BW C66

Chapter 66

At those words, Hoeun flinched in alarm.

“Sa—salty? On me? But I just washed…”

As soon as he returned to the barracks he had washed, fearing that his body might smell of food. He had washed his hands over and over, even tearing up as he dug salt grains out from under his nails. And yet still he was being told he smelled salty…

Hurriedly, Hoeun hid his hands behind his back. He hadn’t done anything wrong, yet he felt embarrassed all the same. After all, his life had been one where there was never any reason for his body to smell of anything. Even in the heat of summer, sweat had never left a trace on him.

“I—I’ll go wash again, right away.”

Still keeping his hands hidden behind him, Hoeun edged awkwardly toward the tent’s entrance. But as he passed Taemuk’s side, a chuckle drifted over his head. Hoeun snapped his gaze upward—Taemuk was smiling.

“Kidding.”

“…Pardon?”

“You don’t smell salty.”

Said offhandedly, Taemuk walked toward the chest of drawers tucked into the corner.

“…”

Hoeun blinked and blinked, lashes fluttering. Then, like an angered cat, his eyes sharply slanted upward.

“That was truly a tasteless joke.”

“Really? I thought it was amusing.”

Taemuk opened the chest and withdrew something.

“…”

Hoeun glared at his back with a sullen look. Then, suddenly, he let out a small sound of realization. Why had Taemuk, of all things, said “salty”? Of all the smells a body could have. Could it be…

“Did you know all along I’d been working in salt fields—or rather, scrubbing cucumbers today?”²

“Yes.”

“How?”

“I even know how many birds flew over the encampment today.”

“…”

Hoeun fidgeted with his fingers, still hidden behind him. But birds were birds, and he was him. Had he been watched—or was it simply being kept track of? He knew not which, but either way, to think his actions had reached Taemuk’s ears left him weighed down.

Really, he had to mind his reputation, and mind Taemuk’s ears along with it. He felt as though he were walking a frozen lake, treading only on the thinnest ice. All his manners would have to be careful, cautious, doubly cautious.

Still, Taemuk hadn’t said a word against his scrubbing cucumbers. Might he, then, do it again tomorrow? Could it be that, finally, he had found a task for himself? As Hoeun was wondering—

“Take them off.”

Taemuk, holding something in hand, spoke in a commanding tone.

“…What?”

Hoeun asked again, as if he had misheard. At once the life drained from his face. His eyes twitched, the corners paling. It was, after all, impossible not to fear such an order.

Frozen stiff, upright as though dead on his feet, Hoeun merely stood there. Taemuk clicked his tongue and, lifting his hand, finally revealed what he had taken—a small round jar. An ointment.

“Ah… oh…”

Hoeun let out a sound, half groan, half sigh. But still his pallor did not lift. It was because he knew where that ointment would be applied—between his buttocks.

From the very day he first woke to his senses, ointment had been applied there every morning and every night without fail. According to Taemuk, the old physician had commanded, “Until his wound at the rear is fully healed, apply medicine morning and night.”

Well, if the doctor said it must be done, then so it must. Hoeun had no desire to avoid the medicine itself. Only… he wished to apply it himself, in some secluded, shadowed place.

Yet Taemuk insisted on applying it with his own hands. Morning and evening, twice a day. Tirelessly, needlessly diligent.

Every time this moment came, Hoeun would resist. He would refuse, fight, struggle fiercely. And never once had he won. Always his trousers would come down, always his body forced open to those hands.

Surely, by now, he might simply yield without protest—but Hoeun could not. There remained in him the faintest hope—just once, if he could win, then perhaps Taemuk would yield thereafter.

Stepping one foot back cautiously, Hoeun spoke.

“I, I’ve healed completely. There’s no need for ointment.”

“This morning it didn’t look that way.”

“A half day has passed since then. In that time it’s healed.”

Hoeun stated with clarity. But he could not meet Taemuk’s eyes, terrified his lie would be detected. Even so, he had confidence: “I’m not in pain,” “It’s already healed,” “I’m fine”—such lies he had spun all his life, countless times.

Yet Taemuk’s lips twisted upward at one corner, wickedly. Taking a step toward Hoeun, ointment still in hand, he asked,

“Oh? So a torn wound smoothed itself closed in half a day?”

“Th… that is… y-yes. Yes, it has.”

Hoeun nodded quickly, still shuffling backward. It was absurd, unthinkable—but not wholly impossible. If Taemuk’s shattered bones could knit together and flesh regrow in moments, why couldn’t his poor torn body heal overnight?

