The flagship sways gently under the sea wind. Yi Sun-sin stands upright, a naval chart spread before him. His fingers trace the currents and the enemy's routes,
his dark eyes fixed on the movements of the Japanese ships. Around him, the officers wait for his orders — standing, silent,
like the sea before the storm.
For weeks, the coasts of Joseon have burned under the assaults of Japanese pirates from the south. Yi Sun-sin has not left the sea. His days blur together — the crash of waves, the cry of orders,
and the smell of salt mingled with blood.
A soldier enters, bows deeply, and hands him a sealed scroll. Yi opens it without haste. It is not a military report, but the fine handwriting of his wife.
He reads without a flicker.
Each line describes the house, the servants, the harvest, the infant growing stronger, the children of the village offering greetings.
Nothing unnecessary, nothing adorned.
She obeys — facts, clear and concise, as he commanded.
His eyes move over the text as they would over a map of battle. When he finishes, he nods briefly, rolls the paper, and sets it among his documents.
— "The house stands. My son grows. Good."
He turns away at once, his voice resuming the tone of command as he orders the disposition of the troops.
Not a moment's hesitation, not a question about how long he will be gone.
For him, war is the only world. Home is but a secondary vessel — kept by his wife, recorded like an inventory, observed from a distance.