BW C113

Chapter 113

After staring at the pistol for some time, Hoeun belatedly noticed that Taemuk was cleaning up all the weapons alone. To make a superior—and his teacher, no less—handle such labor by himself! Alarmed, Hoeun hurried over to help. In truth, all he managed was to find the scabbard half-buried in grass and hand it to him.

When Taemuk had gathered everything, he approached Hoeun and began to reach for his waist. But Hoeun lightly pressed against his shoulder and spoke.

“Perhaps… we could walk for a bit?”

“Walk? Why.”

“Just… as a stroll…”

Hoeun replied slowly. He had not yet calmed his excitement. His heart hammered too violently. If he were to be carried over mountains at that speed in this state, he might very well cough up his own heart. And even if they returned to the tent, he doubted he could sleep right away.

“…A stroll?”

Taemuk knit his brows slightly as if the word were foreign to him. Hoeun, oblivious, nodded lightly.

“Yes. A stroll.”

He had always liked walking. It was the only exercise he could manage through years of illness. Sometimes he walked around his house with Deok-u; when pressed for time, he simply paced the yard. The scenery never changed much, but the seasons shifted just enough that he never tired of it.

And here, everything was new—trees, grass, sky, even the moon itself. Surely there was something to take in.

“……”

Taemuk regarded him quietly, then muttered, “Suit yourself,” and strode across the field.

Hoeun quickly followed. Except keeping up was not simple. Taemuk’s legs were long—almost comically twice his own, perhaps—and his stride vast. Hoeun practically had to trot to stay close.

A stroll ought to be slow, with glances at one’s surroundings and idle conversation—but Taemuk walked straight ahead without so much as a glance sideways. Hoeun thought this hardly qualified as a stroll, but held his tongue.

Soon enough he was panting. He tried to hide it, but could not. Then he stubbed his toe on a stone and lurched forward, instinctively catching Taemuk’s elbow.

“…”

Taemuk stopped abruptly and looked back.

“I—I nearly tripped…”

Hoeun released his arm and offered a sheepish smile. He took the moment to steady his breath and wipe the sweat along his brow. After watching him in silence for a moment, Taemuk resumed walking—

—but slower this time. So slow that his massive frame looked almost lumbering, as if he had never walked at an easy pace before in his life.

Thanks to that adjustment, Hoeun managed not just to follow but soon stand alongside him. And then he realized—Taemuk had slowed down for him.

“…”

A faint smile brushed Hoeun’s lips. Taemuk today was not the Taemuk of yesterday. Yesterday he had been gentle—perhaps prompted by Dongja and Mansu’s words—but today he could feel it. A soft warmth, unmistakable.

Taemuk must be exhausted. They had traveled all day, commanded both Jeokudae and refugees, constantly patrolled, and slain Shikgoe throughout. Yet when Hoeun asked to learn swordsmanship, he brought him here without hesitation.

And though Hoeun knew no weapon, had no strength, and was frail to a fault, Taemuk never once raised his voice. Any other teacher would have scolded, belittled, or trampled him.

He truly was a general—calm, composed, generous, and broad-minded.

“…”

Hoeun padded through the grass, sneaking glances. Something kept drawing his gaze to Taemuk. Perhaps the bluish moonlight cast over him—his features looked unfamiliar, no, newly revealed. Hoeun had known he had a high nose, but this high? The shadow across his face was dark as ink. His eyes sat deep beneath strong brows, and the darkness only made their sharp light more piercing…

Hoeun, caught staring, quickly looked away when Taemuk turned his head. Embarrassed, he spoke at random.

“Um… may I ask something?”

“What.”

“A pistol can be used even by someone weak like me—then why does no one in Jeokudae use one? Most wield swords or spears. Isn’t a gun more convenient?”

“When you fire a gun, do you only need the gun?”

“…Sir?”

Hoeun blinked rapidly. Then realization dawned.

“Bullets…”

Shikgoe had long been called man-hwan—requiring ten thousand shots. To kill them with firearms would demand thousands upon thousands of bullets. Acquiring such ammunition would be difficult, carrying them constant burden, reloading each time a task.

“…”

Hoeun pressed his lips together. Should he then not use a gun either? The weapon he had treasured suddenly felt distant. He reached toward the pistol at his side, but Taemuk spoke cryptically.

“A handful.”

“…Sir?”

“You’ll never fire more than a handful of bullets. So stop thinking ahead and focus on practice.”

“…”

Harsh on the surface, yet not wrong. How many shots would Hoeun ever fire? He was not the vanguard of Jeokudae. He would never save a city, much less a nation alone.

From the start, his goal was only not to be a burden—to be able to carry his share. He would never need more than a handful of rounds.

“Yes. I will.”

Hoeun nodded neatly. Then he moved a little closer to Taemuk—close enough that his jade sleeves brushed the general’s uniform. Taemuk’s brow tightened ever so slightly.

“I have another question.”

Hoeun bubbled on, eyes shining with curiosity.

“What now.”

Taemuk still faced forward, but Hoeun stared only at him.

“With the bow, the sword—how do you know how to wield every weapon? Where did you learn?”

Taemuk’s eyes narrowed, as though recalling something distant—years spent, blood spilled, pain endured. He clicked his tongue silently, then answered in a low voice.

“When you want to live, you’ll learn anything.”

“Sir?”

“I learned on the battlefield.”

“And your teacher?”

“There was no such thing.”

“…”

To gain such ability without a master? True, a war-born talent may be born blessed, but Taemuk was not merely strong—he excelled in everything. And he learned it all alone.

Suddenly Hoeun felt a sacred, almost mythical aura around him, like meeting a hero from an old legend. One day, surely, someone would write a tale with Taemuk as its protagonist.

Hoeun drifted even closer—nearly brushing shoulders now, though he did not notice; every sense was fixed upon him.

“One more question?”

“A lot on your mind today.”

“Yes. Today… I find myself curious about you.”

“…”

Taemuk parted his lips as if to speak, then closed them again. Hoeun, mistaking silence for permission, asked in his clear voice:

“You can use so many weapons—so why do you fight bare-handed? I do not understand. To strike a Shikgoe, you must get close, and that is dangerous. And the blood splashes as well…”

His question was long.

“Troublesome.”

Taemuk’s answer could not have been shorter.

“Troublesome?”

“Carrying weapons.”

“…”

Hoeun froze. Then let out a small, incredulous laugh. To fight with bare hands simply because weapons were a hassle—it was absurd, yet strangely fitting for him.

Still, he wished he’d get less covered in blood. Hoeun could accept Taemuk bleeding if wounded—but Shikgoe blood soaked his clothes too often; it rattled Hoeun each time.

But saying so would no doubt be ignored. It was presumptuous besides. So he no longer questioned, only walked beside him. Taemuk spoke no further either.

“…”

“…”

They walked, soft steps through the grass, as a cold breeze swept past. Yet Hoeun did not feel cold. Whether adrenaline lingered, or simply because Taemuk radiated warmth, he could not tell.

He breathed in the deepened night scent of the forest and thought—about how many bullets his father had packed for him; how to acquire more; how to train from now on.

Walking thus, the field gave way to forest. It was near time to return to the tents. Taemuk halted. Hoeun instinctively stepped in front of him, ready to be lifted—

But Taemuk only clasped his hands behind his back and looked down at him in silence.