Lowering his gaze, Hoeun swallowed hard, throat clicking. Without meaning to, he clenched his buttocks tightly together. Tonight, of all nights, he would not—he could not—expose that shameful place.

But once more Taemuk advanced.

“Then show me.”

“Eh? Show… where?”

“Your backhole.”

At those words Hoeun let out a strangled cry and clapped his hands over his ears. His face twisted as though under torture. As if it weren’t enough he said the word ‘cock’—now this, ‘backhole’! The words stung in his very eardrums.

“Please, I beg you, refrain from such vulgar speech.”

“What else should I call it but your backhole? Do nobles give it some finer name?”

“I’ve no idea!”

“Well then, backhole it is.”

“No—no, simply don’t call it at all!”

“I don’t want to. What’s wrong with ‘backhole’?”

To deliberately speak such filthy words, again and again—Hoeun found it hateful. How hateful must it be, to make him want to pinch that handsome mouth until it bruised. But true to his scholar’s dignity, he held back, forced a composed expression, and shook his head.

“I will not expose myself. I’ve healed already—why should I show you?”

But his ceaseless lies only pushed Taemuk further. The ointment jar turned idly in his palm as he stepped closer, while Hoeun stumbled back. Yet Hoeun’s shorter stride had no hope of matching the great long legs that closed the distance. Soon, with the lanternlight at his back, Taemuk’s looming shadow swallowed Hoeun whole.

“You might be lying. I have to confirm it.”

“…”

“And if it’s a lie—I’ll punish you.”

“P—punish me?”

“Yes.”

“…”

Punish. The punishment dealt by Taemuk. In an instant, Hoeun’s eyes slid, as though drawn by spell, toward the sword leaning against the chest.

No… surely not that. Surely he wasn’t about to prove, with that blade, the sin of lying to him. The edge looked savage, sharp, as if its very touch could lop off fingers like autumn gingko nuts falling from the tree. Or perhaps… cut his tongue clean away.

Fear and despair welled fast in Hoeun’s gaze. Taemuk noticed exactly where those eyes turned, yet purposely offered no correction to ease him. To see him tormented was a delight. To watch that terror—his eyes clearer, brighter as they sharpened in fear—was fascinating.

Hoeun shut his eyes tight, then opened them again. Raising his face with a pitiful, beseeching expression, he looked up at Taemuk.

“It is a lie… I lied.”

“Oh? You dared lie to me.”

Taemuk’s features creased slightly in mock anger—when suddenly the sleeve of his robe grew heavy. Hoeun was tugging at its hem with all his might. Against the dark cloth, his hand was pale as snow.

“Please… couldn’t you just let yourself be deceived? I’m too ashamed.”

Hoeun’s weak voice trailed, soft and pleading. Taemuk gave a low hum, as if in thought. Truly, it seemed he might grant the request. Then, surprisingly, he even nodded.

“Very well. I’ll let myself be deceived.”

“…Truly?”

“Yes.”

Hoeun sighed in relief, chest heaving as he swept a hand down over his heart. But just then, without warning, Taemuk’s hand clamped firmly around his waistband.

“But the ointment still must be applied.”

He yanked at the trousers at once. Hoeun, aghast, seized the waistband with desperate fingers and cried out,

“You said you’d be deceived!”

“Indeed. You said you were healed, and I’ll accept that. But I’ll still apply the medicine.”

“W-why… why must you…”

Hoeun twisted, writhing to escape Taemuk’s grasp. But Taemuk pulled him close, hard. Hoeun’s thin frame melted helplessly against his chest, until their noses nearly brushed.

Hoeun could not even breathe, his air caught. Taemuk’s dark eyes bored into his own.

“You’re my guide, are you not?”

“…”

“For the well-being of my guide, it is the duty of a Military God to be responsible. And I must fulfill that duty.”

“…”

It was, in truth, a noble-sounding declaration. Had Taemuk spoken such words before they had ever entered the encampment, Hoeun would have rejoiced deeply. But now—

Lies!

That was his first and only thought. For if he truly saw it as duty, how could he have done those things to him? Forcing that loathsome member into his mouth, shoving rice balls down his throat until he vomited, crushing him for days on end…

Fury welled, burning. He wanted nothing so much as to scream: “And who do you think tore me so badly in the first place? It’s because of you I need ointment at all, General!”

“…”

Doggedly, Hoeun kept his lips pressed tight. He looked into Taemuk’s black eyes, glancing from one to the other, weighing, wrestling within himself.