A week had trickled by since Jihoon's bewildering arrival at General Taeyoung's estate, each day a delicate tightrope walk between frantic research and the quiet, insidious creep of his illness. He had, against all odds, begun to settle into the sprawling mansion. The rigid schedule imposed by Madam Ahn, once daunting, now offered a strange comfort, a framework within which he could operate. He'd continued his diligent study in the library, poring over scrolls and texts, trying to piece together the gaps in his memory from his sister's endless BL summaries. The names of Goryeo and Joseon now felt as natural as Seoul and Busan, but the timeline remained maddeningly vague. He still hadn't pinpointed when the novel's actual plot - the arrival of the Joseon prince - would kick off, leaving him constantly on edge. His body, however, remained a traitor. The fleeting moments of energy were increasingly punctuated by bouts of profound fatigue, the dry cough occasionally returning with that terrifying, tell-tale hint of crimson. He'd become adept at hiding it, mastering the art of discreetly wiping his mouth, forcing a bright, attentive expression even when his bones ached. The physician's tonics, bitter and earthy, seemed to do little more than upset his stomach, but he dutifully drank them, a futile gesture against a foe he knew too well. The memory of the market, the sweet bun, the fleeting freedom, was his only solace, a reminder of what he was fighting for. He hadn't seen the General since their brief, unassuming encounter at the training grounds. He half-wondered if the man had even remembered their interaction, dismissed it as a minor inconvenience. The 'soldier' had been intense, yes, but not the terrifying 'God of Death' he expected. The thought was a small, almost humorous, comfort.
That illusion shattered on the morning of the eighth day. A distant, thunderous roar, growing steadily louder, shook the very foundations of the estate. It wasn't thunder; it was the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of thousands of marching boots, the jingle of armor, and the disciplined shouts of men. Jihoon rushed to his chamber window, his heart beginning to pound with a different kind of dread. He could see it now: a vast cloud of dust rising from the main road, followed by the glint of sunlight on countless helmets and spear tips. The military procession had arrived. The gates, usually bustling with quiet activity, were thrown wide, and the air vibrated with a sense of immense power and authority. Rank upon rank of Goryeo soldiers, clad in formidable leather and steel, marched with an impressive, chilling precision. Their faces were grim, their movements synchronized, a silent testament to their discipline. The sheer scale of the force was overwhelming. He watched, transfixed, as the vanguard entered, followed by cavalry whose horses stomped and snorted, their breath pluming in the cool morning air. And then, he appeared. Mounted on a magnificent black warhorse, larger and more imposing than the rest, rode General Taeyoung. He was dressed not in a training tunic, but in a ceremonial general's armor, dark and gleaming, with a crimson cloak billowing behind him like a bloody wing. His helmet, adorned with the fierce wolf's head emblem, hid part of his face, but Jihoon recognized the broad, powerful shoulders, the sheer commanding presence. This was no mere soldier. This was the "God of Death" in the flesh, a figure of awe and fear. Jihoon felt a cold shiver run down his spine. The General dismounted with fluid grace, his movements radiating raw power. As he walked towards the main hall, a hush fell over the entire compound. Soldiers straightened, servants bowed deeply, their heads almost touching the ground. The reverence, the palpable respect, was absolute. This wasn't just a powerful noble; he was adored, revered, feared. The "evil general" of the novel was, in reality, a beloved and formidable leader.
Jihoon realized with a gulp that he hadn't recognized the man from the training grounds not because the General was insignificant, but because his aura was so utterly different when stripped of his formal regalia. The casual soldier was merely a shadow of the terrifying, charismatic leader before him. A wave of despair washed over Jihoon. How was he supposed to survive an encounter with a man so powerful, so revered, when he himself was nothing but a fragile imposter playing a doomed role? The gap between the novel's caricature and the man standing before him was terrifyingly wide.
Later that afternoon, a nervous maid informed Jihoon that the General requested his presence in the main study. He took a deep breath, straightened his robes, and tried to project an air of calm confidence. His heart, however, hammered against his ribs. The study was large, filled with maps, military scrolls, and the scent of parchment and a faint hint of iron. General Taeyoung stood by a large window, his back to the door, still in a simpler version of his ceremonial armor, the crimson cloak now folded over a chair. He turned as Jihoon entered, and for the first time, Jihoon saw his face clearly, unobscured by a helmet. It was sharp, hawkish, with piercing dark eyes that seemed to miss nothing. There was a faint scar tracing his left cheekbone, a testament to countless battles. This was the same soldier from the training grounds, undoubtedly, but in this setting, his presence was amplified a hundredfold.
"Sir Jihoon," Taeyoung's voice was deep, resonant, and devoid of the easy rumble Jihoon remembered. It was a commander's voice, yet, to his own surprise, there was a peculiar softness underlying the authority as he spoke the name. "I trust your journey and settling have been... satisfactory." His gaze swept over Jihoon, assessing, analytical, yet lingering slightly on the delicate curve of Jihoon's jaw. Jihoon felt acutely aware of his slender frame, his pale skin, so different from the rugged soldiers he'd just seen. "Yes, General," Jihoon replied, bowing deeply, trying to emulate the courtly manners he'd observed. "Madam Ahn has been most accommodating." Taeyoung gave a curt nod, a faint, almost imperceptible curve touching the corner of his lips. "Good. As you know, my forces have returned from a successful campaign. It is customary to hold a feast to celebrate their valor and prowess." His eyes, sharp and intense, locked onto Jihoon's. "Given your... scholarly pursuits, and your new role in this household, I have decided to entrust you with the arrangements. You will oversee the preparation of a celebratory feast for my entire military retinue, including the officers and ranking soldiers. It will be held three days from now." The task was immense, designed to test the mettle of any noble, yet Taeyoung found himself wondering if this fragile-looking man could truly pull it off. A tiny, possessive thrill stirred. He's mine now, to challenge and observe. Jihoon blinked. A feast? For his entire military group? His mind reeled. He knew how to order takeout, not organize a banquet for hundreds, possibly thousands, of battle-hardened warriors. This wasn't managing household accounts; this was a monumental task designed, perhaps, to test him, or even to overwhelm him. He also realized the unspoken weight of the task: a poor feast would reflect not only on him but on the General himself.
