The Old Soldier's Footwork
Thwack—! Thud!
"Aaaagh!"
The sharp crack of leather slicing through the damp dawn air ripped my eyes wide open from deep sleep.
A fresh red welt bloomed across the back of the rookie boy sleeping right next to me, and the metallic tang of blood instantly filled the barracks.
"Won't you get up, you worthless scum! The sun's high in the sky!"
The squad leader's roar hammered my eardrums.
He was already clad in his grimy iron armor, eyes bloodshot and flashing.
"Jo-gang! Dong-sok! Drag out the slow ones even if you have to break their legs. Anyone who ruins my merits gets executed on the spot!"
At the squad leader's chilling command, his lackey Dong-sok grinned obsequiously and tightened his grip on the whip.
Beside him, the senior soldier Jo-gang—top dog among the privates—absentmindedly polished his spear shaft in the corner and spat on the floor.
He was a veteran with just three months left until discharge and a ticket home after five years of service.
"Ah... fucking intense from dawn. Ease up, Squad Leader. Who's gonna clean up if you kill all the kids?"
Jo-gang grumbled as he shuffled past me and stopped.
Conscripted at sixteen, he'd rotted away five years at this northern Great Wall outpost. At twenty-one, his eyes were already duller and sharper than a decades-old battlefield vet.
He halted in front of me and nudged the collar of my ragged uniform with his boot.
"Hey, you old rookie. How old are you?"
I answered on instinct.
"Twenty-seven. Older than you, hyung. Hey, bro, watch your mouth."
"What?"
Jo-gang's brow furrowed instantly.
"What'd you say, you crazy barbarian? Hey, don't you get what I'm saying? I asked your age!"
"God, communication breakdown. Twenty! Seven! Twenty-seven! Okay? Two-two-seven! You think it's my fault I'm this old and stuck slaving here?"
I held up two fingers, then seven. Jo-gang let out a disbelieving snort and shoved my chest hard.
"Holy shit, you're older than me and can't even speak Central Plains? Listen up. Here, I'm like your great-grandpa. Got it? Don't get blood on my way home."
Jo-gang grabbed my collar and growled low in my ear.
"I've seen plenty of stubborn old barbarians like you lose their heads. Just breathe quiet-like and croak silently outside the Great Wall. Got it? If you cause trouble, my three months home turns into nine hundred days!"
I swallowed hard and glared back instead of answering.
Four years of college, two in the army. Summers unloading parcels till my body broke, then post-grad stints at night-shift convenience stores, dealing with PC bang assholes, construction site grunt work.
Twenty-seven years of a shitty life, but that shit had carved "survival instinct" into my bones.
From eavesdropping, this northern Great Wall was a weird buffer between the Imperial Court and the Wulin.
The ancient Three Covenants—no approach, no interference, no invasion—kept the Court out of Wulin autonomy, and Wulin off the Court's turf.
But in the treaty's blind spot, Wulin losers and Black Dao criminals got dumped here as slave soldiers—expendable fodder.
Rumble—!
The footsteps of five thousand assembled on the training grounds shook the earth.
Ten days into the Great Wall, evening of day seven training. I was in the barracks corner, scratching letters into the dirt floor with a stick.
In this hellhole where no one understood me, it was the only way to prove who I was.
The Hanja for my name, known to any Korean.
Jinhyuk Kang
Strong Kang, treasure Jin, shine Hyuk. As I pressed the characters firmly into the dirt, a shadow fell over me.
It was Hwang Yeong-gam, the old man I'd seen kicked around by Doksa's goons earlier.
"......!"
He stared at my name on the ground for a long moment, then snatched the stick from my hand.
And without hesitation, scrawled next to it.
Stealing footsteps
My heart dropped.
He'd seen right through me spying on his eerie movements.
The old man smirked thinly and scuffed out my name "Jinhyuk" with his foot.
Then left a curt warning.
'Don't run recklessly? Keep your center?'
From that day, I openly studied Hwang Yeong-gam's stride.
On the training grounds choking dust while swinging spears, in the chow line waiting for rotten gruel—my eyes locked on the old man's heels.
Ankle twist, knee tucked in, weight sinking below the ground.
