Chapter 48
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: penny
Chapter: 48
Chapter Title: If You Wake Up, That's Enough
-----------------------------------------------------------------
“Do you... love Hikage? Il-yeong?”
A soft murmur, laced with exquisite tenderness, struck Yoshinari's heart like a thud.
“...Pardon?”
Her ash-gray eyes wavered, and the hand holding the sake cup trembled faintly for a moment.
It wasn't that she failed to understand the Daimyo's words.
On the contrary, her trembling gaze stemmed from understanding them all too well.
Her lips parted.
She tried to speak, then stopped short.
It wasn't a lack of words.
She was simply bewildered.
What does she mean?
Yoshinari replayed Nobunaga's question—her lord's question—in her mind, chewing it over, reciting it, reliving it.
Nobunaga's face formed in her pupils.
A sharp-featured woman sipping tea, her face shadowed in the moonlight.
Yes, a woman's face.
And in that moment, Yoshinari realized it.
Or perhaps she had known all along. She had simply turned a blind eye.
—A woman's intuition?
Or a vassal's gauge of her lord?
She had glimpsed the fragments of emotions confounding her master. And so, she closed her eyes.
She clutched her pounding heart.
She suppressed the anxiety crawling up her spine and fueled the impulse intensified by the alcohol.
Then, she opened her mouth.
“Yes. I love him.”
It wasn't the general who spoke.
Nor the vassal, nor even the head of the Mori family.
She was merely a woman undone by sake.
A chill wind whistled past, brushing the cheeks of the two women. The words she uttered lingered between them on the breeze, and Yoshinari opened her eyes.
“I love him.”
Not Hirate Hikage.
Not the eldest son of the Hirate family.
Not even Hikage.
Simply the fragile, foolish man who had flown from Joseon, wounded, in search of a new home.
And so, she could say it.
“I love Il-yeong.”
Her cheeks flushed hot.
Her body swayed, her judgment clouded.
If an assassin struck now, she wouldn't manage a proper counterattack before falling. Yet, conversely, her heart had never been more honest.
She lowered her gaze.
She took in the man with his pale cheeks and faint breath.
She reached out and placed her hand over Il-yeong's.
Perhaps from overdoing the ventilation, his hand felt unusually cold.
She intertwined their fingers.
Hoping her feverish hand might warm his cold one, even a little.
She lifted her head.
Her shadowed throat under the moonlight led to flushed cheeks, her disheveled hair swaying in the wind.
“Is that so.”
In that instant, Nobunaga's red lips parted slightly, releasing a voice thick with tangled emotions.
To claim ignorance would be a lie.
No, she had asked precisely because she knew.
By voicing it—by daring to ask—she thought it might settle what to do with her heart.
Slosh—.
The tea in her cup rippled in gentle waves. Somehow mirroring her own heart, she merely exhaled a bitter breath.
“A pointless question.”
Torments piled upon torments.
She didn't believe in gods, yet tonight the heavens felt cruel. Glancing at the black sky only deepened the feeling.
The moon is especially bright tonight.
It seemed the reason the room was so illuminated. With a sip of the now-cold tea still in her mouth, she gazed down at Il-yeong, lying so cruelly between the two women, and murmured softly.
“What a sinful wretch. Isn't he?”
Indeed he was.
Not content with stealing both women's hearts, he had danced with death twice in as many weeks.
Even in these chaotic times, it was no common feat.
“...And you, my lord?”
At that moment, Yoshinari forced her sealed lips apart and finally asked.
“Do you love him?”
Nobunaga averted her gaze, tinged with pity.
Suddenly, the sake bottle in Yoshinari's hand caught her eye. She had no desire to drink amid the lack of revelry, yet the ache in her heart made her crave intoxication.
She mulled over the question.
—Do you love him, my lord?
It tossed a profound dilemma into her already precarious state of mind. After wrestling with conflict upon conflict, she parted her lips.
“Who knows.”
She turned her head and picked up the teapot beside her, still warm, to refill her cup.
She hadn't made up her mind.
It simply wasn't a matter of affection or not.
How could she deny what she had already acknowledged?
How did things come to this?
She regretted not keeping the conversation indoors.
She wished she had kept him close when her interest first sparked.
