Chapter 164

 

At those words, Taemuk’s hand—midway through drying Hoeun’s hair—paused.

Just a moment. A tiny, almost unnoticeable hesitation.

But soon he resumed as though nothing had happened.

Hoeun continued softly.

“My eldest brother didn’t die fighting shikgoe.

He… passed away because he couldn’t find a guide.”

This time Taemuk’s hand stopped completely.

A Military god  without a guide—

a phrase that hit Taemuk with the weight of a blade.

He looked at Hoeun, but Hoeun’s gaze was fixed outside the door,

at the silent snowfall, the endless white falling from the sky.

“He wished to keep fighting until the end, but eventually he couldn’t endure it

and returned home. And then… he closed his eyes there.”

“…That must’ve been hard.”

Taemuk murmured quietly—almost like consolation.

Hoeun gave a small, gentle smile.

“Was it? I don’t really remember.

I was only around ten when he passed.

I barely remember him at all.

He became a Military god  when I was an infant,

and he spent the rest of his life on the battlefield.”

“……”

“But… I remember my parents grieving. Vividly.

Crying before his snow-covered grave on a day just like this.”

To ten-year-old Hoeun, his parents were towering, steadfast figures—

dignified, wise, respectable.

Seeing them collapse beside a snowy grave,

their bodies twisting in grief,

had been a shock burned into him forever.

“And every year around this time… they grieve the same way.”

“……”

“The years passed.

I went from ten to twenty…

but their sorrow never lightened in the slightest.”

“……”

“I’m sure… they’re grieving again right now.”

Hoeun inhaled deeply.

The winter air carried a faint, cold sting—

a scent that, for him, was inseparable from his parents’ tears.

“Whenever my brother’s death anniversary approached,

I used to make silly jokes around them, or act more mature than I was.

Just to make them smile a little.

But this year I’m not there.

They must bear all that sorrow alone…”

“……”

“I worry.

That in the hollow place left by my eldest brother…

I’ve created another hollow.

That they’ll be even sadder this year.”

Hoeun dragged a hand across his chest as if scraping out the ache.

He exhaled, furrowed his brow, relaxed it again.

Then he stared at the black winter sky and let out an almost self-mocking breath.

“Isn’t this foolish?”

“What is.”

“I wouldn’t even have noticed my brother’s death anniversary

if you hadn’t mentioned it was the end of the year.

Yet here I am… like this.”

“……”

Taemuk had no rebuttal.

He simply kept drying Hoeun’s hair.

Hoeun glanced at him—

and suddenly realized how tone-deaf, how privileged his worry must sound.

Worrying over living parents

in a world where most people had lost family to war or shikgoe.

Where Taemuk, a general, had probably watched countless soldiers die.

His concern must have sounded laughably naïve.

Panicked, Hoeun hurried to redirect the conversation.

“A-Anyway, time flows strangely fast on the battlefield.

To think it’s already year’s end.

When I met you at Inyeonje, it was early autumn—

not even the leaves had changed yet.”

“……”

“It wasn’t even that long ago, but it already feels so distant.

Everything back then was strange and new and…”

His forced cheer faded.

He closed his eyes tightly, then opened them again with mild embarrassment.

Remembering their beginning brought nothing good.

A mistake.

Trying to dispel the atmosphere, he began to rise—

when Taemuk unexpectedly spoke.

“Byeonguk’s the one who goes to Hanyang.”

Hoeun blinked rapidly and sat back down.

He parsed the sentence once, twice—

then asked cautiously:

“Because of the record sheets…?”

“Yeah. He’s the fastest.

He’ll go again this year.”

“I see.”

Hoeun nodded faintly.

It was sudden, but he still wished Byeonguk a safe trip.

Then Taemuk added:

“He’ll probably take the record sheets and a few of those pages you wrote.

Not heavy.”

“Yes. With little baggage he’ll return faster.”

Hoeun still didn’t understand why Taemuk was explaining this,

but replied dutifully.

Perhaps Taemuk was simply worried about Byeonguk’s travels.

“And even if he carries a few more pages,

it won’t slow him down.”

“…Pardon?”

“And bringing back a few pages won’t make a big difference either.”

“……”

Hoeun stared, completely lost.

Taemuk clearly had something he wanted to say—

but Hoeun had no idea what.

Taemuk clicked his tongue and threw the damp towel aside.

“I thought you were smart.

Why aren’t you understanding a damn thing?”

“……”

Hoeun froze, unfairly scolded for nothing.

He opened his mouth to apologize—

—but Taemuk spoke first.

“A letter.

Write one.

I’ll have him deliver it.”

“A… letter?”

“……”

“To whom?”

“……”

“Do you need to write someone else?

Should I write it for you?”

Taemuk exhaled sharply, as though his patience had snapped.

He turned his head away.

Silence fell.

Hoeun blinked irregularly—

trying to replay the conversation.

And then—

his eyes widened.

He shot upright, kneeling in front of Taemuk.

“D-Do you mean…

to write a letter…

to my parents in Hanyang?”

Taemuk glared as if to say finally.

“Yeah.”

“……”

Hoeun’s breath shook—

loud enough to fill the room.

His wide eyes churned with emotion after emotion.

Taemuk, suddenly uneasy, set boundaries fast:

“But you’re not going to Hanyang.

Even if you ask, they won’t send you.

Be satisfied with a letter.

Even that—most people couldn’t even—”

He stopped.

“……why are you crying.”

Hoeun was crying.

“Huh…”

Tears filled his bright eyes and spilled irresistibly.

At the thought of his mother and father, his brothers,

Deokwoo, the family dog—

he simply couldn’t hold it back.

Taemuk, misunderstanding entirely, hardened his tone.

“Crying pretty won’t change anything.

You’re not going home.

So—”

But once again, he didn’t finish.

Hoeun suddenly threw himself into Taemuk’s arms.

“A letter is enough.

Thank you.

Th-thank you, General…”

His voice shook, muffled against Taemuk’s neck.

He had never expected to contact his family.

Not until the day shikgoe disappeared from the world entirely.

Never this soon.

Just being able to say:

I’m alive. Are you well?

—was happiness beyond words.

Hoeun clung tightly to Taemuk, crying softly.

“Thank you… truly…”

Taemuk stiffened at the sudden embrace.

Then, feeling Hoeun’s warm, tear-soaked breath on his neck,

he frowned and muttered:

“Stop crying.

You’ll get a fever again.

Cry more and I’ll forbid the letter.”

It was a grumbling threat—

but Hoeun only hugged him tighter and sobbed harder,

like a child.

Taemuk sighed long through his nose.

After a moment’s hesitation,

he awkwardly patted Hoeun’s back.

Blood soaked the snow, turning it to sludge.

Wetter than mud, thicker—

as though hands beneath the earth were grabbing at their ankles.

Every step made Taemuk’s brows knit.

Hoeun walked beside him, lips pressed tight,

eyes scanning their surroundings.

Jeokudae had already swept through the area,

leaving shikgoe bodies scattered everywhere.

Limbs torn, skull-plates shattered,

guts spilled, brain matter burst open.

This time, Hoeun examined them carefully.

He used to find shikgoe corpses disgusting—

but now he had adapted.

He checked their height, their differences,

looking for something specific.

He walked left, then right,

searching for traces—

clues that might reveal where the shikgoe came from.

Their origin.

Their home.