Rosuke presented five invasion axes.
"Rosuke's Intelligence, and the Seven Lines of Invasion Revealed"
That the merchant's true purpose was intelligence gathering became clear the moment he spread out the map.
Rosuke steadied his trembling hand on the parchment, pressed once to compose himself, and then began to explain in a surprisingly orderly voice.
Emotion had drained from it.
It was the voice of a report.
Rosuke presented five invasion axes.
Tracing islands and coastlines with precision, he described each group's character and method of movement.
The Iki Island contingent—landing along the northern route.
Two forces out of the Nagasaki direction—separate powers under different lords.
The Miyazaki force—establishing a beachhead before pushing inland.
The Kagawa force—centered on maritime maneuver units, superior in speed.
The groups were not coordinated with one another.
But their objective was the same.
"They must secure a set quota of plunder.
If they fail to meet the target, they are not permitted to return."
Rosuke marked five deep red points on the map.
All were the same size.
It meant he placed no difference in priority among them.
Then he moved on to the commanders.
Names.
Home domains.
Command tendencies.
Preferred weapons.
Combat methods.
Strengths and weaknesses.
Past engagements.
The categories followed the order of a military report.
The explanations were short, exact.
There were no unnecessary adjectives.
Park Seong-jin judged inwardly.
This man isn't a merchant of a trading house—he's an intelligence officer.
As the explanation concluded, the scouts who had been scattered in all directions returned one by one.
Reports arriving from different routes converged on a single conclusion.
Seven locations.
Beyond the five Rosuke had identified, two additional groups were on the move.
The number of burned villages.
The freshness of corpses.
Traces of hastily assembled battle formations.
The reports, focused on on-site verification, were marked onto the map.
At a glance, it was clear that most of the coastline had already been swept.
Park Seong-jin overlaid the scouts' map atop Rosuke's.
The red points became seven.
"Two groups you failed to identify."
Rosuke's pupils shook.
"New landings, sir. The scale is larger than expected."
Park Seong-jin immediately summoned the officers and unit commanders.
"Full assembly. Confirm the enemy's seven positions on the map."
The officers crowded around.
Park Seong-jin's instruction was simple.
"Each of you judge for yourselves.
Position. Scale. Tactics.
Put forward every viable response."
Then he added,
"A war is not carried by one hand alone.
The mind must grow together."
The noise inside the command tent subsided.
Only breathing remained over the map.
Without a word, Park Seong-jin stepped outside.
Wind from the forest path brushed between the plates of his armor.
"They said five streams.
If it's seven, the entire region burns."
His steps were heavy.
But he did not stop.
A Living Creature Called an Army
Park Seong-jin moved through the camp without regard for night or dawn.
An army does not stop just because a battle ends.
An army is a living, moving organism.
Neglect breeds fatigue.
Fatigue creates gaps.
Gaps collapse battlefields.
He passed between tents, surveyed the horse paddocks, and checked supply stores and the wounded zones in turn.
Local officials from Jeolla rotated in, bringing provisions.
Bent backs carried strings of dried croaker and sacks of rice.
"Dried croaker from Boseong."
Park Seong-jin lifted one.
It was heavy.
"Send it straight to the soldiers' mess."
In the cook tents, the croaker went onto charcoal fires.
Oil dripped.
The smell spread.
A piece of fish was laid atop white rice.
Park Seong-jin watched the soldiers' faces.
Breaths lengthened.
Shoulders lowered.
The trembling in their hands eased.
There is still strength left to fight.
The wind shifted, thinning the smell of fish.
Once more, the camp filled with the scent of iron, blood, and earth.
Park Seong-jin stepped beyond the camp perimeter.
Another fight awaited.
During the Gangnam expedition, the one who had borne all these duties was Yi In-jung.
Park Seong-jin had learned by watching him:
that more important than the form of work was the direction it pointed toward.
Yi In-jung never missed a soldier's sigh.
He thought first of the people's lives.
That posture lingered deeper than any tactic.
Park Seong-jin treated his soldiers with the same gaze.
Whose sword they had been yesterday did not matter.
If today they faced the people of this land, they were soldiers.
Reports moving in and out of the camp fused into one.
Fragmented intelligence overlapped, forming the shape of the battlefield.
Circling the outer perimeter, Park Seong-jin checked strengths and weaknesses from the enemy's point of view.
