BW C75

Chapter 75

“W-with her? But she’s your guide, Sergeant… How can I, of all people, go with…”

A guide was supposed to remain with their Military God. Even though Hoeun himself was separated from Taemuk, that was only because he lacked any combat ability to begin with… Still, taking Gilsang’s guide away felt somehow improper, unsettling. But Gilsang didn’t seem concerned in the slightest.

“Just circle the grounds once, and I’ll follow quickly after. The Captain may return before then anyway. Don’t worry and go inside to rest. And you—show the child to a doctor at once.”

He moved as if to hand the child in his arms to the woman. Hoeun stepped quickly forward and intercepted instead.

“I—I’ll carry him.”

It wasn’t because she was a woman and he a man—it was only that she had a weapon in hand while Hoeun’s arms were free. It was simply more fitting that he carried the child.

And the boy in his arms was so light—shockingly, unnaturally light. As if bled of all substance. He had clearly lost far too much blood. Hoeun’s face grew grim all at once.

“We’d best hurry.”

“…”

The woman—“Im”—looked briefly at the boy’s condition and gave a silent nod in agreement. Hoeun held the child tightly against his chest and ran toward the distant hospital doors. Im followed at his side.

Gilsang watched the two of them retreat, then turned back reluctantly at the urging of the garrison soldier.

The way to the hospital entrance was anything but clear. The yard was a chaos: riderless horses still stamping and wandering, weapons discarded and strewn, makeshift tents pitched haphazardly for the soldiers… and corpses. Dozens upon dozens of bodies, swathed in white shrouds, lying in rows across the earth. There was hardly space to place a single firm foot.

“…”

Hoeun forced himself to look past it all and pressed on. All that mattered was saving the child in his arms.

At last, he pushed through the wide front doors of the hospital—

Squish, squelch.

Something shifted underfoot, strange, clasping at his soles, sucking. He glanced instinctively downward.

The floor was entirely red. Thick, soft, deep. Not pooled blood, no—it was layered blood. Not liquid collecting, but viscous sludge, sticky and clotted, gathered for days.

“…”

Hoeun’s breath seized. His life had been spent in hospitals—he had seen more than most, sick and stricken, wounded beyond count. But never had he seen such blood, such overwhelming, suffocating amounts.

Of course, refugees weren’t the only ones inside—there would be the injured, grievously so. That was, after all, the lot of a hospital.

Hoeun swallowed hard, lungs tight. Already he felt finding a doctor in this place would not be easy.

The hospital was drenched in blood. Floors, walls—even the ceiling bore stains as though crimson rain had fallen indoors.

Beds lay in every corridor, not confined to the wards. Not one crisp white sheet remained—every blanket was soaked dark, sagging with gore. Empty bunks dripped ceaselessly, droplets falling like phantom cries.

The stench was vile, choking—blood and disinfectant mingled sickeningly, something unlike anything Hoeun’s nose had ever endured.

“…”

As he hunted for a doctor, stretcher after stretcher passed by him. The dead borne out, endlessly, brush his side. Then others brought in—still clinging to the threshold of death, mangled and ruined. Dead and dying ever-lapped one another.

And everywhere—the chorus of moans, shrieks, fragmented cries.

It hurts, it hurts so much, please save me.

No, kill me—kill me instead.

Save me, don’t kill me, save me—kill me, save me…

Wailing voices, tearing sobs, fights between survivors that broke into screams.

Those who seemed like refugees slumped down against the walls, crouching in despair, or lay straight upon the filmed pools of blood, sunk in stupor. Their eyes were hollow, vacant—they barely resembled the living at all.

So the hospital was saturated not only with blood, but with cries, with despair—more suffocating even than a battlefield. It was another hell entire.

“…”

Hoeun’s face paled. He pressed the back of the child’s head hard against his chest, shielding him. The boy had fainted long ago—but still, even in unconsciousness, Hoeun could not bear to let his eyes see this. It was too much for him to bear; how much worse would it be for a child?

He kept searching. Searching for a doctor. Once he nearly slipped outright when his boot carried him through a rivulet of blood streaking across the floor. He caught the child tight, braced himself—then, thump, someone grabbed his elbow to steady him.

It was Im, Gilsang’s guide.

“Thank you.”