That desperate rhythm from summer gigs, balancing heavy boxes or your back gave out—I layered it onto footwork.
The crude wooden shield over ten kilos suddenly felt feather-light.
"Hey, rookie. What the hell you doing?"
Jo-gang snuck up like a ghost and yanked my collar tight again. Bloodshot eyes blazing.
"Told you not to stand out. What's with that stride? Copying the old fart Hwang Yeong-gam? That geezer's half-crippled! Dantian shattered, martial arts sealed—he's useless!"
"Gotta survive somehow! You wanna go home too, right? Let me live! I'm getting back to my home alive!"
Korean still poured from my mouth. Jo-gang was seconds from exploding at the gibberish.
"What the fuck is this barbarian babbling? Wanna live? Then do jack shit! Stand out like that, Squad Leader shoves you to scout vanguard, and I'm dragged out too as squad head! Three months left on my tour, asshole! Don't block my path—just die stupid and quiet! Stay the fuck down!"
Jo-gang's desperate yell echoed across the grounds.
To him, I was a ticking bomb.
Couldn't communicate, yet picking up weird footwork—nothing threatened his "safe discharge" more.
"Who's dying? You can rot. I'm surviving! Dealt with knife-wielding psychos at the convenience store!"
"This barbarian bastard to the end...!"
Jo-gang gripped his sword hilt, about to draw—
"Jo-gang. What's this?"
A chilling voice.
Doksa.
Black Dao assassin, dantian wrecked, slave soldier—but head of the camp's biggest faction among five thousand.
By the no-interference covenant, regulars ignored petty slave infighting. Doksa ruled the power vacuum as the real boss.
Air turned poisonous as he approached.
His snakelike eyes scanned me; Jo-gang's hand trembled faintly.
Regular army or not, with discharge looming, getting mauled by the mad dog Doksa—or tangled in drama extending his term—was worse than death.
To Jo-gang, Doksa was filth that'd wreck his future, scarier than army rank.
"This old barbarian's got some amusing tricks. Jo-gang, if you're not training him, mind if I take him? Squad Leader left his handling to me anyway."
At Doksa's oily question, Jo-gang slowly released my collar.
"Do what you want. Can't communicate anyway, just a snag on my discharge. Kill or keep him—your call. Just get him outta my sight."
Jo-gang spat and turned away.
His slouched back reeked of a wretched sigh: Please, no bodies on my watch.
"Follow. I'll teach you the real rules here."
Doksa grinned grotesquely and led on.
I recalled Hwang Yeong-gam's footwork and trailed him to a deserted spot behind the barracks. Three of his men silently encircled us.
Black Dao thugs— their eyes were different, feral.
"Hey, you lot. This feels worse than getting caught sneaking expired triangle kimbap at the store. I'm twenty-seven. Got life mileage."
One goon sneered at my Korean and swung his club.
Whoosh—!
I deployed the stolen footwork. Ankle twist pulled my center back; the club grazed my nose by a paper's width. That construction-site instinct, shifting weight on shaky scaffolds—now a divine dodge against an assassin's strike.
"Huh? Check this guy."
The goon's eyes bulged in shock. Doksa's narrowed to slits.
"Impressive... Footwork stolen that clean? Barbarian, who are you? Some rat that slunk in?"
I flipped Doksa the middle finger.
"Me? Jinhyuk Kang, rolled through unloading gigs, convenience stores, day labor. You snake punk—I cleaned up your type spilling ramen and raging at PC bangs."
Gibberish to them, but the mockery landed. Doksa's face twisted ugly.
"Kill him. No—smash wrists and ankles. No real martial arts training, so that'll scare him plenty."
Three goons charged at once. I steadied my breath. One front, two flanks—like three parcel trucks slamming in pre-holiday rush.
Thud—!
I surged into the first, stomping his shin with veteran footwork in mind. Raw power from hauling rice sacks in loading jobs.
"Gaaah!"
Bone-crunch and scream. I didn't stop. Hwang Yeong-gam's "Don't Run Recklessly." No dashing—every step loaded with full weight.
Evening chow was hours off. The stolen old soldier's... no, my footwork now shattered the slaughterhouse silence, advancing on Doksa.