The authorized strength of the Sungui Unit’s Second Detachment was forty-nine.

  That morning, 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 came from families with no one left to stand in their stead.

  What remained in Botongwon were only three names.

  Quartermaster Hwang Hyeon-pil stared at those spaces in silence.

  He knew the names already—what districts they were from, whose sons they were.Perhaps their fathers and brothers were gone as well.All that remained were three vacant names.

  Hwang Hyeon-pil lifted his gaze.

  The mist at Botongwon’s entrance was thinning.Sunlight broke through.Birds crossed above the tiled roofs of the halls beyond.

  The smell of earth from the fields mingled with the sharp scent of horses.

  He checked the equipment again.

  Bow and arrows.Saber.Shield.Axe and short blade.Flint and lamp wick.

  “If something’s missing, fill it.”

  The soldiers moved without speaking—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.

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  No one else was coming.

  The carts had already departed.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 quietly.

  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 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.Large shields and wooden barricades—more form than substance.

  “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 his name.

  An officer from the main force galloped up, snatched the ledger, checked it, and wheeled away without dismounting.

  Hooves struck earth.Dust burst into the air.

  “What about carts and pack animals?”

  Hwang shouted.

  Another officer pointed ahead.

  More than twenty horses were arriving in 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 sun, 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.

  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.

  “We won’t be coming back now,”he murmured.

  The wind stirred.

  Inside his chest, the three identity tags shifted lightly.

  Click.Click—.

  Wood striking wood.

  In the light, the names called to one another—one last time.