BW C111

Chapter 111

The blade quivered with a sharp ting—then rebounded outright.

Hoeun received the force back in full and stumbled backward with the sword. The upright blade hurtled toward his brow, poised to cleave his skull instead of the Shikgoe’s.

He froze, petrified—when Taemuk, who had been nearby, caught the blade barehanded.

“G-General!”

Hoeun cried out in a near-shriek. Yet Taemuk, unbothered, pushed the sword down toward the ground. When Hoeun anxiously checked his hand, there was neither cut nor blood. Only then did he realize Taemuk had seized not the edge, but the blunt back of the blade.

Hoeun released a long breath of relief.

“This won’t do.”

Taemuk moved to take the sword away. But Hoeun gripped the hilt with both hands and held firm.

“No. I… I will try again.”

“……”

“Just once more.”

“……”

Taemuk stared at him for a beat, then silently released the sword.

Hoeun stepped carefully toward the Shikgoe—far closer than before. Taemuk’s eyes narrowed. With long strides he overtook Hoeun and planted his foot atop the creature’s snout. Its slack mandibles snapped shut under his boot.

“……”

Standing before the Shikgoe, Hoeun lifted the sword upside-down this time. Aligning the point directly over the center of the creature’s helmet-bone, he drove it down.

Skrrk.

A pitiful sound rang out. The tip did not pierce the bone at all—did not even crack it. It merely scraped away a thin layer of hide stretched taut over the skull.

“……”

Hoeun furrowed his brow, lifted the sword higher, and struck again. And again. But it was all useless. Only grating, ugly squeaks filled the meadow.

“……”

Darkness rimmed Hoeun’s eyes. He had never thought killing a Shikgoe would be easy—yet neither had he imagined it would be this impossible. Men, in their folly, often take for granted that when they act, they will achieve something of note. And Hoeun—who dreamed of becoming someone useful—felt the disappointment cut deeper than most.

Jaw tight, he glanced aside. The creature’s bulky body lay sprawled there. Compared to the skull, the flesh looked softer, perhaps penetrable.

“…If I slice its neck, that should kill it, should it not?”

“Try.”

Taemuk spoke indifferently as he lifted his foot from the creature’s jaw. Hoeun dragged the sword toward the torso. The throat had already been hideously torn, but he could practice cutting lower.

Raising the sword as though wielding an axe, he brought it down with force.

Thunk.

A different sound. The Shikgoe’s hide was thick and tough, ridged with irregular folds. The blade only sank between them, without breaching the flesh.

Hoeun belatedly recalled that even Gilsang had needed three or four strikes to sever a Shikgoe’s neck. And yet he had believed he could do it? Foolish. It would take three or four days of sawing at this rate.

“……”

Hoeun’s grip slackened.

So I really cannot do it? With this feeble body, did I expect too much? Then what now? Must I live like this forever, useless? Hidden behind others, sheltered like a burden?

It may seem noble or special to be protected—but living as one who needs protection is not so glorious.

Those who must be guarded are… weight.

A burden dragging down Taemuk and the Jeokudae soldiers, fraying their nerves, perhaps even costing lives.

When fleeing Ramjae Town, he had insisted he must live—for Taemuk’s sake, for the nation’s sake—but in the end, he could not deny it: he was a burden.

I am Taemuk’s fated companion. Even this frail body could be of use to him. But would it not be better if he could serve as a proper soldier? Then Gilsang—and Seongim—would not have to risk their lives for him one day.

So he had tried. Yet it seemed he truly could not.

The tip of the sword slipped and dropped to the ground. Hoeun fiddled with the hilt, face clouded with gloom.

“Next.”

Taemuk spoke.

“…Sir?”

Hoeun blinked at him, dazed. Taemuk snatched the sword from his hands and thrust something else at him—a bow. Hoeun received it blankly.

“Know how to shoot?”

“Uh… no.”

He shook his head. He had barely held a sword before—there was no world in which he had shot a bow.

“Come here.”

