Sword of the North
The road to the northern front.
It was a land that had served as a battlefield for so long that its rulers had changed hands dozens of times, as retreat and advance repeated over and over.
People died and moved on, until neither beast nor plant remained — nothing but ruins as far as the eye could see.
"Ugh…."
"Uncle, are you all right?"
"Ah… yes… I'm fine…."
Yu Yangcheol, for whom riding a horse clearly did not come naturally, was having quite a miserable time of it.
"Nnngh… urrgh…."
With every movement of the horse, pain shot through his thighs and lower back, and his brow creased in agony.
His family had once been a prestigious one, but their fortunes had collapsed when he was young, and he had been forced to do all manner of work to get by — so Yu Yangcheol had never learned the things a young master of a great house was supposed to learn.
Every so often, coarse phrases and gestures straight out of some back alley would slip out of him, and that alone was enough to guess that he had lived a rough and punishing life.
He looked the part of a gentle scholar, but the flash of that back-alley brawler now and then took people by surprise.
They say a hard life roughens the tongue, and even though he had passed the examinations and entered officialdom, those edges seemed impossible to fully erase.
Yu Yanghui knew the life he had lived — that was why she hadn't been able to put up much of a fight when he offered to take Samryong with him.
Because she knew better than anyone how hard he had worked all those years.
"…I'm sorry. Going through all this hardship on my account…."
Yu Yangcheol felt guilty, wondering if his nephew was suffering just as much as he was.
But Samryong looked perfectly comfortable in the saddle, as if riding were second nature to him.
"I'm sorry for dragging you into such rough business… ahem… ahem…."
"It's fine. Those men have it far worse than we do."
Watching the exhausted faces of the soldiers trudging along on foot, Yu Yangcheol realized anew just how good his own lot was, and gave up on his complaining.
"Uuugh…."
Just as the pain washing over his whole body like a beating nearly made him lose consciousness — not that he was trying to make a show of it — a welcome sound rang out.
Puuuu~
With a resounding blast of the horn, the entire marching column came to a halt.
"Thank heavens…."
"My back's about to snap in two…."
"I can't feel my legs anymore…."
Wails of relief burst out from all sides, and Yu Yangcheol, realizing that at last he could dismount, let out a long sigh of relief before anything else.
"Whew… but… it's awfully bare up here."
A vast open plain.
Not a bad spot to make camp.
So this is a horizon, huh.
Had he ever actually seen a horizon back in his previous life in Korea? Seeing one in the flesh for the first time — a thing he'd only ever heard about — left him with a strange feeling.
It drove home, once again, just how vast this Central Plains really was.
More and more open ground. That means we're close.
The appearance of so many wide-open spaces was a sure sign they were nearing the northern front.
"At last, I can rest…."
"Let me take a look at you?"
"Yes… just my back, please. You know, your needling gets better every day."
"I know my meridian theory inside and out."
In the three months before they set out for the north, life at the Tang Clan had been rather busy and grueling.
From morning until sundown he received martial instruction from Tang Mun-seong; after dark he went to the Medicine Hall to study the healing arts; and in his spare hours he visited the Poison Hall to learn about toxins.
The first month, he'd close his eyes on his bed and open them to find morning already there. By the second, he'd grown somewhat accustomed to the pace and found a little time to study at night. By the third, he could even fit in study of military strategy.
Wasn't the human capacity for endurance remarkable? No matter how punishing things got, people adapted in the end.
Those days had been agony for both body and mind, but now that he was drawing nearer to the north, he only regretted not having learned even more.
"Ugh… ughh! Uwaaack…."
"You're killing me. Killing me, I say."
Early in the march, the soldiers had looked enviously at Yu Yangcheol riding along on horseback — but for a long while now, they'd been watching him wobble and hobble awkwardly every time he dismounted with eyes full of pity.
"Hnngh!"
"We're almost at camp. Shall I carry you?"
"I have my pride!"
"Sigh…."
Before he knew it, they had arrived in front of the barracks where Samryong and Yu Yangcheol would be staying.
