BW C120

Chapter 120

Unlike Mansu, who at least had one shoe on, she was entirely barefoot. She had even forgotten her spear, fists clenched tight instead.

At their arrival, Hoeun’s lower lip trembled violently and he called out to them.

“Nunim(Noona)… Hyungnim…”

The fierce lift of his eyes collapsed at once. Seeing Dongja and Mansu filled him with relief—and then, like a crashing wave, grief. His cheeks quivered as though he might burst into tears. At that moment, another figure appeared.

“What’s going on? What happened?”

It was Gilsang. Unlike the other two, he was properly uniformed, his sword sheathed at his side.

With three allies present, Hoeun felt as though ten thousand troops had come to his aid. It was like seeing his parents, his elder brothers, and even Deoku rushing in to protect him in his darkest hour.

Nose reddened, breath shuddering with righteous indignation, he shouted to them:

“They shot the General! A-and they spoke ill of him! Punish them!”

“Huh? Shot?”

Dongja blinked owlishly, baffled. Not the reaction Hoeun expected. She did not seem troubled that Taemuk had been shot.

“Where? Looks just fine to me.”

Mansu too appeared unconcerned, head cocked as he regarded Taemuk—who indeed stood straight, unshaken, utterly unbothered.

“……”

Gilsang only stared silently. Flustered, Hoeun thrust out his palm soaked in Taemuk’s blood.

“L-look! So much blood…”

Yet none of them reacted. Their indifference stunned him into stammering. Then at last, Taemuk pointed with his chin toward the young thugs, then toward Hoeun.

“They tried to take his money. And strip his clothes.”

At first, Hoeun had no idea why Taemuk was changing the topic. But that single sentence transformed the three soldiers’ faces at once.

“What? Whose money? The young lord’s?”

“And the clothes? Those are the clothes I poured all my glorious fashion sense into choosing! They dare take that?”

“They tried to steal the young lord’s money? These scum?”

Deep creases carved into all three brows simultaneously. They turned to the thugs with murder in their eyes. Their ferocity was such that the men faltered backward without meaning to.

Hoeun felt a burst of satisfaction at the reaction he had hoped for, though anxiety followed quickly—they were facing guns.

“Be careful! They have firearms. You might get hurt—”

Before he could finish, Taemuk tugged him sharply.

“Stop fussing and go inside already.”

“But—”

“You think those three die from bullets? They wouldn’t die if a bomb went off in their mouths.”

“Still—”

Even as Taemuk dragged him, Hoeun kept craning backward, heels digging into the ground, reluctant to leave. Dirt scraped behind him like plowed furrows. Taemuk sighed irritably.

“Hah…”

Then he hoisted Hoeun over his shoulder in one swift motion. With his free hand, he scooped up the fallen bundle of books.

“General!”

Hoeun squealed, world flipping. At that instant, something flashed past his eyes—like a hawk. Or perhaps… a bear?

It was Dongja. She leapt high, feet stamping the alley wall as though it were solid earth. Bare soles rasped lightly, surprisingly quiet despite her heavy build—like the scampering of a mouse.

“W-wha—what the—?!”

Panicked, the thugs swung their guns toward her and fired wildly. Bang! Bang! Tat-tat! Bang!

Not one bullet struck her. While their eyes were on Dongja, Gilsang had already arrived in front of them, slicing through their hands—and fingers. With each sweep of his blade, digits scattered like petals.

“AAAAAH!”

“MY HAND—!”

“Gh—AARGH—!”

Screams tore through the alley as blood sprayed in thin arcs. Grown men collapsed, clutching ruined hands. Some scrabbled for severed fingers—only for Mansu to giggle and skewer them with his spear like picking up morsels for a skewer.

“……”

Hoeun stared, slack-jawed. Taemuk adjusted his hold and carried him inside the inn.

Taemuk sat shirtless on a backless stool. Hoeun stood behind him, eyes fixed on his shoulder.

A hole the size of a thumbnail pierced Taemuk’s back, dark inside, blood flowing freely. With every breath, more spurted out, thick and warm.

“……”

Hoeun bit his lower lip and dabbed the blood with a clean cloth, careful not to disturb the wound. Yet no matter how much he wiped, fresh blood welled.

This will not do. He lowered the cloth.

“You should… go to a hospital.”

“No.”

“Is it because you find it troublesome? Well, um… a-ah! The doctor from Ramjae Town is here, in this inn. He is skilled—he will treat you quickly. I-I shall fetch him at once.”

“I said no.”

“But—”

His repeated refusal drove Hoeun nearly mad with frustration. He fidgeted in place, feet stamping anxiously. The hole kept bleeding relentlessly.

How much blood would he spill? Yes, Taemuk healed with time—but why leave a wound untreated? Stitches, medicine, bandages—surely that would speed healing.

Another trickle rolled down Taemuk’s back. Hoeun hurried to wipe it again. Taemuk lifted an arm, feeling at his shoulder.

“What are you doing? Does it hurt?”

“Removing the bullet.”

“R-remove the bullet?”

“Yeah.”

Without warning, Taemuk shoved his fingers into the wound.

“General!”

Hoeun nearly leapt from his skin. Blood, which had slowed, gushed anew. His face, already pale, turned ghost-white.

“Stop! Please!”

He grabbed Taemuk’s wrist, trying to pull him away. Taemuk brushed him off like a fly and continued gouging.

“Need it out to heal.”

“But—but—!”

Hoeun understood the logic. One could not heal around a lodged bullet. But such roughness—surely this was wrong.

Even as Hoeun crumpled in horror, Taemuk kept digging. Still no bullet—his hand could not reach the angle. The shoulder was a nuisance; had it been his chest or thigh, the job would be done by now.

Annoyance flared within him. He could almost imagine sawing his shoulder off, extracting the bullet, then reattaching it.

Finally he gave up and yanked his fingers free. A wet, skin-peeling sound split the silence. Hoeun flinched as though he had felt the hurt himself.

“Try.”

Taemuk turned his back more fully to Hoeun.

“M-me?”

Hoeun squeaked, horrified.

“Just pull it out.”

His tone was that of someone offering an easy task: simple, obvious, surely even you can manage. He hunched slightly, exposing the wound better.

“……”

Hoeun leaned in, trembling. He stared at the torn flesh. It was worse than moments ago. Ragged edges peeled like melted wax, blood pooling and spilling.

“Hah…”

He could not bring himself to touch it. Not from disgust—never that—but for fear of hurting Taemuk further.

He froze. Completely still. Taemuk turned, impatient.

But the sight of Hoeun’s face halted him. Too pale. Too exhausted. Cheeks sunken, breath shallow. One touch might send him fainting with foam at the lips.

Taemuk clicked his tongue. Clearly he had asked too much of a sheltered noble.

With a shake of his head, he said curtly:

“Go get Byeonguk.”

But his words snapped Hoeun back to life. He stared at Taemuk’s bloodied back, the wound, the dripping red.

Then he balled his fists and shook his head firmly.

“No. I—I will do it.”