333
The Banquet at Taiping (太平之宴)
Night at Taiping turned red again.
This time it wasn't the flames of battle, but hundreds of torches driven into the riverbank, wavering over the water and spilling a crimson glow.
Wherever the light reached, the rims of silver cups flashed.
Whenever the liquor trembled, a sheen rose like a small ripple.
The battlefield had become a festival ground.
From the place that had been blood and mud only hours ago came singing and laughter.
Soldiers beat rhythms on their shields.
Jars of wine passed from hand to hand.
Some loosened their armor and danced.
Some drained cups with hands still stained red.
The smell of fatty meat and the stench of blood clung together in the air.
It hung like the scent of a new age—
the smell of wanting to live, and the smell of having to kill, crushed together in the same place.
Chen Youliang sat in the great hall.
Armor trimmed in golden silk and a crimson cloak wrapped his body.
Beside him, generals gathered from every region stood in a line.
In their hands were golden cups held by hands not yet cleansed of blood.
The red marks on the lips of those cups could not be told apart—wine or blood.
"With Taiping's victory, the gates of the realm have opened!"
Chen Youliang's voice shook the pillars and ceiling of the hall.
The resonance spilled outside, mixing with the torches on the riverbank and the soldiers' roaring.
"Today's merit divides into three streams!
First, the navy that set fire upon the river.
Second, the cavalry that charged through the fog.
Third—"
He stopped.
His gaze settled slowly on one place.
"The dragon of Goryeo, General Park Seong-jin!"
A roar broke out.
Some raised their cups and shook them.
Some struck their shields and shouted the name.
"Park Seong-jin!"
"Park Seong-jin!"
Once the shout erupted, the name rolled from mouth to mouth and spread even across the river's surface.
A name that wins a war becomes a myth.
But Park Seong-jin did not rise.
He did not so much as shift.
He only lifted his cup, bowed his head briefly.
His posture was respectful.
That respect held no heat.
Seeing it, Chen Youliang smiled.
Satisfaction and appraisal mingled in that smile.
He was measuring how far the young commander's loyalty went, and where that road began.
"General Seong-jin."
Chen Youliang raised his cup slightly as he spoke.
"Your fire opened the realm.
What do you want? Land, gold, even a man's life."
It was a reward, and it was a test.
To tell a man to name what he wants is also to say you will bind him by what he names.
Park Seong-jin set his cup down.
The sound of porcelain touching the table rang strangely clear.
Laughter in the hall faltered for a breath.
He lifted his head.
"Your Majesty, the war is not over."
In an instant, the banquet's laughter snapped.
Some drunk froze with cup half-raised.
Some general's hand stiffened mid-beat on a shield.
Chen Youliang's gaze locked onto him.
It cooled.
"Not over?" he asked softly.
"Taiping is in my hand."
His tone was gentle.
There was an edge inside it.
Still smiling, he added,
"Your mouth is always cold.
But today is not war. It is a feast."
Park Seong-jin did not delay even a beat.
"Then we must be even more careful.
Victory is the greatest poison."
Chen Youliang answered by drinking.
The wine vanished in one breath.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand—
a look where laughter and bared teeth mixed together.
"Poison or not, I'll drink it."
He lifted his cup again and threw his voice toward the riverbank outside.
"From today, the realm shall be called Taiping!
The age of fire is over—my age begins!"
Cheers erupted again.
Drums thundered.
Flutes filled the riverside air.
Soldiers danced.
They swung banners stained with blood.
Some flags were patched with torn cloth from the fight.
Some still had wet blood that had not dried.
The heat of the feast slid into frenzy.
Victory intoxicates.
Intoxication makes men light.
Park Seong-jin quietly slipped away from his place.
No one could stop him.
He was the merit of the day—
yet he did not belong to the day's revel.
He stepped outside the hall and met the river wind.
It was cold and damp.
Torches swayed, stretching his shadow long.
That shadow lay across the ground like a black blade.
After a while, Lee In-jung followed carefully.
"General—why refuse the reward?"
Park Seong-jin answered slowly.
"Because it isn't finished."
He looked far across the river.
Firelight wavered on the water.
It was beautiful—
and within that calm beauty after battle, cruelty was mixed.
The water reflected the light.
Lee In-jung asked in a low voice,
"When do you think these flames will go out?"
Park Seong-jin spoke slowly.
"When dawn comes, they'll go out."
Lee In-jung's eyes wavered.
"Chen Youliang will become an emperor."
Park Seong-jin nodded.
It was not agreement—it was confirmation.
"That's why I'm worried.
If he becomes king, he'll burn the country with fire."
"And I keep thinking of the name—Flame Emperor, 炎帝."
Silence passed.
A doubt rose—
that even if he treats us well, he may still become a tyrant in the end.
From across the river, soldiers' shouts erupted again.
Some were already changing what they called him.
"Pacify the realm!
Long live Emperor Chen!"
Park Seong-jin turned his head.
The corner of his mouth tightened slightly.
"They're calling him emperor already."
Then, like a sigh, he added,
"I'm worried that the reason we fought will mean nothing to them."
Lee In-jung could not answer.
He did not think the worry was misplaced.
The lights and the shouts grew louder.
The sky grew darker.
It was a night with no space left for stars to stand.
When dawn came, the feast did not end.
Drunken soldiers lay collapsed everywhere.
Blood-stained armor dried stiff in the wind.
Some fell asleep laughing.
Some dropped their cups while crying.
Torches leaned one by one.
The light thinned.
Even in that thinning light, the festival twitched like a living thing.
Park Seong-jin looked up at the sky alone.
The stars were fading.
In his hand was a record of merit wrapped in silk—a War Merit Register (戰功錄).
It was not written on paper.
Where wealth overflows, even writing is done on silk.
He held it to the firelight and read slowly.
The line carved beside his name.
〈開太平 第一功〉
First Merit in "Opening Taiping."
Park Seong-jin did not smile.
He did not marvel.
He did not treat the words as blessing or insult.
They were only words.
And he knew what lay beneath those words.
So he threw the merit register Chen Youliang had given him into the fire.
Silk drank flame and flared.
Ash lifted into the air.
The fire swelled for a moment, then shrank.
At that moment, the far eastern sky was slowly brightening.
Even if the night of celebration dragged on, dawn still came—
and split the sky.