Zhang Fei Has Good Patience (3)
The red sunset had vanished beyond the mountain ridge, and a cool silence finally settled over the frenzied battlefield.
Inside the makeshift camp, the acrid stench of blood gave way to a thick, savory aroma that made mouths water. At the center of the camp, a massive iron cauldron bubbled with milky broth, while hefty slabs of meat sizzled on the firewood below, dripping fat with every pop. The sweet, nutty scent of freshly steamed coarse grain rice mingled in, melting away the exhaustion of battle.
“Generals! Over here! Please, accept this from us!”
At that moment, villagers in ragged clothes swarmed the camp entrance, baskets balanced on their heads. These were the people who had endured endless pillaging and violence from the Yellow Turbans, living like beasts in cowering silence. With dirt-caked, trembling hands, they offered jars of precious liquor and neatly wrapped food parcels to the soldiers.
“Truly... we’re so grateful, Generals...!”
“You pulled our village back from hell! How can we ever repay this grace...!”
Some collapsed and sobbed openly; others prostrated themselves on the rough earth, kowtowing until their foreheads bled. Seeing this, Liu Bei rushed forward in alarm, grasping their shoulders and helping them to their feet.
“No, elder! Don’t do this. Please, stand. We’ve only done our duty for the people of the Han Dynasty. How could we accept such precious treatment?”
“Even so... without you generals, we wouldn’t have survived the night...!”
Liu Bei didn’t care that his sleeves were smearing with dirt as he gently clasped each villager’s rough, tear-streaked hands. Watching his back, a strange flutter stirred in Minju’s chest.
This man... this is Liu Bei.
He’d known of his character from classical texts. But witnessing it firsthand—like it was all too real—hit differently, with a visceral impact.
Liu Bei channeled his patience and humility entirely into saving others.
This guy... he’s the real deal. Bigger than anything in the history books.
As a short sigh of admiration escaped him unbidden, Guan Yu—standing nearby—noticed Minju’s gaze. Stroking his long beard, he spoke softly.
“Yide. You were awfully strange today.”
“W-was I, brother?”
Minju felt cold sweat trickle down his spine but replied as calmly as he could.
“I don’t mean it as a rebuke. You holding back at the vanguard instead of charging recklessly like usual... honestly, it minimized our losses. Fine leadership. No—fine self-control. Looks like my nagging last time finally got through.”
Guan Yu lifted a rough earthenware cup from the table and took a slow sip of the potent liquor. His distinctive ruddy face glowed under the firelight as his phoenix eyes narrowed, piercing Minju’s expression like a blade.
“Just...”
“......”
“As your brother, I’m a bit worried you hit your head hard when you fell off your horse drunk yesterday. Your eyes... they looked like some scholar fresh on his first battlefield.”
Minju nearly choked on air. It wasn’t wrong. But he couldn’t say it aloud.
Then Liu Bei approached, hefting a large jar of liquor himself after soothing the villagers.
“Zhang Fei.”
“...Yes, eldest brother.”
“You worked hard today. Thanks to you snapping their banner at the front, our lines held and we won.”
Liu Bei smiled warmly, filling Minju’s empty cup to the brim. Cheap, reddish takju sloshed in the crude metal bowl.
“A toast to survival. Precious liquor for those who made it through the day—don’t overthink it. Down it like always.”
“......”
Minju raised the cup with both hands. The hefty weight of the crude metal felt brutally real, traveling up his thick-boned wrist.
“Uh...”
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m... not great with liquor...”
“......???”
Liu Bei, Guan Yu, and nearby volunteer soldiers all stared at Zhang Fei in shock. They’d never heard him claim he couldn’t handle drink. Especially after yesterday’s binge of eating, drinking, and brawling. Saying he couldn’t drink now? Absurd.
But Kang Minju flashed back to college orientation, seniors force-feeding endless rounds. He’d never liked booze anyway—being compelled just soured it forever.
Yet the more he refused, the thicker the suspicious glances grew.
Damn it, no choice.
With a silent prayer, he brought the bowl tentatively to his lips.
“J-just kidding, brothers. Cheers.”
Gulp.
The harsh alcohol scraped his throat, burning fiercely into his gut. His stomach ignited like fire. The sensation was too vivid—chillingly real.
“Pwah!”
Draining it successfully, Kang Minju felt an odd triumph: I did it!
Soon the torchlit camp turned into a humble feast laid on by the villagers. They beat small drums and gongs from who-knows-where, dancing as they piled meat and rice on the weary volunteer soldiers’ plates.
In the midst, a middle-aged man approached Zhang Fei cautiously, clasping his hands and bowing deeply, his waist nearly folding in half.
“General! I’ll never forget today’s grace. Thank you!”
“Ah... no need. It was nothing...”
Minju mumbled awkwardly, shifting uncomfortably.
The man’s eyes welled up as he continued. “No! Truth is, my little daughter was nearly dragged off by her hair by those Yellow Turban scum yesterday. But you charged like a tiger today, smashed their banner... they fled and left her behind. You saved my girl, General...!”
That trembling voice sent a sharp pang deep into Minju’s heart.
I... protected someone.
Kang Minju, the petty everyman who’d spent life chasing specs and reading rooms. Saving a life—a family’s whole world—was a heavy shock he’d never felt before.
His nose stung; tears threatened to spill inexplicably.
But Minju bit his lower lip hard, shoving the emotion down. Swallowing tears, reining in feelings—that was his lifelong survival tactic, in this damned world or his old one.
That night, as the feast’s clamor faded and soldiers and villagers retired one by one, Kang Minju lay down to the flap of wind-tossed tents and distant drunks’ songs as lullaby.
Soon his consciousness plunged into deep, dark abyss.
And.
“......”
Morning came.
Dazzling light pierced his eyelids. Minju snapped his eyes open, lips twitching with relief.
Right. I woke up...
But.
His view wasn’t a sterile white hospital ceiling or his familiar studio apartment wall. The same soot-stained, yellowed tent roof loomed.
He sniffed. No antiseptic. The fishy earth, sour horse sweat, and battlefield blood reek still numbed his senses.
And above all.
His body felt absurdly heavy, like dragging an iron anchor.
Exhaling shakily, Minju slowly raised his right hand before his eyes. Fingers thick as pot lids, rough and callused. Palm scarred hideous from swinging sword and spear thousands of times. Forearm bronze and veined like twisted ropes.
“......Ah.”
Identical to yesterday’s body. His lips quivered. Despair crashed like a tidal wave.
No. This can’t be. Impossible!
Denying reality, he bolted upright—only to freeze as the tent floor thudded under his massive weight’s vibration.
“General! You’re awake!”
A rustle outside, then the young soldier from yesterday—who’d brought wash water—burst in, beaming with eager anticipation instead of fear.
“Didn’t want to disturb your sleep, so I held the report. Scouts back this morning say thousands of Yellow Turban stragglers are lurking in the nearby valley! If you lead the vanguard like yesterday and sweep ’em, we’ll follow and finish them off in one go!”
That spirited report bleached Minju’s mind white.
If it were a dream, logic said he’d have woken last night. He hadn’t. Blinking changed nothing—the world persisted.
The implication was clear.
“......Not... a dream?”