BW C156

Chapter 156

“Did you hear the young master killed eight of those shikchoongi?”

“Eight? Alone? That’s insane.”

“I saw it—I swear he pierced the thing’s eyeball in one shot.”

“An eyeball? With a bullet that tiny? Damn…”

“He’s not even a military god, and among the paired attendants, killing eight in one go—that’s rare, isn’t it?”

“For sure, for sure. That’s impressive.”

“No wonder he’s the General’s match.”

“Must be.”

Soldiers lugging shikgoe corpses down the slope chattered noisily among themselves.

Hearing them, Hoeun—who had been climbing up the same slope—froze, sucked in a breath, and immediately ducked behind the ruins of a collapsed house.

He hunched his shoulders and let out a tiny groan.

“Uuugh…”

This was the fifth time he’d overheard something like that on his way up.

It was… all praise, sure.

But for some reason, Hoeun found the compliments unbearably embarrassing.

He hadn’t swung a sword or spear.

He’d simply stood in place and pulled a trigger.

The ones who deserved true commendation were the soldiers who had charged fearlessly into the pack of shikgoe, fighting them body-to-body—not him.

So receiving all this praise made him feel like he was stealing someone else’s credit—awkward, uncomfortable.

“But… eight?”

He hadn’t known.

While shooting wildly, he’d had no time to count any of that.

His mind had been filled with just one thing: even one more, even one more.

The falling snow, Gilsang beside him—they had all disappeared from awareness; he had seen only shikgoe.

But eight… he had killed eight.

Not one, not two—eight.

Hoeun lifted his fingers and counted out eight with a dazed little pout.

Then he pinched his own cheek lightly.

Just in case this was a dream.

Fortunately, it hurt.

Reality, then.

He stayed hidden until the soldiers’ footsteps faded.

When the path grew quiet again, he resumed climbing, glancing left and right as he went.

But the person he sought was nowhere in sight.

Just then Byeonguk happened to pass by, and Hoeun stopped him.

“Um… do you know where the General is?”

“Haa… haa…”

Hoeun, climbing what felt like the hundredth slope in that village, finally stopped to gasp for breath.

Pale steam fumed from his lips.

Of all things, the entire village had been built on an incline—walking here was exhausting.

Thinking of doing this every day made his vision spin, yet another part of him wondered if he might build some stamina this way.

Hoeun wiped the small beads of sweat gathering on his forehead.

Winter or not, fever or not—he’d actually worked hard enough to sweat.

Remarkable.

He brushed away the sweat near his temples when suddenly—

a familiar scent drifted toward him like a warm mirage.

Tobacco.

Hoeun’s head snapped up.

Far ahead, sitting on the steps overlooking the entire village, was Taemuk—quietly smoking.

“General!”

Hoeun called out brightly.

Then, momentarily forgetting his fatigue, he sprinted toward him, his braided hair fluttering wildly.

He arrived, beaming—

and instantly had to rein the smile back in.

Taemuk was drenched in blood again.

Droplets hung from the ends of his hair, swaying before falling with a soft, heavy thuk.

The snow around where he sat was stained entirely red.

“Are you hurt?”

“No.”

Taemuk replied flatly, cigarette still between his lips.

“Then all of that is shikgoe blood?”

“Probably.”

“……”

Hoeun almost asked more—but held back.

He wouldn’t get a proper answer anyway.

Better to check for himself later, once he peeled off every last layer tonight.

He smacked his dry lips and sat down beside him.

The snow beneath him was cold, but his body was so warm from running that he didn’t feel it.

“Did you use all your bullets?”

Taemuk blew out smoke as he asked.

“Yes. Every single one.”

Hoeun nodded enthusiastically.

Then he unconsciously shook out his right hand.

He clasped it with his left as if to soothe it.

After pulling a trigger a hundred times, his hand had been trembling nonstop.

His wrist tingled; his forearm and shoulder ached.

But none of it felt bad.

None of it hurt.

He felt only proud.

Never in his life had he lived so fiercely, so earnestly.

“……”

Taemuk glanced down at Hoeun’s trembling hand.

So pale, so slender—the quiver was visible even from where he sat.

But Taemuk couldn’t do anything for him.

