Reviving the Dead with a Bullet
My god. I'd just revived a dead man with one gunshot.
Even though it was early autumn, the mosquitoes were still ferocious. Come evening, the smell of cooking rice wafted through the air, and by nightfall, the acrid scent of mosquito-repellent bonfires filled the streets. In the dead of night, when everyone slept with mugwort burning nearby, a faint moonlight filtered through the papered windows, casting shadowy silhouettes on the screens.
Creeeak. The door slid open, and a metallic scrape echoed through the silent room like a siren. But the thing in the center of the room, bundled under the blankets, didn't so much as twitch.
Confirming the soundly sleeping homeowner, the intruder slipped inside, holding his breath. One after another, seven or eight burly men followed. They formed a circle around the bedding.
"......Look."
A raspy voice cut through their excited breathing. The speaker stepped up beside the homeowner, planting his foot toward the large, swaddled bundle that looked like a giant pupa.
Just before stomping down, he declared to the others, "This is the fate of a traitor."
Thud! The firm stomp echoed faintly yet clearly through the room. Three or four of the men flinched at the sight.
"If you have grudges, curse the father who sired a traitor's whelp."
As if once wasn't enough, he kicked with every word.
Whoa, that psycho bastard. Stomping on a baby.
Hiding in the chest by the lower end of the room, I'd laid on my side to watch the whole scene unfold without missing a beat.
"Heh heh. Look at this bitch."
As the man paused his kicking, another chuckled sleazily. "Sleeping through her brat getting killed."
Tilting his head, he peered under the blanket, then asked the kicker, "Bro. Mind if I get a quick taste before we off her?"
"......Make it quick."
"What's the harm? She's dying anyway. Might as well enjoy it while we—"
"Something's off."
About damn time you noticed, you moron.
Clutching my pounding heart, I bellowed from inside the chest with all my might. "Fire!"
Clatter! As I shouted, the sound of the attic door above me bursting open rang out. The officers who'd been hiding there all night shoved it aside.
They'd masked the smell of their lit matchlock fuses with mosquito smoke, and now they pulled their triggers on the men in the room.
Bang! Bang bang!
"Aaaagh!"
"Guhk!"
The room filled with acrid heat in an instant. Through the swirling gunsmoke and dim air, the men stumbled in chaos. Some collapsed spurting blood; others sat dazed on the floor, missing their chance to flee.
"Now!"
Hyeong-bang's sharp voice pierced from beyond the wall. Footsteps thundered from the next room as the waiting officers poured in.
I huddled in the chest, praying things went according to plan.
"Don't move! Don't move! Move and we shoot!"
Gunshots cracked from the backyard. "I said we shoot, you bastard!"
Someone cried out in protest. He and two others were busy, per my orders, taking out or neutralizing the lookouts.
"Form the crane wing formation! Hurry!"
"Shift left, you idiot!"
"L-loading! Ready!"
I pictured Hyeong-bang and his five men lining up single-file outside this room. The crane wing formation—like a crane's wings or a crescent moon, arrayed in a semicircle to concentrate firepower. Just like Admiral Yi Sun-sin's cannons at the Battle of Hansan Island, all zeroed in on the enemy.
Now I understood how terrifying those Japanese must have felt.
"Second squad! All ready to fire!"
Hearing Hyeong-bang, I curled up tighter and yelled again. "Fire!"
Bang! Bang bang! Bang! Bang!
"Aaaagh!"
"Ugh! Guhuk!"
Gunshots and death rattles pierced my ears. Even after the shooting stopped, the earlier silence didn't return. Amid pained groans, I heard bandits caught mid-escape through windows or doors.
"Urk, guh, sp-spare me...!"
"Gotcha, you rat!"
"B-blood, too much blood... D-doctor... Urk!"
"Caught one here!"
"That's my catch, punk!"
"No rash moves! It ain't over till it's over!"
I waited for the chaos to die down, then shoved open the chest lid and crawled out.
The room was hell itself. Gunsmoke and the metallic tang of blood choked the air; even in the moonlight, crimson pooled vividly. The sprawled corpses went without saying.
Whoa, shit. Hurry the fuck up, you bastards. Thought I'd cramp to death.
Such complaints swirled in my head, but seeing the blood-soaked room, I couldn't voice them.
"Hey! Hey! Can come out now?"
The attic door—who'd closed it? I knocked on the now-shut panel. It flew open, revealing the officers' beaming faces from the darkness.
"Heh heh heh. Captain, sir. Time for our 100 yang each."
"Damn right. No injuries, right?"
"Even if there were, we'd say no for 100 yang."
"I'll pay even if you're hurt. Come on down."
Money was powerful stuff. They could smile after nearly getting shot at.
My legs were still shaking. Or maybe 'cause I'm footing the bill?
"......Hold up."
Calming myself, I scanned the room. A guy slumped against the wall, dead—or so it seemed—caught my eye. Dead was fine, but the sword in his hand bugged me.
"Hey, you there. Sitting guy. It's over—stand up nice and easy. Dead now or later, what's the diff?"
"......"
No response. Head lolled like he was truly gone.
"Yeah, whatever. Dead now or later."
I drew my pistol from my bosom—not the revolver I'd shot with the Crown Prince in Hanyang, but a single-shot flintlock. Officially for veteran captains, but the Jeonju governor had sent one via officer since I was technically a captain. I'd have to return it with the rank, of course.
"Counting to three."
