BW C72

Chapter 72

“Young master, stay close to me and follow tightly.”

With that, Gilsang shouted, “Hyah!” and spurred his horse into a strong gallop.

“Ah, yes!”

Hoeun hurried after him. Behind the two of them, several dozen soldiers followed as well.

At the relentless pace, Hoeun’s backside jounced rough against the saddle, barely keeping seated. Still, he grit his teeth and clung on. Falling now wasn’t just dangerous—it would be an unforgivable hindrance.

As they raced down the crimson-smeared streets, a building with a sign reading Imperial Daily came into view. Just beyond it, turning right would lead them straight to the hospital—their goal.

In that moment, Hoeun found himself glancing back. He was worried for Dongja. Fewer than a hundred soldiers had remained with her. Of course—anyone would call such numbers formidable, especially Jeokudae soldiers. But if the monsters kept coming in hordes, danger still loomed.

She must not be harmed.

Nothing must happen to her.

It must be so.

He stretched his neck long to catch one more glimpse. Through broken bodies and snapping monsters, he thought he could just barely make out her figure. Narrowing his eyes as though to pierce the chaos, he strained—

“Young master, eyes forward. Only forward.”

Gilsang’s voice rang firm. Startled, Hoeun snapped his gaze back ahead. But his thoughts lingered, always toward Dongja. Worry gnawed him so deep he bit his lip hard and restless. Perhaps sensing it—

“We will see her again soon enough.”

Gilsang declared with a steady tone. But the words did not calm Hoeun—the certainty sounded too much like wish rather than fact. As though even Gilsang himself was clinging to that hope.

So he said nothing. Naturally, Gilsang would be thinking too of Dongja. If Hoeun’s chest felt heavy, what of Gilsang—who surely carried doubly multiplied weight of worry, and guilt besides?

“…Yes. Yes, of course.”

Hoeun gave a small nod. Then he filled his lungs with one long breath and forced himself to stare straight ahead.

The monsters did not relent. They appeared without sense or reason, hurling themselves straight at horse and man. Dodging them, striking them down mid-sprint—it was no easy feat. Riding a horse was both blessing and curse.

Gilsang swung his blade again and again, low to high, high to low, cutting through whatever size opponent rushed them. When steel bit neck or vein, warm blood flew wild, spattering his own body…and often across Hoeun as well. Clumsy yet desperate, Hoeun dared not take his hands from the reins, even to wipe his face.

They pounded into a wide crossroad—and suddenly, strangely, not a single creature blocked their path. Not even bloodstains remained.

“….”

Hoeun’s brows furrowed faintly. Only a few more turns from here lay the hospital. Beyond it—the shelter. This was the main road people traveled, and yet here were neither bodies nor beasts. Could it be the townsfolk evacuated before they were eaten? And so—no prey, no monsters?

Casting a glance back, Hoeun saw them—creatures crawling after on all fours, pounding their limbs against stone, snarling, panting ragged. But as they reached the junction, in an instant, they scattered, darting into alleys, vanishing like cockroaches from light.

“….”

Something was wrong. Hoeun’s jaw tucked inward, suspicion itching. Had they noticed other prey—humans? As the thought struck—

“Help… help me…”

A voice. Weak, thin. So faint he barely caught it beneath the hammer of hooves.

“Please… someone, help me…”

And yet Hoeun heard. He turned to its call.

In the open street between two tiled houses lay a child sprawled upon the ground. It was the first living soul they’d seen since entering the town.

The boy’s legs barely moved, trembling if at all. Blood soaked the earth around him. One leg in particular, drenched crimson—the flesh beneath the knee carved out deep, ghastly as if monsters had bitten away his calf. His face was small, filthy with grime, streaked with trails of tears.

“Please… save me…”

Too exhausted now for loud cries, the child only murmured, lips moving weakly as tears clung fresh.

“Ah…”

Hoeun gasped. Some sense—horribly familiar. He had seen this once before. His mind rang with the echo—

“Save… me…”

“Save us—please, please save us…!”

“Save me… save me…”

The voices of a noble, his ankles mangled and shredded, sprawled upon dirt. The memory of ominous stillness in that other place, the absence of vision until the beasts emerged.

Hoeun looked around now. Clean houses without blood, silence heavy as lead, monsters absent, a child alone. The same.

Bait.

That child was bait.

“Wait.”

Just then, Gilsang too spied the child. He raised one hand, slowing his horse. Hoeun, stopping with him, peered far down the street at the motionless child.

“….”

The child’s image overlapped with that nobleman in his vision. And yet—not the same. Their difference was clear.

This child was no noble. His garb was ragged, shamefully poor. And unlike that vile man who had surely met his fate rightly, this one looked incapable of such vice. He was barely six. Perhaps his only “evil” had been a childish quarrel, quarrels over stones in games by dirt roads.

In other words—he was nothing but pitiful. Only pitiful.

If he’d been wicked, Hoeun might leave him. But innocent, defenseless—how could he?

“….”

And yet… if not left behind, then what? To save him? How many monsters lurked nearby? If Gilsang—or any soldier—were injured or slain for it?

Then should they abandon him? Even if they tried to save him—could they, without Taemuk?

No. Still, even so, surely they must try—? The thought seized Hoeun until he squeezed his eyes shut, then open again.

Fool. He knew he could do nothing. All he could do was plead, beg Gilsang to save the boy.

“…”

But he could not meet his eyes. Whatever Gilsang chose, he must obey it. Even if it meant leaving the child—he could not argue. For Gilsang’s judgment here was of battle, born from years of blood.

But… if abandoned, the child would die. Those little limbs shredded to ribbons in monster jaws.

“Haa…”

Hoeun bit his lip tight and stared at the small figure.

Gilsang took a deep breath. He bent low in the saddle, leaning closer to whisper, softly yet firm.

“From here, ride. Ride as fast as you can.”

“Eh?”

Baffled, Hoeun looked at him. Gilsang’s eyes did not waver, fixed, hard.

“As fast as you can. With every ounce of strength. You must gallop.”

“….”

Hoeun froze a breath. Strange, baffling words—but he did not ask again. Gilsang’s word was right, he believed it. And somehow—feeling stirred that he would save the child. With all he knew of him, so far, surely he would.

“Yes. I will.”

Hoeun wrapped the reins so tight his hands went pale.

Gilsang signaled to the soldiers. At his gestures, they sheathed their weapons. Madness—when monsters could leap from shadow at any moment. Strange.

Then he gave a nod to one soldier in the rear. That man nodded back, wheeled his reins, and galloped away down another street entirely. Leaving them? Alone, at this moment? It made no sense at all.

Hoeun glanced, unsettled.

“Hyah!”

And in that instant, Gilsang kicked off into a furious sprint. Hoeun, startled, struck his horse awkwardly to follow.

The animal, clever and strong, needed little urging, pounding in rhythm alongside Gilsang’s mount.

“Ughh…”

Wind slammed into Hoeun, sharp and deafening. It shrieked in his ears, stung his throat, drove his hair all back. Breath came hard, eyes watering with force. Yet still, he kept gaze locked forward—forward, upon the fallen child.

They closed fast. The boy lay still now, perhaps fainted. Not even a plea left in him.

Hoeun flicked his eyes to Gilsang, nerves chewing him inside. The man had never said outright he would help. What if he simply rode past?

“….”

But Gilsang’s eyes never left forward, tall and unswerving. Hoeun opened his lips—about to call out—

In the same instant, Gilsang toppled from his saddle. Swift, sudden, hitting earth with intent.

“Sergeant!”

Hoeun cried his name in shock.