HBK Ch 3

After that rain-soaked night, the man returned to the military.

He tucked the MK.Gold he had held in his hand and a thin document deep into a drawer, then walked back to the battlefield he had intended to leave. A comrade, furious to the core at the man’s failure to appear at the promised meeting place, did not hesitate to hurl insults, calling him a foolish bastard.

Sitting in the middle of an interview room, the man listened to the fervent lecture of a military policeman delivering ideological indoctrination disguised as an interview, and he recalled the desert of a white night. He also remembered the rainy night, the weighty MK.Gold, and the small creature that had flown in, soaking the seat. It felt almost as if it had never happened. The pitiful movements of the creature, trembling as it hid beneath the passenger seat, and the faint voice begging to be spared were the same as those the man had always ignored, making it seem as though the event had never occurred in the first place.

Yet, the man remembered the creature’s screams. They were like the sound of despair clawing its way up the throat, emerging from hell. It was a sound the man had heard countless times on the battlefield but had never truly listened to.

He served three more years. Then he turned away forever.

He would never return to the battlefield.

🍯

Due to the prolonged and violent protests, the eastern city district had become nearly a ruin. Amid the relentless stream of news reports, interviews with relevant officials, police authorities, and corporate figures successively filled the screens, but there was no mention of the East citizens suffering from the protests. As an anchor mentioned the possibility of deploying the standing army if the protests continued unabated, images of the burning streets of the East flashed on the screen. Protesters attacked rundown shops and the city hall building. Staring at the deliberately staged and intentional scene, the man changed the channel. A young man, who had been bedridden for four days straight, was coming down the stairs.

“I have to be there by nine.”

The young man, pulling his shirt over his head as he headed into the bathroom, suddenly turned back as if remembering something and said so. The man, rising from the sofa and approaching, stopped upon seeing the young man’s path to the bathroom and checked the time. It was now five in the afternoon, with the sun beginning to set. There was ample time to prepare and leave.

Leaning against the wall and lightly tapping the bathroom doorframe, the man asked about dinner plans. As the sound of running water lessened, the young man’s voice came from inside. Perhaps due to a good rest, his voice was slightly hoarse but otherwise normal.

“I’ll eat there. You haven’t eaten yet, have you?”

The man’s eating habits were almost methodical. Unless unavoidable, he ate simple meals at fixed times, and it was not something the young man needed to concern himself with. At the man’s reply that he would handle it, the young man, turning off the faucet completely, rubbed his hands together to create foam and spoke through lips that had somewhat regained their shape.

“What do you like?”

The young man, accustomed to the man’s lack of response, lathered up generously and scrubbed his body, which had also regained its color, before asking again.

“I heard the hotel restaurant is good. Have you been there?”

The question likely referred to whether the man had dined as a guest at the famous chef’s restaurant, but the man was no gourmet. He spent his leaves in the military, and after retiring, he mostly stayed at a small mansion inherited from his uncle. Visits to the city were rare, countable on one hand, and only for official business. Luxurious hotels were places he had no reason to visit unless on a mission, and during missions, there was no room for such indulgences.

“Go there with a lover sometime. I heard they have a Ladies’ Night event every Friday.”

With that, the sound of water resumed. The man, leaning against the wall and looking out the window, habitually checked the time and began to move. The sky, which had poured rain earlier in the day, was now clear as if it had never happened. Under the fierce afternoon sunlight, a transparent haze rose thickly around the pineapple plantation, which was eerily quiet.

Aside from the owner’s party, the only outsiders were workers who tended the plantation twice a week. The southern end of the West, where even the sky was considered private property, was pristine, untouched even by airplane contrails. Setting aside the atrocities of nobles who refused to open the skies during wartime, the southern end of the West was a place where the kingdom’s long history of shame still breathed.

At the end of the ten-year war, traitors who had sought to sell the kingdom in exchange for preserving the southern end of the West still enjoyed excessive privileges as nobles. The war, sparked by the death of a foolish diplomat, ended after ten years with neither a victor nor a vanquished, only a ceasefire. The tragedy left by the war was borne entirely by the kingdom’s people.

To rebuild a nation ravaged by the long war, the king needed politicians. Most politicians, who had nestled comfortably in the arms of power even during wartime, colluded with nobles to orchestrate their reinstatement. The weak crown prince, in exchange for overlooking the nobles’ treason, reinstated them all. That was the ugly secret of the southern end of the West, which had preserved its natural beauty and ancient cultural heritage despite the ten-year war.

