Evening sank over Do Yeon's temporary place(small rented house with walls that breathed dust and a yard just big enough to be called a training ground). The door stood open to the fading light; inside, a low table, two stools, and a kettle that never quite boiled right. Outside, Jin Seol sat on the step, quiet as a drawn line.
"You don't have to do this," Do Yeon said from the doorway. No banter, no grin—just the bare truth. "The war isn't yours."
Jin looked up. "War takes what it wants. If I don't step into it, I gain nothing-no edge-no chance" His gaze didn't waver. "i wont die in this war-I CANT"
Do Yeon stepped down into the yard, fists tight. "A chance? It's slaughter, Jin. Two months of it." He swallowed. "Don't go."
"No."
"Then I'm going to." His voice hardened, stubborn as stone. "If you fight, I fight."
Jin rose, expression turning flint-cold. "You won't."
"I'm not asking permission," Do Yeon shot back. "You're my brother. If you bleed, I bleed with you."
Silence stretched. A sparrow clicked somewhere in the hedge.
Jin exhaled. "Fine. If you can land one punch on me, you can come."
Do Yeon's ,brown eyes tightened-as if to show jin he won't back down . "Don't regret that."
They stepped into the yard. The dirt was packed hard by years of feet; a single, cracked post leaned near the fence. Do Yeon came fast—heart first, technique second—throwing a heavy right. Jin slipped a half-step, letting the fist tear past his cheek, then tapped two fingers against Do Yeon's sternum. A warning, not a wound.
"Again," Jin said.
Do Yeon obliged. Hooks, a low feint, a desperate jab. Jin moved like water over stone—no flourish, no wasted motion. When Do Yeon overreached, Jin caught his wrist, turned his hips, and sent him skidding on his back. Dust plumed. Do Yeon barked a laugh even as air fled his lungs.
"Not done," he wheezed, scrambling up. Sweat traced a line down his temple.
He charged. Jin didn't even sidestep—just a sharp flick of his palm to Do Yeon's forehead. The impact rang more insult than pain. Do Yeon stumbled, blinking, then snorted despite himself.
"It's over," Jin said quietly.
Chest heaving, Do Yeon stood there, hands slack at his sides. The fight drained out of him like water from a cracked bowl. He shook his head, half a laugh, half a curse. "You bastard. what have you been doing to your body?"
Jin offered a hand. Do Yeon took it, grip fierce.
"that doesn't matter right now," Jin said. "You won't survive . Out there, you'd die. I won't let that happen."
"Then swear you'll come back," Do Yeon said, voice rougher than he meant it to be.
"Alive," Jin answered. "I promise."
They lingered a moment—no more words left that wouldn't bruise. From the lane, a distant bell carried a clipped pattern the city had learned to fear. Three days until So Taek's men marched. Two months of fighting measured out in screams and smoke.
When Do Yeon went inside to light the lamp, Jin stayed in the yard, letting the last light fade. Then he followed, closing the door on the chill.
On the low table, he set a mortar and pestle, a folded cloth of herbs, a small brazier. Wild hongroot shaved thin for circulation. Bitter leaf to dull pain. Ground bark to knit torn muscle. He measured by memory, not sight, fingers steady, thoughts sharper still. A pinch to wake the body, a pinch to cool it, honey to bind. He rolled the paste into small, dark pellets and laid them on the cloth to dry—field pills, crude but fast, the kind that bought you one more hour when the world demanded your last.
Beside the herbs lay his short sword.
He drew it and tested the edge with a thumb—too dull. He fetched a whetstone from under the bed, wet it, and set to work. Long, even strokes. Steel whispering against stone. He checked the spine, the tang, the fit of the guard. Rewrapped the hilt with fresh cloth, tight and clean. When the edge bit a strand of hair midair, he smiled without joy.
Oil next—thin as breath, spread along the blade to keep the night from eating it. He slid the sword into its scabbard, drew it again, smooth, no catch. Drew and sheathed until the motion lived in the bones. Finally, he bound the scabbard to a plain strap he could hide under a cloak.
On the table, the pellets cooled. In three days, he would march with So Taek's men. For two months, he would trade breath for inches of ground.
Jin blew out the lamp and stood in the dark, hand on the sword.
Prepared.