594.It was a kind of inertia.
The enemy commander fell, but the thousands of Japanese did not stop.
It was a kind of inertia.
They did what they had always done.
Habit.
The safe way.
Actions that had worked before.
No—this was the blind advance of men who knew nothing else.
One man falling did not fold a great host.
They knew Park Seong-jin's name, had witnessed his might with their own eyes, yet their feet did not retreat.
They were men who trusted numbers even while seeing the shadow of death.
Many means victory—that belief burst out as shouts.
"Strike!"
"Run!"
Thousands of footsteps surged like waves.
The ground thundered.
Dust spilled over the walls.
In that instant, Park Seong-jin slowly released his scabbard.
Click.
One thin sound floated above the vast roar.
He did not speak.
He gave no order.
He simply stepped forward.
Kwaaang.
A massive shockwave was born, and in the next moment the space before him emptied.
He slid forward at a speed the eye could scarcely grasp.
Lowering his torso, folding at the waist, he touched the ground—his toes sprang him ahead.
The first enemy screamed.
The scream cut short.
The neck went first.
Ching.
Fresh red blood sprayed backward.
Park Seong-jin flowed forward again, passing through a thin wall of blood.
Second.
Third.
Fourth.
No cut showed any trace of force.
The sword opened the path, and the body followed.
Dozens collapsed without even a sound.
Perhaps it was the most painless death in the world.
They died without knowing they were dying.
By the time a hand clutched the chest, the heart was already severed.
As a long sword rose, everything below the shoulder was gone.
Heads fell, eyes rolling first.
Voices burst among the Japanese.
"A goblin."
"There's no rear!"
"Block—"
Words broke off.
They turned their heads to look again, to confirm—and their necks were cut.
Park Seong-jin passed straight through the heart of their cries.
Each time his foot touched the earth, the front rank vanished.
There were many moments when no one could see him move.
Only the results remained.
The front rank fell.
The middle rank fell.
Among those pushing from behind, empty space suddenly appeared.
Blood fell like rain into that void.
One soldier realized only after falling that his arm was gone.
Another felt wind brush past his ear—
that wind was the sound escaping his own throat.
The shouts changed.
"Don't go forward."
"Stop pushing."
"Back."
Paths thinned both forward and back.
Pressed from behind, formations buckled and men trampled each other.
Pressed forward, they were drawn into the arc of the blade.
Park Seong-jin had already reached the center of the enemy host.
Where he passed, bodies lay like a road.
He stopped for a moment.
Gently flicked his sword.
Blood dripped from the tip like droplets.
Seeing it, enemies recoiled.
"Is he human."
After witnessing too much, he walked again.
Each trace of his steps burst with blood.
Shields split.
Bodies lifted into the air, then fell.
This was not the wind of losing a single commander.
The wind kept blowing from within their ranks.
For the first time, thousands lost their meaning.
No one could seize that one man.
On the walls, archers trembled with bows drawn.
Amid thousands filling the plain, Park Seong-jin advanced alone.
Soldiers on the walls swallowed their breath.
"If he goes out like that—"
"That is—"
The words never finished.
He was already inside the enemy ranks.
At first, no one could see how he cut.
They saw heads falling.
They saw the arcs of spurting blood.
One archer said in a shaking voice,
"That speed."
Another muttered,
"A demon."
The soldiers' focus narrowed.
Observation layered itself atop fear.
Only then did the flow of movement emerge, thin and clear.
Park Seong-jin never wasted a stroke in empty air.
Throat.
Joint.
Heart.
He cut only the essential points of the human body.
Breath stopped across the walls.
"Not a ghost."
"It's the general."
With a single sword, he carved a road through the enemy's plain.
At one moment, his foot paused very briefly.
The soldiers on the wall caught a glimpse of his profile.
There was no rage.
No madness.
There was calm.
That calm stood out all the more amid flying blood and falling bodies.
Was this the stillness of a Daoist in cultivation.
Or the quiet of someone faithfully doing a daily task.
That calm shook people to their core.
The enemy formation split from the center.
"Encircle—"
The command never finished.
The mouth issuing it split first.
Not even time to complete a sentence.
A Japanese soldier threw down his weapon.
"Retreat."
The word spread.
"Retreat!"
"A demon!"
"Spare us!"
Flight converged into one direction.
The formation advancing on Jinju collapsed.
Allies trampled allies.
Before overwhelming terror, comrades were abandoned.
Those who fell were crushed again.
Rear samurai shouted, trying to restore order.
"Get a grip—"
The waist was gone.
Another commander dropped to his knees.
"I—"
Everything below the shoulder vanished.
Red energy burst into the night air.
Command was severed.
Battle disappeared.
Only running bodies remained.
Narrow passages clogged.
Front ranks stalled.
Rear ranks pushed.
People began to pile up on the field.
Once down, they were not struck again.
Someone looked back and screamed,
"Don't come!"
Park Seong-jin did not pursue.
He wiped his bloodied sword and walked back.
Each step drove fear deeper.
The same words erupted among the Japanese.
"God of the sword."
The words flowed like a wail.
No rebuttal followed.
That night, the Japanese who had come to Jinju scattered in all directions.
Those trampled and fallen remained.
Those who lost their way and were captured remained.
The breath of the survivors trembled with one accord.
"If you meet Park Seong-jin, you die."