With such thoughts swirling, she slowly opened her mouth. Her mind still uncomposed, she was about to utter something indifferent.
“......Ah.”
—Had it not been for Il-yeong's rasping voice.
It was a fleeting moment.
A groan of pain, yet as his lips parted and closed, the two women's eyes met.
His pale cheeks quivered.
Blood beaded on his cracked lips, trembling before trickling down his jawline, while his thick lashes fluttered.
Yet neither moved rashly.
It had happened countless times over the past fortnight.
They merely focused on his voice, expecting nothing more.
Whish.
The wind blew again, tousling the women's hair. Simultaneously, the faint hope they harbored turned to resignation, spurring them into motion.
In the end, Il-yeong did not wake this time either.
All that remained in the Tenshugaku was tea and sake shimmering in the moonlight.
And so, Yoshinari lifted her sake cup with a somber expression. Nobunaga brought the cold tea back to her lips as well.
And just as both women were about to take a sip—
“......Cough!”
Il-yeong's coughing fit halted them both. Their cups lowered slowly, and without a word, they rushed to his side in unison.
They checked his face.
His brows furrowed. His eyelids twitched faintly, and his throat bobbed.
“...Yoshinari.”
“Yes, my lord.”
At Nobunaga's urgent yet subdued command, Yoshinari rose promptly and headed to the next room.
The physician who had treated Il-yeong before was waiting there. He was likely asleep by now, but he would soon awaken to check his condition.
And so, she imprinted Il-yeong's face in her eyes.
The face of her foolish vassal.
The face she hoped would not grow cold like this.
And in that instant.
Il-yeong's eyes slowly opened.
His lips parted.
“...No, Nobunaga.”
Not "my lord."
Not his master.
Her full name spilled from his lips.
At the same time, the corner of his mouth lifted slightly, and a voice that had yet to fully form resonated.
What did that mean?
She leaned in to listen.
—Creak!
“M-My lord. Please step aside.”
The door opened, and the physician Yoshinari had fetched began taking Il-yeong's pulse with a request for permission. For a moment, she considered pushing him away with her authority as Daimyo—but soon stepped back a pace and took a sip of the remaining cold tea.
Il-yeong had awakened.
For now, that was enough.
*
Once the physician finished his examination, Il-yeong collapsed back into sleep as if fainting. What followed was merely an extension of his long treatment.
His internal organs were damaged.
His previously injured arm was no major issue, but his body bore nearly twenty light sword wounds.
The physician told Il-yeong that death would have been more fitting. His survival was nothing short of a miracle.
And so, Il-yeong could be certain.
My body's not right.
He had survived such wounds through archaic medicine, not modern care. That meant his body was anything but normal.
...The effects of red ginseng?
He entertained the nonsense for a moment but soon reached a conclusion. It was either some trick by whoever sent him to this world or a genuine miracle.
However, survival didn't mean he could relax yet.
The wounds were severe; full recovery would take considerable time.
No problem there.
Just eat well and rest—that was all.
But Il-yeong's greatest ordeal lay elsewhere.
On the first day he fully regained consciousness, he had to console Yoshinari as she clung to him, sobbing uncontrollably. His wounds hadn't even healed, yet he took a few hits while holding her.
He could endure that much.
But then, well...
“Garlic imported from Joseon. Eat up.”
“This is called eel grass. They say it's great for inflammation.”
“Turmeric.”
“Mugwort.”
“...Angelica.”
Il-yeong stared at the bizarre spread before him and glanced at the woman standing beside it.
A woman with black bobbed hair and striking golden eyes.
The master of Owari, and his Daimyo.
And so, Il-yeong spoke with utmost courtesy.
“...My lord. Herbs aren't meant to be eaten raw; they're decocted first.”
The table was laden with all sorts of medicinal ingredients, most said to be good for inflammation or internal injuries.
Yes, all beneficial.
But why serve them raw?
Nobunaga smirked at Il-yeong's expression. A rare smile brightening her usually enigmatic face.
“I know that. But I wanted to tease you.”
“Pardon?”
In that instant, she stepped close to Il-yeong.
She caressed his previously injured arm and whispered in a very low, soft voice.
“Tell me. Who ordered you to march out?”