326
Rumors from Jiju Fortress
Along the river road leading toward Yingtian, camps stretched one after another.
In the very heart of the front facing Chen Youliang, Zhu Yuanzhang's army was usually in constant motion, day and night.
By day, grain and arrows moved back and forth.
By night, the lights on the watchtowers drifted like wind.
But that day was different.
The soldiers spoke less, and the cooking fires were lit far later than usual.
A night when the cauldrons boil late is always an ill omen.
Inside one tent, a small whisper slipped from someone's lips.
"They say Seodal is dead."
"Jiju Fortress was covered in blood."
"No one survived. Even those who tried to surrender were just… slaughtered. Ruthless bastards."
At first, the words were faint, like the smell of liquor carried on the breeze.
Someone added, that's what they say, another layered on it's certain.
But when the wind changes direction even once, rumors spread faster than blades.
From tent to tent, from pavilion to pavilion.
They spread like embers—small at first, then stubborn fires that refused to die.
Nearby, a soldier carrying fodder lowered his chin and muttered,
"They say the whole fortress was a trap. The ground split open, flames shot up."
"There was nowhere to step."
"People drowned, got stabbed, their necks—necks caught and snapped."
"They couldn't advance a single step. Not one."
Another picked up the thread at once, his voice thick and damp at the edges.
"There was a commander named Park Seong-jin.
They say he breaks your will before the fighting even starts."
A young soldier who heard this asked in an even smaller, trembling voice, afraid his words might leak out,
"Then… when is it our turn?"
A veteran frowned.
Even in the darkness, his expression was clear.
"Shut your mouth. Words like that spread, too."
But it was already too late.
The conversation flowed into the neighboring camp faster than an arrow.
As night deepened, soldiers gathered around their fires, repeating the same stories.
The moment a story is repeated, it begins to wear the face of truth.
"Seodal fell into a trap and burned."
"Park Seong-jin slipped in at night and slaughtered every commander."
"They say he plants fear just by looking into your eyes."
"If he stares at you once and smiles, someone always dies that night."
The flames were small and weak, but strong enough to light their faces.
In the glistening eyes reflected by the firelight, the thought of fighting was slowly turning into thoughts of flight.
At that same hour, in the central command tent, the generals stood gathered around the map.
No one spoke easily.
Outside, the soldiers' whispers rolled like waves.
Fear is always the same thing.
Those higher up receive it more broadly.
Those who fear more hear the worse rumors first.
"Commander, these rumors aren't dispersing."
"Then is there a way to stop them?"
"Truth or lies, everyone believes them. Morale is sinking."
Silence followed.
A single mark on the map looked like a life itself.
Jiju.
That one name was tightening its grip around the entire camp's breath.
One general muttered under his breath,
"Seodal has fallen."
"We're next."
With those words, the lamp in the tent flickered.
The light wavered, as if mirroring the hearts of the men.
Even the generals were afraid without realizing it.
If Seodal and Shang Youchun were dead, there was no reason to believe men lesser than them would fare better.
There was no advantage to compare, no ground for confidence.
News of this battle struck first at their weakest place—their hearts.
The enemy broke them before cutting them down, and cut them down only after they were broken.
Soldiers were looking toward the horizon more often than at the map.
In their eyes, the path of escape appeared before the thought of combat.
That night, a sentry standing at the edge of the camp saw distant lights flickering.
"Jiju Fortress," someone said, swallowing hard.
"The fires are still burning."
"They say a grave comes to mind before a fortress does."
The sentry said nothing.
After a long while, he kicked dirt over the campfire.
Fear that the enemy's gaze might reach them made him extinguish the flame.
When the fire went out, the surrounding darkness grew deeper.
At that moment, somewhere in the dark, someone whispered,
"This war is already over."
"The moment the Goryeo army entered, it became a war we could never win."
When morning came, an uncanny stillness hung over Zhu Yuanzhang's camp.
The drums were silent, the banners drooped.
In each unit, soldiers moved about without order.
When the supply wagons arrived late, someone tossed out a line, half like a joke, half too loud,
"What—did the supply line get cut?"
That single remark spread uneasily through the camp once more.
Just as Zhu Yuanzhang was about to inspect the grain and fodder under his control,
a courier from the imperial army burst in, blood spraying.
Blood stained the horse's flank, and an arrow was lodged in the courier's neck.
He tumbled from the saddle and shouted,
"Seodal's army has been wiped out—!"
When the cry reached the camp, color drained from the soldiers' faces all at once.
Victory and defeat are one thing, but annihilation—
that meant almost no one had come back.
They were defeated before ever entering the fight.
People say the outcome of war is uncertain,
but more often than not, it is decided before the blades cross.
Men march forward even while sensing defeat.
Knowing the road leads to ruin, their feet still carry them there.
That night, Zhu Yuanzhang asked quietly,
"How far have the rumors spread?"
A clerk answered,
"Throughout all of Yingtian. They've even crept into children's songs."
Zhu Yuanzhang lifted his head.
A strange resolve settled into his eyes.
"Park Seong-jin's blade didn't bring down a fortress," he said softly.
"By striking down two of our generals in succession, he shattered our will."
When his words ended, the room sank into heavy silence.
Outside, the wind was still blowing.
And within that wind lingered the smell of fire from Jiju Fortress.