The storm rages outside.
Inside the chamber, his wife's cries break against the paper screens.
The midwives hurry, foreheads beaded with sweat.
This birth is harsher than the last — she is pale, exhausted, her body weakened by two close pregnancies.
In the corridor, Yi Sun-sin waits.
Rigid. Motionless.
His hands clasped behind his back, his eyes fixed on the closed door, as if sheer will could force it open.
Rain lashes against the walls.
His son sleeps, unaware. The nurse rocks the little girl, who whimpers in her dreams.
A longer, sharper cry tears through the night.
The rock wavers. His jaw tightens, his fingers whiten where they grip his own hands.
An officer dares to whisper:
— "General… a full day has passed. Perhaps… you should pray."
Yi turns slightly, his voice falling cold — though the edge of it trembles:
— "I do not pray. I command."
Hours stretch, heavy, suffocating.
Then at last, the door opens.
A midwife bows low, her hands stained red.
— "The child lives… but the mother… she loses too much blood."
He says nothing. His face is stone, but his stride quickens.
He enters.
The air is thick with incense, sweat, and fear.
On the bed, his wife breathes in shallow gasps, her chest rising in spasms, the sheets soaked with blood.
In her arms, a newborn whimpers faintly — frail, still slick with life's first breath.
She lifts her gaze weakly toward him, a trembling smile on her lips, her voice barely a whisper:
— "My husband… another son. Your line continues."
He steps closer, towering, his dark eyes locked on her.
He says nothing, but his hands — usually so steady — tremble as he takes the child.
When he speaks, his voice is deep, brief, but heavier than any command he has ever given:
— "You will not die. That is an order."
She closes her eyes. A fragile breath escapes her lips.
The midwives press cloths, whisper prayers.
Yi stands unmoving, the child in his arms, his gaze fixed on his wife fighting between life and death.
The mask of iron fractures — a single tear slides down his cheek, wiped away at once by his rough hand.
Then his voice strikes, cold yet breaking:
— "Everything you need. Medicine. Prayers. Blood. She will live. My will does not bend."
The room trembles under his command.
But behind that voice of the general, for the first time, hides the raw fear of a husband —
a man who can command armies, but not death, nor fate.