Zhu Yuanzhang turned and said,

  “Wait here. We will receive Chen Youliang and take his head.”

  His judgment was correct.

  The ambush position, the choke point of the waterway, the enemy’s movement—none were wrong.

  Only the timing was off.

  The place to strike had already passed.

  The moment he waited for had been taken by another.

  As the main force disappeared beyond the horizon, Park Seongjin emerged from the forest.

  Gray momentum wrapped his body, and with each step, fallen leaves slid backward.

  Not the sound of leaves being crushed—

  the sound of leaves yielding the way on their own.

  When he raised his hand, fifty Goryeo warriors dropped to one knee in unison.

  Their breathing was steady, their eyes clear.

  Even steeped in the smell of the battlefield, they did not waver.

  A subordinate asked,

  “Commander, the signal?”

  Park Seongjin pointed toward the ambush position beyond the trees.

  To his eyes, the barricades, the spear lines, even the changing of sentries moved slowly.

  “From here on, we sweep the ambush force away.”

  The shoreline of Hukou flashed faintly.

  It was not lightning, but a thin line—

  a grain of energy spreading outward, brushing across the sand.

  Where that line passed, everything stopped.

  Soldiers gripping long spears collapsed without a sound.

  The thud was dull, as if swallowed by sand.

  “Enemy!”

  “They came from above!”

  “Form ranks!”

  But ranks did not form.

  There were no commanders, no orders, no unified judgment.

  Voices were many, but intention did not gather.

  The command had already been severed.

  From behind, arrows rained down.

  Barricades built to block the front became walls trapping the rear.

  Park Seongjin drove straight into the enemy formation.

  His sword did not swing—it sorted.

  One stroke and two or three lost their strength.

  A second stroke and the center was cut.

  The warrior unit followed, carving through where men clustered.

  Soon, five thousand cavalry surged in.

  Hooves pounded the sand, tearing vision apart.

  The left wing collapsed, the right split, the center fractured and scattered.

  Once flight began, annihilation followed in an instant.

  Flight created paths.

  Paths created compression.

  Park Seongjin drove that flow in a single direction.

  In the chaos, soldiers rushed for the ships.

  A boatman raised his blade and shouted,

  “Cast off!”

  The ship lurched forward, trembling on the river.

  Watching it, Park Seongjin said,

  “Let them go.”

  Song Isul asked,

  “You’re letting them escape?”

  Park Seongjin smiled.

  “Only then will Zhu Yuanzhang come.”

  It was not elation.

  It was a summons.

  When Zhu Yuanzhang’s main force finally turned back, he felt it the moment he reached Hukou.

  “Too quiet.”

  He understood at once.

  Only corpses remained.

  No shouts.

  No commanders.

  No movement.

  On the sand lay a single, massive slash-mark.

  A subordinate reported,

  “My lord. The Hukou ambush force has been annihilated.”

  Zhu Yuanzhang’s eyes shook.

  “…Park Seongjin.”

  In that moment, he knew.

  The one blocking his path was a single man.

  “If I kill this one man, the realm will be mine.”

  But by the time those words took shape,

  the flow of the war had already passed to Chen Youliang.