By the afternoon of the third day, the sky had settled into ash-gray.

  Dust and sweat clung together, turning every face the color of earth.The wind snapped against the canvas of the carts.

  The column slowed.

  Then it happened.

  From one of the carts at the rear, a horse screamed.

  Its leg buckled.

  It collapsed where it stood.The load slid sideways.Soldiers rushed in.

  “It’s broken!”

  The leg bent at an impossible angle.It would never walk again.

  The horse groaned.

  A commander approached.

  “It’s no use.”

  The judgment was brief.

  A blade fell.

  The horse shuddered once—violently—then went still.

  The column halted.

  Steam rose from the body.Blood seeped into the dirt.

  After a long moment, the commander said,

  “Move the load to another cart.”

  He paused.

  “We’ll divide the meat tonight.”

  No one answered.

  That night, the horse’s flesh boiled in the pots.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Blood and fat rose together.The smell spread across the field.

  The soldiers chewed in silence.

  No one said it tasted good.

  Seongjin chewed once, then set his chopsticks down.

  The horse’s eyes returned to him—the moment its breath left,his own face reflected there.

  He looked to Oh Jinchul.

  “Sir… why did that horse die so suddenly?”

  Oh Jinchul did not look up from the fire.

  “Better than a man.”

  “Men make excuses even when they die.”

  Silence passed.

  “When you reach the battlefield,”Oh Jinchul said,“you’ll see eyes like that again.”

  “And next time,”he added,“they might be yours.”

  The words drifted past like wind.

  Within the routine of the march,war still felt distant.

  Death, too, seemed far.

  There was only walking.Hauling loads.Breath measured to footsteps.

  Somewhere, a wolf howled.

  Firelight trembled on a blood-stained blade.

  Without a word, Seongjin touched his identity tag.

  The wood was still warm.

  But he knew—

  that warmth would not last.

  The westward march continued into its fifth day.

  Since leaving Botongwon,Seongjin had not once looked straight up at the sky.

  It was always veiled in dust.

  By day, the horses’ breath burned hot.By night, the wind cut skin.

  Rations came twice a day.

  Morning: dried grain and lukewarm water.Evening: salted greens, a few strips of dried meat.

  Even that—sharing it with others—was a comfort.

  The column stretched on.

  When carts ahead raised dust,those behind lived inside it all day.

  Horse sweat.Human sweat.Iron.Leather.Blood.

  All of it pressed down on the air.

  “How many more days?”

  “Only the one with the map knows.”

  “Still… isn’t it too quiet?”

  “The quieter it is,”“the worse it gets.”

  At night, wolves howled in the fields.

  Large fires were forbidden.Small embers were hidden beneath bowls.

  Someone sniffed.

  “Smells like home.”

  Seongjin could not sleep.

  He took out the identity tag wrapped in leatherand traced it with his fingertips.

  Within the worn grain,his father’s name,his brother’s name,and his ownseemed bound together.

  His lips moved.No sound came.

  Oh Jinchul sat nearby, stretching his legs.

  “Can’t sleep?”

  “Yes. It’s unfamiliar land.”

  “There’s no battlefield that isn’t unfamiliar.”

  “War is always the first time.”

  He struck flint.A weak spark flared.

  “My mother said—learn letters.So your name remains even if you die.”

  Oh Jinchul gave a short laugh.

  “Leaving your name behindisn’t always a blessing.”

  The ember flickered, close to dying.

  Far off, a drum sounded—not an alarm,but the signal ending the day’s march.

  “Sleep,”Oh Jinchul said, standing.

  “Tomorrow we go farther than today.”

  Seongjin pulled the horsehide over himself.

  Between drifting dust,starlight blinked faintly.

  Watching it, he wondered—

  Can a person really go this far?

  The road backmust be even farther.

  He closed his eyes.

  Horses breathing.Someone snoring.Canvas rustling.

  The night of the march was long.

  And what waited at its end—no one yet knew.