The fire-control officer rode up at a gallop.
As the horse drew near, hooves throwing up clods of earth, he looked down at Seongjin.
"Park Seongjin?"
"Loyalty. Son of Park Jinsul, younger brother of Park Seongil."
Seongjin could no longer count how many times he had repeated those words that day.
His father's name, his brother's name, and the short phrase younger brother.
The words had already hardened on his lips. Each time they left his mouth, he felt less like a person and more like the residue of a lineage.
The officer frowned slightly, then nodded.
"I know. I fought with him in the last war."
Seongjin's lips trembled, just a little.
Why was it only my father who died?
The question swelled up to his throat, but never passed his tongue.
"Hng…"
The officer breathed out through his nose.
"He was a formidable man."
After a brief pause, he added,
"He died without a scream."
"Thank you."
Seongjin did not look at the officer.
He stared blankly toward the far northern fields as he answered. If he didn't, he felt he might collapse. Somewhere, he imagined Squad Leader Oh Jinchul watching.
Emotion comes later.For now, he is a soldier.
Seongjin asked quietly,
"I want to hear… how my father died."
The officer fell silent for a moment.
"All right."
He nodded once.
"That's understandable."
His voice lowered.
"The Red Turbans crossed the Nok River then. Unexpected. They called themselves the Army of Righteousness. Rebels to the Yuan—but to the people of the Central Plains, a just force."
His gaze drifted far away.
"It doesn't take long for an army to become bandits. As soon as they crossed the river, they began to pillage. We formed up and advanced, but they swung around us."
He continued, as if choosing each word.
"Before we could set our lines, they struck the flank. Dozens—no, hundreds—of arrows came straight in at close range. There was no time to evade or block."
Seongjin's hand stiffened on the reins.
"At that moment…"
He asked in a low voice,
"What was the fire-control officer doing? Why couldn't we return fire—why were we taken so one-sidedly?"
The officer's face twisted, just for an instant.
"We thought the enemy was raising dust to magnify their presence."
His tone was calm.
"We didn't anticipate the flanking move. They waited for the gap—right after our first volley ended."
There was no apology in his words.No regret.
Only an explanation—as if that were all war ever was.
Seongjin felt a dull discomfort.
Within that cold account, his father existed not as a life, but as the outcome of a tactical misjudgment.
The officer seemed to read something on his face and added, belatedly,
"Death is always close on the battlefield."
"Before you waste time blaming someone, look after your own life."
"Loyalty."
Seongjin's reply was brief.
There was no emotion in his voice.
He drew the reins and set his gaze forward. The officer's eyes sharpened for a moment, but Seongjin did not look back.
He spurred his horse ahead.
Wind lashed his face.
Dust and sunlight mingled—he couldn't tell whether what blurred his vision was sweat or tears. The horse's breath burned hot.
The drums sounded again.
Dong— dong—.
The column heading west moved once more.
Seongjin knew it then.
Something inside him had cooled again—quietly, irrevocably.