352
The Face of the Battlefield Changed
By the following evening, deep inside the main camp, Zhu Yuanzhang summoned no one.
Instead, he walked out himself and called in the officers in charge of the Martial Affairs Division.
His eyes were different from usual.
They were no longer the eyes of a general watching a war—
they were the eyes of a hunter.
"Those among you with real martial skill," he said,
"step forward."
Silence followed.
A few bodyguards accustomed to daggers stepped out.
So did mercenaries from Jiangxi, and several men trained in the broken techniques of the Wudang lineage.
Zhu Yuanzhang studied them slowly, pressing the edge of a map beneath his boot.
"The war has changed."
With those words alone, the air inside the tent grew heavy.
"Because of a single Goryeo expert, our vanguards have lost their eyes and ears.
Today, we pull back thirty li.
The two defeats before this—both were because of him."
It was a statement of humiliation.
The expressions of the gathered martial men shifted.
For warriors, humiliation was fuel.
Zhu Yuanzhang continued harshly.
"You have one task.
Bring me the head of that Goryeo expert."
Lower. Sharper.
"Ordinary soldiers cannot deal with him.
An expert must be hunted by experts."
The air inside the tent was heavier than blood.
That night, an assassination unit was formed.
They called it the Zhenwu Detachment.
Under Zhu Yuanzhang's direct command, a small team of martial specialists was assembled—
gathered for one purpose only.
When they were all pulled together, all kinds appeared:
Assassins skilled in short-blade techniques: six
Former wandering fighters, fugitives from White Lotus Valley: three
Military experts who had served as executioners since the Red Turban days: four
A foreign martial artist from the Western Regions, wielding whips and strange tools: one
Fourteen in total.
Zhu Yuanzhang pointed to a red mark on the map.
"Use any means necessary.
Kill the Goryeo expert.
He roams the boundary line at night, killing our vanguards.
You will kill him."
That night, the stars were few.
The wind died down. Even the insects grew quiet.
The fourteen members of the Zhenwu Detachment slipped into the forests of Uirim Plain, north of Taiping.
There was no shared plan. No coordination.
Each man relied on his own skills.
One felt the ground with his hands.
One spat into his palm gripping the blade.
Another stripped his outer garment and wrapped himself in black cloth.
Soldiers withdrew from the field.
Martial experts took their place.
The hidden battle of elites rose to the surface.
But there was something they did not know.
The Goryeo martial unit had already begun moving.
That night, Park Seong-jin was already in motion.
He was not alone.
Song I-sul's warriors moved with him,
and more than ten fighters from the Hwajugun—men who had grown alongside Park Seong-jin—followed to handle aftermath and capture.
Fifteen Goryeo martial warriors spread along the boundary line.
Their presence was quieter than Zhu Yuanzhang's Zhenwu Detachment,
more concealed,
and far sharper.
Three scouts from the Zhenwu Detachment moved almost simultaneously in the dark.
"There—"
Before the word finished, something swept past.
The first man collapsed, clutching his throat.
His airway had been cut without sound.
He died without even a scream.
The second man's ankle snapped.
An unseen foot struck his acupoint.
His entire body locked rigid.
Alive, yet unable to move or cry out.
As he struggled uselessly, a Goryeo warrior appeared and dragged him away.
The third man saw nothing—
only the blade descending from behind.
That blade was too gentle to be called steel,
too hot to be called wind.
By the time he turned his head, he was already struck.
The last thing he saw was Park Seong-jin's shadow.
That night, Park Seong-jin hunted experts as if strolling through the forest.
To him, the notion of "expert" barely registered.
Those stronger than oneself leave an impression of power and presence.
Those beneath blur together—indistinguishable, meaningless.
The gap was too vast.
When momentum faltered, he eliminated.
When breathing shifted, he seized.
When intent touched him, he cut.
He walked through the forest lightly, breath steady.
In his vision, hidden presences took shape.
Where the wind stopped.
Where soil compressed.
Where heels pressed too deeply into earth.
Everything appeared clearly, like a painted scene.
"…One there."
He moved.
A body fell—this time without a blade.
A fingertip pressed a vital point.
"One more."
Another touch at the base of the neck.
The expert's mouth froze before a scream could form.
Then, facing the last one, Park Seong-jin felt a different texture of intent.
"Oh?"
He drew his sword.
So did the opponent.
Before the blades could even meet, Park Seong-jin had already passed him.
The man realized him—
but too late.
Park Seong-jin whispered,
"Your momentum is impressive."
The opponent's sword fell.
He collapsed, bound before he even understood how.
By morning, of the fourteen members of Zhu Yuanzhang's Zhenwu Detachment,
eleven were dead,
three were captured.
The Goryeo martial unit returned without a single injury.
Through the mouths of the captured men, Chen Youliang learned of the enemy's changing tactics—
and passed that knowledge directly to Park Seong-jin.