Max Insight, Beom Dal's Laundry Method
Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.
The main force of Cheonrangdae marched across the plains, their footsteps echoing far and wide.
The 2,500 slave soldier infantry didn't just trudge forward.
It was the prelude to death—a massive iron millstone grinding slowly toward the nomads' lifeline.
1,200 vanguard troops cloaked in pitch-black beast-hide armor led the way, followed by 1,300 infantry forming a forest of spear tips as they left the plains and entered the hills, filling one side of the horizon.
Of the vanguard's 1,200, everyone except the Survival Demons gripped 3-meter-long wooden spears, their shafts reinforced with iron cores that no ordinary nomad warrior's curved sword could slice or hack through.
Blocking their path were enormous rectangular shields layered with thin iron plates and blackened monster leather.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Every synchronized step from the infantry made the shields clash, producing an eerie frictional screech.
Trailing behind were 800 main force troops clutching wooden shields and the vanguard's former 2-meter short spears as javelins, while 500 Manma Warriors moved alongside, each clutching their talismans and ritual tools.
Wiji Gang, sword plunged into the dirt and blood dripping from its blade, gasped for breath.
"Huff... huff...!"
Three arrows jutted grotesquely from his shoulder and forearm—ones he hadn't managed to yank out.
The armor he'd swung around while facing dozens of warriors alone atop the walls was now little more than rags.
Jo Pil abandoned his horse and rushed over, supporting Wiji Gang's mangled shoulder.
"Brigade Commander! You okay? Snap out of it!"
Despite Jo Pil's shout, Wiji Gang turned to stare at Jinhyuk.
Jinhyuk still dangled from the saddle, face pale as death, hand clamped over his mouth as he stared at the battlefield.
It was a desperate struggle to suppress the rising nausea and the terror of lost sensation in his lower body.
But to Wiji Gang's eyes, it looked like a cool commander surveying the field, hand over mouth, confirming the enemy's doom.
Jinhyuk felt his vision flicker white.
The feeling in his groin had been gone for ages, and even though the horse had stopped, the pain radiating from his waist and legs kept him from dismounting—a fear that gripped him tight.
His stomach twisted, on the verge of spewing.
He croaked out words at Beom Dal beside him, mixed with guttural moans.
"Beom... Beom Dal... get me... down... please... I can't feel my lower body... it's numb... the horse stopped... why won't you let me down... I'm gonna die... please just stop this..."
Beom Dal glanced at Jinhyuk's unfocused eyes, twitching thighs, and grimace fighting back vomit.
'The Brigade Commander’s about to piss himself from the pain. Makes sense—riding a horse ain’t easy.'
But Beom Dal didn't commit the blunder of helping him down here.
Instead, he laundered Jinhyuk's raw survival instinct in one swift pass, spitting it out as a roaring bellow to ignite Wiji Gang and the Iron Blood troops' hearts.
"Wiji Gang! Iron Blood warriors! The Brigade Commander speaks! It's time for the reckoning! Exact blood debt from those bastards who spilled our comrades' blood! Slaughter them until your hands go numb! I've set the stage—now go!"
Wiji Gang's eyes blazed red at the brutal words.
The horse halting declared as the "moment of reckoning," vengeance defined as "until hands go numb"—Jinhyuk's merciless command sent chills through him.
"Hahaha! That's it! Hear that, Iron Blood? The Brigade Commander demands blood debt! Leave not a single one!"
As if responding to Wiji Gang's fervor, Hwang-yeonggam's seasoned bark cut through the field from where he commanded the infantry march.
"Iron Blood, all units—advance!"
"Rear ranks! Spears up! Throw 'em! Chuck every damn one!"
Hwang-yeonggam's orders were crude. No elegance or precision like trained regulars' volley fire.
The 800 Cheonrangdae troops flung their arms in sheer terror—if they didn't throw now, Doksa or Cheolgeo in the rear would make them pay later in hellish drills.
Whoosh—!
Whirr!
Swish!
800 wooden short spears arced into the sky. No aiming. These untrained souls had never drilled in javelin throws—their efforts were a total mess.
Some soared too high, slicing empty air uselessly; others plopped weakly at their feet; a few even spun sideways like mad propellers.
But that chaos became calamity.
Skilled cavalry might predict landing zones, block with shields, or swerve—but against this "random rain," nomad mobility meant nothing.
800 razor-tipped wooden rods blanketed the field, impossible to predict.
Thunk! Crunch!
Kyaaak!
Unforeseeable trajectories shattered horse skulls, pierced narrow gaps between shields to impale nomad thighs.
The slaves' amateur hour turned into inescapable buckshot, smothering the nomads.
The young heirs' frontline cavalry collapsed into pandemonium.
"Wh-what... felled by such pathetic Central Plains slaves...!"
A young sub-tribe chief, flaunting wolf pelts, tumbled from his horse with a spear lodged in his throat.
Then Dokmun's 500 Manma Warriors billowed purple smoke.
Hiss—fwoooosh!
Warriors who inhaled it screamed and crumpled; vanguard troops advanced silently, shields forward, trampling them underfoot.
Nomad scimitars hacked at spear shafts, but the iron-cored wood just rang "clang!" and held firm.
Squelch! Gaaark!
Pain-wracked screams and tearing flesh filled the air.
At the heart of this slaughter, Jinhyuk wore a face begging for death atop his horse.
His hand over his mouth was the last line against erupting bile.
'No... what's that purple smoke? Poison gas? You lunatics, I'm right here! You trying to kill me too?'
Every excited buck from the horse—stirred by battle heat and gas—slammed the saddle mercilessly into Jinhyuk's agony.
The groin pain had evolved beyond burning into bone-chilling ache.
