Awaiting Departure — Roasted Bird
From a distance, the members of Namsan Sect watched the White Dragon Unit gathered in a tight cluster at the foot of the mountain.
At first glance, they looked like a rabble.
They sat in a circle as though plotting something in secret.
Sosam had caught another nameless bird.
One plucked the feathers.
Another skewered it and set it over the fire.
A third hurried back with dry branches in his arms.
Their coordination was seamless.
The scent of roasting bird carries farther than any other meat.
Sweet and savory, it drifted along the open ground.
Perhaps it was that smell that stirred envy as they watched the group below whispering and laughing.
At the center sat Sowoon.
The five were practiced at lighting fires, gathering branches, stripping feathers.
The first cooked pieces always went straight into Sowoon's mouth.
He smiled brightly, lips smeared black with soot.
To the White Dragon Unit, he was the youngest scholar—
their little Yusaengwon.
"Scholar, eat."
"Even eating follows order of seniority. Elder brother first."
"Hey, shouldn't uncle eat before elder brother? Uncle ranks higher, doesn't he?"
"He just looks like an uncle. Hahaha."
"Why am I the only one you call uncle? Others get 'elder brother.'"
"Haha. You look like one."
The Namsan disciples stared, entranced, at the warm scene.
Their young master Sowoon looked like a cherished mascot among them.
It was hard to reconcile this with the unimaginable skill and presence he displayed elsewhere.
Among the White Dragon Unit, he laughed lightly, almost playfully.
He was someone cared for.
The Diancang youth lowered his head.
Where he would return, discipline was strict and training relentless.
There was fraternity among fellow disciples—but not warmth like this.
"Ah, let's go over."
The Diancang youth nudged Moyong forward, and together with five or six from Namsan, approached Sowoon's group.
"What are you doing?"
"Can't you see? Roasting bird."
Yang Johwi answered bluntly.
The aftertaste of yesterday's bout lingered.
He still remembered being thoroughly beaten by that Diancang youth.
"I'm not asking because I don't know…
We just want to join."
"Oh? Scions of noble clans wishing to partake in such lowly fare?"
Johwi's tone lifted in mock formality.
"We simply wish to share."
"Oh…"
The White Dragon Unit grumbled inwardly, but because of Sowoon they could not refuse outright.
No matter what others said, they were his people.
Seeing that they would likely sit together, Sosam began chewing faster.
More mouths meant less food.
An eternal truth.
He hurried his bites and nearly choked on a bone.
"Khk—!"
Moyong called softly, almost plaintively.
"Master."
"Hehe, come on in.
Slip between us if you can.
Just fold that uncle's spread legs over there."
Space opened around the fire.
The Namsan disciples sat.
They were people of different backgrounds.
Sitting together felt awkward.
To sit on dirt and roast birds felt like lowering oneself.
Still, they wished to be part of it.
In uniform, rough in appearance, the White Dragon soldiers were masters of the martial world.
They seemed lax beside the young scholar—but in another setting, one would hesitate to even meet their gaze.
Silence lingered.
They had been offered seats and meat, yet the air felt stiff.
"You are scions of noble clans. Is this truly acceptable?"
Moyong pouted slightly.
"We are Namsan Sect.
The clan identity was set aside long ago."
"Ah, Namsan Sect."
Sosam nodded.
Then added casually,
"You mean the Namsan Sect that lost to the White Dragon Unit the other day. Ah, yes."
Eyes flashed.
Moyong opened her mouth to retort—
but Sowoon picked up a small bird leg and placed it in her mouth.
"Miss Moyong, eat. I brushed off the burnt parts."
Sosam turned Sowoon by the shoulders.
He reached into his sleeve and wiped the soot from the boy's lips as though tending a child.
He was not the stern, formidable master now—
but a young boy.
"Oh dear, our Scholar's mouth is filthy.
Doesn't even know he's a mess."
Moyong shut her eyes briefly, shaking her chin faintly side to side.
She had no words.
That innocent warmth felt almost traitorous.
Why had she wanted to join them?
Because of the smell of roasted bird?
Or because she envied the affection given to the young master?
Wherever Sowoon went, he was loved.
At meals.
In training.
Even when running errands for the captain.
Care followed him like an imperial envoy under special protection.
Was it simply because he was young?
No.
He was precious to them.
One owed him his life.
Another had received martial transmission.
One had stood watch in his stead when he was ill.
Each had their own reason.
They held him in their own way.
And none addressed him casually.
All called him Yusaengwon.
They did not say, "Sowoon, Sowoon," simply because he was young.
Respect lived in that title.
To defend a nation is not merely to go forth alone and fight.
It is to stand together so that such fighting is possible.
No one in a sound mind kills easily.
Only when a comrade is wounded does one draw the blade.
That is war.
One fights because the comrade is precious.
Toward evening, a hint of autumn rode the wind.
Crickets filled the air.
Once they departed, no one knew when they might return.
Recruits from various prefectures—young men leaving home for the first time—continued to arrive by the dozens.
The expeditionary army began to take shape again.
Training resumed across the camp.
It was a noisy, chaotic, exhausting time.
And yet, for the White Dragon Unit and Namsan disciples, it felt like the most restful days they had ever known.
Roasting meat.
Warming up with bouts.
Wandering about, peering into things.
Marveling at military drills.
It was a kind of time they had never had before.