552.
The moment Park Seong-jin landed, the waegu at the front reacted instinctively and drew his blade.
One third out of the scabbard—
in the instant when metal barely had time to breathe—
the man was already split diagonally from left shoulder to right hip.
Cloth. Flesh. Bone—
all parted in one smooth flow.
He collapsed without ever seeing his own arm fall away.
Park Seong-jin had twisted his upper body perhaps fifteen degrees.
The hwando had not so much "slashed" as cut through space itself.
No—more precisely,
time itself seemed to stop in that instant.
In the moment before blood burst forth,
everything in the world appeared to freeze.
The three men in front of him halted simultaneously.
For a brief span, the world stood still.
Then—belatedly—something fell.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
First, a chest.
Second, the back of a head.
Third, an arm and shoulder severed at an angle.
Each fell only after leaving its body.
Park Seong-jin's blade did not always cut flesh.
He struck only the weakest joints,
the loosest gaps,
the exact moments when breath was cut off.
At that moment, ten members of the Muin unit vaulted over the railing behind him.
They took the "sides" of the path Park Seong-jin opened.
Park Seong-jin broke through the front.
The Muin unit sealed the flanks.
One cut the rigging to block retreat.
One pinned a fleeing man with a single toe and knocked him unconscious.
One drew a bow and pierced three archers retreating toward the stern in succession.
Their movements were fast, precise, cold.
As if they had agreed long ago to move exactly this way.
Like perfectly meshed machinery, they rotated and cleared the deck.
"They're aboard!"
A scream burst from the waegu side.
From the center of the deck, a commander—large-framed, clearly experienced—charged forward gripping a long sword in both hands.
A weapon designed for use atop large ships,
a Japanese great blade meant to strike down with sheer force.
Park Seong-jin walked straight toward him.
Across the blood-soaked deck, as casually as stepping through puddles.
The long sword came down like lightning.
Slap!
The broad blade crashed down as if to split Park Seong-jin's head.
But he lightly pushed the side of the blade aside with his left hand.
Kiiik—
A warped, unnatural sound of twisting metal.
The sword's trajectory collapsed.
In that opening, Park Seong-jin's right hand lightly traced across the commander's neck.
Lightly.
No blood burst at first.
Only when cold air swept through the severed windpipe did blood finally erupt like a fountain.
Park Seong-jin did not charge.
He did not run.
He did not shout.
He did not exert force.
He simply walked, sidestepped, cut briefly, and advanced.
More often than not, his hwando struck in short, snapping cuts rather than long arcs.
One man had his throat cut beneath the jaw and could only bleed, unable to speak.
One lost his wrist and his sword fell away.
One had the space between his eyes split thinly and collapsed on the spot.
One was slammed into the railing, his skull shattering.
Wherever Park Seong-jin passed, men fell.
Breath was cut off.
Not a single blade touched him.
Of the more than eighty men on the great ship—
not one survived.
The ten Muin fighters returned after checking the bow, stern, mast base, and helm.
Song I-sul said,
"There's no one left."
Park Seong-jin flicked the blood from his blade.
The drops turned white and vanished the moment they touched seawater.
He nodded once.
"Drop anchor—"
A great ship was annihilated in less than a gak.
It was a one-sided slaughter.
Their numbers were small, so they never feared defeat,
and they never thought of fleeing.
Unable to escape the calamity that struck them, they all died.
The first battle was only the beginning.