BW C126

Chapter 126

The Bullet That Pulls Forward

“Uuugh…”

Hoeun’s gun barrel trembled violently — to the point it looked like it might leap out of his grasp and run off on its own. His teeth clenched so hard they rattled, and soon even his teeth trembled along with his entire body. He stood straight, still — yet his body shook as if an unseen hand gripped and rattled him.

He was so, so unbearably cold.

The long-dragging autumn finally gave way to a true winter. Chilbok had warned him the encampment’s winter was vicious, and Hoeun had mentally prepared — but he had never imagined this.

He now understood what it meant when someone said the cold could make flesh fall from bone.

If he merely stood like this — just half a day, not more — his flesh would likely slough off, leaving only frozen bone. No, perhaps even the bone would shatter.

He could no longer feel his fingers. He couldn’t even tell if he was holding a gun or a twig. His eyes felt crusted in thin frost, vision gritty.

Still, he steadied his mind, held his breath, and pulled the trigger.

Bang!

The shot ripped through the barren plain dotted sparsely with tents. The bullet sliced the cutting wind — and continued onward, never reaching the target. It had sailed past long before.

“……”

Hoeun stared at the target, a thick wooden board painted red. Loosely nailed so it would sway, it wobbled listlessly in the bitter wind.

And yet not a single bullet mark marred it. Dozens of shots, and not one had landed.

He had reached the point where he could hit a target with practice… but with his body shaking like this, all that meant nothing. At this rate, he was just wasting bullets — precious bullets…

He fidgeted with the gun stock, sneaking a glance sideways. Leaning against a stake, arms folded, Taemuk watched him silently. Black eyes calm, impassive.

Hoeun’s shoulders hunched, and he bowed his head.

“…I’m sorry.”

Even as he apologized, he shook violently. The wind snapped his ribbon like a flag in a storm. Watching him, Taemuk spoke flatly:

“Run.”

“…Huh?”

“Run.”

“Oh… Is this a punishment?”

Hoeun lowered the gun. Taemuk gave a small snort — amused at the assumption. If he truly meant to punish someone, running would hardly be his method. Digging something out — or cutting something off — perhaps. Though for someone as fragile as Hoeun, running might count as punishment…

“You need to warm up so you stop shaking.”

“Ah…”

Understanding dawned. Hoeun nodded, shoved the gun into his coat pocket, and began running toward the target.

Only… it was pitiful. Truly pitiful. If someone described a clumsy jog with the word wobbly, it would look like this. Each swing of his limbs sounded like thud-flop, wobble-wobble in spirit.

Taemuk exhaled a deep, drawn-out sigh.

“Ha…”

The sigh stabbed Hoeun right in the ears. He stopped mid-stride and dared to glare.

Why him? Why was Taemuk sighing?

Hoeun was only this stiff because of Taemuk.

Earlier, as Hoeun was leaving for training, Taemuk had stared at his clothes and gone, “You’re going like that?”

So Hoeun put on a coat. Then Taemuk frowned and said, “That’s it?” So Hoeun put on another layer. Then came, “Your head? Your feet?” and on and on. In the end, Taemuk personally rummaged through Hoeun’s belongings and put every wearable thing on him.

Thus this absurd puffball tragedy was born. If he tripped now, he’d roll all the way to Hanyang like a snowball. Not even Shikgoe teeth would penetrate this padding.

Hoeun glared with all the injustice he could muster. Taemuk clicked his tongue and crooked a finger.

“Come here.”

Hoeun flinched. Oh no — punishment after all? He wilted and shuffled over like a scolded kitten. As soon as he came close — a big arm wrapped him and lifted him half-off the ground.

“Uh—”

Taemuk turned half a step, shielding Hoeun from the wind. The world went quiet. No soldiers walking by, no bitter wind — just the secluded warmth of Taemuk’s chest.

“General…?”

Hoeun blinked. Taemuk cupped his cheeks in his warm palms — lifting his face.

Peck.

A kiss — sudden and soft.

Hoeun jerked back in shock.

“W-What are you—”

Before he finished, Taemuk’s mouth was on his again, tongue sliding in — hot, thick, greedy. Hoeun tensed, neck shrinking, but Taemuk didn’t care; he chased his tongue, tangled it, sucked it, devoured it.

The root of Hoeun’s tongue tingled and his heels jolted. Then Taemuk sucked his lips hard and withdrew.

“Haa… haa…”

Hoeun’s breath fogged the air white. Thicker than before. Taemuk smirked, satisfied.

“Warm now?”

“…Ha…”

A helpless laugh escaped him. Taemuk turned him again and gently nudged him toward the range.

“Shoot again.”

Hoeun scowled faintly, lips tight. Then — deep breaths, focus — he lifted the gun. The barrel did not shake.

…So this really worked.

Hoeun blinked. For all his teasing and shameless antics, Taemuk’s methods always had meaning. He truly was a master.

He glanced once more at Taemuk — then fixed his gaze on the swaying target. Breath held. Body leaned forward. Arms locked. Core tight. The moment the target slipped perfectly between the sights—

Bang!

Crack!

The wood split. Red paint splintered.

He hit it.

His face lit like dawn.

“I hit it! I hit it!”

He waved enthusiastically, practically bouncing. Taemuk gave a curt nod — saw it.

“General!”

Hoeun sprinted toward him. Why? To brag? To share joy? Whatever the reason — he ran smiling, and Taemuk simply smirked and ruffled his hair, smoothing the ribbon down.

Hoeun closed his eyes, basking. Taemuk’s hand was nothing like his parents’. Warmth rippled through him — winter outside, spring in his chest.

Then something cold brushed his nose. Hoeun blinked up.

Tiny white beads drifted from the sky — snow.

“Oh… It’s snowing.”

“Yeah. Snow.”

Taemuk was not looking at the sky — but at Hoeun.

Hoeun stared upward, unblinking. Snow settled on his cheeks and melted instantly. Taemuk wiped the droplets from his eyelashes with his thumb.

“Do you like snow?”

He expected a bright, “Yes!” Snow suited Hoeun — quiet, soft, white.

But Hoeun shook his head.

“Not really.”

“…That’s rare.”

“Yes. Rare indeed.”

Hoeun didn’t explain. He could have said, It’s cold. It’s wet. But instead he just smiled faintly. Taemuk did not pry.

“I don’t like it much either.”

A low shared truth.

Both stared at the falling snow in silence — their expressions strangely tender, damp with a quiet warmth beneath the frost.