TBML 21

“Coward.”

Even when mocked with jabs about being a man who’d dropped his manhood, Yeon wasn’t angry—because he truly was a wretched coward. The only reason he clung so desperately to his sick mother, no different from someone deemed incompetent, was because he was afraid. Afraid of facing the world alone.

He knew the rope he held wasn’t a lifeline, but a noose tightening around his neck—but he couldn’t let go. Paradoxically, his ailing parent was his shield. Just like Du-soe.

Others said his parents had ruined his life, claimed they’d have left long ago in his shoes—but for Yeon, being called a “devoted son” or a “pitiful man” while serving such parents offered him shelter, like a windbreak in a storm. It was the one “title” he had that excused his failings.

Du-soe always hoped Yeon would run far away, abandon his burdens, and live like he’d forgotten it all. But that was never going to happen. When his sick mother finally left this world, Yeon might quietly follow—but he would never live that painted, peaceful life Du-soe hoped for.

Yeon was, in every way, a contradictory man. He risked his life hunting tigers, yet feared meeting one while climbing the mountain. He lived in aching loneliness, yet pushed away the rare few who liked him, choosing to wither alone.

And yet, he didn’t want to die. He didn’t have the pride to call it chastity, but he didn’t want to become someone’s kept man. Sometimes he wished his mother would pass gently in her sleep, just to end the hardship—yet when she so much as coughed loudly, he’d leap from sleep in a panic, nervously preparing medicine.

He wanted the people in the village to recognize him as a proper man. But when he imagined wearing a topknot, being acknowledged as a man, starting a family, and taking responsibility for someone else’s life—it felt like sinking into a bottomless swamp.

Hunting was the same. He pitied young animals, yet stole their parents, leaving them behind to face this dreadful world alone. He had once sworn not to become numb to killing, not to grow greedy for more. But the moment a deer crossed his path, his hand would reach for the bow without hesitation.

Yes.

All of this had happened because of his foolish greed. He should’ve stayed home, clutching his mother and crying like the coward he was. Instead, he, a man who scraped a living off the mountain, dared to be greedy—and the mountain, surely, had grown angry.

The image of the deer’s wide, startled black eyes as it bolted like an arrow, and the young black tiger crying under the corpse of the slain great tiger, clouded Yeon’s mind.

And that was just the start—countless eyes of all the animals he had killed passed before him. His hands remembered the warm vitality that gushed from tiny wounds made by arrow or bullet and soaked into the ground.

The slow, heavy heartbeat that faded away, the black eyes staring up at him as life left them—he remembered that moment. The first time he’d hunted with his own hands, the guilt had been crushing, beyond words.

He had sworn then: Take only what is needed for me and my mother to survive. Don’t kill needlessly. Don’t take another life just to make mine easier. That was how he had started.

But today, he had become a ruthless hunter blinded by coin, devoid of even a flicker of guilt.

It had to be punishment for such a corrupt heart. The heavens, enraged by his vile, sordid greed, must have sent the leopard to kill him. To make him feel—feel with his own body the terror he’d caused, so he’d understand how wretched it had been for the lives lost to his greed.

People were so deceitful. Excuses like I didn’t want this either clawed their way up his throat. Like a man dangling from a cliff, the words teetered on his tongue—but in the end, they didn’t come out. They turned to sobs.

The cold seeping up from the ground bit into his bones, bringing tears to his eyes. It was so cold, it felt like his chest, his skin, were being flayed open.

Yeon, the coward, sat in the mountain paralyzed by fear of the yellow eyes blinking at him in the dark. Like the black tiger cub that had once cried beneath its dead mother, he too now sobbed aloud, his voice tearing from his throat.

He knew it wasn’t wise to make noise with a predator nearby. But fear had consumed him, and he could no longer think straight.

Even the primal instinct that told him to grit his teeth and crawl down the mountain if he wanted to survive had frozen solid.

The famed tiger hunter of the county—called a fierce, half-outcast man who lived with terrifying resolve despite his small frame—was now clutching a dead deer and sobbing like the weakest creature alive, unable to live another moment without someone to help him.

He thought—If I beg with both hands and say I’m sorry, please, just once, spare me—would it let me live?

But the thing he faced was a beast. There would be no understanding. Still, if it could save his life, he would do it.

He was terrified of dying. Not because he wouldn’t return home. Not because he wouldn’t see that nosy Du-soe again. Not even because his sick mother might die alone on a cold floor.

But because some cruel beast would rip apart his limbs and he would die writhing in agony. That was the fear.

Despite having taken so many lives, he feared a painful death for himself.

What selfishness.

Once the tears broke loose, they swept away everything he’d kept bottled up like a flood bursting from a dam.

