The room still smells of blood and incense.
The midwives have done all they could, and the silence that follows is more frightening than the cries.
She lies motionless, pale as wax, her lips parted just enough to let out a breath so faint it barely stirs the air.
Yi Sun-sin stands there, unyielding, the child in his arms.
His stern eyes have not left his wife for a single instant.
The midwives bow low, trembling.
— "General… we have done all we could. Her life hangs by a thread."
He does not answer. His face remains unreadable, but his hands tighten around the newborn's cloth.
He approaches the bed, lays the child beside its mother, and finally sits — he, the man who never sits in the face of crisis.
His broad, battle-worn hand finds hers — small, cold, lifeless beneath his palm.
His voice, when it comes, is low, hoarse, commanding through the tremor:
— "You will not leave. Do you hear me? Even if death calls you, you will stay. That is an order. And I do not tolerate disobedience."
A long silence.
His forehead lowers until it almost touches hers, his breath unsteady.
His eyes close for an instant — and a single tear, hot and heavy, escapes down his cheek.
Suddenly, she stirs.
Her chest rises; a deeper breath escapes her lips.
Her fingers clutch faintly at his.
Her eyes open, clouded with exhaustion — but alive.
— "I… heard your order."
A fragile, almost unreal smile appears.
He stares at her, frozen. Then turns away, reclaiming his mask, though his voice trembles:
— "Then obey. Don't make me repeat myself."
He remains seated there, his hand gripping hers longer than he ever has before.
For once, he is no longer the General of Joseon,
but a man who has watched death brush against his wife —
and understood that the fiercest battle is fought not at sea,
but here, beside her bed.