"General, I... I understand," Jihoon managed, his voice a little strained. "I will ensure the feast is prepared to your satisfaction." Taeyoung's gaze held a glimmer of amusement. "I expect nothing less, Jihoon-ah," he murmured, the casual, almost intimate suffix slipping out unexpectedly, a silent recognition of the brief, knot-tying encounter. It was a familiar address used among intimates, a sign of affection or fondness, yet Jihoon, too caught in his panic and too unaware of its implication, simply heard it as a formal, perhaps slightly condescending, acknowledgment. "Madam Ahn will provide you with the necessary resources and assistance. See that it is done well." He turned back to the window, a clear dismissal. Jihoon bowed again, backing out of the study, his mind already churning. A feast. For a military group. His stomach fluttered with a mix of terror and a strange, unfamiliar excitement. This was his chance. His chance to prove he wasn't just some delicate, dispensable fiancé. This was his chance to survive. He needed to impress. He needed to take charge. This was the first true challenge, the first deviation from his expected path of quiet demise. He would not fail.
Later, huddled with Madam Ahn, who looked more disapproving than ever, Jihoon plunged into the logistical nightmare. "We need to calculate rations, source exotic meats, procure enough rice wine to drown a small army, arrange for entertainment... it's a huge undertaking, Sir!" she stressed, her voice clipped. But Jihoon, despite the headache blossoming behind his eyes, felt a spark. This was real. This was his life, right now, to mold. He worked tirelessly over the next few days, pushing himself harder than he should. He oversaw the slaughter of livestock, haggled with merchants over the quality of grain, tasted countless sauces, and meticulously arranged seating plans. The physical exertion, combined with the stress, wore him down. His coughs became more frequent, though he desperately tried to stifle them, especially when Madam Ahn was near. He felt the constant drag of fatigue, the heavy weight in his lungs. But the urgency of the task, the sheer scale of the challenge, oddly invigorated him. He was no longer just a dying man; he was a man with a purpose, a critical mission.
One evening, after hours spent in the bustling kitchens, his head throbbing, he excused himself and stumbled to the quiet solace of the ancestral garden. He needed air, needed a moment to breathe. A violent fit of coughing seized him, worse than any before. He crumpled to his knees, clutching his chest, the familiar taste of iron filling his mouth. When he finally gasped for air, he saw it clearly in the dimming light - not just a stain, but a significant amount of bright, arterial blood on his hand. He stared at it, horrified, a cold dread seeping into his very bones. This was it. This was the undeniable progression of his illness, now even more terrifying without modern medicine. He was dying, and faster than he thought. He frantically wiped his hand on the damp earth, desperate to erase the evidence, praying no one had witnessed his moment of weakness. Unbeknownst to Jihoon, General Taeyoung was walking the perimeter of the ancestral garden, a habit he maintained to clear his mind and assess the estate's security. He saw the slight figure, hunched over, heard the strangled cough, and witnessed the frantic attempt to wipe something from his hand. Though the distance and fading light obscured the details, Taeyoung's sharp eyes, accustomed to discerning distress on the battlefield, immediately recognized the posture of acute pain, the tell-tale motion of wiping something from the face or mouth. He turned instantly, sending a discreet signal to a nearby aide. "Send the estate physician to Sir Jihoon's chambers immediately. Make it appear routine, but emphasize the urgency. Do not alarm anyone."
The physician's second visit confirmed Taeyoung's grim suspicion: Sir Jihoon was indeed very sick, his condition worsening rapidly. The physician spoke of critical imbalance, of lungs greatly afflicted, of a prognosis that offered little hope. Taeyoung felt a prickle of annoyance. This complicated things. A dead fiancé was a political nuisance, and the thought of the scandal, the disruption, was unwelcome. Yet, beneath that pragmatic assessment, an unbidden feeling stirred. It wasn't pity, not exactly, but a strange, unfamiliar regret. The image of Jihoon's bright, joyful face in the market, so incongruous with this hidden sickness, flashed in his mind. He found himself thinking, It would be a shame, Jihoon-ah. A tiny, almost imperceptible softening in the stone that was General Taeyoung's heart. He dismissed the physician, ordering the prescribed tonics to be strictly administered, but didn't visit Jihoon himself.
Jihoon, blissfully unaware of the General's concern or his unseen surveillance, only felt a renewed sense of urgency. The feast. He had to succeed. The next day, desperate for a break from the mansion's confines and the ever-present shadow of his illness, he once again slipped out to the market, seeking that ephemeral joy. He devoured crispy fried fish, then a bowl of hot, savory noodles, savoring every bite. This fleeting freedom, this taste of life, was his defiance against death. General Taeyoung, conducting a covert patrol of the city's outskirts, saw him there again, laughing with a street vendor, a smear of noodle broth on his chin, looking utterly carefree, utterly alive, despite the bleak diagnosis he carried. The sight was so captivating, so full of an innocent defiance, that Taeyoung felt his heart give a strange, unfamiliar tug. A little soft, indeed, for his destined, yet so surprisingly vibrant, fiancé. He found himself wondering, Who exactly are you, Jihoon-ah?.
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