Chapter 42 – Return Fire
They said defeat was the common affair of soldiers.
That the enemy was strong, not that we were weak.
That given another chance, we would do better.
He wanted to drag them to the parents of the dead
and make them say those words again.
So Cheol-ryong glanced at the rain of arrows pouring over the shields and spoke.
"We just sit here? Like this?"
Youngwoo snapped.
"Stay down. Not yet."
His voice sharpened.
"That bastard Cheol-gu—he couldn't wait.
Pushed the troops out and got them slaughtered.
You forgot?
That was just a month ago.
While they were shouting 'return fire,'
how many died?"
He cut himself short.
"Stay still."
Even then, he kept a trace of respect in his tone,
but urgency stripped it bare.
"I know. So we wait?"
"Yes. We wait."
Thud-thud-thud-thud.
When the Jurchen cavalry drew close,
Youngwoo spoke to the crossbowmen.
"Rider. Take him."
Thunk.
Five crossbowmen loosed at once.
The lead rider fell.
Two more went down with him.
The formation wavered.
The cavalry that had moved as one
twisted, just slightly.
Like a giant body losing balance.
It looked chaotic—
but it wasn't.
There was structure.
Direction.
Intent.
The rider gave it.
They gathered fast.
They scattered faster.
And when that flow cracked—
Youngwoo gave the order.
"Return fire."
The command spread.
"Return fire."
"Return fire."
"Return fire."
"Don't just shoot. Take their leaders."
In that dust,
in that violent motion,
picking out a commander was nearly impossible.
Still—
The order carried.
"Take their leaders."
The archers at the South Gate answered as one.
It had nothing to do with Ahn Hee-se's command.
The Fifth Unit shot the riders,
then hunted for officers—
twisting the pattern,
breaking it.
The others followed.
Because they saw it—
The moment the enemy line faltered.
Youngwoo muttered under his breath.
"You need good eyes."
So Cheol-ryong echoed it.
"You need good eyes."
The words spread.
By the end,
they had changed.
"You need good luck."
They shot,
calling out—
"Good luck!"
Youngwoo loosed arrows as well,
but from a step removed,
he watched the field.
His eyes burned
as he searched for a commander.
Perhaps—
The same luck
might come again.
But what his men could not find,
he would not find more easily.
The exchange of arrows dragged on.
The enemy adjusted their spacing,
edging closer—
but not past fifty paces.
They would not repeat their mistake.
Then—
A sound.
Like a mosquito,
thin and faint.
Inside his ear.
"In front of you.
Eighty paces."
Youngwoo raised his head.
Nothing.
He did not hesitate.
"All units—
front south, eighty paces.
Concentrated fire."
Twenty-five men—
and yet he spoke as if commanding an army.
The Fifth Unit relayed it.
Then others joined.
A mass of arrows poured forward.
Eighty paces.
South.
Then—
something broke.
The rigid enemy formation
shuddered violently.
Luck had come again.
The commander was dead.
A man from the rear
had pushed forward in haste—
and stepped into the storm.
Armor could turn a stray arrow.
Not this.
Not a storm.
The enemy withdrew.
Dust settled.
It felt like a miracle.
Luck had never been his.
But now—
It followed him.
His master had said it before.
It was only luck.
The scouts who followed the retreat
brought word.
The enemy vanguard had fallen.
Another report came—
He had taken hundreds of arrows.
They said
he looked like a hedgehog.