Rescue at Sea
···?
Jin-cheol, who had been watching the crashed airship explode, snapped his head up. From high in the sky came a high-pitched whine—weeeeeng—as a fighter jet plummeted, trailing thick black smoke like a long tail. With one wing destroyed, it spun wildly in a straight dive before slamming nose-first into the sea not far from Jin-cheol. Debris from the fighter and a massive plume of water shot skyward.
Jin-cheol didn't even flinch as the spray from afar splashed across his face. His eyes were fixed on the other fighter jet up in the sky—the one that had just shot down the falling craft. Would that pilot turn their nose toward him? No. Confirming the enemy fighter's crash, the pilot simply banked away and vanished into the distant heavens.
Seeing the fighter depart, Jin-cheol shifted his gaze to the wrecked plane. Half-destroyed, it was impossible to tell at a glance if it belonged to Zasoyeonbang or an enemy carrier. But now it was spewing seawater with a phooosh and sinking with ominous glug-glug-glug gurgles.
···
Narrowing his eyes at the fighter, Jin-cheol suddenly dove into the sea. Dol Jumeok, left behind, stared blankly at the receding figure.
Cleaving through the waves with powerful strokes, Jin-cheol swam straight to the sinking fighter and clambered aboard without hesitation. There, strapped into the cockpit, thrashed a Lavito pilot.
···!
The pilot was covered head to toe in leather flight gear, hat, mask, and goggles. Struggling futilely with the unyielding belt, he whipped out a pistol from his waist and aimed it at the sudden intruder.
···
···
As the sinking fighter gurgled seawater, Jin-cheol stood firm on the nose cone, staring silently at the pistol-wielding Lavito pilot, who returned the gaze wordlessly. Water dripped from Jin-cheol, giving him an air of melancholy, even sorrow. In stark contrast, the pistol barrel trembled faintly in the pilot's grip. He breathed raggedly, hand shaking from excitement and confusion.
···!
Suddenly, the pilot flinched. Water was rising in the cockpit below. Hearing the splash-splash at his feet, he flailed. But he startled again—Jin-cheol was already right at the cockpit edge. The pilot yanked back the pistol's slide to chamber a round and aimed threateningly.
In a quavering voice, he shouted, “B-back off! Get back!”
Jin-cheol didn't budge. He just stared straight into the pilot's eyes behind the goggles. Seeing that gaze, the pilot's eyes widened. The pistol shook violently.
···
Jin-cheol's hand reached out silently. The pilot's eyes darted between the hand and Jin-cheol's unyielding stare. Slowly, the hand grasped the belt binding pilot and cockpit, then tugged lightly. With a sharp twang, the clasp snapped, freeing him.
“Wha—?!”
After releasing the pilot, Jin-cheol stood and scanned the surroundings. The crash site was near the coast, littered with debris from the Zasoyeonbang carrier's passage—drifting flotsam everywhere. Gauging the distance to shore, he leaped back into the sea.
The pilot, fumbling to unbuckle and stand, flinched again as Jin-cheol swam back to the escape pod. Dol Jumeok was still draped over it like a limp rag.
“Puha—!”
Back at the pod, Jin-cheol snatched a sheet-metal scrap resembling an oar from the floating wreckage and shoved it at the dangling Dol Jumeok.
···What the hell.
“You planning to catch fish out here or what? Let's go.”
“I'm beat. Can't we rest first?”
“Then get off, asshole. I'll go alone.”
···I've been rowing since I was eight. No one in Siol or the whole north matches me.”
Dol Jumeok grabbed the metal scrap and paddled with gusto, spouting nonsense. Jin-cheol snagged another and stroked toward the distant white beach.
Then, from atop the sinking fighter, the pilot yelled, “Wait! Take me with you!”
“Figure it out! This boat doesn't stop till it hits the sandbar!”
“What···?”
The pilot stood awkwardly, watching dumbly as the makeshift raft glided past. As it cleared the fighter, realization hit.
“Wait! Hold up!”
Hesitating, then panicking that it might outpace him, he hurled himself into the water. He floundered with frantic splashes, arms windmilling.
“Up front! Can't—breathe! M-mask! G-goggles!”
···
Jin-cheol, paddling relentlessly toward shore, paused to watch the spectacle. From behind, Dol Jumeok muttered, “Why not just let him drown? Looks useless anyway.”
“Cold-blooded bastard. Want me to toss you in too?”
···Kidding. I'll fish him out.”
True to his word, Dol Jumeok dove in and hauled back the Lavito pilot, who sprawled at the raft's rear, ripping off mask and goggles, gasping. Brown-furred, soaked to the skin, age hard to guess. But the twitching nose, flicking ears, and dazed heaving suggested he was young.
“Hek, hek···”
Dol Jumeok dumped the pilot and resumed paddling from the rear, whispering, “Smart call stocking emergency rations. Got my secret spice powder—stew or roast, it'll be delicious.”
···You remind me of a buddy.”
“Buddy? An Olrog?”
“Yeah.”
“Hmm. If I remind you of him, he's one badass Olrog.”
“Damn right. Real Olrog, not some sneaky prick like you.”
Dol Jumeok chuckled through the rebuke but flinched and averted his eyes when Jin-cheol glanced back sharply, then paddled furiously. Jin-cheol gave him a look and resumed stroking.
With one ex-soldier and one back-alley brawler—self-proclaimed pro oarsman—the raft hurtled toward shore. Far off, the airship crash site's flames and smoke blackened the sky. Jin-cheol eyed the plume, occasionally scanning the heavens for circling fighters.