How long had he wept, clutching the dead deer, as if the whole world was ending?

By the time the rain had completely stopped, and the sticky, heavy darkness blanketed the mountain, only the crows’ cries echoed through the woods.

There were no more tears to shed. With the rain gone, his soaked cheeks slowly dried, and the sting returned. His body, exhausted from crying with all its strength, trembled weakly, and his voice came out like the rasp of a sick old man.

Only when the sounds of his sobbing finally stopped, and the silence of the woods grew too loud, did Yeon wipe his eyes and finally look around.

Blink, blink—the yellow lights that had glowed like goblin flames waiting to snatch him away were nowhere to be seen. That he was still alive after surrendering completely and bawling like a child felt like a miracle. Having wept with everything he had, Yeon’s body heat and strength had plummeted, and it felt as if his flesh and mind had come apart—he was floating, disconnected.

Maybe it was because he’d emptied every last feeling. With nothing left to burn through, Yeon finally began to think clearly.

Now that the rain had stopped, the mountain was once again filled with peace, as though nothing had happened. The chirring of insects, the occasional caw of a crow—those were all he could hear. The brush rustled softly with the wind, but there were no signs of any predators.

Sniffling, Yeon pushed the deer off and lifted himself upright.

His body trembled like a leaf in the wind, but his mind was sharp.

Anyone watching would have called it inhuman resolve—called him fierce, and clucked their tongue in disbelief.

He’d wasted time crying when he should’ve been grinding his teeth and fighting to survive, but now, having finally grasped the situation, Yeon clenched his jaw.

He was scared of dying, so he had to live.

Leaning hard against the tree behind him, he barely managed to stand.

His limbs were so weak they wobbled like reeds. Just setting foot on the ground sent a jolt of pain through his ankle that made his teeth clench. The sharpness of it cleared his mind. If he kept lying around like this, worse than a bad ankle, he’d suffer injuries he couldn’t recover from—or freeze, starve, and die like he almost had just now.

I have to get down this mountain, he thought, the thought flashing through his mind like lightning.

Above, the sky that had wept just moments before now gleamed with moonlight, as if the clouds had never been. Stars sparkled like they were urging him onward—Go, follow your path.

In the newly brightened clearing, he saw his overturned carrier, his matchlock, and the deer he’d hunted.

Even if he had no energy left, he had to bring the matchlock.

It was his partner through countless trials, his second self. He’d always wrapped it up carefully in cloth, treating it like treasure—but now, he used it as a walking stick.

With the matchlock for support, he managed a single step—then collapsed to the ground like a toddler learning to walk.

Fortunately, the leaves he’d been lying on earlier cushioned his fall. If he’d landed on a rock, he might’ve cracked his skull.

It felt absurd that he’d been standing just seconds before; his legs were completely useless.

The resolve to descend the mountain, so strong just a heartbeat ago, vanished in an instant.

The leaves clinging to his face felt as soft as a pillow, and he thought—What if I just fall asleep like this?

If he closed his eyes now, maybe the cold would fade. Maybe he’d find peace.

His vision blurred as his eyelids drifted shut—but then flap, a burst of wings, and the eerie caw, caw of crows echoed through the forest.

Something rustled as it leapt through the brush.

Yeon shot up, reacting on instinct.

He grabbed the matchlock and pushed off the ground with all his might—and a scream tore from his lips. The pain was blinding. His knee buckled again and he almost collapsed, but he grit his teeth and forced himself forward.

He couldn’t look back.

If he did, he was certain he’d see those yellow eyes behind him again.

The pain made fresh tears spill from his eyes, but he didn’t stop.

—

At the edge of the village, two men stood some distance apart.

One was Do-bu, the best butcher in the village and the man who usually took Yeon’s game.

The other was Du-soe, who’d been waiting just in case Yeon came back.

The moon was unusually bright that night, illuminating the road clearly.

Du-soe’s gaze was fixed on the mountain path—

From the darkness, a staggering black figure emerged, crawling forward before collapsing onto the ground.

Do-bu turned and began walking toward it.

Du-soe, frozen like a stone, suddenly burst into motion.

“Yeon-ah!”

He shouted as he ran to the fallen figure.

“Yeon-ah! Yeon!!”

Yeon, in shambles, had rolled and stumbled and crawled down the mountain—no one could tell which.

Lying face-down, he gasped for breath. He couldn’t even lift a finger.

No, not even a finger—he felt like he’d used the last of his strength just to blink and breathe.

Du-soe’s voice rang in his ears.

Had there ever been a time when he was glad to hear Du-soe calling for him like this?

Listening to that voice, Yeon slipped quietly into the darkness.