Hoeun bowed in brief gratitude. She only gestured silently, pointing ahead down the corridor.

He followed her direction.

At the far end, where thin daylight filtered through the windows, a man and a woman bent over some wounded soul, binding strips of white cloth tight around a mangled flank. The man in spectacles wore a physician’s white coat—it was drenched through dark as wine. The woman beside him—surely a nurse—her hands too were soaked to the wrists, sticky with spilled life.

At the sight, a memory rose—clear, from that earlier day.

“Look at our hands. Stitching together the torn each day, blood under the nails that never scrubs away.”

Spoken by a nurse on the very day Hoeun had first awakened as Taemuk’s guide.

“…”

He stopped, unable to approach further.

The patient they attended was too close to death. His side had been gouged away by a monster’s maw. Bandages darkened fresh as they touched him. His limbs dangled limp, tossed like ruined cloth each time the doctor shifted his body.

Hoeun’s eyes flickered aside, searching for another physician. But how long would that take—or would he find one at all, here?

Instead, pressed for time, he laid the boy carefully on a chair at the corridor’s entrance. Then, with trembling hands, he pulled up the child’s bloodied trouser leg.

The calf was savaged—soft flesh gouged out, bone shattered to ruin. Even if somehow treated, the boy would never walk whole again.

Still so young. Far too young…

Hoeun closed his lips hard. From his breast he drew a handkerchief—embroidered with flowers, his mother’s gift. Once before, he had used it to wipe Taemuk’s blood away. Thorough washing had left it white again, spotless.

He rolled it swiftly into a thick cloth and bound it tight beneath the boy’s knee. The bleeding must be stopped. But at the pressure, the child’s leg spasmed—and his eyes cracked weakly open.

“It… hurts…”

“It hurts? I’m sorry.”

“It hurts…”

“What shall I do… I must. Can you endure, just a little? Just a bit?”

“Hurts—! No! Don’t! Don’t do it!”

The boy shrieked, sobbing, thrashing what little strength remained. Hoeun faltered, uncertain whether to continue. At that moment, Im set both her hands like iron on the child’s thigh, pinning him down hard. Cruel perhaps—but it allowed Hoeun to finish binding the wound closed.

Soon the boy’s face gleamed wet with cold sweat. His body shivered. The once chilled flesh now burned fever-hot—surely infection loomed.

Hoeun bit his lip until blood near welled, staring at the doctor still laboring at the end of the hall. Then, without taking his eyes away, he spoke to Im.

“Please watch him for a moment.”

He moved to step forward. And Im—in her silent way—swept the child into her arms instead, slinging him over her shoulder, seizing her sword with the other hand. She followed in his wake without sound, though Hoeun only noticed once she was behind him.

Crossing the corridor, he reached the two at the end just as, by fortune, the doctor at last tied the final knot on his patient’s bandage. Hoeun seized the fleeting pause, rushing forward, bowing, speaking with polite urgency.

“Doctor. There’s a child, badly injured. His calf was bitten away—he has lost much blood. Could you help him?”

But the physician didn’t glance up. He wrenched off his blood-spattered glasses, scrubbed them against his coat, and muttered,

“There are many more gravely wounded. You’ll have to wait.”

“Yes, I understand, but—please, is there no way? He’s only a child.”

Hoeun stepped closer. At that, the doctor twisted sharply, glaring, face full of irritation. He drew breath to spit some rebuke—

Then fell silent.

His eyes flickered, roved; first Hoeun’s face, then down over his clothes. Fine silk robes, damask, gleaming even beneath the splatters of blood. A long trailing ribbon of silk hanging from his shoulder. And skin—pale as porcelain, unmarred, as though never touched by sun nor toil.

The physician stared again, adjusted his grip on his glasses, cleared his throat. Straightened himself, set his shoulders proper.

“The injured boy—whose child is he? Without the topknot tied, he cannot be your son.”

“Uh…”

“Your younger brother?”

“No, not that.”

“Then a servant’s boy?”

“…No, not that either.”

“…”

The doctor peered at him, brows furrowed with suspicion, as though to ask Then what is he? Hoeun only stared back, baffled. He couldn’t fathom why that should be the question. The boy was dying. He’d bled near dry. And yet the man’s first concern was not the wound—but the boy’s identity.