When the review ended, the Great General lowered his buweol.
At that instant, the drums sounded.
Dong— dong— dong—.
The reverberation shook the packed earth of the courtyard. Heavy air stirred; the smells of iron, horses, and leather spread together.
Everyone moved at once.
Horses lifted their heads. Carts creaked. Soldiers' feet struck the ground in unison.
The march began.
Dust rose and climbed into the sky. Within the red haze, banners snapped—red, blue, black—the colors of each detachment tangling in the wind.
"Sungui Unit, Second Detachment—move out!"
Hwang Hyeon-pil's voice cut across the yard.
"Forward!""Forward!""Forward!"
The responses burst out, and hooves moved together. The sound was deep, like a heart beating beneath the earth.
From the saddle, Seongjin gripped the reins.
The horse shuddered and stepped forward.
By instinct, he turned his head.
Behind them, Botongwon's roof caught the fading light. Before the gate, the banners of the hall still fluttered—patterns unlike the army's: sun and moon, lotus blossoms, flying celestial figures.
Monks stood at the entrance.
Were they praying, or chanting sutras?
Or perhaps they spoke no words at all.
Only sunlight clung faintly to their joined fingertips.
Seongjin looked at them for a long moment.
The days spent there, the moment he had held the wooden tag while his name was carved, the sound of the bell and the smell of smoke—all rose together in his mind.
The horse moved on.
Wind brushed his cheek.
He looked back again. Botongwon's roof was now half-swallowed by dust. Above it, three crows took flight—westward, as if following the column.
Seongjin murmured softly,
"If we come back… will we see it again?"
The squad leader beside him said,
"No one knows. But everyone leaves believing they will."
Strangely, the words sounded like comfort.
Seongjin turned forward.
The western sky burned red. That light swept across the soldiers' armor as it passed.
The drums did not stop.
Dong— dong— dong—.
The sound carried beyond the fields. Horses, carts, and men stretched into a single line of shadows. In the dust, golden armor gleamed faintly in the distance, the light thinning as it dissolved into the sky.
Seongjin looked back one last time.
The gate of Botongwon was closing.
Slowly—but unmistakably.
Dust seeped through the narrowing seam. A single beam of sunlight vanished.
He closed his eyes.
Iron and leather, the breath of horses, and the pulse of drums overlapped in his ears. He knew then: he might become a name that would never return.
Even so, the horse kept moving forward.
Seongjin let his body rest against its back, steadied his breathing, and lifted his gaze to the far western sky.