The decade following the war was one of espionage. The crown prince, cleverly avoiding bringing enemies into the homeland, fought unfinished wars in third-world countries. From the war’s outbreak to its continuation as a third-world conflict, the man’s DNA, forged in the military, was vividly etched with the cruelty and horror of war.

“No kites today.”

Or perhaps they’ve already passed? The young man, muttering to himself, stood beside the man, having finished preparing to go out. A refreshing scent wafted faintly from him. His neatly combed hair, not yet set, swayed softly, tickling his ears. The man, shifting his gaze from the sky to the young man, stepped aside and checked the time. Thirty minutes had flown by.

“I need to stop by the shop. I have to get my hair set and pick up tailored clothes. Why don’t you grab something to eat on the way?”

“I’ve already eaten. If you’re ready, shall we leave now?”

“When? What did you eat?”

“Put on a coat. The city gets cold after dark.”

The young man, staring at the man who passed by brusquely without answering his questions, wrinkled his nose slightly and stepped barefoot into the afternoon light. The dry wooden floor held a pleasantly warm heat.

🍯

Taken out of the pigsty, I was treated with utmost care as I recovered.

In a beautiful mansion I could never have dreamed of, I ate three meals a day prepared by a top-tier chef, receiving care from hired staff from head to toe. My emaciated body quickly gained weight and became sleek, and my lifeless, pale cheeks glowed with an apple-like sheen. People treated me like an expensive porcelain doll.

I couldn’t take a single step alone, nor did I feed myself. Someone was always by my side, even in the bathroom or while sleeping. Thanks to such meticulous care, my broken body recovered rapidly. Occasionally, pain from reconstructive surgery on my anus pierced through my spine to my optic nerve, blurring my vision, but my health was remarkably excellent.

I underwent my fifth reconstructive surgery during the days I was unconscious. Back in the pigsty, my anus, which had stretched like rubber and oozed with every coughing sob, regained its elasticity and functionality. When I learned of the surgery, I considered it fortunate that I had no memory of it. That surgery was the most horrific and devastating pain I knew.

The staff didn’t speak to me, and with no means to check the date or time, I gauged time by observing my condition. Waking up screaming from nightmares every night, I wiped the sweat soaking me in a silent space where no one held my hand, suppressing the creeping anxiety. I was neither a male prostitute from the East streets, nor a swallow greedily devouring anything, nor a rag in a video, nor livestock in a pigsty. The hand that touched my cheek and received my sobs was a breathing doll that could easily kill or save.

Curled up in the middle of a vast bed filled with pitch-black darkness, I recalled the musty air of the East streets and the salty, oily smell, groaning. At my feet, the sludge of oil tankers and the filth of the East streets mingled, waiting for me to sink in.

Realizing in the darkness that I was no longer myself, I spent countless nights breaking and piecing myself together. When my tattered mind was frayed white, I was pulled out of that vile darkness. It was a new morning, and the staff busily dressed and groomed me, pouring effort into adorning me. I instinctively knew it was time to face my master.

🍯

The landscaping of the top-tier Valasi Hotel, built by renovating an ancient castle, was as splendid and grand as a royal palace. After dropping the young man off at the lobby and being barred from entry, the man, instead of handing his car keys to the hotel staff, drove through winding paths, parked the car himself, and crossed the vast parking lot.

From the ground, the 77-story luxury hotel looked like a mythical skyscraper brought to life. As he exited the parking lot, invited guests began arriving for the party. They, too, left their bodyguards and drivers behind, with only those on the guest list allowed entry. As a result, the hotel garden and parking lot were filled with the entourages of the hotel’s VIPs.

Avoiding the groups of people smoking in the shade, the man found a spot with a clear view of the hotel’s landscaping but out of sight, leaning against a wall. His eyebrow twitched slightly. A tall man stepping out of a luxurious sedan, fit for ceremonial use, was looking around instead of entering the lobby.

His purposeful demeanor, neither arrogant nor anxious, stood out, yet his relaxed and confident aura made it seem natural. Recognizing the familiar figure and observing his actions, the man caught a glint in the tall man’s expression. Clear blue eyes locked onto him precisely. Confirming the eye contact, the man straightened from his shadowed position. The tall man strode toward him from the lobby entrance, with a brown-haired aide scurrying comically behind.

“Cedric Baltar.”

The tall man greeted the man with a broad smile.

“Brigadier Baltar.”

At the second call, the man pulled his hand from his pocket and shook the extended hand.

“Knut.”

