BW C201

Chapter 201

Taemuk’s training was, rather than training, nothing more than meaningless movements. A ten-year-old who had learned nothing training alone—how systematic or effective could it be.

However, one good point was that Taemuk could use what he practiced every day in real combat. Whether he wanted to or not, he had to.

With a sword as big as his own body, he cut at a Shikgoe’s arm and was struck on the back of the hand, breaking his ribs. He stabbed a sword into its knee, was kicked, and his neck snapped. Aiming for its palate, he swung his sword and ended up being bitten all the way to his shoulder.

Even so, Taemuk did not stop training. Even after coming back from the battlefield drenched in blood, he swung his sword, and swung it again.

The soldiers looked at Taemuk as if he were strange.

“That brat’s going crazy again, making a fuss… hey, don’t you get tired?”

“He just asks for food when he gets hungry. I should rip his nose off.”

It really was strange. There was not a single person in the unit who did something called ‘training.’ They were all soldiers, but none had ever received systematic training, nor was such a schedule prepared.

Because it was a world where thousands, or tens of thousands, died every day because of the Shikgoe. Soldiers were lacking, the country conscripted soldiers every day, and they had to go straight to the battlefield without time for training.

Those currently on the battlefield were people who had been ‘unluckily’ born as Military Gods and forcibly made into soldiers. Everyone naturally thought they would die, had no will to fight, and were lethargic. If they went to the battlefield and died, then they died; if they were lucky and came back alive, they sat blankly waiting for mealtime.

To their eyes, it was natural that Taemuk seemed strange and irritating. They occasionally showed annoyance toward Taemuk, who acted like a nuisance, but they did not hit him. They did not even have the strength for that.

And when it had been one year since Taemuk began swinging his sword at empty air—

he killed a Shikgoe for the first time on the battlefield.

He thrust his sword into the jaw of the creature with protruding teeth and pierced through to its brain. The dark red blood of the Shikgoe flowed down the sword and soaked Taemuk’s hand thickly.

The thrill of that moment. The sense of achievement.

Taemuk, intoxicated with excitement, stared at his trembling hand all night.

Taemuk became seventeen years old. He had spent nine years on the battlefield.

During that time, Taemuk grew in many ways. First, he grew taller, and his body grew as well. He also learned how to handle his power and adapted to the battlefield. In a way, it was natural. The days he lived on the battlefield had become longer than the days he lived with his parents in the town.

And to that extent, he became skilled at killing Shikgoe. Now, even when participating in battle, Taemuk did not die. He was still frequently injured, but injuries severe enough to make him lose consciousness became rare.

With Taemuk’s strength supporting them, the unit gradually became larger and stronger. Accordingly, it gained fame, and the pig-like Lieutenant Colonel who had been the leader of the unit became a Colonel.

Of course, even after becoming a Colonel, he was still a pig. The only thing he could do was sit and eat.

Still, he had some sense. Though foolish, lazy, and selfish, he knew that Taemuk’s contribution was enormous in making the unit strong. He also knew that the reason he himself had survived ten years on the battlefield without being eaten by a Shikgoe was thanks to Taemuk.

So occasionally, at appropriate times, he would raise Taemuk’s rank. It was no different from throwing food to a dog, but still, it was food. There was nothing bad about it.

Thus, Taemuk steadily accumulated ranks, and when he turned seventeen, he became a Second Lieutenant.

The Second Lieutenant insignia he received from the Colonel was faded and slightly worn, with the Taeguk pattern densely embroidered in the center. When he touched it with his fingertips, it felt strange.

A Taeguk pattern. While killing Shikgoe, he had never really thought about the country, the nation, or the people. Yet he was receiving something like this.

Anyway, Taemuk became a Second Lieutenant. After that, even older men did not treat him carelessly, and some even began to attend to him without being told. Of course, it was not only because of his rank. It was because Taemuk had saved them.

Indeed, Taemuk often—frequently, perhaps every day—saved soldiers on the battlefield. Not because life was precious, nor because he was strong and should protect the weak—none of those noble and disgusting reasons.

Rather…

because he was resentful.