The recovered pilot spoke up. “Th-thanks··· cough, cough!”
“Thanks? Then paddle.”
“Uh? Oh···”
Jin-cheol tossed him a floating plank. The Lavito pilot caught it, wobbling awkwardly before splashing water clumsily.
Dol Jumeok whispered again. “Totally useless.”
“Shut up, asshole. Paddle faster.”
With two full men and half a rabbit's effort, the raft soon scraped shallow sand. Jin-cheol ditched his oar and jumped into thigh-deep water. Dol Jumeok followed; the pilot scrambled after. Splashing ashore, they trudged onto the beach.
The long strand was strewn with airship debris. Forested areas blazed fiercely yonder. Jin-cheol's verdict: Environmental disaster, check.
As they eyed the wreckage and smoke, the pilot urged, “We gotta get outta here··· Lingering's dangerous···”
“Dangerous? Why?”
Heavy with seawater, his flight suit sagging, the pilot looked up sharply at Jin-cheol's retort.
“What?”
“Why's it dangerous? Crash site's way over there.”
···Urata bastards'll send search parties soon.”
Zasoyeonbang guy, huh. Jin-cheol shook his head slowly.
“Ruthless fucks. Hunt survivors too?”
“That's part, but main reason's securing the carrier's engine.”
“What? Engine? That pile of charred scrap?”
The pilot stared blankly, then nodded in realization. “Merc hired from Siol, eh? Makes sense you wouldn't know. Carrier engines don't destroy easy.”
···Even after that explosion, the engine's fine?”
He nodded. “Core specifically. Only another engine core colliding destroys it.”
What the hell? Ten-thousand-year-old American tech? Siol's fusion was Sun Temple stuff, guessable. But engines levitating massive carriers, indestructible unless core-smashed? Beyond Jin-cheol's imagination. Anti-grav or some shit?
Musing, Jin-cheol looked up. “···Speak of the devil.”
Pilot and Dol Jumeok followed his gaze. High above, a dot swelled into view.
Pilot's eyes bulged. “Tr-transport ship! Dropping troops to sweep the area!”
“Time to move.”
Jin-cheol strode ahead. Dol Jumeok and pilot hurried after, glancing skyward.
“You know the way?” Dol Jumeok asked.
“Gotta clear this zone first, moron. Into the woods to shake pursuit. Worry about destination later. Fighters everywhere in Zasoyeonbang—someone'll hire a merc.”
“Why just one··· Hmm. Solid plan.”
Dol Jumeok nodded, clearly confused. Jin-cheol pushed on without elaborating. Only Dol Jumeok would merc; Jin-cheol aimed for Ishanka's daughter, the House, Opesis traces.
March began. Jin-cheol led, senses tracing paths through unfamiliar foliage and terrain. Learned skills paid off—he oriented fast, ditching the coast.
Tailing close: burly Olrog Dol Jumeok, silent and sturdy, snagging edible mushrooms, herbs, fruits en route. No food worries.
Surprisingly spry: tiny Lavito pilot, soggy-suited and wobbly-looking, kept pace without complaint or lag.
Half-day post-crash, in darkening woods amid leaf piles, they huddled.
Pilot, knees hugged, ventured, “···No fire, right?”
“Unless you want searchers following our trail,” Dol Jumeok replied.
But Jin-cheol shook his head. “Light one.”
···Wanna call 'em in to rip apart? Do it solo. I'm beat.”
“Cut the crap. Forest fires everywhere—one more won't summon 'em instant. Pack it clean on departure, no trace. Better than shivering hungry.”
Dol Jumeok blinked, then nodded. Jin-cheol led; Dol Jumeok half-deferred. Shivering pilot brightened.
Jin-cheol eyed him. “Ditch it?”
“Huh? The suit?”
Nod. Pilot averted eyes, mumbling, “···Mom made it.”
“Ah. Dry it good then.”
Dol Jumeok sparked flames effortlessly—nomad skill. Washed a stone slab with scavenged water, grilled mushrooms. Sprinkled from a belt vial, eyed the spice jar and pilot slyly.
Obvious: Emergency rations.
Jin-cheol smacked his head. “Watch properly, asshole.”
···How pretty?”
“Figure it out.”
···
Dol Jumeok grumbled blankly, refocused on food. Spice lived up to hype—mushrooms satisfied. They ate with forest fruits, crashed out. Watches rotated; brutal middle shift forced on Dol Jumeok.
* Next dawn, they broke camp, marched on. Jin-cheol led as before. Amid soft leaf-mats, pilot spoke.
“I'm Lamien.”
Jin-cheol, not turning, replied, “Yours?”
···Yeah. You? Can't keep saying 'you,' 'merc,' 'sir.'”
“Jin-cheol. Kang Jin-cheol.”
“Galt Hyarulro. Call me Dol Jumeok.”
That yanked Jin-cheol around. “What kinda name's that?”
“What? Galt Hyarulro? Tribe mom and hunt dad divined it post-kill. Cool, right? 'Fire-charging boar.'”
···Then why Dol Jumeok?”
He hefted a fist. “'Cause it's rock-hard.”
···Duh. Dumbass.”
Tailing Lamien giggled softly at the exchange. Jin-cheol smirked too.
But it faded. Jin-cheol halted abruptly, peering back—beyond sight.
“What's up?”
Frowning, “···What the fuck's that noise.”
Fuck. Run first.
Warning them, Jin-cheol bolted ahead. But soon stopped—not from lagging feet. Low-hovering bikes whined from distant woods, Lavito soldiers aboard.