BW C119

Chapter 119

“Like tearing off a Shikgoe’s head.”

As he spoke, Taemuk—needlessly courteous in this instance—brought both hands together and then jerked them apart, miming the motion of ripping something free.

“…….”

Hoeun could only open and close his mouth like a fish, momentarily robbed of reply. Taemuk, as though he had expected no other reaction, knit his brows.

“And then you’d start going on again about how precious human life is, how we must spare them, how mercy is a virtue—being a nuisance.”

“Ah……”

Hoeun exhaled softly. He had no rebuttal. Even he knew he would have done exactly that. Those men did look wicked enough at first glance, but whether they deserved to have their heads torn off like Shikgoe… surely one should first observe a little more.

“Mm…”

He swallowed a troubled sound. How ought one deal with this? He pondered, throat bobbing.

“What are you two whispering about? Talk to us instead.”

The youth intruded upon their hushed exchange. The moment Hoeun’s gaze shifted toward him, the man twirled something looped around his finger—something dark, oily in its gleam. A gun.

Taemuk’s eyelids twitched. When they had collided earlier, the man had fled with only a look. Now, emboldened by a firearm, he dared to puff his chest. It was almost laughable in its pettiness.

“…….”

Hoeun, too, furrowed his brows. A gun? To extort a handful of money?

Pointing a firearm at a human—rather than a Shikgoe—was strictly forbidden by law. And besides, what a waste. Beyond these walls there were soldiers dying because they lacked bullets to fend off the monsters. Yet here this fool was, squandering precious ammunition for petty crime.

Disgust pricked Hoeun, but before he could speak, the men behind the youth took turns jeering, oblivious to the tension.

“Never seen you around. You’re not from here, are you, pretty boy? Traveling?”

“What noble house lets their young lord run around with a soldier as his manservant?”

“Bodyguard and servant both, eh?”

“No, no—didn’t you see them holding hands? That’s a nighttime attendant right there.”

“Is that so? I can do that job too. How much would you pay me, young lord?”

“Hell, for a face like that, I’d pay.”

The last man even fondled himself over his clothes, vulgar laughter breaking among the group.

Hoeun’s features crumpled. Not because of the lewd taunts. But because there was one word that should never have been spoken.

“…Manservant?”

Manservant? Who? Surely they didn’t mean Taemuk? Did they mistake Taemuk for his servant?

Hoeun’s clear eyes hardened, the offense striking deep. Forgetting entirely that guns were pointed their way, he marched forward to stand before Taemuk and bellowed loud enough to rattle the alley.

“You wretches!”

The men froze mid-sneer.

“How dare you! Do you even comprehend who stands before you?!”

His voice rang sharp. Their gazes bounced between him and Taemuk in bewilderment. Ordinarily, phrases like “How dare you” and “Know whom you address” were reserved for admonishing disrespect toward someone noble like Hoeun himself. Yet here he was wielding them for another.

And he had only just begun.

“Kneel, this instant, and beg forgiveness!”

Hoeun thrust a finger at Taemuk’s boots, expression steeled with righteous fury. Though his raised brows and tightly pressed lips looked unfamiliar on his normally gentle face, they were not laughable.

He was truly, deeply furious—not for himself, but for Taemuk.

Taemuk was famous. In truth, the most famed man in the Empire. Yet it was no surprise these men failed to recognize him. Few had seen his face clearly. Newspapers printed the Hero of the Frontier, yes, but grainy black-and-white dots could not convey his real features.

Still—still—surely they should have sensed it. The presence, the weight in the air, the overwhelming force around him. Even Hoeun had known instantly upon first sight. Who could fail to see that Taemuk was no ordinary man?

Unless, of course, their eyes were lodged in their toes, unable to perceive the sheer aura that rolled off him.

Regardless—Taemuk wore the Empire’s uniform. A soldier who defended the nation, who slew Shikgoe and guarded its citizens. To call such a man a servant—unforgivable.

Hoeun stormed forward again, but Taemuk stepped in front of him, blocking his path.

“Why are you like this?”

“They dare insult you! Calling you a servant! We must chastise them! This cannot stand! How dare they—toward you!?”

Hoeun’s eyes reddened with outrage. He was trembling with indignation.

Did they not know? They lived because of Taemuk. Day after day, they owed him their lives. They should be bowing in gratitude, not sneering. To repay sacrifice with scorn—how vile.

Shaking with indignation, Hoeun clenched his small fists and shouted:

“Just tear off their heads!”

Taemuk rubbed the back of his neck.

“Why are you… going that far…”

Hoeun’s fury was so sharp it unsettled him. He opened his mouth to calm him, but in that moment a faint sound scraped across Taemuk’s ear.

His eyelashes bristled. Swiftly, he yanked Hoeun into his arms.

BANG!

The gunshot cracked through the alley, metal ringing off stone. Hoeun felt Taemuk’s shoulder jolt as though struck.

“Oh…”

A low breath escaped him—born of dread. A gun had fired. Something had hit. Taemuk had moved. Panic rising, Hoeun jerked his head up to look at him.

“Are you—”

But before he could finish, the men began muttering among themselves in alarm.

“What the—did it hit?”

“It hit, right?”

“It did. I saw blood spray.”

“So why is he still standing?!”

“Is he a military god?”

“Even so, taking a bullet should make him flinch at least—”

Their whispers slithered through the narrow alley, clear as daylight. And one line carved itself deepest:

“I saw the blood.”

“…No, right?” Hoeun asked quietly.

“……”

Taemuk did not answer. Hoeun’s book bundle slipped from his grasp. He reached behind Taemuk, his palm tracing his broad back. First he felt only the coarse weave of the uniform. Dry. Rough. He nearly relaxed—until warmth and wetness seeped across his skin.

“……”

His breath froze. Slowly, he lifted his hand. Crimson stained his fingers, beads of blood pooling and trailing along his palm’s lines.

“You’ve been shot?”

“Seems like it.”

Taemuk’s tone was indifferent, as though commenting on the weather. Hoeun’s face drained of color.

“H-How— we must— we must treat it at once—”

His heart plummeted to his feet. He had seen Taemuk wounded before, many times, but never by a bullet. Panic stripped him of logic. Compared to being mauled by a Shikgoe, this wound was trivial—but Hoeun could not think.

“Come. Quickly.”

He tugged at Taemuk, trying to drag him toward the inn. But the click of a chamber loading stopped him cold.

“Where you going? Leave the purse.”

“And that pretty silk robe too.”

The men advanced, guns aimed squarely at them.

“……”

Hoeun’s jaw tightened. How to escape? If they had been Shikgoe, he might have had a chance to run. But guns—bullets would pierce his skull before he took two steps. And evidently, Taemuk did not dodge bullets, or he would not have been struck.

Should he just give them the money? Would they leave?

He tightened his grip on Taemuk’s hand—when suddenly:

THUD!

A booming crash thundered behind them. Not a gunshot— the inn’s front gate had slammed open like it had been kicked off its hinges. Someone burst out, stumbling.

“What’s all this? Shik-bugs or somethin’?”

Mansu—one shoe on, hair mussed, clutching a spear.

Then:

“Huh? Shik-bugs? For heaven’s sake, who’s firing guns at night?! I barely lay down!”

Dongja appeared next, hair sticking out like a bird’s nest.

Footnotes

1. Shikgoe (식괴) –. Shik-bugs (식충) – Slang for Shikgoe, used by civilians/soldiers.