Taemuk realized at twelve. That except for the pig Colonel, there were no nobles in this unit.

Taemuk had the ability to recognize nobles at a glance. They had a stench. A very foul stench.

But in this unit, there were only those who smelled because they could not wash, because they were dirty—there was no one who had the particular stench of nobles.

That made him resentful. The nobles lived comfortably inside safe towns. Only he, only they, only the lowborn died outside. It felt unfair. So he saved them. There was no other reason.

Sometimes he even saved people who were not soldiers. People who got lost while evacuating, or when Shikgoe invaded a town. That too was not because of a sense of justice. He did it because he was told to.

He had heard that it was also a soldier’s duty. Protecting the people, they said… He did not understand it at all, but since he was told to do it, he did it.

That day was the same.

Hearing that Shikgoe had invaded a town, Taemuk and hundreds of soldiers had arrived together.

Taemuk moved following the presence of Shikgoe using his keen hearing. On the streets, he killed Shikgoe; in the alleys, he saved people. Then he entered a house with beautifully tiled roofs.

“……”

A Shikgoe had forced its way into the inner quarters and was rampaging. Below it, people in silk clothes and hats screamed like chickens. And in the front yard of the inner quarters, dozens of corpses lay scattered without order.

Taemuk recognized it at a glance. The corpses scattered in the yard were all servants—lowborn.

He gave a short, scoffing laugh.

“Seriously……”

How were nobles all the same. Regardless of time or place, acting like this—if that was a skill, it was indeed a skill.

Taemuk, who lived in the camp, did not often encounter nobles, but whenever he happened to meet them like this, he was filled with intense disgust.

Even when shelters were empty, only nobles crowded them; those who died were always the lower ones; they pushed the lower ones into the mouths of Shikgoe to survive; exploited them, tormented them…

Even when Taemuk saved them, some nobles would get angry—why he came so late, did he know who they were, they would punish him. The ones inside that inner house looked like they would be the same.

Taemuk crossed the wide yard with an expressionless face. In any case, killing the Shikgoe was his job. Yes. He was not saving nobles—he was killing Shikgoe. Thinking that way made him less irritated.

But when he had crossed about half the yard—

something sticky struck his foot and wrapped around his ankle.

Looking down at it, Taemuk’s breath stopped.

“……”

It was a skirt. An old skirt soaked in blood, dyed red.

The expression slowly disappeared from Taemuk’s face. A fishy, feed-like taste rose in his mouth. His stomach churned, and a headache came. Holding his forehead, he stood still.

“Hey, hey, you there! What are you doing!”

“You wretch! Why are you just standing there! Hurry, do something about that thing!”

“Aaaah! Save us! Save us!”

The nobles, having spotted Taemuk, screamed and struggled. Their shrill cries made his ears sting. But Taemuk had already lost all desire to save them. Rather, he thought it would be better if they died.

After a moment of thought, Taemuk tugged his earlobe and turned around.

But—

“……”

“……”

At the gate stood the First Lieutenant, holding a cigarette and a bloodstained sword.

In the eight years, he had aged considerably. His eyebrows had turned gray, and his beard had faded.

Even after seeing him, Taemuk acted as if nothing was wrong, crossed the yard, and tried to leave the house.

But as he passed him—

“Why aren’t you saving the nobles?”

he asked.

“Why should I?”

Without looking at him, Taemuk stopped his feet and asked back.

“You hate nobles?”

“Do you like them?”

At Taemuk’s immediate question, the First Lieutenant let out a small, breathy laugh.

“…Even with ten mouths, I couldn’t say I like them.”

He quietly looked toward the inner quarters where blood was beginning to flood. Then he turned to Taemuk and looked at his shoulder—more precisely, the Second Lieutenant insignia on it.

“You’ll surpass me soon, won’t you?”

Unlike Taemuk, who had been continuously promoted, the First Lieutenant was still a First Lieutenant. Because he had not achieved merit. In fact, aside from Taemuk, no one in the unit had achieved merit. Even ten people together struggled to kill one Shikgoe, so it was natural. Rather, it might have been more correct to see Taemuk as something abnormal.