It wasn’t an injury, nor an illness; it was simply pain he had to endure on the path to the next stage.

…Still, maybe he should warm it for him before bed later—

The thought barely surfaced when Hoeun suddenly scooted closer.

He didn’t seem bothered at all that Taemuk’s clothes were soaked in blood.

Hoeun fidgeted, stealing glances at him as he tried to speak.

“I, uh, um, I… I… uh…”

Every time his small lips opened and closed, puffs of warm breath burst out—poof, poof—

and Taemuk found the sight strangely, inexplicably precious.

He urged him.

“What.”

“I… I—I killed eight.”

“……”

“Eight shikgoe.”

Hoeun looked up with those clear, earnest eyes—

waiting for something.

A compliment.

Or a compliment.

Or maybe… yes, a compliment.

But—

“So what. You want praise for killing that little?”

Taemuk furrowed his brow.

“……”

Hoeun’s mouth drooped instantly.

He straightened his posture stiffly, deflated.

He’s so cold. Too cold.

Could he not be gentle just a little?

But then again… expecting praise after killing only eight—

maybe he was being childish.

Why am I like this… Getting excited over something so small…

His shoulders slumped.

Even the silk ribbon of his hair drooped with him.

Then—

“Good job.”

The words drifted across the wind.

Hoeun’s head snapped around.

Taemuk was gazing out over the ruined village, exhaling smoke.

His handsome face was as expressionless as ever—as if he hadn’t said a thing.

But Hoeun had heard it.

Clearly.

Undeniably.

He blinked several times, then grinned—bright and foolish like a delighted child.

Taemuk had praised him.

His teacher, his military god, the nation’s general—

had praised him.

If his parents had witnessed it, they would have gathered the whole neighborhood for a feast.

Good job.

Good job.

Good job.

Hoeun bounced on the balls of his feet, repeating the words over and over in his heart.

He snorted a little laugh, shrugged his shoulders up to his ears, then straightened again—unable to hide his joy.

Taemuk stubbed out his cigarette on the snow.

As Hoeun watched, he noticed again that Taemuk’s hand was drenched in blood.

He said it was shikgoe blood, but still—who knew.

“Should I hold your hand?”

Hoeun asked quietly.

Taemuk stiffened.

Then he muttered:

“…It’s bloody.”

“I don’t mind.”

Hoeun extended his hand.

Pale palm, rosy fingertips—filling Taemuk’s vision.

Taemuk glanced aside once, stared at nothing once—

then finally, as if surrendering, placed his hand atop Hoeun’s.

“…Do as you like.”

Hoeun clasped his bloody hand tightly.

He intertwined their fingers—fussing, adjusting, trying to lock them together perfectly.

Normally, such fidgeting would be annoying, but Taemuk said nothing.

When their palms finally fit flush, Hoeun smiled in satisfaction and looked forward.

Under the sinking orange glow of dusk, the ruined wall and broken village stretched out below.

Soldiers were hauling the shikgoe corpses away.

Others guided horses or unpacked supplies—preparing to turn this ravaged place into a new encampment.

Hoeun’s heart thumped.

He felt excitement—anticipation.

Yes, this was a battlefield, and not every day would be good…

But still—still, it thrilled him.

He squeezed Taemuk’s hand tighter.

His eyes widened, reflecting sunset light—shimmering gold.

Jeokudae built the new stronghold in a single day.

Ruined or unsafe houses were demolished and replaced with military tents.

Those still usable were repaired and assigned to kitchen staff or turned into supply storage.

The wall was rebuilt—taller, thicker than before.

The military gods, strong beyond reason, lifted boulders the size of entire rooms with their bare hands.

Shikgoe corpses were dragged far away.

Years’ worth of snow, wood, and debris were cleared.

Hoeun was given one of the few intact houses.

It wasn’t luxurious, but it had a master room, two spare rooms, a small yard, a wooden hall, and even a bath area.

Best of all—

it had a fireplace.

He could stay warm day and night.

Hoeun had tried to refuse at first, saying he could sleep in a tent.

But Byeonguk insisted it was natural for the General’s attendant to stay in the best lodging,

and Gilsang added that it would be troublesome if he fell ill.

So Hoeun could only accept.