Chapter 37
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 37
Chapter Title: Battle of Murakitori Fortress (5)
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“Hiya!”
Dragging his exhausted body onto the horse with great effort, Il-yeong prompted them to begin their breakthrough right away.
Of course, with Il-yeong on the verge of collapse, Yoshinari took every precaution to ride carefully and avoid injuring him further—but things rarely went as planned.
“Hah! Out of the way!”
The blue spear traced a long arc, sending another life plummeting to the earth. Yet Yoshinari's face, despite this feat of valor, was grim.
“Hah... ack.”
Il-yeong's hands, wrapped around her waist, trembled faintly.
His breath, which might have felt teasingly intimate under normal circumstances, came in ragged gasps that clearly betrayed his struggle to stifle the pain. Il-yeong simply leaned against her in silence, saying nothing.
“Shibata! Faster!”
“Y-yes, got it!”
Even a fool could sense he was in bad shape.
That was why Yoshinari shouted, and Shibata Katsuie, belatedly realizing Il-yeong's condition, gripped her reins and spear shaft tightly, gritting her teeth as she cleaved a path forward.
Shibata Katsuie, masked in her red oni visage.
Mori Yoshinari, wielding her blue spear and carving countless trajectories through the air.
Il-yeong clung to his fading consciousness with effort, flashing a wry smile at the two female warriors' desperate struggle.
Both of them are more worn out than me, if anything. No way they're less exhausted.
Yoshinari might not feel it yet, but just as Il-yeong's body shuddered and groaned in agony, hers was screaming in protest too.
And the same went for Shibata Katsuie.
I'm the crazy one here.
Saving Shibata Katsuie and then fighting like a madman afterward could be chalked up to force of circumstance.
But when Yoshinari came to his rescue, why hadn't he turned back immediately?
Had a momentary urge to rack up achievements seized him?
Or was it a desire to win the wager they'd started, come hell or high water?
Either way, it was reckless.
Why does it feel like I'm getting all sentimental lately?
He'd once read somewhere while digging into history that the thrill of battle brought modern people immense pleasure.
But that high was fleeting.
As the heat cooled and the adrenaline that had set his heart pounding began to ebb, the reality of how many brushes with death he'd survived started to sink in.
“Get out of the way! Move it!”
Yoshinari's body twitched faintly.
—Hiiing!
The weary horse galloped across the battlefield under its rider's command.
Thud, plop.
The sensation of his head lolling against her thigh as he gripped it with his hand.
All of it affirmed the reality of the battlefield on which he stood.
“Ngh.”
Suddenly, a dull ache pulled his gaze aside.
The cloth he'd hastily wrapped around his arm earlier was gone, and now blood beaded along the wound from the jolting ride.
No wonder things are starting to blur. Anemia, huh.
Had the wound reopened during the fight?
Already on the brink of exhaustion, the creeping anxiety that he might actually die made Il-yeong smile bitterly.
But he couldn't let it show.
Not for the sake of these women breaking through the battlefield in his stead.
So Il-yeong pressed himself as tightly as possible against Yoshinari's back, hugging her waist with all his strength to ensure he wouldn't fall even if he passed out.
“Raaagh!”
As if sensing his condition, Yoshinari let out a beastly roar and urged the horse even faster. Il-yeong closed his eyes.
*
“...Yeong!”
A familiar voice rang in his ears.
“Il-yeong!”
“Hirate-dono!”
His head felt utterly empty.
Ignoring the throbbing pain, he forced his eyes open and met the worried gazes fixed on him.
“Urgh...”
They said adrenaline was the best painkiller.
If it was going to play that role, he wished it would last a bit longer—but it seemed the effects were wearing off.
“A-are you alright, young master?”
At Itsuki's voice, Il-yeong looked around. They'd already escaped the battlefield and reached the edge of the camp.
“Hold on just a moment. Let me get down first...”
Yoshinari carefully unwrapped his hands from her waist to help the clearly unwell Il-yeong dismount.
But Il-yeong didn't wait, staggering to his feet and leaping down after her on unsteady legs.
“Ah... I'm dying.”
“I said wait!”
Yoshinari approached in exasperation, trying to check on him.
But at that moment, Shibata Katsuie stared at Il-yeong's arm with a stiff expression and said,
“The wound is deep.”
At her words, Yoshinari urgently grabbed Il-yeong's arm and lifted his armor, revealing a gash so severe the bone gleamed through.
“Ah, uh.”
“I'll fetch the physician!”
Yoshinari's face paled instantly, and Itsuki spun on his heel with a shout. But he soon had to stop.
“...No need. It's just this.”
