"That's enough. Go."
The old man said nothing.
He brought his hands together neatly and bent at the waist in a deep bow.
The earlier casualness was gone; he now stood with the restraint of a man before a magistrate.
Park Seong-jin spoke low.
"That's enough. Go."
The reply was just as short.
"Yes."
In that brevity stood fear and reverence together.
The old man called the boatmen.
Two sailors climbed into the small boat and threw lines over the ghostly enemy hulls drifting nearby.
As the ropes tightened, the wet rigging clinked dully.
Park Seong-jin and Song I-jeong headed for the harbor first.
As the wind shifted, the hem of Park Seong-jin's robe stirred lightly.
He sat astride the prow, facing forward in silence.
Dawn had not yet come; a dimness still clung to the sea.
The waves were calm, yet the water seemed to breathe uneasily—
as if the presence of the dead still lingered beneath the surface.
Song I-jeong tried to speak several times and swallowed each attempt.
At last he managed only, "…General."
Park Seong-jin's eyes remained fixed on the speckled glimmer of the water in the dark.
There was no excitement, no sense of victory—
only the quiet, boiling awareness that too many had died.
Song I-jeong asked carefully, "…What will you do now?"
Park Seong-jin did not turn his head.
His answer rode away on the wind, very low.
"For now… I can't find the words."
That ended the questions.
The boat glided toward the harbor.
In the darkness, a lone skiff drifted, and far off, the silhouettes of sailors towing enemy ships stretched long across the water.
Watching those shadows, Park Seong-jin clenched his fingers once—
tightened, then released.
The tremor in his hand settled at the same pace as the small ripples on the sea.
When they reached the harbor, the night wind of Nangju cut cold.
Soldiers stood at a distance holding lanterns.
No one raised their voice.
The moment Park Seong-jin stepped ashore, the stillness that flowed from his gait was too complete.
Instead of the heat of battle or the afterglow of return,
a shadow passed over the harbor like a quiet wind.
The silence took hold so firmly that onlookers found themselves holding their breath.
His clothes were soaked with seawater, blood dried into them,
yet even that seemed absorbed into his presence.
His gaze remained set on the dark sea—
not with the residue of slaughter, but with the awareness of a current still moving.
Song I-jeong followed him down.
When soldiers made to approach, he raised a hand to stop them.
"Do not disturb him. Right now, the General needs silence more than words."
At the far end of the harbor, a group appeared.
An old man with white hair bound tight stood at the front,
behind him men whose bent backs still carried the smell of the sea.
Young sailors lined up with rough-worked hands gripping rope and anchors.
It was the very old man who had brought Park Seong-jin ashore.
He stepped forward slowly.
"General."
His voice was low, bearing the weight of decades at sea.
"We will prepare."
"For what?"
Park Seong-jin turned his head.
The old man gestured to the ruined houses, the burned nets, the empty village swallowed by darkness.
"Those who know the sea will move."
He cinched a knot in the rope.
"We are the blood that followed General Jang Bogo."
A low murmur spread through the soldiers.
The old man continued.
"We may look like worn-out fishermen now,
but once, we were people who crossed the world's seas—
hunters of pirates, guards of merchant fleets."
Behind him, sailors hauled an empty hull aside.
"Plan it as you did tonight: fast boats cutting between enemy ships.
We will gather the vessels."
"Can you gather all the seamen?"
"Yes. The seas of Jeolla are wide, and we know one another.
Veteran skippers of the West Sea and South Sea, men who once steered tax convoys, youngsters raised on brine—
if word reaches them, they will come."
The wind swept through the harbor.
Far off, waves broke with a steady, heavy sound.
Park Seong-jin spoke low.
"The plan is simple. As tonight—approach by fast boat, cut into their formation, sever the command ship first."
The old man nodded.
"I saw it. That is the path."
Park Seong-jin continued.
"I also want a way to approach from below the surface—
a method that uses wind and current together."
"I know a route," the old man answered at once.
"One that rides the tide in from behind."
The soldiers exchanged looks.
The shabby elders of the harbor were drawing forth the sea's own craft.
The old man turned and shouted.
"From this moment on, this harbor is a battlefield.
Shape hulls, mend anchors, carve new oars."
The young sailors answered in unison.
"Yes!"
"Call the sea-folk. Send word to Jeongju, Paeju, Haenam, Gangjin, Yeosu.
Gather. We face the Wa."
Park Seong-jin watched quietly.
It was as if fire were returning to a dying coastal village.
The will and skill that once ruled the seas under Jang Bogo were rising again from a silent harbor.
Song I-jeong said softly at his side, "…General, you must now fight by the flow of the sea."
Park Seong-jin nodded.
"Yes. A naval war."
When possibility revealed itself, people began to move, hands long bound finally freed.
In the eyes of the harbor men, a reason to fight took shape.
Song I-jeong raised his voice first.
"We intercept at sea. Select ten from the warrior unit—five archers, five swordsmen."
Soldiers rose and moved at once, their morale already hardened by two victories.
The old skipper nodded.
"We will bring the ships together.
Assign men who know the captured enemy vessels."
From that day, training began.
Two ships floated side by side before the harbor—
one a mid-sized enemy ship taken in battle,
the other the fastest light vessel of the region.
Song I-jeong shouted,
"From port to starboard, three jang apart.
Fall in the water, climb back up, repeat."
Soldiers leapt across, panting hard.
Weighted with armor and blades, some fell into the sea.
The old skipper rubbed the bridge of his nose.
"Read the wind and ride the wave.
You don't go over the water—you are carried by it."
Park Seong-jin raised a hand and demonstrated.
The moment his foot touched the rail, his body slid onto the next ship as if borne by the wind.
A hush leaked from the ranks.
Song I-jeong clenched his teeth.
"Watch. Do it exactly like that.
Naval battle is decided in an instant."
Then came the archers' turn.
The sailors set up masts and oars as swaying targets.
Song I-jeong ordered,
"Cut the oars. Sever the rigging.
Hit while it moves."
On the first day, arrows wavered as wind and waves shifted their angles.
The old man murmured beside them,
"The sea wind must be handled as an ally.
Your body learns the water first."
Park Seong-jin added,
"Lay the arrow on the wind and let it float."
The words became doctrine.
Three sailors hauled up a mounted heavy crossbow fixed to the gunwale.
Steel cable wound tight with a heavy groan.
Boom—
The bolt tore across the water and shattered the wooden target.
The soldiers drew breath.
Song I-jeong nodded.
"That can stop an enemy ship."
Park Seong-jin said quietly,
"We bring the land onto the sea.
It sounds impossible—but—"
The final drill was the most dangerous:
rigging lines between two ships, throwing grapnels, hauling them together.
The old man raised his hand and shouted.
"Connect. Pull. Board."
The soldiers answered together.
"Yes!"
When the grapnel caught the rail, five men heaved the line.
The enemy ship lurched closer.
Song I-jeong drew his blade.
"Board."
Bodies cut through the air together.
Waves struck and decks rocked, but their feet found purchase.
At the corner of Park Seong-jin's mouth, the faintest movement passed.
In the harbor, the sound of oars cleaving water, the tremor of steel cables, the shouts of sailors, and the breath of warriors layered and piled—
the sea itself beginning to learn the shape of war.