BW C104

Chapter 104

 

In the meantime, Byeonguk brought over a fallen tree trunk from somewhere and set it down before Hoeun—it seemed to mean he should sit. When Hoeun quietly lowered himself onto it, only then did Byeonguk signal to the Jeogudae soldiers and the refugees that they could rest.

Even in Taemuk’s absence, the soldiers carried out their duties on their own: setting sentries, tending to the horses, and unpacking supplies. The refugees, unaccustomed to such rhythms, watched hesitantly before sinking down here and there as though collapsing.

All the while, Hoeun kept his gaze fixed upon the direction where Taemuk had disappeared. He could neither see nor hear him, yet he could not look away.

At that moment—

“Young Master. How have you been?”

A familiar voice reached him, and Hoeun’s face, dark as dusk, brightened at once as if a candle had been lit within.

“Dongja noona!”

It was Dongja. She grinned broadly, thrust her spear into the earth, and plopped herself down before him.

“I came too.”

Behind her appeared Mansu. He drove his weapon into the ground as well and sat beside her. Crushed dry leaves clung thick to their clothes, but neither seemed to care in the least. Hoeun greeted them with delight.

“Have you been well? Though it’s only been a day, it feels as though I haven’t seen you in ages.”

“I know, right? Your face was already starting to fade from my memory.”

“You’re both unhurt, I hope?”

“None at all.”

Dongja waved her hand as if to swat away the thought.

The three talked of all that had happened since—the conditions at the school, the kinds of creatures they had faced, how dire the situation was, and how they managed to endure. As their chatter lengthened, Gilsang and Seongim joined them as well.

Seeing them all gathered around, Hoeun smiled faintly. He found genuine joy in being among them like this. It was not because they were Jeogudae or held rank; no, it was because he belonged to some group that was not family, because there were people who sought him out even when he did not approach first, who in turn asked after him and spoke with him without awkwardness.

Of course, eight or nine parts of their kindness toward him likely stemmed from the fact that he was Taemuk’s second—but that too was part of him, and he refused to diminish the warmth of the present moment because of it.

As they chatted softly between themselves, a cook approached, handing out rice balls one by one. Dongja, Mansu, Gilsang, and Seongim each accepted them barehanded, while Hoeun, as always, received his atop a folded handkerchief.

Everyone was hungry; they tucked eagerly into their food, biting noisily into the rice balls. Hoeun alone sat gazing at his round portion in silence.

“……”

It was the first rice ball he’d seen since that day—the day he had eaten them until he vomited. The memory was still vivid, and somehow his throat felt dry. He swallowed hard.

It wasn’t that he could not eat, but he worried it might upset his stomach again—and if that made him sick, Taemuk would surely be angry. Perhaps he should simply excuse himself, claiming his stomach unwell… just as he hesitated, a woman approached.

“Please, have some of this as well.”

She was a middle-aged refugee, and she set down a wooden dish filled high with assorted pancakes—soybean paste, leek, and mung-bean jeon, each glistening with fresh oil. Mansu’s mouth fell open in wonder.

“Where did this come from?”

“Our people of Ramjae-eup made them together,” she replied. “You saved even our lives—this is all we have to give, and it feels shamefully little.”

With a bow, she carried her basket onward to serve other soldiers of Jeogudae. The men, who had been chewing their dry rice balls without joy, cried out in delight when they saw the pancakes.

“……”

Watching them, Hoeun’s lips curved softly. How beautiful it was—the grateful ones offering what little they could, and the rescuers receiving it with gladness.

Just then, Gilsang held out a dish of pancakes toward him.

“Young master, eat while it’s still warm.”

“Ah, yes.”

Hoeun accepted it absently.

“……”

“……”

But even as he did so, he felt the eyes of Dongja and Mansu upon him. Though their mouths were full of rice, they stared at the pancakes as though starved beasts, eyes gleaming. Hoeun naturally extended the dish toward them.

“Please, go ahead.”

“In that case, sure!”

Dongja and Mansu each grabbed pieces with their bare hands. Hoeun then passed the dish to Gilsang and Seongim. They gestured for him to eat first, but he held the plate steadily until they too took some. When everyone had had two pieces each, only one mung-bean and one soybean pancake remained.

“……”

Setting the lightened plate on his knees, Hoeun simply looked at it, not eating.