Il-yeong's voice rang out, nonchalant to the core.
Contrasting his pallid face, he tore a strip from a nearby tent and casually bound his arm.
Then, gently stroking Yoshinari's head—now glistening with tears—he murmured softly,
“It's fine. I'm not dying.”
“B-but still.”
“I'll see the Daimyo first, then get treated right away.”
With that, Il-yeong started walking.
But Shibata Katsuie called after him in an uncharacteristically agitated voice.
“...If the wound festers, they might have to amputate the arm. Treatment first.”
“Even so.”
Il-yeong turned to reassure Shibata Katsuie.
But then.
“That's not like you, Hikage.”
A woman's voice, resonant with an odd timbre, pierced Il-yeong's ears.
He turned to see Nobunaga standing there.
“We pay our respects to the Daimyo.”
“We pay our respects to the Daimyo!”
Naturally, everyone present bowed to her.
But Il-yeong stared blankly before recalling his stubbornness moments ago and let out an incredulous laugh.
They say doing things out of character gets you killed.
Had blood loss made him delirious for a moment?
Of course treatment was the right call.
As Il-yeong stood there dazed with such thoughts, Nobunaga strode up to him and closely examined the severed head in his hand.
Then, smiling in satisfaction, she said,
“Torii Tadayoshi's heavy vassal, eh? You've brought quite the trophy.”
“Torii...”
Torii Tadayoshi—the vassal who protected the young head of the Matsudaira house, later known as Tokugawa Ieyasu.
In other words, one of the few families still holding power in Mikawa. Meaning the head in Il-yeong's grasp was no small prize.
Meanwhile, somewhat recovered by Nobunaga's arrival, Il-yeong glanced around.
The gazes that had once subtly belittled or shunned him had shifted, if only slightly.
The vanguard was no position any fierce general could guarantee survival from.
Who could scorn Il-yeong, who had returned proudly with the enemy commander's head?
Flutter—
The Oda clan banner rippled in the wind, and the roar of the battlefield echoed in his ears.
Waaaaah!
Then a soldier fresh from the front shouted loud enough to shake the tents.
“The enemy is retreating!”
“They left rear guards behind!”
Victory in battle.
At those words that turned the tide, Il-yeong finally released all tension and grinned.
He slowly knelt on one knee before Nobunaga and said,
“So, are you satisfied with this much?”
“Hmm. Well...”
To Il-yeong's playful question, Nobunaga toyed with the matchlock rifle in her hand, gazing down at him before leaning in close and whispering softly in his ear.
“Honestly, saying I'm completely satisfied would be a lie. But this... it'll do for now. Hikage.”
“...I see.”
What a demanding woman.
But that was Nobunaga for you.
“The wound isn't light, so treatment first...”
Il-yeong stared at her whispering voice, laced with subtle allure and concern, then unknowingly closed his eyes.
And in that instant.
Thud—
“Hi-Hikage?”
Il-yeong's body began to tilt slowly.
*
When Il-yeong opened his eyes again, two full weeks had passed.
The battle was long over, and a biting winter had settled over Owari.
But the chill of winter paled compared to the harsh reality facing Il-yeong as he rose from his sickbed.
“The gangrene was too severe. Amputation was the only option.”
“...What?”
Il-yeong doubted his ears at the old physician's words.
But the man merely gave him a pitying look and left.
“...Hah.”
Only then did it hit him.
Il-yeong stared at his empty left arm and the surroundings, managing only a hollow laugh.
No one was around.
Yeah. Not a soul.
Yet he was still the adopted son of the Hirate family.
Thanks to that, he could easily summon maids to fetch sake, drowning the relentless pain in alcohol.
And about a month later.
Finally, the long-awaited Hirate Masahide visited him late at night.
“Hey, Father.”
Drunk and trembling from pain, Il-yeong hugged himself with his remaining right arm and tried to rise for formalities, but Hirate Masahide looked down at him with an expression that brooked no delay and said,
“...I've spoken with the Daimyo.”
“Th-the Daimyo?”
It was frigid.
Il-yeong asked tremulously, and the response didn't stray far from his fears.
“As of today, you are no longer my adopted son.”
“Wh-why?”
Unbelievable.
Just like this? Why?
But in that moment.
“You surely know why.”
Hirate Masahide stared at Il-yeong—or rather, his severed left arm—with utterly dry eyes and spoke.
Only then did Il-yeong laugh hollowly, and with a drag—samurai entered through the open door, hauling him away.
Dragged like trash. The humiliation was utter misery.
His once-sharp vision blackened, the phantom sensation of his missing left arm gripped him, cold sweat pouring.
