BW C136

Chapter 136

Hoeun leaned forward, tilting his upper body as he looked ahead. In the near distance, dozens of soldiers were galloping toward them. Judging by the fluttering crimson banners adorned with cloud patterns, they were part of the Jeokudae as well. It seemed the scouts had returned.

When the Jeokudae vacated the former encampment and set out, they divided into four units.

The first unit—Hoeun’s—was the largest and had no particular duty beyond marching.

The second unit had traveled ahead to survey the route, while the third moved at a slight distance, maintaining a similar pace to shield the first. The fourth brought up the rear, erasing traces of their passage.

The unit approaching now was the second, returning from reconnaissance. Dongja led them, and behind her Hoeun could glimpse Mansu.

They immediately rode to Taemuk’s side and reported their findings, then seamlessly merged into the formation behind him. Fixing his gaze on them, Hoeun murmured,

“It seems there are no Shikgoe ahead.”

“We’re nigh the old camp, sir. We cleared this region already, so the flesh-eaters won’t be crawlin’ round. Should be a few days o’ peace.”

Gilsang replied, smiling faintly.

“Is that so.”

Relief softened Hoeun’s expression. So exterminating Shikgoe again and again bore such dividends—who would have thought?

He continued to chat idly with Ilsang, only to wince as the wind bit at them once more. Narrowing his eyes, he gazed forward.

The vast white plain unfurled endlessly, horizon devouring horizon.

Winter days were short. Though it felt scarcely a moment since they had eaten lunch on horseback, the sun had already slanted low, and night smothered the sky before they could even savor the dusk. The temperature plunged further, and the wind now lashed like claws. It was hard to tell whether it was wind scraping his face or a beast’s talons.

“……”

Hoeun could no longer even groan. He simply squeezed his eyes shut.

When would this tormenting march end? He had overheard whispers—they might travel like this for an entire month. Could he endure this bitter cold that long? The thought stung, pulling his mood down like lead.

Then a command was called from the front. Ten thousand men halted as one. Eyes widening, Hoeun glanced at Ilsang. The latter cracked a small smile and offered the words Hoeun had been longing for.

“Looks like we rest here tonight.”

At that, Hoeun’s face brightened for the first time since they departed.

Soldiers swiftly pitched tents, set watches, and prepared food. They worked with smooth proficiency born of experience; an entire tent-village rose in no time. Although smaller and lighter than the barracks tents at the garrison, these still shielded well against the cutting wind and cold.

Hoeun entered his tent, ate steaming potato broth, and slept in Taemuk’s arms. Thus the first day passed in peace.

The second day continued over the plains. Lunch was once again eaten on horseback. Hoeun nibbled at a rice ball that was half-frozen, half-stale, only for a gust to rip it from his fingers. Ilsang laughed and offered his own, but Hoeun refused—he suspected consuming it would only upset his stomach.

That evening, Mansu offered him liquor. Unlike Dongja, a military god, Mansu was a Guide and thus suffered greatly in the cold; he drank to keep warm, or so he claimed. A few sips would chase the chill away, he said.

Thus, for the first time in his life, Hoeun tasted alcohol. Just three swallows ignited a pleasant warmth in his chest. His mood lifted oddly; he found himself grinning foolishly. Taemuk cursed and smacked Mansu on the back of the head. Mansu clutched his eyes, claiming they were about to pop out, stomping in place. The sight amused Hoeun so much he burst into louder laughter.

On the third day, the plains finally gave way to forest. Though his jaw still chattered, the dense trees shielded the wind enough to make life somewhat bearable.

But ironically, heat began to bloom beneath Hoeun’s skin. His throat prickled, and coughs rose in his chest—sure signs of a cold.

That night, when Taemuk felt Hoeun’s feverish brow, he cursed under his breath and summoned “the old man.”

Upon examining him, the physician warned grimly: Hoeun’s body was so frail that if his fever worsened out here, he might die—or suffer permanent brain damage. He insisted warmth was vital: keep him hot, feed him hot foods, make him sweat.

