Hole-in-One
Okay. Hole-in-one.
The training for the Tsushima deployment wasn't anything special. Japanese conversational basics focused on vocabulary. Cultural differences between Joseon and Tsushima. Etiquette to observe on Tsushima. Naturally, it wasn't all classroom lectures while sitting down.
"Hmm..."
I surveyed the field while breathing in the salty sea breeze. The shooting range, backed by the blue ocean, had targets set up at regular intervals. I turned my gaze to the target board farthest away, about 300 meters out.
Before settling on that one, I squatted down, scooped up a handful of dirt, and stood. I tossed the dirt into the air and gauged the wind direction and strength like a pro golfer. Slight headwind. And at around 300 meters... doable.
"Give me number three."
"Pardon? I must have misheard."
"I said number three."
I glanced sideways. Park Dol-seok, whom I'd kept glued to my side the whole time in Busan-jin, stood there holding what looked like a golf club—no, a gun.
"Uh, s-sir, th-this..."
In just two weeks, his cheeks had hollowed out, his skin had turned dry and flaky, and his eyes were sunken. He cautiously offered the rifle.
It was the new-model matchlock musket just starting to be issued this year. A percussion cap musket, or dongmo-sik jochong.
"No, not that."
I shook my head, refusing the matchlock he held out.
"Th-then this one?"
This time, instead of the long rifle, he offered a revolver pistol. Not the .38 caliber ones Korean cops commonly used, of course. To load it, you had to pack each chamber with powder and ball by hand, then insert a percussion cap—called a dongmo—into each one. You could swap out the entire cylinder for quick reloads with six rounds, but you'd still have to refill it manually later, making it a half-measure at best.
"Not that either. I said number three."
But that wasn't it. Hitting a target 300 meters away with a revolver would've made me superhuman.
"Number three. Number three. You want me to shoot you in the head three times?"
"Th-then h-how about th-this one?"
"You're giving it to me now? You should've started with this."
"B-but I just handed it to you a second ago..."
Ignoring the perpetrator's bewildered mutter, I took the percussion cap musket he'd offered earlier. Unlike civilian models, it had a buttstock and a bayonet lug at the muzzle. But it differed from standard military matchlocks too. Those used flint or match ignition, but this one fired by striking a percussion cap on the nipple. Plus, it had a rod-style sight adjustable out to 400 paces—about 500 meters. Not so much the rifle's performance, but thanks to the military rounds.
"Huuuuh...!"
I let out a deep breath to steady my nerves and dropped prone on the ground. I shouldered the buttstock properly, raised the rod-like sight to set it at 300, and cocked the hammer back against the percussion cap nipple, locking it in place. The sharp click of metal engaging made my heart race. Gripping the matchlock's handle, I slowly acquired the target. Then, the trigger... slowly, really slowly... pulled...
BOOM!
The gun fired in an instant, white smoke blotting out my vision. I didn't flinch, keeping my finger off the trigger and waiting for the smoke to clear.
Ting...!
Okay. Hole-in-one.
A crisp metallic ring echoed almost immediately after the shot. Proof my lead ball had nailed the target dead center.
"W-Wow...!"
Even Sergeant Park Dol-seok couldn't hold back his awe this time. No surprise there. With a regular matchlock, aiming at that range was impossible, and even with new ammo, hit rates at 300 paces hovered around 40 percent. Meaning 60 percent was my skill. Though I couldn't discount the Neuller bullet's 40 percent share.
The Neuller bullet was a pencil-lead-shaped round, blunt-nosed and hollow-based, that delivered monstrous performance even from smoothbores without rifling. Here, it was called a 종탄—bell bullet—due to its hollow interior like a bell.
"What're you spacing out for? Snap to it."
I fought down a rising smirk, stood, and handed back the still-smoking rifle. Then I grabbed the revolver pistol Sergeant Park Dol-seok had tried to offer earlier.
The revolver was dubbed the Yuk-hyeol Gwonjochong—six-chamber revolver musket—with no other frills.
"Huuuuh...!"
I sighed again to compose myself, just like before. Before firing the pistol, I holstered it in the gun belt at my waist. I could've kept it there the whole time, but I'd made Sergeant Park Dol-seok hold it to get that "field" feel.
Hand resting on the pistol grip, I sidestepped to the next lane. The target there was 20 paces—about 25 meters—away. I stood at a fair distance from the human-shaped silhouette, staring it down without so much as a blink, like an eye-staring contest. Then, gripping the trigger, I drew and fired.
It wasn't double-action, where pulling the trigger cocks and releases; this single-action required cocking the hammer first. As soon as the muzzle roughly aligned on target, my other hand flicked the hammer back repeatedly. Since I'd pre-gripped the trigger, it surged forward the instant the hammer cocked, smashing the cap.
BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!
Despite the name Yuk-hyeol Gwonjochong, only five rounds fired. The chamber against the hammer was left empty for safety.
By the time I'd emptied it, thick gunsmoke shrouded my vision like fog. I swallowed a coughing fit and spun the pistol cowboy-style on my finger. Only after striking that pose did I holster it again.
Nice. Even I had to admit it looked cool.
"How was that? Pretty badass, right?"
Expecting gasps of admiration, I turned to Sergeant Park Dol-seok.
"Cough cough! Hack!"
But what burst out was coughing, not cheers.
"Jeez, really. What was I even expecting?"
I shook my head and refocused forward. Then, with the now-empty gun, I practiced quick-draws and dry-fires like a cowboy.
Click. Click.
Just the clack of metal, of course. But that wasn't why I wasn't satisfied. The saying was true: the flashiest moves are the hardest. I'd wanted to ape the cowboys from old movies now that I had a single-action revolver. Not easy, though. Real gun, real risk. Couldn't do it in front of superiors. And the technique itself was tricky.
Still, secret practice paid off—I could fake it decently now.
"Alright, we're done here. Let's go."
"Yes, sir! I-I'll clean it spotless!"
"Nah, I'll handle it."
Munjong hadn't sent me to Tsushima for nothing. Anything tied to life and death, I handled myself to ease my mind.
"You look like you'd break the damn thing."
"N-No, sir!"
"Don't 'no sir' me. You know I'm right. Hand it over."
I holstered the pistol, snatched the percussion cap musket from Sergeant Park Dol-seok, and slung it over my shoulder. We descended from the field—or rather, the shooting range.
"Sir!"
Then I spotted officers heading up to the range.
"Hm."
They just nodded curtly in return for my salute and passed. They were Tsushima-bound like me but gave me zero attention. Not weird. I was the guy with the previous king's and current king's favor, top skills, and good looks. No point poking the bear.
...But how'd this idiot miss that?
I side-eyed Sergeant Park Dol-seok, who'd picked a fight with me mistaking me for a rookie private. He should've been off enjoying Sunday like the other grunts, but he'd latched onto the wrong guy and now trailed me all day.
"Hey. Move it."
"Sergeant Park Dol-seok, sir! Yes, sir!"
He snapped to and resumed marching. We walked the base from the hilltop range.
"Sir!"
"Hey! Bro!"
Not everyone ignored me. Yi Cheol-dong, third son of General Yi Jing-ok up north, whom I'd met in Hanyang and sparred with before King Sejong—Upper Sergeant I Cheol-dong, or I Sergeant for short—was especially friendly.
"Bro, you eaten yet?"
"Not yet."
"C'mon, bro. Loosen up. You're older than me, and it's not our first rodeo."
"But Sub-lieutenant Kim Si-jin outranks me."
That personality wasn't changing anytime soon. True to his name's "iron," Yi Cheol-dong was an iron man—flawless like an iron puppet, rigid, and stiff. His default scowl of a face never budged.
"Hahaha!"
Laughter erupted from the parade ground. Yi Cheol-dong glanced over mid-chat with me.
"Tch!"
He clicked his tongue in disapproval at the scene. Fair enough—grown men over twenty were playing tag with dunce caps on their heads.
"How can they be so vulgar...!"
Even Iron Man Yi Cheol-dong shook his head.
"..."
But I couldn't say a word. I'd been the one to spread that game.
Bullying was rampant among Busan-jin's troops, so I'd devised a fix. Modern army life had taught me well: for seniors, hazing was entertainment, a hobby, boredom-buster. Give 'em other distractions, and it vanishes. Inspired by news of hazing dropping when smartphones were allowed, I'd introduced modern variety show games: dunce-cap tag, Mafia, proverb chain, etc.
"Hahaha! So close, you bastard!"
"You idiot! Over there! Left—no! Right for you!"
"Argh! So frustrating!"
Juniors played; seniors watched and cracked up.
"Snrk."
Sergeant Park Dol-seok, silent beside me, stifled a laugh at the sight. Mission accomplished, I pointed him toward the parade ground.
"You go play too."
"S-Sergeant Park Dol-seok! Yes, sir!"
He bolted off like he'd been waiting. I watched him go, then walked on with Yi Cheol-dong, chatting about our Tsushima departure in a few days.
"You hear? That mill family swapped our soldiers for goblins!"
"What? That make any sense?"
"Just listen! They caught the troops like rats. Next day, horns sprouted on their faces this big, and they wandered the yard!"
"Man, folks blessed by the throne are something else."