629.Ninja
Night had deepened.
The sea wind had died.
The entire castle sank into silence.
Yet inside that silence, something darker than darkness moved.
No sound.
Nothing visible.
A shadow that erased breath, presence, even body heat.
Ninja.
Karatsu Castle's outer wall rose as a high embankment, basalt and sandstone mixed together.
To a ninja, that wall was as familiar as the stones of his own room.
Black silhouettes hooked their toes into gaps and climbed like ants.
They used neither iron hooks nor blades.
It was a choice.
No metal.
No clink.
The leader gave a short hand signal.
There.
Their destination was not Park Seong-jin's quarters.
It was a small annex where the new daimyō, Nabeshima Motonari, was staying.
The annex door was thin.
A lantern cast a faint light across the room.
The cabinet was empty.
One figure lay under the lantern.
Motonari.
The leader lifted his dagger and slowly lowered it toward the throat.
A Karatsu-made specialty—Salido (殺刃).
A blade designed to leave as little blood and sound as possible.
The dagger touched…
Not flesh.
Soft cloth.
The leader's fingers trembled.
No warmth.
No resistance of bone.
Not a person.
A doll.
That was when it happened.
From behind, the air split.
The darkness inside the room slid sideways.
"St—"
The word never reached its end.
Thud.
Tap.
Crack.
The first ninja was seized by the back of the neck and slammed into the wall.
The second had his wrist snapped and dropped the dagger.
The scream never tore free.
It was swallowed in the throat.
The third never heard the presence coming.
His ankle was caught, and he flipped.
The fourth tried to flee, was caught in a hand, convulsed, and went limp.
The fifth leapt for the ceiling—
and an arm coiled around him from behind, driving him into the floor.
The lantern shook.
Then the room became still again.
Five ninja.
All captured alive.
Not a single step outside expectation.
This was after Park Seong-jin had come in once, swept the room with his eyes, and left.
As though that single gaze had already assigned everyone's place.
The next morning, Karatsu soldiers prepared an interrogation.
That was when Song Yijeong rushed in.
"General. We have a problem."
Park Seong-jin lifted his head.
"What is it?"
Song Yijeong steadied his breath as he spoke.
"All five ninja are dead."
"Dead."
"Yes."
"They killed themselves."
"They'd hidden poison beneath their tongues."
Park Seong-jin lowered his head and spoke evenly.
"Hiyu."
"A man's life is lighter than a dog's on a summer holiday."
"This means there's an enemy inside."
Song Yijeong nodded slowly.
"Yes."
"Last night's target wasn't us."
"It's a move meant to break the order we just established."
Park Seong-jin looked toward the sea.
"It's beginning."
Song Yijeong added carefully.
As if confirming it—
yet pressing down emotion.
"Mototake's side is also a possibility."
Park Seong-jin shook his head.
"Swallow hasty guesses."
It was restraint, not denial.
The tempo of politics that said: don't draw the sword first.
The sea wind of Karatsu blew harshly.
The sudare簾* hanging beneath the eaves thrashed like something angry.
It was the hour when harbor darkness stretched long.
A teru teru bōzu照る照る坊主** dangled with round, staring eyes.
*A blind woven from bamboo and the like, hung under windows or eaves in modern and traditional Japanese homes to block sunlight.
**A cloth doll hung under eaves in Japan to wish for clear weather; by shaping white cloth into a snowman-like figure and hanging it under the eaves or by a window, superstition says rain will stop and the sky will clear.
Park Seong-jin left the ninja matter to Song Yijeong.
Alone, he walked through the town below the castle.
The main road stretching from the castle to the sea was broad.
But the narrow alleys on either side tangled like remnants of an old fishing village.
He followed those tight gaps at a slow pace.
Something reached his ears, smaller than the wind.
Breaths overlapped, faintly resonant.
He felt it.
That was when—
At the mouth of the alley ahead, a heavy iron gate dropped.
Dust billowed thick.
"Clank—!"
Behind him, another massive barricade fell.
The retreat route closed.
It resembled what had happened inside the fortress yesterday.
Park Seong-jin stopped.
He swept his gaze around once.
Then spoke shortly.
"Blocked."
Before the word finished, fifty samurai burst out like a swarm.
From rooftops.
From windows.
From door cracks.
From gutters.
Dagger blades with silver inlay.
Long swords.
Yari槍.
Clubs.
