The next day, in the silent training camp, night spreads its veil, disturbed only by the crackling of the torches flickering over the wooden dummies.
Yi Sun-sin stands tall, face closed, sword in hand. He inhales, then strikes.
The wood echoes, the sound cracking through the night air. His movements, at first controlled, retain military precision: each blow measured, as if he were facing an invisible enemy. But already, his breath grows heavier, his muscles tensing.
Images surge. His wife, her shining eyes, her offered lips… then at once, her frail body, drowned in blood, wavering between life and death.
He strikes again, harder. Again. And again.
Discipline erodes. Fury rises. Each blow grows more brutal, each impact an outlet for fear and buried longing. His breath turns into a growl.
The wood splits, but he doesn't stop, possessed. His sword comes down with increasing violence, each stroke releasing stifled desire, suppressed fear. His arm trembles, but he keeps going, drunk on this unleashed rage.
Finally, with a last raw cry, he brings his weapon down with all his strength. The dummy breaks, split in two under the force.
Silence falls.
The general remains standing, panting, his torso soaked with sweat. His clenched fingers whiten on the hilt of his sword. His gaze remains fixed on the scattered fragments of wood, as though he still saw what he tried to destroy.
— "Cursed be this body!… cursed be this desire!…"
The sword falls heavily to the ground. He turns on his heel, disappearing into the shadows, leaving behind the broken debris — mute remnants of the cracked rock, which no battle had ever shaken… except a woman.