Chapter 163

Taemuk ran his hands over Hoeun’s body as he pleased—

touching his thin wrists, brushing down his arms, even kneading the small amount of flesh on his thighs.

Meanwhile, Hoeun mulled over everything Taemuk had said.

Eventually, he voiced a question.

“But… if all the units gather every year to fill the record sheets, why haven’t they exchanged information about the shikgoe? Wouldn’t Hanyang also want to collect that kind of data?”

“Record sheets aren’t for analyzing shikgoe.”

“Then what are they for?”

“Receipts.”

“…Pardon? Receipts?”

“Money.”

Hoeun tilted his head, unable to understand.

Taemuk adjusted his hold on him and added:

“It’s for the higher-ups to verify how much these worms have spent, and whether the money spent was justified.”

“Worms? What… does that mean…?”

“Everything soldiers eat, wear, sleep on—costs money.

So they check whether the troops killed enough shikgoe to be worth what they spent.”

“……”

Hoeun’s eyes rolled left… then right.

Then suddenly, his expression crumpled completely.

“For… for such a trivial reason, they summon the soldiers to Hanyang every single year? Many must die or be injured just traveling there and back!”

His righteous, painfully upright tone made Taemuk let out a low laugh.

Then he leaned back deeply in the chair, exhaling.

“You go if you want money. Can’t starve to death.”

“……”

“The people on top don’t care about shikgoe. It’s not their problem—

they live safely while it’s the commoners and the lowborn who die in the field.”

“……”

“What’s cheaper and more worthless to a noble than a lowborn’s life?

Yet every year we ask for provisions, military funds—ask for money. So of course they hate it.

That’s why they call us in—to check if we actually used the money right.”

“……”

Hoeun held his breath.

All who die in the battlefield are commoners or lowborn.

He hated how true it was.

He hadn’t been on the battlefield long, but even during the attack at Inyeonje, he was the only noble among them.

Yes, perhaps nobles were afraid.

Yes, perhaps it was only natural to avoid danger.

But even so…

They should at least feel grateful for those who fought in their place.

How could they… be this shameless?

Hoeun’s face darkened.

Even his long lashes sagged weakly downward.

A large hand grabbed his chin and lifted it.

Their eyes met.

“Why the face. Did you do that?”

“……”

Hoeun couldn’t answer.

Because—could he honestly say he hadn’t been the same?

Before awakening as an Guide, he had never once deeply considered shikgoe or war.

His life had simply been… useless.

A straight line between home and hospital.

Guilt washed over him.

He exhaled—

Then suddenly sucked in a sharp breath.

“Did… did you say earlier that it was the end of the year?”

One of Taemuk’s brows twitched upward; he nodded carelessly.

“Yeah. We go every year at the end of the year to fill the sheets.”

It wasn’t even a dramatic sentence, but Hoeun went pale.

“I-It’s… already the end of the year?”

“Mm.”

“How… already…”

He muttered as though to himself, staring blankly at empty space.

His expression was a strange mixture of confusion and sadness.

Taemuk frowned slightly, not knowing the cause.

Later, in the main room, Hoeun sat drying his hair with a cloth—

but halfway through, his arms fell limp.

Even after washing with warm water, he felt no better.

Something heavy pressed against his chest, tight and suffocating.

He rubbed his sternum as if trying to soothe it,

then finally crawled to the door and slid it open with a thud.

Cold air rushed in sharply.

His thin sleepwear made it feel even chillier.

Yet Hoeun neither flinched nor closed the door.

He simply stared outside.

Snow was falling in thick, silent flakes.

The little yard had already accumulated a deep blanket of white.

The low wall, the unused jars, the abandoned garden bed—

all buried under snow.

They looked… like graves.

“It’s snowing again…”

He whispered.

He saw snow here every day—yet today it felt newly strange.

Was it snowing in Hanyang too?

Was it as cold as this?

He hoped… not.

He sighed.

Even indoors, white breath escaped his lips—

yet he didn’t close the door.

He wasn’t sure how long he stayed like that.

His cheeks, then fingertips, grew painfully cold.

Then someone tugged the cloth from his hand.

“It’s cold. Why is the door open.”

Taemuk—bare-chested beneath a robe.

“Ah… my chest felt a little tight. I’ll close it soon.”

Hoeun forced a smile.

Taemuk said nothing—

just looked at him, then removed his robe and draped it over Hoeun’s shoulders.

He sat beside him and began pressing the towel against his damp hair.

“I-I can do it myself.”

Hoeun tried to refuse.

Touching, holding, kissing—those were part of the military bond between a Military god  and a Guide.

But this was different.

This was serving him—

and he couldn’t let a general do that.

“It’s fine.”

Taemuk dismissed him in his usual flat tone and continued drying him.

Drops of water fell from Taemuk’s own hair, yet he didn’t care.

Hoeun looked uncomfortable, fidgeting—

“I heard nobles don’t cut their hair since it’s given by their parents.”

Taemuk said suddenly.

Hoeun flinched.

Whenever Taemuk said “noble,” Hoeun felt uneasy.

“…Not all, actually. Some young scholars cut theirs. And…”

He hesitated briefly, then continued.

“It’s not just nobles who value their hair. Many in Jeokudae don’t cut theirs either.

Filial piety belongs to all classes, doesn’t it?”

Taemuk snorted faintly.

Hoeun glanced at him—

and realized only now that Taemuk’s hair was short.

“T-That doesn’t mean you don’t value your body! Your parents also gave you—”

Hoeun abruptly chose silence.

Saying more felt dangerous.

Taemuk had never spoken of his parents.

Hoeun never asked.

In this world, most people didn’t have living parents.

Taemuk likely…

The thought made him sigh again.

“…I’m sorry.”

He apologized quietly.

“For what.”

Taemuk continued drying his hair as if nothing had happened.

He even pulled the brazier closer so Hoeun would feel warmer.

Silence settled.

The fire crackled softly.

Wind rattled the paper door now and then.

Snow slid from the roof with a soft paas-seuk sound.

Hoeun hugged his knees and rested his chin on them,

breathing out through his nose.

His eyelashes drooped heavily with sadness—weighted like eaves.

Taemuk flipped the towel and finally asked:

“Why’s your mood bad.”

“It isn’t.”

Hoeun answered instantly.

“……”

Taemuk tilted his head, staring at him.

His expression said: Don’t bullshit me.

Hoeun gave an awkward smile.

Taemuk clearly wasn’t letting the lie pass.

After a moment’s hesitation, Hoeun spoke softly.

“Do you remember… I once said I didn’t like snow?”

“Yeah.”

“The reason is…”

He swallowed.

“…It’s because of my eldest brother.

Or perhaps because of my parents.”

“Brother?”

Taemuk paused.

It was a new name—Hoeun had never mentioned a brother before.

“Yes. I have three older brothers.

And my eldest… was a Military god .

A powerful one, like you.”

“……”

Taemuk frowned faintly.

There were few noble Military god —almost none.

He wondered if Hoeun was mistaken.

Sensing his doubt, Hoeun gave a faint, sad smile.

“You wouldn’t know him.

He passed away long ago.

Ten years ago, around this same time—

on a snowy day like this.”