The authorized strength of the Sungui Unit's Second Detachment was forty-nine.
That morning, however, only forty-six soldiers stood in Botongwon's courtyard.
Three places were empty.
The names were written in the report, but the men did not come. They were already dead, or had lost their way, or perhaps came from families with no one left to stand in their stead. What remained in Botongwon were only the names of three men who did not arrive.
Quartermaster Hwang Hyeon-pil stared at those spaces in silence.
He seemed to know their names already—what district they were from, whose sons they were. But perhaps their fathers and brothers were gone as well. All that remained were three vacant names.
Hwang Hyeon-pil lifted his gaze.
At the entrance to Botongwon, the mist was thinning. Sunlight broke through, and birds flew above the tiled roofs of the halls in the distance. The smell of earth from the fields mingled with the sharp scent of horses, filling the air.
He checked the equipment again.
Bow and arrows. Saber. Shield. Axe and short blade. Flint and lamp wick.
"If something's missing, fill it."
He muttered as if to himself. The soldiers organized their gear without a word—tightening leather straps, bundling arrows. What had been issued by the state and what each man had brought for himself were clearly divided.
What was issued belonged to the country.What was brought belonged to one's life.
They said those who knew the difference lived longer.
Hwang Hyeon-pil looked toward the entrance once more.
No one else was coming into Botongwon now. The carts had departed, and the horses sent from the paddock bobbed their heads, sweat darkening their flanks. Sunlight struck the tiles and scattered.
He narrowed his eyes and murmured,
"The names came—but the men did not."
It sounded almost like a call to someone unseen.
For a moment, Hwang Hyeon-pil looked up at the sky. The light was painfully bright. Within that glare, it seemed as though the names of the already dead drifted past—names scattering on the wind.
Those who remained lifted their equipment in silence.
Soon, the drums sounded.
Dong— dong—.
The signal for departure.
Hwang Hyeon-pil picked up the three identity tags one last time and slipped them into his chest.
"I'll stand in their places,"
he said in a low, firm voice.
He stepped to the front of the ranks.
Forty-six soldiers followed. Their shadows filled the courtyard. The three empty places remained as they were, buried wordlessly in the light.
When Hwang Hyeon-pil ran forward and reported that personnel and equipment were ready, the commanding officer raised his hand. A short, solid voice rang out.
"Sungui Unit, Second Detachment—forward!"
"Forward!"
"Forward!"
"Forward!"
"Forward—!"
The command echoed.
The courtyard trembled as soldiers' feet struck the ground. Dust rose and scattered the sunlight. They advanced some fifty paces.
There, the Sungui Unit's standard weapons awaited them—the no, the heavy crossbows.
"Equipment check!"
Hwang Hyeon-pil's voice split the air.
The soldiers surged forward at once. Twenty crossbows, hundreds of bundled arrows, loaded onto carts. Large shields and wooden barricades hung in place, more form than substance.
They counted quantities, matched numbers, and shouted confirmations.
"Twenty crossbows confirmed!"
"Three hundred forty arrows confirmed!"
Hwang Hyeon-pil took the ledger. At the end of the book, bound with a red cord, he marked receipt and signed with his hand.
At that moment, an officer from the main force galloped up. He did not even dismount—snatching the ledger from Hwang's hand, checking it, then wheeling away at once. Hooves struck earth, throwing dust into the air.
"What about the carts and pack animals?"
Hwang Hyeon-pil shouted.
Another officer pointed ahead.
More than twenty horses were arriving in a line, followed by small carts.
"Confirm!"
The soldiers moved again—loading equipment, binding it with ropes. Some added personal belongings. Cart wheels creaked, leather straps pulled taut. Under the sunlight, horses panted heavily. Dust, sweat, and the smell of metal spread together.
Everyone moved.
There was no question of who went first. When one stepped forward, all stepped forward.
The shadow of the man ahead overlapped on the ground, stretching long.
A tide of human bodies moving as one.
Within it, Hwang Hyeon-pil turned back once more.
Above Botongwon's tiled roofs, a final thread of smoke rose.
He murmured quietly,
"We won't be coming back now."
The wind stirred.
Inside his chest, the three identity tags shifted lightly.
Click. Click—.
The sound of wooden tags striking one another.
In the light, the names called to each other one last time.