BW C13

Chapter 13

Gilsang eased Hoeun into the column, and Hoeun, awkward in the saddle, slipped in among them.

At first, the unfamiliar riding drenched him in cold sweat—he mustn’t lag, and he mustn’t surge ahead, but he didn’t know how to set the pace, so he stole glances and learned by watching others.

Fortunately, the clever horse adjusted its speed on its own, and all Hoeun had to do was sit.

By the time he grew a little used to riding, the dimming sun had vanished and night had fallen; if they traveled through the night, they would leave the capital by dawn.

Hoeun studied the surroundings carefully; still within the capital, the streets felt foreign, as if he’d come abroad—he only knew the road to the hospital.

He quietly took in the new roads, new buildings, new people—and those being watched also watched him, or rather, watched the Jeokudae formation he rode with.

People greeted them warmly; now and then he heard “stay strong” and “thank you,” children giggling as they followed before being caught by their parents, though crowds were thin on a late, quiet night.

“I would have liked to leave in the bright day…” he murmured, rubbing the reins with his thumb.

“What was that?” Gilsang asked from close by, and Hoeun, startled, shook his head.

“It’s nothing,” he said, though his regret lingered; he had wanted to leave when the streets were most crowded—the first scene he’d imagined after becoming a guide.

Himself in uniform, departing in fine form, and the people’s eyes going wide in surprise—not to avenge himself or make them pay, but to show he, too, had use—to the people, to his family, and to himself.

Yet here was a departure so quiet, a sad one leaving his parents’ tears behind, and his own Military God, Taemuk, nowhere to be seen.

As he sighed, bright lights approached from far off—military trucks, a dozen or more, throwing sand as they roared by Jeokudae; all slowed lest the horses startle at the harsh engines.

“Why doesn’t Jeokudae use trucks?” he asked Gilsang, for though cars were costly, the state spared no support for soldiers—especially Jeokudae, who could surely draw hundreds of vehicles.

“Where we’re going, there aren’t roads,” Gilsang said.

“No roads?”

“Not like these paved ones; even dirt tracks are rare, and sometimes we leave the horses and go on foot.”

“Ah…” Hoeun nodded, understanding at last; there would be no laid-out roads on a battlefield—he felt foolish for the ignorant question.

“Then are we heading where there are no roads now?” he asked.

“To Jeokudae’s encampment,” Gilsang replied.

“And where is that?” he ventured—Jeolla, Hamgyeong, farther still, mountains, plains, the seashore—but Gilsang fell silent, then said, troubled, “I can’t say.”

After a brief stillness, Hoeun sighed; his grip on the reins loosened, and Gilsang spoke quickly, “You’ll know soon enough—don’t take it hard—”

“It’s all right,” Hoeun said; he was not yet of Jeokudae—no uniform, no cape; in fact, a new uniform lay among his baggage, but with no rank given and no formal induction, it didn’t feel his to wear.

He had chosen the darkest cheollik(military robe) he owned, yet amid uniforms he alone wore silk—a jarring sight outside and in, standing inside the unit yet feeling alone.

Most of that hollow loneliness was that Taemuk wasn’t there; uneasy as facing him was, he was still his Military God—and seeing others paired off, he wondered why only they… or if something had happened overnight.

“The General isn’t here,” he said, scanning ahead and behind; “He left early,” Gilsang answered, eyes forward.

“He went ahead?” “Said he’d clear the way.”

Hoeun blinked fast—gone ahead—but everyone he’d seen at the restaurant sat in the main formation; he remembered faces well.

“Alone?” “Yes.” “Is that all right?” “Should be—seems he’s brimming over.”

“Brimming…?” Hoeun echoed, and Gilsang glanced over, “He’s met his guide—that first feeling, like your body might burst from power.”

“Good days have come for our Captain,” Gilsang said, smiling genuinely, and Hoeun repeated softly, “Good days…”

At first light, Jeokudae left the capital; Hoeun had imagined monsters rushing them at once, screams, blood underfoot—yet it was peaceful to the point of stillness.

Trees rose dense, the road was level if not like in the city, and with even birds silent, it felt more peaceful than within the walls.

Jeokudae didn’t seem tense—wide yawns, low conversations, joking jostles—so Hoeun loosened his white-knuckled hold on the reins and drew in the forest scent.

“Hoo…” And then, the hushed fatigue began to lift its head; days of fever, becoming a guide, the ceremony, a sleepless night, and now riding through the night—how could he not be tired.

“How much farther?” he asked; “Ten days,” Gilsang said, and Hoeun paled, then thought, yes, perhaps—the country had grown vast.

Monsters had long been called Manhwan—ten thousand afflictions—their numbers great, growing by the day, until humans could no longer hold them back; soldiers died, people were eaten, states fell like autumn leaves without their people.

At some point, all neighbors collapsed and only the Daehan Empire remained—thanks to many strong Military Gods arising on the peninsula: like his eldest brother, and Taemuk.

Thus the empire’s land stretched from one sea’s beginning to another—not a boon, since there were more people and territory to protect.

So Jeokudae rode for ten full days to reach their destination—and so they must have come to the capital as well; now he knew why Taemuk had only arrived by night for the ceremony.

He had ridden those long days to meet him—only to do such cruel things… Hoeun shook his head, and the weight of a ten-day ride settled on him—would he still be alive after it.

Then he noticed something odd: “The forest…”—too quiet, as if uninhabited; no people, no animals, no birdsong at dawn in a thicket of trees.

He remembered a newspaper report and said quickly, “Isn’t it dangerous to follow the road?”—monsters ambushing travelers and wreaking great harm.

Gilsang nodded that such things happened, though he didn’t seem concerned; “Is there a reason to take this way?” Hoeun asked.

“Jeokudae doesn’t avoid the eaters,” he said, and Hoeun understood: other units guarded emperors, forts, farms, people; Jeokudae exterminated—eradication and subjugation, not mere defense.

It wasn’t easy—they would face more monsters than anyone; the risk was great, and yet they carried on as if it were nothing—an impressive unit, even admirable.

But Hoeun’s worry only grew; his life’s thread felt thinner than ever, and these soldiers might be used to monsters, but he had only just learned to truly hold the reins.

As he watched tensely, a black shape appeared—“Eek…”—his narrow shoulders jumped; it was a monster.