And indeed—it was because he had no chopsticks. The others were eating without a thought, picking food up with their fingers, but he hesitated. He had not yet grown used to dining without a table, and now without utensils… it was, of course, awkward.

Still, thinking of it as something like rice balls might make it easier—yes, this wasn’t a pancake, it was just another rice ball, he told himself, coaxing courage.

“Why aren’t you eating, sir?” asked Gilsang. Then, before Hoeun could even answer, he exclaimed, “Ah, chopsticks!” and sprang up.

“Oh, no, it’s fine,” Hoeun protested, shaking his head quickly. He didn’t want to seem fussy. He didn’t want to appear noble-born. Growing impatient, he picked up a piece with his fingers instead—

“Ah, hot—!”

He had to drop it at once. The freshly fried pancake burned like a coal. Shaking his hand in the air, he saw Gilsang chuckle quietly and go fetch him chopsticks. Hoeun, flushed with embarrassment, accepted them.

“My apologies…”

“No apologies needed, sir.”

Using neat, practiced motions, Hoeun broke off a small piece. He blew on it gently and placed it in his mouth. Of course it was delicious—how could a freshly fried pancake not be? Crisp on the outside, soft within, the oil-rich batter melted with savory depth. The soybean paste one was especially chewy and satisfying.

As he chewed slowly, gazing at his companions, he noticed: Dongja, Mansu, Gilsang, even Seongim—every one of them was eating with their bare hands, tearing into the steaming pancakes as though ripping into meat.

“……”

Hoeun stared, unthinking, not from judgment but awe: not at the impropriety, but at how casually they held such scalding food. Then, suddenly, an image of Taemuk flashed in his mind—of him splitting freshly boiled potatoes with bare fingers.

“How is it that you and the General can bear such heat? Is it something one can learn through training?” asked Hoeun innocently.

“What’s there to learn? Hot food’s best eaten hot, that’s all.”

Dongja answered, as though he had asked something absurd. And she took another steaming leek pancake, biting deep. Uncut strands of leek trailed from her lips, and she slurped them up like noodles.

“……”

Hoeun blinked slowly. So, did they endure the heat, or did they simply not feel it? Still uncertain, he stared at her until Mansu, still munching his rice ball, turned the question on him instead.

“But our Captain handled hot stuff? Did he pick up a burning coal to throw at a creature or something?”

“No. This morning, he cut a potato for me. It was steaming, and he did it with his bare hands.”

Hoeun put his chopsticks down and mimed splitting a potato in the air. Dongja tilted her head.

“Why’d the Captain cut a potato for you?”

“Well… because it was hot?”

“Huh?”

“I can’t handle hot things very well…”

“So, the Captain split it open just for you to eat?”

“Yes.”

Hoeun nodded eagerly, as if that explained everything. Dongja and Mansu exchanged glances and burst into stifled laughter, snickering under their breath. Gilsang and Seongim quietly met eyes, then continued eating as if nothing had passed. The reaction was strange enough that Hoeun tilted his head, puzzled.

“Why are you laughing? Is there some story between the General and potatoes?”

General and potatoes—it hardly seemed a meaningful pair, but then again, who knew? He hadn’t been born a general, after all; perhaps he’d once owned vast potato fields, or perhaps it was simply his favorite food.

But Dongja shook her head.

“No story. It’s just that we figured our Captain’s truly found his Second.”

“It’s strange, that’s all. Strange in a good way.” added Mansu.

Yet Hoeun still could not understand.

“What is so strange?”

Instead of answering, the two exchanged another glance, then shuffled closer, sweeping aside the piles of fallen leaves between with the backs of their hands. Their eyes gleamed with mischief and excitement, as if eager to reveal some secret.

As ever, Dongja spoke first.

“Yesterday—it was when the western shelter collapsed. The Captain brought the people here from the town, to the hospital where Mansu and I were.”

Then Mansu continued the thread.

“But the moment he arrived, a message came through—a flare: that the hospital had been overrun by juvenile ones. The cannon exploded, the building collapsed, contact with Oh Gilsang was lost, and then…”

Dongja took the words in turn once more.

“You were reported missing.”

“Missing.”

“Yeah, missing,” she repeated, correcting herself after Mansu gently amended her phrasing.

By then, Hoeun had scooted closer to the edge of the log, fully attentive to their tale.