BW C76

Chapter 76

But then, quietly, Im—who had been standing at Hoeun’s side unnoticed—lightly tugged at his sleeve and let go. Startled, Hoeun almost cried out in alarm, but then he met her steady gaze.

Confused by that unreadable look, Hoeun found himself staring back. And before he knew it—as though compelled by something—words spilled from his lips.

“…He’s my nephew.”

Even Hoeun himself did not know why he said that.

“Nephew?”

The doctor craned his neck toward the child slung over Im’s shoulder, or rather, toward the boy’s ragged, worn clothing. Hoeun swallowed hard; his chest began to pound. It felt as if the lie might be discovered immediately.

“We—we left home in a hurry, so we weren’t able to bring proper clothes…”

He tacked on excuses clumsily. Useless though they seemed, the physician merely twitched his brows and motioned them toward a side room. Compared to the carnage outside, this examination chamber seemed almost peaceful, even clean—in spite of the many stains that still clung here and there.

When the nurse shut the door, it felt as though they had crossed into another world. A quieter, safer world.

“Lay him here.”

The physician gestured toward a bed. Im carefully lowered the boy from her back. Frightened and pale, the child glanced about with wide, wary eyes.

The doctor glanced over the torn calf and said the only option was to draw the flesh together as best they could and bind it tightly. Hoeun begged him to please do anything possible.

The nurse and the doctor exchanged brief words, then quickly snipped through the child’s trousers with scissors. The exposed wound made Hoeun turn aside at once. Fresh, living blood—he would never accustom himself to such sights.

Suddenly, the child screamed in agony, shrieking as tears burst forth. Startled, Hoeun snapped his gaze back. The doctor was pouring disinfectant straight into the shredded muscle. The pain sent the boy into a seizure-like fit, his frail body convulsing so violently the heavy bed frame rattled and creaked.

“You—you’re not giving him anesthesia?”

Hoeun stammered in alarm. This was closer to torture than to treatment. But the nurse answered, voice flat and weary.

“There is no anesthetic left. Even disinfectant is nearly spent.”

“….”

Hoeun’s lashes trembled violently. He had never once considered such basic supplies could simply be gone. Suffering seemed to have countless faces, and despair deepened with every one.

Helpless, he tread in place as though in circles, heart sick. Again the boy’s cries ripped out, raw and loud. Hoeun seized his tiny hand and squeezed.

The child’s grip closed back sharply, squeezing Hoeun’s so tightly the skin whitened. His hand was small as a shoot, but its strength was desperate, beyond belief.

Hoeun’s brow furrowed. But it wasn’t because of pain—it was because he couldn’t fathom the child’s. Illness had plagued Hoeun’s own body all his life, but never had his flesh been torn away. He couldn’t begin to comprehend the torment. Influenza and fever paled to nothing beside it. And this boy, so small, bore it all within that little body. The thought alone crushed Hoeun’s chest with a weight like stone.

At length, the child fainted dead away, overwhelmed. The doctor continued his work regardless. And in truth, Hoeun thought it perhaps a mercy; better unconscious than writhing still as the physician’s blunt hands pulled and prodded the wound.

“Haa…”

Watching the doctor’s fists press the ragged flesh together, Hoeun let out a ragged sigh. He rubbed his face with his free hand, pale as paper now, so light-headed the world darkened for a moment. At that moment—

Clunk.

Im set something beside him. A crudely carved wooden chair.

“…For me?”

She nodded firmly.

“….”

Hoeun stared at it. He should refuse politely—but exhaustion strangled the words. His body was beaten down. The long night’s ride from the encampment to town, the flight and terror through monsters’ pursuit, the endless stumbling through wards… He was spent.

His hands, blistered from the reins, ached ceaselessly. His knees trembled. His throat was dry, sanded raw by cold night air. He could feel it already—he could push a little longer, but soon he might collapse as he had once before. And that would be no help to anyone.

“…Thank you.”