“I knew you’d be here. I saw the count’s name on the list. I wasn’t going to come, but I rushed from the South to see my old friend. My secretary complained the whole way about the cost of fuel. Do you know how much it costs to fly a plane? Oh, you wouldn’t care. Cedric, Cedric. You’re too expensive a man, Brigadier Baltar.”

The wealthy man’s lament about the cost of a private jet, treated like pocket change, lacked sincerity but served as a mildly amusing jest. The problem was his audience.

“Knut Berrillard. Unfortunately, I’m no longer a brigadier.”

“Picky as ever. Once a general, always a general. You retired as a brigadier, so you’ll carry that star for life. Don’t you think? I believe even a brigadier’s star is far too small for you, but you probably don’t care. By the way, it’s quite the spectacle today, isn’t it? Not even a royal event. Converting that fine castle into this gaudy husk already raises questions about taste. Tsk. If it’s not rude, I’d like to move somewhere to talk.”

As if displeased by the heightened security mobilized for the nobles’ festivities, Knut clicked his tongue lightly and asked, “How about it?” The tall, handsome man with burning blonde hair and striking eyes was an old acquaintance from their first posting after military academy. Back then, the man, barely twenty, had just been appointed reconnaissance team leader, while Knut, a rookie officer parachuted in by a marquis, faced hostility from the troops.

The man, who had earned his position as reconnaissance leader through years of rolling in the blood-soaked fields of battle, and Knut, who had followed the standard elite path to officership, were fundamentally different in origin and destination, with no common ground outside the military. Thus, Colin Solow, Knut’s aide for five years, found the situation both outwardly and inwardly bewildering.

“I’m on duty.”

When the man bluntly rejected Knut’s request—Knut, the current arms company president, future marquis, and heir to a border count—without embellishment, Colin’s eyes widened in shock. What stunned Colin more was Knut Berrillard, a thoroughbred noble, responding with a grin rather than offense at the commoner’s audacity.

“Oh, yes. I heard you’re guarding the count’s honey jar. It’s true. I couldn’t believe it even seeing it. If the one who brokered this job were standing here, I’d strangle them. What greater insult could there be to a man like you?”

“Your mouth is as lively as ever.”

“And your rotten fish eyes are still the same. Last time, you looked like a rusted toy soldier, but today you seem human. Should I reward the one who arranged this instead of strangling them? Still, it’s an insulting arrangement. To make you a lackey for a mere prostitute. If the military brass, who schemed to tarnish your name, found out, they’d dance and sing for three days and nights. Why not come to me instead?”

“I appreciate the offer, but I’ll decline.”

“Tch. You know I don’t take rejection well. Getting prickly because of your client? Indeed, the talk of that prostitute being a honey jar isn’t baseless. Have you melted into it too? Is that why those fish eyes evolved into living ones? Oh, I could strangle that prostitute too. How does it feel to smear shit on your own face? All that effort to crawl out of the cesspool, only to play gatekeeper for a honey jar or whatever in front of others. How could I not be stunned? Cedric. Cedric Baltar. For a self-inflicted wound, it’s awfully undignified.”

“Thanks for worrying about my dignity, Knut.”

At the tone that seemed ready to add “Lord” with one more word, Knut frowned slightly, then shook off his rising irritation and flashed a refined smile.

“Tch. That stubborn streak hasn’t changed either. You insufferable friend.”

Despite his noble status, Knut’s coarse language never lost its elegance, but Colin, standing nearby, looked ready to collapse, his dull brown eyes twitching as they met the man’s gaze over Knut’s shoulder.

“Colin Solow. Lacking but loyal, a match for you in devotion. Right. Let’s stop here before this dimwit falls over. I have more to say, but you on duty, even if rusted, are a bit tricky. No fun. For your sake, I won’t harp on that prostitute, but I must say this.”

Knut, who understood the man’s world—defined entirely by duty—better than anyone, spoke earnestly, not hiding his concern.

“The count’s bad taste is quite famous. Vile enough to make the late Sir Richard rise from his grave. A male prostitute serving as the count’s honey jar for three years, no less. I don’t believe it, but heed my caution. Don’t even glance their way. People like that would strip your soul bare. No matter how smooth-talking or sweet as heavenly honey, their essence is fouler than a sewer. Remember, demons always appear beautiful and fragile. But they’re fundamentally different from the poor children who died by your hand.”

Knut knew exactly what happened in the defensive battle three years ago.

The headquarters, detecting guerrilla jamming signals, dispatched an operations team. The man, a veteran officer with seventeen years of flawless missions, was the perfect candidate to take down the decentralized guerrillas and engage in a fierce battle at their final stronghold.

