778.
From one side, the music of the banquet began to echo. The first sound to be heard was the tangpiri, a high-pitched, slender tone that stretched long and seemed to glide over the water. The guzheng supported it. The strings weren't struck hard but were pressed down gently, allowing the sound to resonate and fall softly to the ground. The rhythm was set by the janggu, the drumstick not raised high, but tapping with the wrist alone. It was a balanced tempo, neither fast nor slow, a middle path.
The song was not a courtly dance or an extravagant performance. There were no luxurious dances or flashy melodies. Instead, an old piece of hyangak (Korean court music) was sung. It was a song from Gaegyeong. The lyrics were short:
"The river flows but the land remains,
Clouds depart, but the sky stays,
People leave, but their will returns,
Where footsteps fade, flowers bloom.
The war has ceased, swords are at rest,
The chaos has settled,
The stars remain even as night deepens."
It was not a victory song, but it resonated deeply with the emotion of the moment, speaking to the life that Park Seongjin had lived after the war. Departure, return, and peace were all present in it.
Goryeo's music had always been like this. It was a sound that both the high and the low could listen to together.
When the tune changed, the haegeum joined in. The sound was not one of metal, but of flesh, crying in a way that wasn't too sad nor too joyful. It was a tone fitting the end of war.
Someone quietly said, "The music of Goryeo is strange, isn't it? It doesn't shout in joy, nor does it cry in sorrow."
Before the words were even finished, many were already nodding in agreement. It was music that suited the occasion.
The table was brought in. It wasn't ostentatious, but anyone who was familiar would recognize it immediately as a Goryeo feast. At the top of the spread were fine jewel-covered dishes. Gold, silver, jade, and glass, with mother-of-pearl and coral inlaid in neat rows. There was no boasting of light, only an arrangement that spoke of order.
The customs of Goryeo's nobles, who valued ritual and formality, were reflected here. The tea was the first to arrive, accompanied by yu-milgwa, thin layers of delicate sweet pastry. The honey wasn't overpowering, and the oil wasn't too greasy. Next, there was a warm milk bowl. The tea was served, and the pastries were shared, the voices lowering as they did.
The food was abundant. Fresh fish from the river was served as both sashimi and soup, and lamb raised on the riverbanks was prepared as a clear broth. It was a simple yet hearty soup. The fat was skimmed off, and the broth was deep in flavor.
A warm, medicinal drink from the ginseng root was brought, its flavor neither too strong nor too bland. It was a taste that was distinctly Goryeo. Neither too salty nor too bland, it reflected the particular flavor of Gaegyeong.
There was also vegetarian food from Buddhist tradition. Tofu had been pressed to remove moisture, and sprouts were added to create a dish that was rich in flavor. Though it was a recipe from the Persian merchants via Yuan, it had already become a common dish in Gaegyeong. The garlic and perilla oil gave it a familiar taste. It was served alongside the meat but was light enough to enjoy by itself.
The final dish was rice made from freshly milled grain. Only after the rice was served did the wine follow. It wasn't aged wine. It was meant to loosen the atmosphere, not to get anyone drunk.
The food of Goryeo, tasted here in Liaodong, finally relaxed the tension of their long journey. The party's shoulders relaxed, and their words became softer.
The feast that night was not extravagant. But it was plentiful, orderly, and above all, it carried the taste of home. The light reflected on the river. The shadows of people rippled across the water. The illusion was quiet, and the waiting was long, but none of it felt excessive.
Park Seongjin walked alone, stepping out into the grass. A soft breeze passed over the meadow. The song lingered in his chest. "Today's farewell will become tomorrow's path, and may I not ask when we will meet again."
He sang as though following the rhythm of his own future. His voice was little more than a murmur. He didn't sing well, and his tone wasn't particularly pleasant. Besides, he couldn't remember all of it, so he repeated only the part he knew.
As he walked away from the campsite, the song made his steps lighter. When studying, he had never embraced rhythm. He neither listened to it nor sang. He had believed that stirring emotions that might disturb the heart was not good for studying.
But now, the war was over, and peace had come. He thought perhaps it would be okay to let himself feel a little.
At the end of the meadow, she stood. Among the singers, she stood out immediately. She was called a "Gayin" of Liaodong, but that title didn't capture the full essence of her presence. Her features were distinct. She wasn't a beauty who subdued the atmosphere with a faint smile, nor was her face vague.
Her forehead was wide and straight, and her eyes sloped down slightly. She wasn't cold even without smiling, nor did she look vacant without speaking. Her neck was slender, but strong, and her walk had no unnecessary adornments. It was as though the makeup from the banquet had already been wiped away, leaving behind a more natural beauty in the moonlight.
She took out her haegeum. Wrapped in cloth, she placed it on her knee and slowly removed the cloth. Her hand was smooth, but familiar, as if it had been long accustomed to the instrument.
She asked, "Shall I sing again for you?"
Park Seongjin replied, "If you don't mind, I would love to hear it."
She sat down and began to play. It was different from the music heard at the banquet. There was no set rhythm, and no attempt to expand the sound. The strings of the haegeum sounded first, followed by the breath of the player.
She quietly said, "Someone asked for you to sing a military song, and I thought it was you."
Park Seongjin waved his hand, as if to apologize. "Ah, I didn't mean to suggest that."
Her words carried a hint of laughter, but it wasn't lighthearted. "This is the original tune. You didn't say it, but someone must have created an atmosphere for the audience to suggest it."
Park Seongjin replied honestly. "I am also one of the audience."
"I've heard," she said, without raising her head. "They say you're Park Seongjin, the unparalleled warrior who has achieved peace."
Park Seongjin's answer was brief. "I am not that great."
"We tend to ask about the audience when we perform," she said. "You are quite famous, after all."
She didn't ask more. Instead, she began to play. The sound of the haegeum flowed over the meadow. This time, sorrow came first. It was a song about departure. The deeper the farewell, the more beautiful the melody, as if knowing they would not meet again.
"Today's farewell will become tomorrow's path,
May I not ask when we will meet again."
The song was no longer an eloquent speech. It was a song that didn't belong to the victory feast or the declaration of peace. It existed only for the moment when one person left the road. It was a song of departure.
Park Seongjin said nothing. As he listened to the song, he felt, for the first time, that the end of the war wasn't something his body could accept, but something his heart was ready for. The grass swayed in the wind, and the stars remained calmly in place. That night, on the meadow, those leaving and those staying listened to the same song, with no promises exchanged.