Three Shots Like a Single Thunderclap
Three gunshots rang out like a single thunderclap. Aw, fuck. What a goddamn ordeal because of those bastards. Face smeared with charcoal. Crawling on my elbows and knees like a worm. Those fucking pricks. Really. For over an hour, I couldn't even straighten my back once, slithering through the grass. Thanks to that, my whole body reeked of grass, sweat, and blood. For the record, the blood smell was from crawling in front of the fortress. Couldn't be helped—it'd been spraying blood and chunks of flesh just yesterday.
"Hah, hah... I'm gonna die. For real."
I barely managed to stand and leaned my back against a tree. Just that much reminded me that humans are bipedal animals. I turned my head, scanning the surroundings to catch my breath and loosen my stiff neck.
I hadn't crawled the 500 meters alone. Seventeen men from our bait and strike team, plus me. Even after reaching the forest, we silently caught our breath. Over there, in the woods on the opposite side of the Japanese camp, it was probably the same. Sergeant I Cheol-dong, who'd volunteered as leader of the diversion team with his five subordinates. They'd be waiting for the operation to start, breaths steady.
"Fuuuuh...!"
Stroking my pounding heart, I cautiously peered over my shoulder. About ten meters from the forest, the Japanese camp came into view. Calling it a camp was generous—it was more like a hobo settlement. A few tents in the center, soldiers scattered around campfires in small groups. The only military thing was the wooden palisade surrounding it.
What the hell? Seriously, just sharpened logs for a fence? No sentries? What kind of crazy bastards are these? If I'd known there were no guards, I'd have walked right up. My elbows and knees were scraped raw from crawling over an hour.
It was ridiculous, but not incomprehensible. They'd lost over forty on the first day, ninety the second. Especially day two—one Heavenly Character Cannon shot turned thirty into mush. All from just over thirty enemies. My thirty. Heh heh heh. I'm pretty damn great. Anyway, after back-to-back routs, morale in the shitter wasn't surprising. Plus, they'd never dream we'd abandon our advantageous high ground for a surprise attack like this.
"Haaa, fuuuuh...!"
Anyone could see this ambush was set to succeed. Still, my hands kept shaking, heart hammering like mad. They had at least seventy. Us? Twenty-four, even counting the diversion team. Beating three times our number in open field with no cover? Slim odds. But quitting here? No way. I proposed this op. The men and officers staked their lives on it. And crawling all this way? Too damn wasteful. Crawl back to the fortress? Fuck that, I'm beat.
"Everyone. Ready?"
Thinking we'd caught our breath enough, I looked around at the soldiers. In the darkness, their eyes gleamed with firm resolve. Got it. They're ready. Me? Not so much. Ah, shit. I really don't wanna go. Good thing it was pitch-black dawn. Hid my teary eyes nicely. I missed Eori. Missed her so much. And our daughter. Mom. In-laws. Everyone in Hwacheok Village. My seodang buddies. Aaaah, I'm losing it. Why'd I do it? Why strut around as a military officer? Could've just pulled strings with Crown Prince Munjong, coasted in some cushy post. Oh, right. Yeah. I became an officer to save lives. To minimize the World War I-scale casualties coming later. But this? No different. We're doing this op to evacuate the wounded and non-combatants. What's the difference? Yeah. None. I'm not going to die. I'm going to save people.
Pewng!
Then, an explosion boomed from the Japanese camp. Had to be the diversion team's bomb. Steel myself, I whispered the order.
"Everyone. Ready to fire."
They lined up beside me, matchlock rifles at the ready. I raised mine too, aiming at the panicking Japanese in their camp.
"@#$%^&*!"
"*$@!"
"@#$%^$@!"
Chaos incarnate. The ones lounging by campfires bolted up, looking around wildly.
Kwang! Peung!
Bombs exploded, pinpointing their position. Fewer than twenty Japanese bolted toward the blast's opposite side—straight at our ambush woods—faces pale even in the dark.
"Hammers back!"
I stood shouting. The soldiers echoed, rising too.
"“Hammers back!”"
Like a flight of wild geese, I led from the front, stepping out of the woods. My men fanned out behind, revealing ourselves to the Japanese fleeing our way. They spotted us and froze.
I eyed their terror-stricken faces briefly, then commanded.
"Aim!"
Every soldier shouldered their rifles, sights on target. The Japanese whirled to flee—but before they took steps, I yelled.
"Designated marksmen first!"
Please. I just wanna go home.
"Fire! Commence!"
Peng! Pepeng! Peng! Peupepeng! Pepeng!
No Neuller bullets this time. We'd melted captured lead balls, loaded six or seven extra per musket. Everyone, including me. Over a hundred lead balls screamed toward the Japanese. Punching holes in fleeing backs, shredding guts on through-shots.
By the time the smoke cleared like fog, no Japanese stood.
Down didn't mean done.
"Everyone! Fix bayonets!"
Half of us, me included, drew bayonets and mounted them. The rest ditched smoking rifles, grabbed fresh ones from shoulders—fortress spares and enemy dead—bayonets on.
"Fuuuuh...!"
Gripping the now spear-length muskets two-handed like lances, I bellowed.
"Whole unit! Chaaarge!"
"Uwaaaah!"
"Die, you Japs bastards!"
All eighteen roared, charging. The Japanese rushing from the blast halted at our sight. We stormed the palisade gaps, thrusting bayonets into chests, throats, bellies.
