They advanced slowly, confidently,
Martial artists were driven less by curiosity than by hunger.
Victory hunger.
Zhu Yuanzhang's side had plans.
They meant to wait—
until numbers gathered, duels ended, celebrations faded,
until they had studied the habits and formations of the Goryeo warriors.
But impatience arrived first.
Only days later, before the crowd was complete,
a hostile presence crossed the river.
They came openly.
Fifteen men—
southern warriors carrying curved blades on their backs.
Sun-baked skin.
Dense muscle.
The kind of bodies that moved before the weapon did.
They advanced slowly, confidently,
as if the plain were a dueling ground, not a battlefield.
Song Yi-sul sprang up.
"They're here."
Park Seong-jin pressed his shoulder down.
"I'll handle it."
"I want to—"
Before he could finish, Captain Jong Hui stepped forward.
"Commander."
He bowed, sword in hand.
"We want to test something."
Seong-jin looked at him.
"What?"
"Our weapons—
how well they work against martial artists."
Jong Hui gestured behind him.
"Ten crossbows.
Fifty archers."
Not enough to kill true masters.
Enough to punish the half-confident.
Seong-jin studied the incoming warriors.
Strong.
Fast.
Poor armor. No shields.
One or two arrows wouldn't stop them.
He inhaled.
"Proceed."
Jong Hui's eyes lit up.
"All archers?"
"Yes."
Seong-jin drew lines in the air.
"Crossfire.
Direct shots. Flanking fire. Arcing fire.
Everything lands together."
The archers swallowed hard.
"Rotate volleys," he added.
Jong Hui bowed deeply.
"Thank you for this chance."
Seong-jin waved awkwardly.
"No need to be dramatic."
Then, calmly:
"I'll stop the charge."
The moment came.
The southern warriors crossed the invisible line—
the unspoken boundary where retaliation began.
They lowered their bodies and charged.
Not a sprint.
A boar's rush.
Song Yi-sul clicked his tongue.
"Beasts."
"They think this is a duel," Seong-jin said.
"Not war."
He lowered his hand.
"Fire."
The sky screamed.
Fifty bows released at once.
Crossfire.
Overlapping arcs.
Different speeds.
Blades flashed—
some arrows were cut, others deflected.
But there weren't just a few.
Faster arrows shattered their timing.
Pah—
Thunk—
Crack—
Four warriors collapsed without a sound.
Cheers exploded behind the line.
"It works!"
"Our arrows drop masters!"
The southern warriors faltered.
Song Yi-sul growled.
"They're dodging—but barely."
"That's the difference," Seong-jin said.
"Numbers."
Second volley.
The remaining six charged together, inner power roaring.
Jong Hui shouted.
"Loose again!"
Before they could close—
Thunk.
Thunk.
Three more fell.
The survivors broke and retreated.
Curved blades clattered to the ground.
The sound rang like cracked pride.
They stared at themselves, disbelieving.
Defeated by arrows.
Seong-jin watched silently.
Song Yi-sul crossed his arms.
"So even the martial world…"
"…can't stand against formation," Seong-jin finished.
"Unless it's you."
"I'm an exception," Seong-jin replied.
"Outside the rules."
Song Yi-sul chuckled.
"They'll bring more next time."
"They always do," Seong-jin said.
"Probe. Fail. Then flood."
His voice lowered.
"Stronger ones are coming."
A colder presence seeped across the plain.
This was no longer reconnaissance.
The signal had been sent.
The high-level clash had begun.
Martial World POV — After the Volley
He had crossed battlefields before.
This was not one of them.
From the shadows near the riverbank, the martial artist watched the plain with narrowed eyes.
Fifteen had gone in.
Nine had not returned.
Not cut down by blades.
Not crushed by inner force.
Arrows.
He replayed it in his mind.
Not random fire.
Not panic volleys.
Timing staggered.
Angles layered.
Speed deliberately uneven.
It wasn't skill meant to show off.
It was a net.
"…So this is war," he murmured.
Beside him, another figure spoke quietly.
"They didn't chase."
"No," he replied.
"They didn't need to."
A battlefield where the enemy didn't pursue—
because pursuit wasn't part of the design.
That realization chilled him more than the deaths.
A martial artist could read opponents.
Stances. Breathing. Intent.
But this?
This wasn't something you fought.
It was something you entered—and failed to leave.
He exhaled slowly.
"Tell the others," he said.
"This is not a place for pride."
A pause.
"…And if they ask?"
He stared toward the distant campfire, still burning calmly in the dark.
"Tell them," he said at last,
"that the Goryeo commander doesn't fight us."
"He builds the ground so that we lose."
Silence followed.
Then, deeper in the darkness, the observers withdrew—
already counting how many would be needed next time.
And wondering if numbers would be enough.