Then Uemon came into view.
“U-Uemon!”
A face blank beyond her years.
Clothes immaculately neat, as always excessively so.
Today, that sight felt welcoming.
But at Il-yeong's cry, Uemon merely glanced at him before turning away as if nothing had happened.
“Ah...”
By the time Il-yeong reached out, she had vanished into the distance.
Splat.
Creeak—clunk.
When Il-yeong came to again, the samurai had already tossed him out of the family compound and shut the gate.
How much time passed?
Deep into the night.
Il-yeong somewhat regained his wits and headed straight for Nobunaga.
I-I have knowledge of the future.
Hirate Masahide was one thing, but she valued talent and would surely shelter him.
Or,
This might just be one of her cruel pranks.
Nobunaga loved her jokes, after all.
Show up like this, and she'd probably say, “Pesky monkey, but you did well. As expected of my retainer.”
Though this one felt a bit much.
Clinging to that hope, he made for her quarters in Nagoya Castle.
But Il-yeong's expectations shattered within ten minutes.
“What?”
“Ah, the one-armed monkey the Daimyo mentioned.”
One-armed monkey.
He'd overheard that humiliating moniker.
Not from Nobunaga, but from the gatekeepers.
“Uwaaaah!”
“Hey, crap!”
Unable to endure it, he lunged at them, but the phantom pains gnawing his body and his unbalanced frame were no match for the Daimyo's guards.
Obviously.
Gatekeepers or not, they were Nobunaga's samurai—not some rabble.
“Cough...”
Thanks to them, Il-yeong—already in poor shape—now staggered through twilight alleys with cracked ribs to boot.
“Cough... heh. Damn it.”
Where had it all gone wrong?
Goddamn it.
Possessing into this world?
Choosing Nobunaga?
Or stepping onto the battlefield?
He lacked even the strength to blame anyone or pinpoint the ruin.
Owari's winter was brutal.
The bone-chilling cold amplified the pain in his stump, and his cracked ribs throbbed, robbing him of clear thought.
Then, voices from a nearby commoner's home drifted over—two young men.
“You know Itsuki?”
“Itsuki? Oh, the one buddy-buddy with that Joseon guy?”
“Couldn't escape the last battle, got caught by the Imagawa side, tortured every which way, and executed.”
“No way?”
“Yeah. So brutal they said his bones still had scraps of flesh clinging.”
I see.
Itsuki too, huh.
Tears welled in his pallid eyes.
“Grh... sob.”
He wailed like a beast.
“Grrr... uurrgh...”
And he staggered on aimlessly.
Feet moving at random, pushing through the flaying cold until he reached some house.
No strength left to move.
Il-yeong slumped against the wall by the gate and closed his eyes.
Am I dying here?
But then.
Creeeak—
The rusty hinges groaned as the gate opened, and a familiar voice reached his ears.
“...What. It's you?”
Her voice, always tender, sometimes cutely calling his name—Il-yeong lifted his head with trembling eyes.
And there stood Mori Yoshinari, her expression icy.
“Ah... Yo-Yoshinari.”
He didn't know why she'd come here, but feeling all the bitterness he'd endured, Il-yeong reached out to her.
And then.
Yoshinari slapped away his hand, furrowed her brow, and looked down at him with eyes full of contempt.
“You're disgusting. If you're gonna die, do it somewhere else. Don't give the Daimyo the wrong idea.”
“...The hell?”
Only then did Il-yeong realize.
Yoshinari would never say that.
No way in hell.
He was certain.
As his thoughts reached that point, he replayed all that had happened.
None of it made sense.
Then...
Ah, damn it. It's a dream.
And the moment he realized it was a dream.
“Ngh...”
Il-yeong sat up, and the old physician crushing herbs onto his left arm widened his eyes at the newly awakened patient before bolting from the room, shouting,
Slide—!
“He's awake!”
“What? For real?”
“Il-yeong!”
“Young master!”
Familiar, urgent voices poured in as if they'd been waiting, and Il-yeong glanced down at his injured left arm, flexing it experimentally.
Apart from the large scabbed wound, everything was fine. He smirked.
“Ha. Ridiculous.”
What a long nightmare.
Turning toward the door where the voices grew nearer, just then—
Crack!
“Th-the door?!”
“Out of the way!”
“E-everyone, calm down a bit...!”
All of them, who'd been waiting for him to wake, surged in at once, smashing the door to splinters right before his eyes.
“Haha... hahahaha.”
Watching them, Il-yeong gazed with eyes mixed relief and faint joy, a soft smile breaking across his face as he laughed.
It had been about a week since Il-yeong collapsed.