After that, nonstop frenzy. Multiple stabs into a just-drawn sword. Rifle toss at an archer drawing bow—mine arced like a spear, bayonet impaling his chest. Drew waist pistol, sprayed at charging Japanese. Five shots in a blink. Swapped cylinder, back in.
Meanwhile, distant booms signaled I Cheol-dong's team fighting on. We rampaged here till those stopped.
"Hah! We surrender!"
Emptying my second cylinder, swapping the third—familiar voice from yesterday cried surrender.
"We surrender! Stop! We lost! No more blood!"
What bullshit. Sounds like we invaded.
"@#$%^&*!"
The black-haired interpreter yelled in Japanese too. Soldiers tossed weapons, hands up.
"Hah! Hah! Platoon leader! What now?"
A comrade who'd bled and fought beside me panted.
"They say they're surrendering!"
"Yeah. I know."
Not sure if genuine, but breathing room gained. Deep breaths calming my exploding heart, I scanned. The thirty-odd blocking us looked terrified. Hands up empty, some shirtless. Oh. That one's pissed himself. Legs glistening. Glanced at black-hair, then turned.
He wore black armor like yesterday, but hands empty like his men.
"Surrender! We surrender! No more attacks!"
"You. Then."
Pistol on him as he yelled again. Ignored his flinch.
"Tell 'em all to hit the dirt. Left ankle over right, hands clasped behind necks. Or I'll blow their heads off."
"Y-yes!"
"But why the fuck aren't you raising your hands?"
"R-raising! See!"
Only after I pointed. He yelled to his men. They eyed each other, then prone—one by one—ankles crossed, hands locked behind heads.
"Everyone! Stay sharp! Any head pops up, kill 'em!"
Finally, time to check my men properly. All blood-soaked like me, but all on two feet. Hah, fuck. Thank god. No one's dead. Sudden relief welled tears. Bit lip hard, stared at interpreter and officers behind.
"What about you? Not prone?"
Subordinates down, but four shiny-armored commanders not even hands up.
"Th-that is!"
Polite-toned interpreter spoke for them.
"Th-they're honorable samurai! Samurai consider dropping weapons and groveling ultimate shame!"
What? Samurai? Then fight with swords. While men die, not one draws. Their armor gleamed polished even in dark. We'd been trapped in fortress, caked in blood, sweat, dirt.
"Aish. Fuck. Really. Joseon bastards or Japanese."
Holstered pistol, hand on grip ready. To samurai:
"Fuck. Honorable pricks start shit with terror and ultimatums? Shut up and drop weapons?"
"Uh, th-that, sir."
"What, you Jap fuck. Translate quick. I'm tired."
"@#$%^&*!"
Before interpreter, a samurai yelled. The one showing iai yesterday. Eyes sharp through helmet and mask. Resolved glint. What's his deal? Name... Ichiki? Itsuka? Looked to interpreter.
Trembling voice: "M-master challenges you to duel."
Duel? Fuck. Bullshit.
"Nah. No. Tell him shut up, drop sword, grovel."
Shaking head, waved left hand side-to-side. Exhausted as fuck. Asshole.
"@#$%^&*!"
Obvious refusal even without Korean, but samurai ignored.
"@#$%^&* Ichiki Daki-hiro *&^%$#@"
"No. I said no."
"*&^%%^&*@#$%!"
"Nooo?!"
Before I finished, hand on hilt, he closed fast. Blink—he was there. Last night's demo flashed: wood block tossed, iai-split in instant. Kim Si-jin'd be fucked. Leaned back sharp. Eyes on drawing hand, right yanked pistol, left hammered hammer. As he fell: once. Falling: once. Back hits: once. Three.
Papapang!
Three shots like single thunder.
"...!"
Suddenly, I lay rigid, pistol on samurai. Rolled aside, stood quick, thumbed hammer back on him.
"Kuhk, kuhp, krrk!"
No need. One of three hit throat; blood gushed from mask mouth-hole. Hand dropping half-drawn sword clutched neck. Crimson leaked fingers.
"Krrrk!"
Turning, gurgling, eyes through helmet-mask smiled gratefully.
Sudden memory: modern US, suicide-by-cop with knives. Cops don't think that.
"You fucking asshole, really."
"If you wanna die, do it alone."
Muttering in disbelief, he was down. Staring sky, utterly still.
"Yeah. Dead guys got it easy."
Shoving unease aside, eyed samurai through lingering smoke. Eyes wide under helmets-masks, trembling.
Why they like that?
"O-oni...!"
One muttered. Others echoed.
"Oni has come...!"
"The oni did it...!"
Wha? O-oni? Oni like Oni-chan? All muttering same, knees that wouldn't bend hit dirt.
"Why? What? Why?"
Panicked, to interpreter. He too stared not at me—above. Translated samurai words.
"S-sir, you're horned goblin...!"
Goblin? Me? Me goblin? Laughable, I chuckled.
"Platoon leader."
Soldier approached, helmet in hand. Handed it, whispered.
"Looks like horn on forehead."
"Huh? Ah, shit!"
Head felt breezy! Slapped helmet back, hiding acorn-sized bump. Too late—everyone nearby saw.
"Tell me quick if it falls!"
Snapped irritably, rummaged chest pocket. Morale signal—never thought real use. Bit whistle, blew hard.
Piiiieeeeek! Piiiieeeeek!
Sharp in silent night sky. Victory signal. We'd won.