He preferred open sky and sea.
His name was Kawano Jirōemon.
He was born near Nakatsu, in Buzen Province, a small fishing village by the sea.
Growing up between the water and the market left his speech rough and his sense of rank blurred.
Outwardly, he talked too much and seemed scattered.
He acted like a man with no awareness.
He laughed often, looked servile, and behaved as if he trusted people easily.
In truth, he was timid.
But when survival was at stake, his calculations were quick.
His loyalty was thin, yet once he gave his word, he clung to it obsessively.
He read the direction of power with precision.
On the surface, he worked as a petty middleman, moving between relay stations and ports.
He traded liquor, salt, dried fish, needles—small goods of little value.
He ran errands between merchants and samurai, a man of minor usefulness.
His real role was different.
To the Bakufu, he reported developments in Karatsuand Hirado.
To Goryeo, he reported the movements of Kyushu's lords, merchant guilds, and samurai houses.
Within the Seven Provinces, information was gathering more accurately than expected.
First, the numbers.
Those who had come from Goryeo numbered barely twenty.
Yet every one of them was a problem.
Each carried a reputation fit for a national general.
This was not a matter of quantity, but of quality.
People called them masters.
Park Seong-jin himself was strange.
By appearances, he did nothing.
He spent most of his days in the relay village beneath the samurai quarter below Karatsu Castle.
He napped, drank tea, and napped again.
He looked like a man who did nothing at all.
Yet no one approached him.
Anyone who tried to observe him too closely found invisible guards already in motion.
They did not merely block.
They conveyed certainty—that crossing the line meant never returning.
Though his martial strength was widely rumored, he looked excessively ordinary.
Like a man with nothing to do.
Like a man who disliked work.
It was said that when messengers arrived from Goryeo, he frowned first.
His irritation at being given tasks was unmistakable.
At Karatsu Castle, he lived in a tent pitched beside the keep.
A place with a strong wind and wide views.
He deliberately chose it over the inner halls.
He preferred open sky and sea.
The twenty or so warriors who came with him were scattered everywhere.
In the castle.
At the port.
Along the roads.
They moved on their own.
They acted without orders.
Park Seong-jin treated this as natural.
He himself looked idle.
The new lord of Karatsu treated him with excessive reverence.
After all, he was the man who had given him his seat.
But the attitude went too far.
It felt as though the lord was deliberately spreading the impression that pleasing Park alone was enough.
Rumors even circulated that whoever stood closest to him would become the next daimyo.
Stranger still was his movement.
At times, he appeared in Hirado.
Yet there were no reports of him boarding a ship.
No one had seen him leave or return.
There were testimonies placing him in Hirado around the afternoon hour of sashi.
On the same day, others swore they had seen him eating midday meal in Karatsu at ushihour.
People began to talk.
He did not measure distance or time.
They said he appeared without warning and vanished the same way.
Some even whispered that he was a hermit in human form.
The main body of the Goryeo army had not yet arrived.
It was said—only rumor—that this was due to the administrative restructuring of Tsushima and Iki.
Once that was finished, they would come here.
When that happened, the scale would be incomparable to now.
Park Seong-jin appeared to be waiting for the Bakufu's reply.
Waiting for an envoy.
At some point, he had said, "I will give an answer."
And he waited as if he meant it.
That seriousness was unsettling.
Recently, rumors spread that Goryeo personnel had been dispatched to Hirado.
Some suspected they intended to eliminate the lord and install a prefectural administration.
The conclusion was simple.
He looked as though he was not moving.
But he was waiting.
No one knew for what.
Only one thing was certain.
The moment he moved, the entire Seven Provinces would shake.
Meanwhile, all of their circumstances flowed unfiltered to Park Seong-jin.
Not rumors—organized intelligence.
Contrary to agreement, the Seven Provinces were meeting not once a month, but three or four times.
The reason was simple.
Each meeting brought new information.
Much of that information had originated with Park Seong-jin himself.
There were reports that appeals had been made to the Bakufu.
The responses that came back were about costs.
They demanded gold and silver.
They demanded provisions.
They demanded warships.
It was said these words were spoken in council:
"If we had the money, we could raise troops ourselves and resolve this."
"There is no reason to beg the Bakufu."
Discontent toward the Bakufu was becoming open.
It was seen as a power rich in pretext, light in responsibility.
The Seven Provinces were most focused on Hirado.
It was already considered lost.
The question of who was nextbecame the question of who would be next.
"When will he come?"
"Where will he come?"
"Is he already coming, even now?"
More lords began to lose sleep.
Some walked their walls through the night.
Others slept with dimmed lights and weapons at hand.
Eventually, talk of a delegation emerged.
Before soldiers—words.
Let us confirm with words first.
It was decided to assemble a formal envoy and send it to Karatsu.
Representatives from each province.
A balance of hardliners and conciliators.
Measures against the wakowere already underway.
Those who had gone to sea were turned back to their homes.
Ships were seized.
Spears and swords were collected.
Outwardly, it took the form of self-purification.
Inside, friction deepened.
Traditional warrior houses resisted.
"To lay down land protected by force is surrender."
"If we lay down the sword, the neck comes next."
They argued to fight and endure.
Civil-official lords and merchant-born retainers judged differently.
"This is no longer a matter of strength."
"The opponent cannot be measured in numbers."
This division spread across the Seven Provinces.
What mattered more to Park Seong-jin was the reality of each state.
Reports were compiled.
The character of each lord.
The lineage of each house.
Whether their ties to the Bakufu were financial or blood-bound.
Production was tallied.
Rice and barley.
Salt and marine goods.
Coastal states had rich fisheries.
Inland states had grain but lacked sea products.
Population was counted.
Total numbers.
Proportion of warrior class.
Available combatants.
Most could field only one to two hundred.
Beyond that were militias.
Tax rates were high.
Some collected seventy percent.
Lords took more under the pretext of military upkeep.
Those troops were then used to strike neighboring lands.
Park Seong-jin closed the report.
This was not a problem of piracy.
It was a problem of structure.
Touch one part, another would shake.
That was why inaction had been chosen again and again.
That inaction piled problems up.
Those piled results flowed into the sea under the name wako.
He drank his tea quietly.
The information was sufficient.
Only one thing remained.
When would they knock on the gates of Karatsu—
and with what faces?
Until then, he remained where he was.