Blood in the Rain
Jin-Ri tightened her arms around Young-Sik, her body shielding his as the rain poured relentlessly over them.
His weight was heavy against her—too heavy.
“Yong… stay with me,” she whispered, her voice trembling as her hands pressed helplessly against his back, as if she could somehow stop the bleeding.
Footsteps.
Fast. Closing in.
She lifted her head.
Through the curtain of rain, shadows emerged between the trees—figures moving with purpose, blades drawn, their forms cutting through the storm like wraiths of death.
Guiong assassins.
Her breath hitched.
There was no time. No escape.
But that no longer mattered.
Not after what they had seen.
Not after what he had done.
They would kill him here.
Her grip tightened.
Without hesitation, Jin-Ri shifted, placing herself fully over Young-Sik’s body. One hand reached for his sword, her fingers trembling as she grasped the hilt and raised it—unsteady, but resolute.
If this was where it ended—
Then she would not move.
The assassins closed in.
One stepped forward, blade raised.
Jin-Ri shut her eyes.
Steel rang.
Sharp. Violent.
Her eyes flew open.
An assassin stood before her—then fell.
A deep, gaping wound split across his chest as his body collapsed lifelessly into the mud.
Jin-Ri’s breath caught.
Another figure stood beyond him.
Still.
Unshaken by the rain.
A man.
His clothes were worn, his presence unrefined—but the way he held the sword in his hand was anything but.
Familiar.
Before she could speak, he moved.
He stepped forward—not with haste, but with certainty.
The next assassin lunged.
The man shifted just enough to let the blade pass him, his own sword already in motion. A single, precise strike drove into the attacker’s abdomen. He withdrew it in the same breath, turning—
Two more came at him from the right.
A flick of his wrist.
Steel flashed.
Both men staggered back, their chests opened before they even understood what had happened.
No wasted motion.
No hesitation.
Only intent.
The remaining assassins rushed him together.
This time, he advanced.
One fell to a clean cut across the neck—swift, efficient. Another followed, his weapon knocked aside before the blade found its mark.
A third swung wildly.
The man lowered himself beneath the strike, sweeping the attacker’s legs from under him before driving his sword down into his chest.
The last one faltered.
Fear broke through his resolve.
He turned to flee.
In a single motion, the man reached for a dagger at his side and hurled it.
The blade struck true.
The assassin collapsed forward, lifeless before he hit the ground.
Silence returned—save for the rain.
Jin-Ri stared, her breath uneven, her heart still racing as the man turned toward them.
Toward Young-Sik.
Toward her.
Instinct took over.
Her gaze snapped to a fallen sword nearby. She lunged for it, grasping it tightly despite her shaking hands, and raised it toward him.
“Stay back!” she shouted. “Don’t come any closer!”
The man did not stop.
With a single, effortless motion, he tapped the blade aside.
The sword flew from her grasp as though it weighed nothing.
Jin-Ri froze.
He knelt beside Young-Sik without a word, his focus already shifting to the arrows embedded in his back.
“The arrows need to be taken out,” he said.
His voice was calm.
Certain.
Jin-Ri hesitated, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she searched his face—then looked back at Young-Sik.
“Will he… will he be alright?” she asked, her voice barely steady.
“The quicker we remove them, the sooner we can treat the wounds,” he replied, already examining the depth of the arrows. “They’re lodged deep. We cannot simply pull them out.”
Her hands clenched.
“What do we do?”
Without answering immediately, the man snapped the shafts of the arrows cleanly, leaving the arrowheads buried within. Then, without effort, he lifted Young-Sik into his arms.
“Come,” he said. “My carriage is nearby. We will remove them there.”
There was no room for argument.
Jin-Ri rose quickly, following without hesitation.
The rain showed no mercy as they moved.
When they reached the carriage, the man laid Young-Sik carefully on his stomach.
“Keep him like this,” he instructed.
Jin-Ri climbed in beside the prince, supporting him as best as she could, her hands never leaving him.
Moments later, the man took the reins.
The carriage lurched forward.
Time blurred.
The storm raged on, but Jin-Ri barely noticed it now.
All she could feel was the rise and fall of Young-Sik’s breathing beneath her hands.
Too shallow.
Too weak.
“Stay with me…” she whispered again, her voice breaking. “Please… just stay with me…”
At last, the carriage came to a stop.
Before it had fully settled, the man was already moving. He leapt down and turned, helping Jin-Ri lift Young-Sik once more.
Only then did she notice where they were.
A large tent stood at the far side of the mountain, sturdy against the storm.
“Father, you’re back!”
A young girl rushed forward from beside a small fire, where water had been set to boil. But the moment she saw who he carried, her expression changed.
“Is that Uncle Young-Sik?” she cried. “Is he hurt? What happened?”
“Yes, Young-Ju,” the man replied without slowing. “Clear the bed. Quickly.”
The girl ran ahead.
Jin-Ri froze for a fraction of a second.
Uncle…?
Her gaze snapped back to the man.
“You… you know the prince,” she said, her voice filled with confusion. “And he knows you…”
Her breath caught.
“Who are you?”
The man did not stop moving.
“Soon enough,” he said. “But first—we save his life.”
Inside the tent, they laid Young-Sik face down on the bed. The man tore the prince’s clothes off.
“Your name is Jin-Ri, is it not?” he asked.
She blinked, caught off guard, then nodded.
“We will need a knife.”
Her eyes widened. “A knife? Why—”
“I cannot pull the arrows out as they are,” he said firmly. “It will tear the muscle. If you wish him to live, do as I say.”
That was enough.
Jin-Ri turned and rushed to a nearby area, searching frantically until she found a small fruit knife. She grabbed it and returned at once, placing it in his hand.
“Water,” he said. “The one my daughter was boiling.”
She hurried out, lifting the kettle carefully with the hem of her sleeve before bringing it back inside.
“Pour it over the blade.”
She obeyed.
Steam rose as the boiling water ran over the metal.
The man steadied himself.
Then began.
Young-Sik groaned.
Low. Strained.
Even unconscious, his body resisted, his muscles tightening as the blade cut into the wound.
Jin-Ri’s hands trembled as she watched, her heart twisting at every sound he made.
“Hold him steady,” the man instructed.
She moved without hesitation, bracing herself as she kept him from shifting.
Carefully, precisely, he widened the wound just enough—
Then reached in.
A moment later, he freed the barb and pulled the arrowhead out.
Blood followed.
Jin-Ri bit down on her lip to keep from crying out.
The process repeated.
Again.
And again.
Until both arrowheads lay discarded.
Only then did Young-Sik’s body begin to ease, his breathing stabilising, the tension leaving his face.
But the man was not finished.
“Thread and needle,” he said, gesturing toward a nearby table.
Jin-Ri fetched them quickly, placing them into his waiting hand.
She watched as he cleaned the wound, his movements steady despite the circumstances, before stitching it closed with practised precision.
Each pull of the thread made her chest tighten.
Each knot felt like a fragile promise.
When it was done, he placed bandages over the wounds and stepped back.
Only then did he allow himself to breathe.
“He is fortunate,” he said at last, stepping aside.
Jin-Ri moved immediately to Young-Sik’s side.
“You may attend to him now.”