In the dark, steel revealed itself.
Sword points flashed.
Everything poured toward Park Seong-jin at once.
They shouted.
"Do not defile Hizen!"
"Execute the enemy at once!"
"Restore the honor of the clan!"
"You Goryeo dog—don't stain this city!"
Their cries carried layered emotion.
The rage of the defeated.
Despair at believing they had lost their lord, Mototake.
Fury at being forced to surrender what they had always held.
A life-staking anger.
The alley was narrow.
If you stretched out a hand, you'd touch the wall.
They had chosen this place as their battlefield.
They could strike from the sides at the same time.
They could drop from above.
They believed they could break power by denying wide movement.
But they did not know this.
Park Seong-jin's sword-lines—劍劃—folded space itself with their speed.
Five samurai charged from the front and slashed.
Blades that cut the wind.
But something reached first.
Click—
The sound of Park Seong-jin's sword sliding a single inch from its scabbard.
A line of unseen light drew once, like lightning.
Ssk.
The five samurai stopped at the same time.
A beat later, blood burst from shoulders and chests.
They fell.
A second wave poured in from both sides.
From the left wall, two samurai jumped down, aiming for his throat.
A downward thrust with weight behind it.
From below, another blade drove toward his solar plexus in the same instant.
Park Seong-jin did not bend his waist.
He shifted only his center.
Left foot, half a step back.
Weight angled aside.
Then, with his right hand, he struck the wall with the scabbard.
Bang.
The wall rang.
The balance of the two falling attackers wavered.
The lower blade's trajectory warped as well.
A sensation spread—
as if the target had slipped sideways and vanished.
It ended before a single breath could be taken.
Park Seong-jin drew the blade only two knuckles' worth and swept left and right.
Hah—
Pshhk—
The two falling samurai split across the chest.
The attacker below lost his arm at the forearm.
After that, numbers lost meaning.
All fifty rushed at once.
The alley flooded with blood.
"Half-moon formation—半月陣!"
"Take the head in one strike!"
They lowered their hips, long swords raised, and charged.
The narrow alley roared with steel and shouting.
Park Seong-jin gripped the scabbard with his left hand.
With his right, he pressed the hilt.
Clack—
A short, pressurized draw.
A faint light stretched from the exposed blade tip.
Then Park Seong-jin's body became a trajectory.
Too fast to leave a shape.
Only sword sounds remained.
Thud.
Ssk.
Clang.
Thump.
Crack.
Slice.
It sounded as if dozens were swinging at once.
Inside lightless darkness, Park Seong-jin drew invisible lines and advanced straight through.
His footsteps swallowed sound.
Samurai fell with their heads thrown back.
Some never knew when their own blades broke, only felt their bellies split as they collapsed.
Others sank down, bleeding from deep cuts near the chest.
In every one of those moments, Park Seong-jin's shadow had already passed.
When all enemies were down, Park Seong-jin gave the sword a light shake.
Red droplets leapt into the air and scattered like mist.
His breathing was calm.
Almost no blood had touched his clothes.
Of the fifty-odd samurai, only three still lived.
One crawled and clutched his ankle.
Foam and blood at his lips, he muttered—
"…Protect… Lord Mototake…"
Park Seong-jin looked down and exhaled shortly.
Cold air swept the alley.
That was when Song Yijeong arrived, rushing in with the warrior detachment.
Between a path soaked in blood and fallen samurai, Park Seong-jin stood revealed.
Song Yijeong swallowed.
"…They've come this far."
Park Seong-jin answered evenly.
"Yes."
"They lived as samurai to the end."
"We've lost many we could have used."
Song Yijeong asked carefully.
"Are they like loyal ministers of a fallen dynasty—前朝?"
Park Seong-jin swept his gaze across the blood-wet alley.
"It's interest and pride."
His eyes followed the smear of blood on the ground.
Broken breaths and broken paths connected into one line.
"They'll keep coming. Today and tomorrow."
Song Yijeong nodded.
"We'll prepare."
Park Seong-jin slowly slid the sword back into its scabbard.
Click.
"Confirm the dead."
A report returned soon after.
They were Mototake's loyalists.
The difficulty of occupation showed its face.
Assassination as a method to change the flow shortens politics into a smaller, harsher time.
Park Seong-jin stared at the iron gate sealed at the end of the alley.
He spoke quietly.
"From now on—"
"I do not tie the knot with the sword alone."