Taemuk summoned him—then stepped behind him instead. He seized Hoeun’s wrists, placing one hand on the bow, the other on the arrow. He straightened his arms, adjusted angles, guiding his posture.

“Hold the center here. Keep the arm with the bow and the arm drawing the string in one straight line. Then pull the string.”

“And aiming…?”

“Look at the arrowhead.”

“Ah—yes, understood.”

Taemuk nocked the arrow for him, then stepped back. The warmth at Hoeun’s back vanished and a chill rushed in. He shrugged his shoulders once, lifted the bow, and gripped bow and string together. He aimed the arrowhead at the Shikgoe’s skull.

The stance was awkward, but Hoeun’s expression was earnest. He wanted to do well. To succeed.

He drew a deep breath—and pulled with all his might.

Yes, he pulled.

He did pull.

Yet the taut string only bent faintly, barely shifting at all. Even as pain bit into his fingertips, the bow did not budge.

“……”

Hoeun clenched his teeth and strained harder. His fingers felt as though they would split open under the pressure. Still, he refused to release the string.

Then, abruptly, the trembling arrow slipped free and fell—with such pitiful weakness that it did not even stick into the ground, simply flopping to the grass.

“……”

Hoeun blinked. Then slowly looked at Taemuk.

“I… believe the bow is broken.”

“Bows break or snap. They don’t ‘malfunction.’”

With that calm remark, Taemuk beheaded his last sliver of hope.

“……”

Hoeun lowered the bow in despair. He had never expected to shoot perfectly—but to not even draw the string? It was abysmally hopeless. He loathed this useless body so deeply he could almost carve his limbs off.

Taemuk approached, grass rustling.

“Give it.”

“……”

Hoeun clutched the bow tighter. He did not want to surrender it. He wanted to try again. But there was truly no point—not even the barest chance—so he could not insist. Slowly, he handed it over, muttering as though to himself:

“You must think I am pathetic, don’t you?”

“……”

“I am good at nothing…”

He expected Taemuk to mock him. To sneer. Yet Taemuk bent to pick up the fallen arrow and asked instead:

“What do you think you’re supposed to do?”

“…Pardon?”

“Who told you to kill Shikgoe? That isn’t your job.”

“But…”

Everyone else did. Everyone but him.

Hoeun had a thousand retorts ready—but swallowed them. He knew, painfully well, that most of his thoughts were just childish complaint. To someone as powerful as Taemuk, they would seem even more so.

No matter how desolate his expression grew, Taemuk toyed idly with the arrow, spinning it between his fingers.

“Why insist on doing what no one ordered you to? If you’ve got this much time, you could at least suck my—”

“Ack!”

Hoeun let out a sudden yelp, his voice echoing emptily across the field. Even the arrow slipped from Taemuk’s hand.

He stared, startled by his own shout. He hadn’t even thought—his body had reacted the moment that vulgar word hit his ears.

“……”

Taemuk looked at him, utterly baffled. Then raised a brow.

“Don’t like that? Then should I suck—”

“Aaah!”

Hoeun shrieked again, this time like a man stabbed with a needle. Taemuk let out a dry laugh. Hoeun darted frantic glances around them. There was no one but the two of them—yet he acted as if the stars and moon themselves might overhear. After inspecting the night sky, the wind, and the trees for witnesses, he scolded Taemuk in a tiny voice:

“Please refrain from such language outside!”

“So it’s fine indoors?”

“No!”

“Then what, fuck, what do you want.”

“Just… a little… dignity… please…”

Hoeun dragged his fingernails across his brow and eyelids in distress, red streaks blooming on his pale face. Taemuk’s brow creased sharply. He strode forward and seized the slender wrist, pulling his hand down.

“You still think I look like someone who has dignity left?”

“……”

Hoeun gazed up at him quietly. Maybe you don’t. But couldn’t you pretend a little? The words burned at the back of his throat—but he swallowed them. No matter what, he could not speak such disrespect to his superior.