BW C150

Chapter 150

11. With a Hundred Steps

“Mmm…”

As he slept, Hoeun instinctively rubbed his cheek against the warmth holding him. The coarse texture of wool wasn’t particularly soft, but it was familiar—like a blanket he had always slept under, like the pillow he had always rested his head upon.

The heat, the faint bitter scent of tobacco, the steady rise and fall of breath—everything was so comforting. Enveloped by it, Hoeun kept nestling closer, rubbing his cheek again and again. But the owner of that warmth must have mistaken it for him tossing in his sleep.

Tap, tap.

A heavy hand began patting his back. As if telling him to sleep more, not to wake up. Yet ironically, it made Hoeun slowly drift back to consciousness.

“……”

With his eyes only half open, he blinked hazily and looked around. Darkness filled every corner. It wasn’t night—he had merely been covered with a cloth. Beyond it, he heard the rhythm of hooves—dadak-dadak, dagadag—and the long, whistling roar of the wind. Soon, he understood his situation.

“Ah…”

The march toward their new base was still underway. After crossing plains and mountains, they had entered a long, deep ravine where the wind was so fierce that Hoeun had flailed like a man drowning. He couldn’t open his eyes nor breathe properly, and sometimes the wind struck him so hard that his upper body was pushed backward.

Perhaps word of his pathetic struggle reached Taemuk’s ears. He had called Hoeun forward and lifted him onto his own horse.

Hoeun refused repeatedly, but Taemuk had wrapped him securely in the Jeokudae cloak, creating a little tent just for him. Thanks to it, the wind and cold moved a step farther away.

Hoeun, embarrassed and apologizing nonstop, eventually drifted off without even realizing it.

Lately, he was always like this. When wrapped in Taemuk’s arms and warmth, he fell asleep helplessly. It seemed he had become far too accustomed to Taemuk’s embrace. Perhaps he felt comfort—safety—there.

“……”

Even so, how could he fall asleep now? It hadn’t been long since his fever broke, and here he was—practically luggage strapped to Taemuk’s chest. Taemuk must feel like he had brought along a burden, not a guide.

Hoeun squeezed his eyes shut, berating himself.

Tap, tap.

The gentle patting continued. It felt good—wonderfully good—but he couldn’t trouble Taemuk more. Clearing his throat deliberately, Hoeun spoke in his usual neat tone:

“I—I must have fallen asleep. My apologies. The wind seems to have calmed, so I will return to my horse now.”

But the hand patting his back abruptly pulled him closer.

“Uwah—”

Hoeun collided with Taemuk’s chest. A low voice vibrated down through him.

“Stay still.”

“But…”

“Not now. I’ll let you go later.”

“……”

Hoeun blinked rapidly. Why was Taemuk acting like this? Had he gotten hurt while Hoeun slept? Was he holding him close because of some injury? Alarmed, Hoeun began checking him boldly.

But Taemuk’s body was fine. Warm, but not feverish; no blood anywhere. Then why hold me so tightly…? Hoeun wondered, confused.

Just then, the hand at his back rose to his head and gently pushed it downward—almost as if forbidding him from lifting it.

“……”

Hoeun instantly sensed that Taemuk was behaving differently. Had something happened? But it was quiet outside.

Too quiet.

With countless soldiers marching beside and behind Taemuk, such silence was unnatural. No one was speaking. Where had they all gone? Yet the hoofbeats continued. Could they be unable to speak? Did a shikgoe appear? But even then, this quiet was strange.

Thinking hard, Hoeun slowly gathered up the Jeokudae cloak that hung past his knees—rolling it upward in tiny, cautious motions, hiding it from Taemuk.

A small gap opened. A rush of icy air swept inside, and white light pierced his eyes. He winced, then looked down.

Outside, snow lay thick and soft. Above it, horse legs moved one after another—steady, as usual. Nothing seemed out of place. No blood. No haste.

It wasn’t a shikgoe.

