- Post-Meal Chatter (食後閑談) _2
Fatigue came crashing down.
He had stood watch through the night and barely slept, and then there had been the battle at dawn.
He hadn’t even eaten yet, so his body sagged without the slightest stretch to loosen it.
He dragged himself to the lee side of a hill where the wind was blocked.
His feet seemed glued to the earth.
His back hunched forward, his head thrust out, arms dangling like a monkey’s, and he walked like a corpse.
His mind was tangled and crowded.
Battle, martial arts, inner force—all of it knotted together.
Especially the tactics Jin Mugwang had shown in the fight—those alone were enough to make his eyes pop.
Block the enemy, lure them, annihilate them.
It moved the young Soun deeply.
Moved him—no, overwhelmed him.
Even if two sides had conspired beforehand, it would not have been easy to execute so cleanly.
Soun let out a long breath.
He waited for the turbid qi (濁氣) to leave and his head to clear.
He didn’t know where he had spent his strength; he barely had the power to lift his arms.
In battle he had moved stiffly, over-tense.
He had poured force into places that didn’t need it.
This was the result.
He wanted a quiet corner—not only to escape the bustle, but because he now wished to practice standing meditation (站樁) whenever he could.
He believed the fatigue from battle might be eased through cultivation.
But there was no quiet space to be found.
The First and Second Baekryong units were gathered in one place.
Every direction he turned, there were Baekryong troopers.
He loitered here and there, searching for a secluded spot, when someone called from ahead.
“Hey, Scholar. Long time.”
The corner he had been heading toward was already occupied.
Two men lay sprawled there, chewing dried meat.
“Greetings. I see you survived.”
Find this and other great novels on the author's preferred platform. Support original creators!
Even as he said it, he felt the greeting was meager for something exchanged after battle.
“Heard the First Unit had it rough? Real rough.”
“No, we all did. Who told you that?”
“Who else? Sosam, running his mouth.”
“Ah—no. We all had it hard together…”
As Soun started to turn away, the Second Unit squad leader, called Gangcheon, spoke without even lifting his head.
“Have some.”
He held out a strip of jerky.
It couldn’t really be refused.
“You were going to eat that. You tore it open for yourself, didn’t you? Not for me.”
Soun declined gently.
“No. Special ration today. We’ll be eating plenty anyway. If you stuff yourself on an empty stomach, you’ll wreck it. Eat a little first. Get something in there. Then eat the special meal.”
It was practical wisdom.
A hungry soldier needed to know how to eat good food.
If you just devoured it, you’d suffer for it.
Prime the stomach first.
Then feast.
“Is that so?”
“There’s nothing scarier than a starving soldier. He’ll boil his own boots. Ha!”
“I understand. Just a little, then.”
Soun took the jerky and tore off a small piece.
His mouth was dry, no saliva to speak of.
The jerky felt like chewing iron.
His gums felt loose and weak, and biting down made it seem like his teeth might fall out.
He let it sit in his mouth, waiting for saliva to gather, cheeks puffed.
Gangcheon was an open, strong man.
He ran with his men, coaxed them along, fought beside them.
If Sosam was all talk, Gangcheon was sparing with words.
A different temperament entirely.
“Scholar’s cheeks are puffed out. Ha! That’s kind of cute.”
“Thank you for saying so, though I am lacking.”
Soun’s polite, measured tone—far older than his years—was already well known in the Baekryong ranks.
It wasn’t affectation.
It was habit.
Respect.
Once the others realized that, they began to enjoy it.
He spoke without selfish intent.
Steady, courteous words—even if slightly out of place—made the listener feel respected.
After exchanging a few conversations, they had understood that Scholar had been raised properly, with manners and a straight mind.
He wasn’t showing off.
His speech and careful bearing felt like something from another world.
Yet on the battlefield, that difference became its own kind of pleasure.
And when the yellow boxwood identification plaque proved he truly had passed the examination, their teasing shifted into respect—for learning, and for living according to it.
Gradually, fewer called him “kid.”
More called him “Scholar.”
The traces of the special meal vanished without a mark.
Not a drop of broth was left.
No sign remained.
Then it was back to ambush.
Waiting.
Small engagements.
Day after day.
Gateukrip knew Jin Mugwang controlled the road of retreat.
He did not dare pass recklessly.
So he restrained the retreating tribes and waited for their strength to gather.
But some tribes moved independently.
And as they did, they crawled straight into the graves Jin Mugwang had dug.
There would be one battle of maneuver.
Only one.
Both Gateukrip and Jin Mugwang knew it.
Everywhere else was open—but all of it lay within the Great Wall.
If they could not cross the Ordos River, there would be no path home.
When winter deepened and rivers froze solid, one could descend anywhere.
But the road back was single.
All others were sealed by the Wall.
That was continental strategy.
You might not stop them from coming down.
But you annihilated them on the way back.
So they could not come again next year.
So next year’s damage would be less.
The objective was simple.
Annihilation.
Kill as many as possible.
Erase the seed.
The days grew slightly warmer.
Under the sun, the desert snow thinned.
Only one maneuver battle remained.
Jin Mugwang sent scouting units deep to the south.
Skirmishes between scouts never ceased.
They hunted scouts almost excessively.
And Baekryong won most of those engagements.
Barbarian arrows struck shield and armor.
Baekryong arrows pierced barbarian chests.
Even when fighting closed suddenly, their equipment held advantage.
In small engagements, they held numerical superiority.
Thus Jin Mugwang blinded Gateukrip—cutting off eyes and ears.
And Gateukrip began to grow restless.
He could guess what was happening.
But he could not be certain.
And nothing was more dangerous than moving an army without certainty.