Gaps were filled.
Withdrawal lines were clarified.
And he felt it—
an invisible yet unmistakable current.
A single wave was forming over the camp.
The soldiers' eyes were different.
Hands eating their meals were steady.
Movements aligned with one another.
Park Seong-jin did not speak of the change.
He simply watched.
The meeting hall buzzed with heat, but Park Seong-jin did not interject.
A commander grows in a place where he judges for himself and bears responsibility.
He walked among the soldiers.
Accepted a bowl of food.
Nodded.
In that moment, he knew.
There was no need for declarations.
Breaths were long.
Hands did not shake.
Eyes faced one direction.
That was enough.
When Park Seong-jin explained the sensations of advancing inner force and reaching the state of Hwagyeong, the response spread immediately.
At first only those seated close listened.
Soon even soldiers farther away drifted over.
The empty space before the tent filled quickly.
They were men who had witnessed his martial power firsthand at the Manwoldae battle.
Back then, they had been enemies.
Now, they ate from the same pot.
"That day, didn't the twelve of us get sent flying at once?"
"Was that technique, or momentum?"
Questions overlapped.
"General, how does one become a master?"
"Where does training end, and talent begin?"
"Someone like me… can the middle dantian open?"
There was no jest in their voices.
These were questions that could never have been asked during their days as private troops of powerful houses.
Park Seong-jin listened briefly, then raised a hand.
"I'll say just one thing."
Postures changed at once.
"In martial arts, the most important thing is the mind."
A short silence passed.
Expectation faded from a few faces.
Park Seong-jin nodded.
"That's exactly it."
He tapped his chest lightly.
"You must take responsibility for your words, and bear the path you choose.
Only then does inner force accumulate."
The soldiers held their breath.
"When the mind tilts, inner force tilts with it.
That power will strike its owner first."
He shifted his gaze, looking at them one by one.
"So stand upright first.
That is the first stage."
After a moment, a soldier asked cautiously,
"General… then what about technical training—"
Park Seong-jin smiled.
"There are many masters with good hearts.
Masters with clouded hearts do not last long.
You once moved at the command of power.
You fought unjust battles.
You helped push civilians aside.
Had you grown stronger in that state, you would have collapsed by now."
He continued,
"Now it's different.
Those who set their minds on living rightly grow faster."
It was not a scolding.
It was a standard.
Then the youngest soldier hesitated and spoke.
"…Still."
"Still?"
"General… you're a bit strange."
For a moment, silence burst—
then the entire camp shook with laughter.
"That's right, strange!"
"How does a man fly through the air!"
Park Seong-jin shook his head, but a smile lingered at his lips.
Under the firelight, the soldiers laughed—
and laughed while turning his words over in their minds.
The meeting resumed at once.
"The closest is Nangju—four hundred."
"Two districts are already burned."
"If we leave it, it spreads inland."
Opinions converged.
Another officer pointed to the map.
"We should strike the six hundred at Sacheon Port first. That camp is a supply node."
Another raised a hand.
"There are three units that keep moving. They haven't settled."
Arrows tangled across the map like animal tracks.
The discussion burned hot, but Park Seong-jin remained silent.
It was time for them to learn judgment—and responsibility.
Then, a cautious voice rose beside the map.
"May I offer an opinion?"
It was Rosuke, the merchant-prisoner.
"Speak."
Rosuke looked only at the map, not at the officers.
"The first place to strike is Nangju."
His finger pressed one point.
"This is where the most can be killed."
The air sank.
"There is no retreat.
The ships have already left.
Supplies are short.
They will soon become desperate.
This is when they are weakest."
Park Seong-jin studied the map for a long while, then lifted his head.
"Good."
Just one word.
"At dawn tomorrow, we strike Nangju first."
Before dawn, the camp was already moving.
Horses steadied their breathing.
Armor was adjusted.
"Move out."
At Park Seong-jin's command, the Cheongi cavalry surged forward as one.
Hooves scraped the ground.
The darkness split.
No one spoke as they rode.
Backs were low.
Eyes fixed ahead.
As they crested a rise, faint smoke came into view.
Park Seong-jin tightened his grip on the reins.
Some soldiers drew deep breaths.
Some re-gripped their spears.
Others matched their bodies to the rhythm of their horses.
No one said it aloud.
But what they had become was clear.
They were no longer private troops.
They were an army.