BW C140

Chapter 140

Hoeun blinked slowly. The fever he had momentarily forced back began to rise again, creeping through his body like smoke. But he could not allow his consciousness to waver here.

He had to find Taemuk.

He had to save him.

No one else—only he could do it.

Because he was his guide.

With that thought anchoring him, Hoeun tried to lift his gaze, but his body leaned sideways, the world tilting. His forehead fell against the horse’s mane with a dull thud. He could not raise himself again.

Byeonguk, noticing something was wrong, called to him.

“Young Master?”

“……”

“Young Master! What’s wrong with you? Please, look at me, sir.”

“……”

But Hoeun did not answer. Perhaps he couldn’t—or perhaps he refused to. Some part of him still resented that Byeonguk had failed to protect Taemuk. So he remained silent.

Then Byeonguk released the reins he had been clutching and ran off toward someone else.

“Old sir! Come quick!”

He must have gone to fetch a healer.

Hoeun, through the blur of his fevered sight, watched Byeonguk’s retreating figure grow smaller in the snow.

And then—

“General!”

The shout came from far away. Yet even from that distance, the word struck Hoeun’s ears like thunder.

His eyes snapped open. His spine, which had drooped like ripened grain, straightened in an instant. He did not even know where the sudden surge of strength came from.

Without thought, he seized the reins and kicked the horse’s flank. The steed leapt forward, galloping straight ahead.

“Young Master!” Byeonguk’s voice shouted behind him.

But Hoeun didn’t stop.

His vision throbbed from the heat, his head pounded as if his skull were splitting, and the wind struck him so hard he nearly flew from the saddle—but none of it mattered.

His mind was full of only one thing.

Taemuk.

Never before had his thoughts been consumed by anything so completely. Never had he worried this desperately, or longed so fiercely to see someone again.

Within moments, he reached the place.

It was a narrow inlet, where the lake had pushed deep into the land, earth and water blending along a gentle slope.

And there—

There was Taemuk.

“……”

The moment he saw him, Hoeun’s breath caught. He wanted to run forward, to embrace him, to press his lips to him—but his body froze where it was.

Taemuk was staggering out of the water. His entire body was soaked, hair dripping, one hand clutching the shattered skull of a Shikgoe’s helmet—still bearing its fan-shaped antennae. He had found and slain the antennaed one even amid that chaos.

That, at least, was relief. He was alive. Walking. Still standing.

But Hoeun’s paralysis had another cause.

Taemuk’s head was bowed. The man who always carried himself straight and proud now slumped, unsteady, lurching left and right like a drunkard.

And every time he swayed, red droplets spattered the white snow.

Blood.

Yes—blood.

His uniform was in tatters, clinging to his body with a wet, dark sheen. Hoeun had thought it the lake water—but it was blood that drenched it.

Taemuk was bleeding from every inch of his body. It looked as if crimson rain fell upon him alone.

Blood streamed down from his temple—whether his head was split or crushed, Hoeun couldn’t tell. One ear was gone, the flesh around it shredded and uneven, torn nearly to the edge of his cheek.

The place where his neck joined his shoulder had been gouged out, the flesh ripped clean away. His arm hung uselessly at his side. But even if he could move it, it would have been no use—half his fingers were gone, long, strong hands reduced to fragments.

His legs fared no better. He staggered not from exhaustion, but because his body could no longer bear its own weight.

“……”

It was a sight beyond horror. Hoeun stood there, stupefied, the world’s sounds receding to a dull haze. He saw nothing but Taemuk—his blood, his wounds, his broken body.

Then—

“General!”

“General!”

Several soldiers rushed past Hoeun toward Taemuk.

But Taemuk didn’t seem to hear them. He continued forward, step after faltering step, until one knee buckled and he nearly collapsed.

He didn’t fall.

He drove the Shikgoe’s broken helmet spike into the ground and leaned on it. The jagged bone pierced through his palm, but he uttered not a single groan. It was as if he felt no pain. Or perhaps he simply no longer could.

Steam rose from his body in waves, so thick it looked like smoke. It was as though he were burning alive. Perhaps he was—perhaps his very flesh was boiling beneath his skin.

When the blood finally gushed from under his chin, Hoeun came to his senses.

His hands—still locked around the reins—relaxed, leaving red welts across his palms. He slid down from the saddle as if his body had forgotten how to stand.

Then, voice trembling and strangled, he called out:

“General…”

It wasn’t loud. His throat was hoarse, his fear choking his words. The scene before him was beyond what he could endure.

And at that moment—

Taemuk’s head snapped up. Their eyes met.

“Ah…”

Hoeun instinctively stepped back.

Because that wasn’t Taemuk.

Or rather—it didn’t feel like him anymore.

The eyes that met his were blazing red. The veins in them had burst, staining the whites entirely crimson. It looked like he’d stolen a Shikgoe’s eyes and set them in his own sockets.

And when Hoeun took that single step back, the black pupils buried within the red gleamed with a sudden light—like a lantern flickering to life inside them.

“……”

Taemuk tilted his head, watching Hoeun as though to confirm what he was seeing. Then, as if whatever hesitation had bound him was gone, he straightened again.

He took one step forward.

Snow crunched under his boot, the white surface crushed and immediately blooming red. Step by step, he advanced, leaving a trail of blood in his wake.

“General…”

Hoeun too began to move, stumbling toward him. Shame flared in him for having recoiled earlier. To flinch at the sight of his pain—what kind of guide did that make him?

Taemuk was suffering beyond words, and yet he—his guide—had tried to flee.

He must apologize. Tell him he was wrong. Tell him he was sorry.

He would hold his hand first, then embrace him, then kiss him—once the bleeding stopped, once the wounds healed, then he would say sorry.

Hoeun stepped forward, heart thundering—

And suddenly, someone rushed between them.

“General.”

It was Dongja.

“……”

Taemuk’s red eyes flicked toward her. They seemed to waver, not with emotion, but physically—melting, as though the heat within him had reached his very gaze. Steam coiled thicker from his skin; his breath came out in guttural rumbles like a beast’s growl.

He did not answer her. Only turned his head back toward Hoeun, as if he saw no one else. And again, he stepped forward.

Dongja did not yield. She moved closer, voice lower, steadier—firm.

“General. You mustn’t.”

“……”

Taemuk froze.

Not as if he had obeyed an order, but as though his body had been caught—like a chained animal whose leash had been yanked taut.

Hoeun frowned faintly at the sight. Why was Dongja stopping him? What did she mean by mustn’t?

But it didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was saving Taemuk. Healing him.

That was his task alone.

Hoeun began to move again—then broke into a run. His silk hair ribbon fluttered wildly behind him like a pair of wings.

“Get rid of that.”

Taemuk’s voice cut the air, deep and sharp.

The words struck Hoeun like a blow.

Not that form of address—but the command itself. Get rid of that.

“General…?”

Hoeun stared blankly. Surely he wasn’t talking about him, was he?

But Taemuk’s gaze was locked on him—piercing, unrelenting.

“For God’s sake—get rid of it!”

He shouted, face contorted in agony. Even when he had emerged from the water bleeding, he hadn’t looked like this. Now his expression was twisted with something deeper—rage, torment, fear.

“General, why… what’s wrong?”

Hoeun took a hesitant step closer—

And a hand seized his wrist from behind.

“You mustn’t go, Young Master.”

“Sergeant…?”

It was Byeonguk.