He began lowering the cloak again when—something black streaked past his view. Not fast, but unexpected, so he hadn’t caught it clearly. Before he even had time to regret missing it, more appeared—black, red, twisted, mottled shapes. Some alone. Others in clusters. Sometimes rolling by in loose cascades.

Hoeun stared, unblinking. And then he understood.

They were corpses.

Or rather… remnants of corpses.

Fragments of uniforms—jackets, boots—scattered over the ground. Uniforms of the Daehan Empire. Torn, blood-soaked, and frozen into grotesque shapes.

Here and there were pieces of heads, limbs, or lumps too mangled to identify. Unable to decay in the cold, they had become stiff and stone-like, half-buried in the ground.

Weapons, too—spears, swords, rifles—were strewn about. Stabbed in at odd angles, toppled over, snapped in half. It was heartbreaking, as though their final struggle replayed itself before his eyes.

Sometimes a horse stepped on a corpse, and then the brittle, frozen bones collapsed under the weight—crack—like an empty shell breaking.

This was rare.

The Jeokudae did not step on corpses. Even if they couldn’t bury them, they avoided treading on them whenever possible. For them to march straight over meant only two things:

there was no other path—

or there were so many bodies that avoiding them was impossible.

Since Taemuk was preventing him from seeing outside, it was surely the latter. This massive space must be filled—covered—with bodies.

“……”

Hoeun swallowed his gloom, his shoulders rising and falling unevenly.

“I told you not to look.”

Taemuk pulled the cloak back down firmly.

“……”

Hoeun’s eyes trembled with unease. How many times had he encountered corpses lately? The closer they came to their new base, the more corpses they saw—once a day at least, sometimes several. Sometimes soldiers, massacred entirely. More often, common villagers. Sometimes whole towns, collapsed and dead.

They had come to where shikgoe appeared most frequently; it was inevitable. Yet each time, fear grew inside him.

Not fear of dying himself.

Fear that the Jeokudae might end up like this.

People said it was glorious to die defending one’s nation, one’s people, fighting shikgoe. But from what Hoeun had seen, it was rarely glorious.

Often, it was slaughter.

Of course, Taemuk was the strongest war-god alive, and the Jeokudae were unmatched, so such a fate should not befall them. But Hoeun could not stop his heart from sinking. Especially knowing he was the cause that brought them here—if anything happened, he would not forgive himself.

There must be no such tragedy.

Absolutely none.

“……”

Hoeun bit his lower lip and wrapped his arms around Taemuk’s waist. Taemuk stiffened briefly, then folded him into his embrace.

Of the 365 days in a year, Hoeun had an appetite on fewer than ten. Today was no exception. After seeing countless corpses along the way, whatever appetite he had sank straight into the earth.

He listlessly stirred his taro stew. The taro swirled slowly around the spoon. Hoeun stared at it blankly.

“Finish it.”

Taemuk, sitting beside him, issued the order.

“Ah… yes.”

Hoeun jerked out of his daze and lifted a spoonful to his mouth. The rising steam smelled savory and salty—the stew was delicious—but his stomach refused it. After three bites under Taemuk’s watchful gaze, he set the spoon down again.

“……”

Taemuk clicked his tongue, dissatisfied. He seemed ready to scold him when—

“Young Master, do you not have an appetite?”

Chilbok approached, weaving between the soldiers eating haphazardly atop the snow, while distributing extra stew and rice.

“No, I’m fine. It’s good.”

Hoeun shook his head with a faint smile.

“Don’t force yourself. You’ll get sick again.”

Chilbok reached out and took the bowl from Hoeun’s hands.

Taemuk’s brows twisted sharply. He could have coaxed a few more bites out of him—why take it away now? He was about to snatch the bowl back when—

Bending close, Chilbok whispered to Hoeun:

“Shall I bring you a persimmon?”

“…A persimmon?”

At that moment, light returned to Hoeun’s withered eyes. Chilbok grinned, as if he had expected exactly that.