Hoeun whispered his gratitude and lowered himself into the seat. Still, he did not release the boy’s hand.

Resting his back against the chair, he exhaled steady, shallow breaths. He dabbed away the sweat on his brow with his sleeve, rotated his aching ankles. Glancing sidelong, he looked at Im.

“….”

Sword still in her grip, Im constantly scanned the room. First the door, then the high window, even the doctor and nurse with watchful suspicion. She looked so like Gilsang then—ever vigilant, watchful.

And in that moment Hoeun realized—he still did not even know her name.

“Forgive me… May I ask your name?”

“….”

No answer. Hoeun hesitated, thinking perhaps she simply didn’t want to tell him. But then—

“…Ah.”

He remembered—she could not speak. Struggling a moment, he extended his palm instead.

“If… If you could write it here….”

The words trailed awkwardly. Touch between strangers, especially a woman—it flustered him strangely. Not excitement, but embarrassment. They were not the same at all.

“….”

Im gazed down at his pale hand, quiet. Then she switched her blade to her other hand and traced letters across his palm. Hoeun bent close, watching with rapt focus.

“K—o… S—eong… Im. Koseong Im, is that correct?”

She nodded.

“….”

Go Seong-im. O Gilsang’s guide—Go Seong-im. Hoeun mouthed the name quietly, savoring it. One more Jeokudae soldier’s name he had learned today. Significant, meaningful. Slowly, excitement rose—Perhaps, if he spent every day like this, a day would come when he knew all one thousand soldiers of Jeokudae by name.

“Such a beautiful name.”

Hoeun spoke from his heart, not a shred of falsehood. A noble-sounding name, dignified, fitting neatly with her stern air.

“….”

Seong-im glanced at him, then shrugged, turning away, face faintly indifferent.

“That one’s a hard woman. Won’t even take your hand unless the wound’s near fatal.”

So Gilsang had once said, when monster claws had scored his shoulder. Yes—she seemed precisely that way. Hoeun smiled faintly.

Dongja with Mansu, Gilsang with Seong-im—their pairs seemed truly well-matched.

“….”

And if others looking on might think he and Taemuk also matched so perfectly… how he wished. Would that day come? He could not know.

Hoeun sighed softly through his nose, and took the boy’s hand again.

The calf was wound tightly in thick bandages—twice the girth of the other leg.

The child stirred awake at the end of treatment, no scream left in him—only wide, vacant tears rolling down. When the doctor tied the final knot and declared the work done, Hoeun lifted the boy back into his lap carefully. His body burned hot as a stove, searing. It reminded Hoeun of someone.

“Did it hurt?”

Hoeun brushed the sweaty hair gently back from the boy’s brow. The boy wheezed, nodding faintly, breath ragged.

“You endured well. Brave. Very brave.”

Hoeun patted his back softly. As a child, his parents had held him so when he wept. That touch—how it had seemed to banish all pain.

“….”

The boy felt the warmth a moment, then suddenly buried his face into Hoeun’s chest. So endearing that Hoeun forgot himself and smiled gently.

The physician collapsed into a chair nearby, groaning heavily, pulling off his glasses and rubbing at his eyes. The nurse sank against the cabinet drawers, eyes rimmed with fatigue as heavy as iron.

Hoeun watched them both. Slowly, he made to set the boy down on the bed. But the small hands clutched his clothes stubbornly, refusing. Sighing, Hoeun rose with the child still clinging to him.

He approached the doctor. From beneath his sash he produced a small silk pouch, heavy with notes. He had brought it just in case when leaving for the town. And now, relieved at that foresight, he pulled half the stack free—enough wealth to buy a cottage.

“Thank you. Your fees. If it’s insufficient, please say so.”

The physician lifted his hand from his eyes, glanced once at the crisp bills—and shook his head firmly.

“No use.”

“But—”

“In this world, what day will there be left to spend such?”

“….”

“Tonight itself, we may all be eaten by monsters. What good are coins then?”