A barracks no different from what the common soldiers used.
The only difference was that the two of them would occupy it alone.
"You're putting them in the right spots, right?"
"I told you — this is your first taste of the real thing, Uncle."
Yu Yangcheol wanted to tell him to stop, but it was thanks to Samryong's needles that he had held out this long, so he simply kept his mouth shut.
"Ah! That stings! Do you really have to do that? It burns like fire…."
"You have to disinfect it properly, or the wound will fester, I'm telling you."
Swipe, swipe.
It was bound to sting, being wiped down with strong liquor.
"Alcohol too precious to even drink…."
"It was made for medicinal use, so I doubt it tastes good anyway. Here I go."
"All right…."
His needling grew more skillful by the day.
Neither the one giving the treatment nor the one receiving it felt any burden anymore.
It's fascinating, really.
Was it that poison and medicine were two sides of the same coin? He came to understand why the Tang Clan so often produced accomplished physicians — because they specialized in poisons and acupoint-striking techniques.
Striking an opponent's fatal acupoints required a thorough study of the body's channels, and studying poison inevitably meant learning antidotes as well.
Learn needles while avoiding only the lethal points, and you would at least never harm a patient mid-treatment; brew medicine while avoiding only the toxic ingredients, and you were already halfway to safe.
"Hmm…."
Call it a sense of reward for having served as a living test subject? The pain in his back, which had felt like it was tearing apart, slowly began to subside.
"When we're done, you still have to practice your martial arts."
"Haha, even the drill instructors had praise for my Chungjeol Blade Art."
Even by Samryong's eye, it wasn't bad.
Yu Yangcheol looked frail, but years of rough, physically punishing labor from a young age had built up impressive practical muscle, and he picked up most techniques quickly.
And yet there was one thing about him that gave Samryong pause.
"The Chungjeol Blade Art… and there's the Patriotic Spear Art, the Loyal Fist Art, the Devoted Halberd Art… why are they all like that? And why on earth do you insist on such a heavy blade?"
"Simple. The enemy wears armor, so if I can't cut through it, I mean to bludgeon them instead. For that, a heavy, weighty blade beats a light sword every time. Did you study your military texts?"
"A little."
"Then practice your strategy while I practice my blade."
"I read them, but I couldn't make heads or tails of them…."
"That's why you read them again and again. As they say…."
True to the Yu family blood, the lecture went on and on.
Even if he wanted to flee, there was nowhere to run, so Samryong had no choice but to sit and listen.
"Drag it out any longer and it's nothing but nagging, so if you'd rather not hear it, go read your strategy books."
"Yes, Uncle."
The one small mercy was that whenever the lecture threatened to stretch too long, Yu Yangcheol had the self-awareness to stop himself.
Mother could stand to learn a thing or two from this.
"And I hear you turned down every single marriage proposal?"
"None of them had the dignified bearing Mother has."
"How would you know without even meeting them? Ever since your grandfather cleared his name, he's thrown himself into the search more energetically than anyone… and hearing you refused them all left him quite downcast. Thankfully, seeing his grandchild after so long cheered him up. Send him letters now and then, even if not often. Didn't you see how delighted he was with you?"
Before departing for the north, Samryong had stopped briefly at his mother's family home, and he had been treated with remarkable generosity.
He'd come within an inch of literally eating himself to death, and learned just what boundless love from a grandfather and grandmother meant.
It had been a week that stood in stark contrast to the frozen tightrope of life at the Tang Clan.
"I will."
"Tsk. And Hye-young does nothing but trail after you like a lost puppy… this is why raising a daughter is a waste of… hmm?"
"Hold on."
"What is it?"
"Someone's coming."
Someone had been caught by Samryong's senses.
"May we enter, Compiler Yu?"
"Ah, one moment… yes, come in."
The moment Yu Yangcheol, hastily straightening his clothes, gave his permission, the barracks flap was lifted and a hulking giant of a man stepped inside.
