So under Humu's command, they fought. The hill gave them an advantage, and Humu's discipline held them together.
For three long days, they endured. Enemy's numbers never thinning. The men beside Humu were bleeding, dying, already whispering final farewells.
He swore brotherhood with them.
"We'll meet again," they said, "on the other world."
Only nine were left who could still lift a weapon. Nine.
Humu looked at them and felt a bitter weight in his chest.
I dragged you all here. And now you'll die like dogs, because of a useless fool like me.
So this is why they kept me at the rear…
The thought twisted in his gut.
Then, just before dawn on the fourth day, Seraburl's soldiers surged once more—only to scatter. No weapons drawn. No orders barked.
Only the sound of running feet—soldiers scrambling, eyes wide, weapons abandoned. They fled.
Stunned, Humu watched as a rider in black descended like wind. The man leapt from his horse and bowed.
"Thank you for surviving."
It was Prince Baram.
They returned victorious. Humu and his men were reassigned—and to their joy, it was to the prince's own guard.
Prince Baram personally trained Humu once a week. For a year, it was like a dream. He was not yet a general, but whispers had begun—his name now appearing in the quiet conversations of those who decided such things.
Then, the prince vanished. Took vows. Renounced power. The royal guard was disbanded. Rumors spread. Former comrades disappeared—executed, most said.
Humu was sent back to the supply corps.
Whispers grew. "You should flee to Baekje," his men told him. "They'll come for you next."
But he laughed it off. "We're too small to bother with."
For five long years, he lived quietly. Then war returned. Seraburl invaded again.
After a year of failure to retake Gado Fortress, the inept Gahn Shingui returned to court and began purging his generals.
In desperation, the remaining commanders and ministers turned to Humu and his men. With no better options, they were thrust into command. Through sheer will, and careful planning, they reclaimed the fortress in a month.
But their reward was silence.
The official record claimed that Seraburl crumbled from internal royal strife. After that, Humu and his men were quietly reassigned to the supply corps—again.
But the truth was different.
Once the Park clan's Adalla line fell, and Seok Burlhue rose as the sacred king, Seraburl's new court turned its fury on Samul Gaya.
Again and again, Humu and his comrades were thrown onto the front lines.
Thirteen years of brutal campaigns.
Thirteen years of risking their lives.
And not once—not once—were they honored for their service.
The bear dances. The master gets paid. So the saying went. And Humu began to believe it.
Then, on the day he was dismissed from court again, he met her.
Princess Somi.
She had heard his name and rushed to him—touching his arms, his weathered face, as if to see whether the stories were true.
"They say you're the bravest warrior in Gaya," she said. "Be my guard captain."
He almost laughed. A child's fancy, surely. He was nearing forty—too old to rise, long past the age most retired from field command. He had buried the dream of becoming a general.
But the very next day, the decree came.
He was promoted. General. And appointed to Princess Somi's personal guard.
He and his men wept. After everything, after years of war and silence—at last, someone had seen them.
Three months into his post, a court eunuch came quietly to Humu, eyes flicking over his shoulder before speaking.
"It was Her Majesty," the eunuch whispered. "She's the reason you wear a general's insignia. No one else would dare promote a man from Prince Baram's guard. She quarreled with Gahn Shingui for a full month to push it through."
Then—lower still—
"She believes you could serve more than just the princess's defense. You have no wife, no ties. And the princess... she is just back from Michuhol, still unfamiliar with the palace. Still unmarried."
The implication needed no voice. A child. An heir. That was what the Queen wanted—just one to tie Somi down. To cast her from the line of succession, politely, permanently.
Startled, Humu returned to his men. They began asking questions. The answers were as bitter as they were clear: Princess Somi was brilliant, too beloved, and not of the Queen's blood. And for that, the Queen could not stand the sight of her.
This… was punishment.
Humu was a tool. A chain to keep the princess quiet. To tarnish her with scandal. To rob her of any future claim.
Humu was furious. He swore, before his men and the gods, that he would protect her—not as her lover, but as her shield.
And now, two years later… she lay dying.
He stared at the shrine.
Is this fate mocking me again? Is this my punishment for surviving, for hoping?
His hand trembled as he reached for the hilt at his waist.
If she dies… then let it all burn.
He looked up at the darkening sky, his jaw set.
Let the gods answer for this. I will not falter. Not again.
Just as Humu stood lost in his heavy thoughts, shadows deepening in the shrine courtyard, a figure appeared—so suddenly, it seemed as though he had stepped out from the dusk itself.
Goi dropped silently over the courtyard wall, his feet finding the stone without a sound. The guards flanking Humu moved at once, drawing their weapons and rushing to intercept the intruder. Goi raised his hands, stepping back with an easy smile, as if to say, Alright, alright.
As he retreated another pace, a faint, lilting chime drifted on the wind—a sound no louder than a breeze catching delicate bells. To the others, it was nothing more than a gentle tinkle. But to Goi, it spoke.
"The princess is in danger. There's no time."
Goi shrugged, voice dry. "Well, what am I supposed to do when they don't even know their princess is dying?"
The bells whispered again, dancing softly in the evening air.
"Disarm them. You can."
He shook his head, almost regretful. "If I use my sword, someone could get seriously hurt."
Then, a faint light shimmered from the bronze mirror resting on his chest. It pulsed once—then again—and marked the guards with subtle golden points, invisible to all but Goi.
The bell swayed again in the wind.
"Strike there. They'll fall without injury."
"Oh ho," Goi chuckled. "Didn't know you had tricks like this. Let's try it, then."
His words, spoken into empty air, drew uneasy glances from the guards.
"He's talking to himself," one muttered, glancing nervously at Humu. "He seems… mad. What do we do?"
But before an answer came, Goi moved.
In the span of a blink, his fists and feet darted forward—graceful, deliberate, precise. He struck each glowing point in turn, five swift blows to five armored men. One after another, they collapsed like straw dolls, unconscious before they hit the ground.
It happened so fast Humu barely registered the attack. He reached for his sword.
My men? Warriors who'd survived over a decade of war beside me? Just like that?
But his fingers trembled. The blade caught on its scabbard.
This—this is the mistake of a novice! Me?
He looked up, and there was Goi. No longer distant, but standing right in front of him. So close he could see the amused glint in the young man's eye.
"Did you come to assassinate the princess?" Humu asked, voice low and shaky. "I won't let you—whatever you mean to do—"
Crack.
A firm flick to the forehead. Not a punch. A finger-snap. Still—it stung. A delayed bloom of pain throbbed across his brow.
"Hey, old man," Goi said, grinning. "If you want her to live, take me to her. Now."