BW C137

Chapter 137

“Ahh….”

Hoeun clutched his throbbing shoulder and groaned. Yet he had no time to dwell on the ache before the wagon lurched again—this time hurling his upper body upright. He blinked foolishly, jaw clenched, and hurried to finish putting on his shoes. Then, crawling awkwardly, he began inching toward the tent flap.

However, the entrance refused to draw nearer. Though it was no more than three or four steps away, the violent shaking sent him sliding backward, sideways, tumbling over the planks again and again.

Only after rolling across the floor multiple times did Hoeun manage to reach the entrance. He flung the flap aside—and was immediately seared by a piercing wash of white light.

“Ah….”

He squinted, wincing. The brilliance rivaled the fiercest midsummer sun—sharp enough to burn his face. For a fleeting moment he wondered if winter had passed while he was ill and summer had already arrived.

The thought vanished when a brutal gust of cold slammed into him. The wind was so fierce that his ribbon-tied hair streamed outward with the tent flap, and his ears fluttered like ragged pennants.

“Ugh….”

He shook his head, fighting both wind and light. When his eyes finally adjusted, the first thing he saw was the endless blue sky, thin clouds stretched like silk across it.

Beneath that sky rode Gilsang. He was kicking his horse’s sides relentlessly, urging it faster. Another soldier rode behind him—his thigh so deeply gouged the bone nearly showed, flesh flapping like torn cloth. The rushing wind scattered droplets of his blood like dark snow.

“…Sergeant?”

Hoeun called blankly. But Gilsang did not hear him; hundreds of horses thundered at once, hooves shaking the earth, and rough shouts—hee-yah, yah!—rang out all around. Countless troops of the Jeokudae rode with flapping cloaks, two to each horse.

“What… is this…”

Hoeun could only stare, overwhelmed. For days of marching, the Jeokudae had never galloped—save for scouts ahead or the rearguard. The numbers, the supplies, and those on foot had always made running impossible. Yet now they were charging at full speed—

KIEEEEEEHHH!

A monstrous shriek answered his thoughts.

“….”

Hoeun, frozen, slowly turned toward the sound. Behind the galloping cavalry surged a churning mass of Shikgoe.

A vast horde.

The world was white with snow and ice—except there, where black bodies swarmed like a living avalanche pouring off a mountain. They tore through the snow shrieking, claws flashing, kicking up clouds of frozen dust.

Why here? How? What—

The wagon jolted hard again, one wheel lifting off the ground so violently it nearly tipped over.

“Ugh…!”

Hoeun clung to the tent cloth, knuckles white, veins raised along his pale hand. Then—

“Young master!”

Gilsang’s voice cut through the chaos. Hoeun snapped toward him.

“Your horse! Can you mount!?”

“…What?”

“Your horse! Ride!”

He jerked his chin forward. Hoeun looked—and saw it. The horse pulling the wagon was his own. Riderless, yet sprinting as though it knew who lay within the wagon, as though it knew what hunted behind.

“….”

He looked from the horse, to the soldiers racing ahead, to the ravenous Shikgoe fast approaching.

Normally, Hoeun marched in the forward half—close enough to see Taemuk’s back but never the army’s tail. Yet now, those behind him had surged ahead. Only he and Gilsang lagged at the very rear. Because of the wagon—too heavy to allow speed.

He finally understood why Gilsang urged him to mount. He had to abandon the wagon. Only then could the horse flee fast enough to escape.

“I-I will ride.”

Hoeun forced himself upright—or tried. On a wagon bouncing at full sprint, rising was akin to standing on a storm-tossed ship. He teetered left, right, nearly thrown backward by each shove of the wind.

“Nngh…”

Yet he refused to fall. Gritting his teeth, he clutched the wagon’s edge and dragged himself forward inch by trembling inch.

At last, he reached the front. The wind was harsher here, ripping every strand of hair backward, crushing his eyes, clogging his nostrils until he could hardly breathe. Worse, shards of ice kicked up by galloping hooves struck his face—sharp as glass.

“Haa…”

He shook his head as though swimming through a river. Bracing on the wooden rim, he waited for the blinding flurry to ease, then opened his eyes again. Now he only had to leap to the horse—

“…Oh.”

His voice faltered.

The wagon was a box without a top. Long wooden shafts extended to either side, linking it loosely to the horse’s harness. There was a broad gap—six hand-spans at least—between wagon and horse.

To mount, he would have to jump across that void.

“….”

He understood immediately.

Impossible. His fear was irrelevant—his strength simply did not exist. Standing was already a battle; to leap from wagon to horse, in freezing wind, fever-weakened, with no foothold—

No human could manage it, least of all him.

He wavered back instinctively—fear tightening his chest. Gilsang shouted again.

“I’ll push you! You can do it!”

“But—”

“You must! Or they’ll catch us!”

Hoeun looked back.

In that brief hesitation, the Shikgoe had closed in. The last of the rear guard had already passed him. It was now only Hoeun and Gilsang at the very tail.

Gilsang pulled alongside; he was so close Hoeun could have touched him. His eyes were firm, unyielding.

“You can do it.”

“….”

Hoeun stared at him, then turned toward his horse.

If he did not jump, the Shikgoe would seize him. They would kill him. That alone did not terrify him—but Gilsang did.

If the creatures got him, Gilsang would throw himself into their jaws to save him. And if Gilsang died, another would come, and another. Even if they all fell, they would insist he alone survive.

To protect Taemuk.

‘If I die guarding you, another will come. And another. But you must stay safe. Forever stay by our Commander.’

Gilsang had said that. So Hoeun had to jump. To protect him.

His eyes cleared with fierce resolve.

“Yes. Yes. I’ll do it.”

“Use all your strength. Every bit!”

“Yes!”

He answered immediately, though the wind drowned half of it. Crawling to the wagon’s lip, he peeked down—snow swirling beneath, the wheel spinning like a saw.

If he slipped, he would die horribly. Worse than being caught.

He shook his head hard. Useless thoughts. He inhaled deeply and fixed his gaze only on the horse’s back.

“….”

He rose. Knees shaking, body swaying dangerously with every gust. He clenched his jaw and let go of the wagon.

Gilsang’s steady hand pressed to his back—smaller than Taemuk’s, yet strong, the hand that had saved him countless times.

That touch filled his weak limbs with phantom strength.

I can.

I must.

“Young master! Now!”

“Haaah!”

Hoeun inhaled sharply and threw himself toward the horse. It was barely a jump—more a desperate lunge—but Gilsang pushed him at the exact moment.

For an instant, Hoeun soared like a bird.