If Lü Bu of the Three Kingdoms had ever taken human form, surely he would have looked like this? The mere sight of him pressed down with an oppressive presence.
Unlike ordinary martial artists, the aura radiating from generals was of an entirely different order.
And he's someone who has genuinely mastered the martial arts.
The moment Samryong laid eyes on him, he could tell at once that this man had real training.
"What brings you here, General Yeo?"
The surname Yeo? Fitting.
Rarely had a man suited his family name so perfectly.
"The Grand General wishes to see you. Word has come that we'll be reaching the front lines soon."
"Ah… understood."
"Oh, your nephew may come along as well. The sons and nephews of the others have been summoned too."
"We'll do that."
Leaving those words behind, the man withdrew quietly, and Samryong and Yu Yangcheol finished dressing and set out after him.
"By the way, Uncle — Compiler means the Hanlin Academy, doesn't it?"
"It does. We were lucky."
The Hanlin Academy, open only to those who scored among the very best in the imperial examinations.
There, a seventh-rank Compiler spent his days chiefly compiling and organizing documents.
Notably, they often led or participated in large-scale literary projects by imperial decree.
For a man holding such a post to appear on a battlefield — something certainly smelled off, but since Yu Yangcheol said nothing himself, Samryong decided not to pry.
Still, they had been living side by side for some time now, and Yu Yangcheol had roughly caught on to what his nephew was thinking.
"It's strange, isn't it — a Compiler coming to a place like this?"
"A little?"
"It's simple. There are still those in the palace who haven't warmed to our family."
"I heard the ones who framed you were already purged?"
At that, Yu Yangcheol pressed on.
"Their deaths left vacancies. Tell me — what do you think is the best way to claim the vacant seat of a dead man of power?"
Samryong found the answer without any difficulty.
He had watched it happen countless times in his previous life, after all.
"Ah… claiming to carry on the dead man's legacy?"
I shall inherit so-and-so's will. I am the one true heir! The dead shall rise again! — and so on, in all manner of guises, there had always been those who styled themselves successors.
Of course, most of them did not meet pleasant ends.
Why? Would a fool pick capable subordinates? No — a fool picks fools, and those fools pick more fools.
What could a mob like that possibly accomplish? They flailed about, each scrambling to save his own skin, until the whole edifice slowly rotted and collapsed.
"Exactly. A sinking ship — but one packed to the brim with treasure, so they can't bring themselves to disembark."
"Hmm…."
"Don't look so grim. They'll ruin themselves and vanish on their own. They're nothing but a headless snake thrashing about one last time before it dies."
"Weeds, the lot of them…."
Samryong wasn't entirely convinced, but Yu Yangcheol seemed certain of something.
"Worry instead about how to make the most of your time here. The palace is my battlefield."
This was not the frail Yu Yangcheol he had seen tumbling off his horse — this was Yu Yangcheol with a beast's fangs sheathed behind a scholar's smile.
"What I mean is, I have plans of my own."
"Understood. You have your own war to fight, Uncle."
At Samryong's composed reply, a gentle smile spread across Yu Yangcheol's lips.
"Only a few months have passed, and already you've grown into a proper adult."
Before long, they stood before the Grand General's tent.
Certainly befitting a Grand General — it was the largest and most splendid of them all.
Then again, it was a marching tent rather than a field one, so it made ample sense.
If a commander camped like this during an actual field campaign, you would have to question his competence.
"There's something you should hear before we go in."
"What would that be?"
"There are a few men inside that tent who hold no love for our family."
Learning that the very people who had forced Yu Yangcheol to this place waited inside, Samryong's eyes turned cold and sharp.
In a word — were it not for the men inside that tent, Samryong would never have suffered the nightmare of being drafted back into service.
"Ah… so that's how it is."
"Loosen up that glare. As they say, the eyes are the windows of the heart. There are men in there who can read your very thoughts from a glance alone. That lot are positively uncanny at sensing another's mood."
"Understood."
"Good. You'll do fine."
And so Samryong stepped into the tent alongside Yu Yangcheol.