Click. I cocked the flintlock hammer. Aimed at his arm. "Three!"
No reaction even to the fake shot. I counted anyway. "Two, one."
Pulling the trigger, the flint scraped the pan, sparking into the powder. Bang!
"Aaaagh! Fuck! You said three!"
My god. I'd revived a dead man with one gunshot. Usually it was the other way around.
The man, dropping his sword, clutched his bleeding shoulder.
"I said I'd count to three. Not shoot on three."
Glancing around at the still-prone bodies, I retorted. "Get up. Keep playing dead, and I'll make you really dead."
"I-I wasn't faking, just passed out, sir."
"M-mercy! My back hurts too much to move."
Ooh, fuck. What? They're alive.
Two truly dead, three faking. Bandits, alright. Sneaky bastards.
"Captain, sir! You alright? What happened?"
Hyeong-bang called from the porch, hearing the shot. I swung my still-smoking barrel toward two live ones.
"These two. Alive. Take 'em."
"Yes, sir! As ordered! Hey!"
"W-we'll do it."
The attic officers hauled off the fakers.
"......Me?"
"You stay. We need to chat."
Just me and this bastard left alive in the room. Beans-only beans.
"What's your name? The kid you killed today was called Bean Sprout."
Leaning against the wall, I eyed the psycho whose eyes gleamed madly even in the dark.
"Pfft."
He chuckled disbelievingly before answering. "Hong Hyung, probably. I'm Hong Ga."
"Ah, right. Bean Sprout. Hong Hyung. Got it. Real name?"
"Hong Ga's son, Gil-dong."
"Hong Gil-dong?"
"Heh heh heh. Heard of me?"
"Yeah, all the time. Flitting east and west."
I'd heard tales Hong Gil-dong was real, not fictional. But I never imagined a baby-stomping monster.
"Y-you set this up?"
Hong Gil-dong weakly lifted his head, scanning the room. Two of his men lay dead, blood pooling everywhere. What he'd stomped as a baby was a pillow; the blanketed figure, a rolled-up quilt shaped like a person. The real baby was safe in the chest; the auntie, me in disguise, had slipped out earlier. I'd paced the yard cradling the pillow like a baby to sell the act.
"Yeah. Me. Knew you'd come."
Suppressing nausea from the blood stench, I nodded casually.
"How?"
"Knew you were a dog-fucking psycho."
With the capital in chaos, he prioritized traitor-hunting over escape. Sneaking into the yamen, no less. Only a mad bastard would. Especially a blood-mad one—he'd hit this house for sure.
"Congratulations."
Hong Gil-dong leaned his head back against the wall, chin up, eyes downcast on me.
"Heard it just now. Captain, huh?"
"Thanks to you. But catching you drops me back to idle captain."
"Kekeke. Sorry about that."
"Really sorry? Tell me where the matchlocks are."
"With the guys just carried out. All three."
"Didn't look like it."
"Sawed 'em off. Easier to carry."
Sawed-off shotguns, huh?
"Sigh. I'm jealous of you."
His voice weakened like he was dying. Staring at the ceiling, he muttered, "If I'd had your talent, I'd be an officer, not a bandit."
"Officer's no cakewalk. I bled for it."
"Kekeke. Even a bastard's life is this; what's a slave's like?"
"You and me the same? Kid."
"Kekek, cough! Cough cough cough!"
He laughed like time was short, then hacked. I glared, wrinkling my nose.
"Fuck, cover your mouth. Spit hit here."
"S-sorry, kek! Th-this is it, then...!"
Hong Gil-dong's head lolled. Glancing at his lower body, he flickered like a dying candle. "M-meeting a hero like you... an honor...!"
With that, he stilled. I stared, checked my pistol—the smoke had faded, leaving faint warmth.
"Honor, my ass."
Pocketing it, I watched the busy officers outside—binding bandits, first aid, calming locals.
"Hey."
I called the nearest idle one. "That matchlock on your shoulder—loaded?"
"Y-yes, sir. Loaded."
"Lemme borrow it. Just a sec."
Taking the matchlock and lit fuse, I jammed the fuse in the serpentine, opened the pan cover, and yelled.
"Why fake dead when you're not?!"
I smashed the arm sneaking to his waist. Boom!
"Aaaagh! Fuuuuck!"
Even Jesus only rose once; this psycho Hong Gil-dong did it twice. Mad bastard.
"Thought I'd let you go? No way. I'll watch your head roll. So."
Handing back the matchlock, I eyed the thrashing Hong Gil-dong—both arms shot, no fight left. Drew my pistol again, gripped it backward like a hammer.
Before swinging, "Time for a beating."
That day, the borrowed pistol from the Jeonju governor broke.
Haa...! Kim Si-jin, you little shit...! Driving me insane. What am I gonna do with you?
Catching Hong Gil-dong? Great. Awesome, even—he'll sweep clean Chungcheong later. Good is good.
But if you're gonna pull this shit, at least... wait till after Mugwa Academy graduation. You haven't even enrolled!
Petitions to deploy you to the front are piling up. Even Abamama's pressuring for real captaincy.
The education system I built's crumbling 'cause of you. Fuck it. Big reward time. Keep 'em from pushing office.
Tiled house? Abamama already granted. Horse? Upkeep's a bitch. Cash? Too much, can't leave at home. Land? Management costs suck.
...Right. Gun it is. Report said you snapped a pistol. Must love 'em that much?