So Hoeun drank scalding medicinals until his belly sloshed, slept swaddled by braziers, and clung to Taemuk’s heat like a child to a hearth.

The fourth day arrived. The cold remained cruel, the forest deepened, and Hoeun still languished feverish.

Unable to find level ground for tents amid the thick trees, the Jeokudae huddled together to sleep beneath the boughs. Remembering the bamboo grove from before, they made shift camp. Yet Dongja, Mansu, and a few soldiers felled trees to clear a space and set up a single tent—then Taemuk ordered Hoeun inside with him, despite Hoeun’s flustered protests.

Nestled within the warm tent and warmer embrace, Hoeun closed his eyes, vowing to recover by morning and not be a burden.

On the fifth day, Hoeun awoke to a swaying tent. A tent… moving? Earthquake? Shikgoe attack? His heart dropped. Panicked, he flung aside the flap—

The tent was moving.

Or rather, the tent had been loaded onto a wagon and was being hauled along.

When Hoeun, fever-stricken, could not rise at departure, they had simply loaded the entire tent onto a cart. Hoeun’s horse pulled it; the supplies that once filled the wagon were now borne by the soldiers themselves.

Horrified, Hoeun tried to leap out, but Ilsang stopped him, saying it was Taemuk’s order. Thus he could only remain trapped in the tent.

At noon, while all others ate frozen rice balls on horseback, Hoeun alone was served steaming porridge and medicine. He wanted to say he was fine, but the fever fogged his mind; he could not refuse clearly.

Yet his shame was painfully clear.

Crumpled inside the tent, he wept in small, stifled sobs, berating himself for being worthless. That night his fever spiked again, and Taemuk scolded him harshly.

Taemuk threatened to gouge his eyes out if he cried again, yet still held him tightly the whole night.

The sixth and seventh days vanished from his memory entirely. The fever—cold or fever sickness, who could say—only worsened. Hoeun spent most of his time unconscious, hauled like luggage in the wagon.

When he did surface, he saw the swaying ceiling of the tent. At other times, Taemuk’s bare chest as he clasped Hoeun to him, then the ceiling once more.

He thought, I must get up. I must not be a burden. He forced his eyes open, but only for instants before consciousness slipped again.

Sometimes, when he awoke, he met Taemuk’s gaze. Then Taemuk did not scold. He merely checked Hoeun’s fever, held him closer, stroked his flushed cheek, murmuring:

“You have to eat before you sleep.”

“Told you not to get sick. Typical noble brat—never listens.”

“Do you even know who I am?”

And Hoeun would whisper, “General… my military god…” before falling asleep once more, thinking he heard a faint chuckle.

Then came the eighth day—or ninth. Perhaps longer still.

“……”

Hoeun awoke to violent shaking. His throat was raw, his vision blurred; he longed to sleep again, but the jarring motion made rest impossible.

The wagon rattled so fiercely the wood creaked and warped. Wheels lurched—thud, jolt—the floor bucked, and Hoeun’s head bobbed violently.

Sensing danger, Hoeun forced himself upright. The interior came into focus:

The tent was only large enough for his body. A brazier, nailed to the floor to keep it from toppling, sat to one side—its coals, fortunately cold, had already scattered from the shaking. Blankets and furs lay tumbled. His shoes were overturned nearby.

He gathered himself and first retrieved his shoes. He slipped on the right, then reached for the left—

The wagon heaved again.

“Urk—!”

His hips lifted off the ground. Clutching frantically at the boards, Hoeun tried to steady himself, but his frail body could not bear the shock. He rolled sideways and struck the wall with a heavy thud.

 

Hoeun really said: “I fear cold, I fear wind, and apparently I fear rice balls too.” Taemuk acting like a whole tsundere heating pad with anger issues but also carrying an ENTIRE TENT for his man is crazy romantic actually. Dude literally said: cry again and I’ll gouge your eyes out… also here’s my chest as pillow, stay warm. Peak contradiction king lol.