As Hwang-yeonggam ravaged the enemy with infantry, and Doksa and Cheolgeo approached reforming the front, Jinhyuk shook his head weakly—no strength left even to reply.
Beom Dal saw the desperate head-shake and launched another divine translation.
"Doksa! Cheolgeo! The Commander’s bored of lopping off greenhorn heads! He's watching those old bastards trembling in the rear, waiting for them crawl out!"
"Krrgh! As expected of the Brigade Commander! Even his observation has purpose!"
Doksa drew his blade in admiration; Cheolgeo silently nodded awe, sword raised, charging the fray.
Jinhyuk screamed inwardly.
'No! Not observing! I’m about to puke! You lying bastard, Beom Dal!'
The young heirs' warriors fell like autumn leaves; spear forests pressed toward the main camp of huddled refugees, forcing the tribe's veteran elders to move at last.
They emerged over corpse mounds toward Jinhyuk's horse, white flags raised.
"Halt, please! Mercy, Central Plains general!"
Batu Elder—the highest-ranked among the white-bearded refugees, who spoke Central Plains tongue—knelt on blood-soaked earth.
A dozen other elders bowed behind him.
The massacre halted.
Blackened monster-leather shields slammed into the dirt with "clang! clang!"; Wiji Gang, Jo Pil, and Iron Blood troops strode out, murder in their eyes.
Wiji Gang eyed Jinhyuk, sword undrawn.
"Jinhyuk, what now? These steppe fossils beg for life now. After my men lie cold."
Jinhyuk stared down at the elders, hand still over mouth, silent.
Or rather, he clung desperately—opening his mouth would shower green bile on their heads.
Tears welled physiologically in his eyes, gleaming to the elders as the merciless gaze of a judge over the guilty.
"We'll offer all our livestock and treasures! Become your slaves if you wish—just spare those behind us, have pity!"
Terrified by Jinhyuk's killing silence, the elders bashed heads on ground, wailing.
Thud! Thud!
Jinhyuk wailed inwardly.
'No... spare me... can't someone get me off this horse? Please...'
In the blood-reeking fortress yard—2,500 slave legion, furious Iron Blood, 8,000 begging refugees—Jinhyuk fossilized as history's coldest, cruelest "Silent Commander."
Batu Elder shuddered at the icy hush.
Was this general savoring the thrill of deciding thousands' fates with a gesture?
Or demanding greater sacrifice to appease the slain's spirits?
The elder decided.
Time to play his final card.
"General... if you permit the tribe's survival, we offer the 'Millennia Secret Technique' found in the North Sea's deep valley—and the map to its whereabouts!"
Jinhyuk's eyelids twitched faintly.
'Secret technique? Map? What do I care... my lower body's fucked... please just let these geezers get me down...'
Beom Dal repackaged the quiver as a "subtle smile at an intriguing offer," booming across the field.
Wiji Gang's sword tip grazed Batu Elder's nape, drawing a drop of blood.
The battlefield plunged into vast silence, awaiting Jinhyuk's lips.
Jinhyuk fought to stay conscious.
Tinnitus roared louder than war cries in his ears.
Batu Elder babbled desperately before him, but Jinhyuk's brain refused to process it.
Only one thought: 'Dirt ground under that horse. I want to lie there.'
But every twitch dug the saddle leather into his torn flesh. His face twisted grotesquely in pain—soldiers saw it as bloodlust, dissatisfied with the offer.
Hwang-yeonggam glared coldly at Batu Elder, readjusting his spear.
"Don't you grasp the Brigade Commander's silence? Trading tribe lives for scraps of paper? Is blood debt that cheap?"
The elders paled, clawing the dirt at his roar.
Tension hit breaking point.
Vomit from Jinhyuk's lips—or death sentence from Beom Dal.
That instant gripped 8,000 fates.
Jinhyuk felt his limit.
Numbness climbed past navel; fury boiled at Beom Dal twisting his pleas into murder calls.
'You con artist... I said get me down—why keep saying kill?!'
He reached back, clutching the Black Bear Bow.
Fingers numb, but raw will-to-live jerked muscles.
Trembling hands nocked an arrow, aiming at Beom Dal's skull.
"Beom... Beom Dal... translate... right... tell 'em... let me down... now... or I'll... pierce your head... first..."
Jinhyuk meant it.
Fail to dismount now, and he'd loose the string.
The Black Bear Bow's heavy menace chilled Beom Dal's nape.
Beom Dal swallowed dryly at the sensation—and the creak of drawn string.
But he doubled down on loyalty, escalating the drama.
"Elders! Behold the Brigade Commander's wrath! He aims the Black Bear Bow at my skull and decrees: 'If my subordinate fails to convey your atonement properly, I'll slay him first—then the 8,000 of you!' Before my head flies, kneel! Offer not maps but your tribe's heart!"
"Eek?!"
Elders quaked at Jinhyuk arrowing an ally's head, glaring murderously at them.
Sacrificing even a subordinate defied nomad logic—pure savagery.
Even Wiji Gang gaped at Jinhyuk.
"Jinhyuk... you're ruthless. Killing Beom Dal to warn us? Anyone hindering war gets purged?"
Jinhyuk screamed inside.
'No! He's not listening! Aiming at that thick skull to beg off the horse!'
But as Jinhyuk drew tighter, pressing Beom Dal, the man upped ante—pointing at Batu Elder's nape.
"Ten breaths till the Brigade Commander looses! Elder! Your tribe's fate hangs. After me, your head feeds the Black Bear next!"
Jinhyuk's cramping finger made the string quiver faintly.
To elders, it was the reaper's twitch, ready to reap.
Batu Elder crawled over corpse mound, prostrating.
"General! Please... lower the bow! We won't resist! We surrender!!!"
Jinhyuk teetered on blackout.
'...please just get me off this horse... please...'