The operation was named “To My Dearest.”

Twelve highly trained officers were sent as a unit and swiftly caught up to the enemy. The man, spotting a child with his own eyes, requested to abort the mission, but headquarters ignored it and ordered to open fire. He requested reconsideration repeatedly. Headquarters refused to retract the order.

Inside the crumbling temple, where armed guerrillas moved, suspicious explosives were detected, and the civilians and children inside were not Baden citizens. When the man requested reconsideration again, headquarters issued an ultimatum: aborting the mission would lead to a court-martial for insubordination.

Relying on the thermal sensor on his rifle, the man monitored the guerrillas’ movements 200 meters away. Nine guerrillas moved inside the temple, six patrolled outside. Fifteen in total.

A harsh sandstorm blew under the blazing sun. Children in tattered clothes played with rifles instead of balls, pestering the guerrillas, who chewed on dried fruit and chatted. The rifles swung dangerously in the children’s hands, yet the scene was oddly serene and peaceful.

But they were not Baden citizens.

In a brief moment, the man scanned the infiltration route through his scope and gave orders to the twelve team members.

He advanced.

Soon, a sandstorm swept over them.

“All fifteen guerrillas were killed, and twenty-two civilians, including children, died in the gunfire. Foreign reports inflated the guerrilla count to thirty-seven, as you can imagine. The operation succeeded, and Cedric Baltar was promoted from perennial captain to major. He tendered his resignation afterward, but what happened? The military needed Cedric Baltar’s dog-like loyalty and wanted him to stay and be used as long as possible. They rejected it. Had he not returned, he’d have been branded a deserter, hunted down, or executed for treason. In this country, a soldier whose only trait is loyalty getting executed for treason is a real possibility. But that farce didn’t happen. Cedric Baltar returned. Having lived his life on the battlefield with nowhere else to go, he served three more years, but he was broken.”

That doesn’t justify this treatment.

Tsk. Knut clicked his tongue and fell silent as he entered the lobby. The lavish hotel lobby was teeming with ostentatiously dressed nobles. Ignoring them, Knut glanced at Colin Solow, who couldn’t hide his displeasure at his superior being treated like a mere guard by a lowly sentinel. With a look that said, “You dimwit,” Knut spoke. In a crowded place, words were less likely to leak.

“Colin, if you were in mortal danger, the only one who could save you is Cedric Baltar. I owe him my life too. Beyond his skill as a soldier, you could count on one hand the famous figures who don’t owe him their lives. Twenty years. Twenty years. Not a fake soldier like me, but the only one to survive twenty years on the front lines. Can you even fathom that weight? And yet, Cedric Baltar as a count’s courtesan’s lackey? A pearl on a pig’s neck would be less degrading.”

“He’s just a commoner rabble, Lord.”

Colin Solow, his ash-blonde hair clearly dyed, retorted firmly, as if the man’s hair was the greater disgrace. Checking the floor, he nodded to the elevator boy. Inside the closing doors were Knut, Colin, and a couple of other nobles. For that reason, Knut chose silence, and Colin welcomed it. The praises of a commoner rabble spouted by the head of the kingdom’s top arms company and future border count were, to Colin—a half-baron but still a noble—better left unheard.

🍯

The young man appeared as the dawn stars faded.

Half the cars that had filled the hotel parking lot were gone, and half remained. The man, sitting in a flowerbed with a clear view of the lobby, spotted the young man crossing the brightly lit space. Even from afar, the young man’s pale face was unmistakable. No, it wasn’t just his face—the man had already memorized every detail of his gait, gestures, and habits.

Approaching the entrance, he met the sharp gazes of the security staff. They were exceptionally well-trained for private agents. The lobby doors opened, and the young man fully emerged. His styled hair was slightly mussed but still neat, and his tailored suit, aside from minor creases, was intact. Most importantly, his pale face showed only fatigue, with no signs of abuse.

“You waited long.”

Descending the steps with a soft smile, the young man looked at the man with a rare, relaxed expression. His pale skin glowed blue in the dawn light, and his tired face remained beautiful. Brushing aside Knut’s warning about the beautiful, fragile guise of demons, the man extended his hand. The young man, gazing down at him, took it with a slightly awkward expression. It was unfamiliar because he had no memory of leaning on the man willingly or consciously.

Rarely looking down at the man, the young man hid his shy demeanor and stepped down further. Their eyes aligned, though the young man’s were slightly higher. Two steps remained. Stopping there, the young man met the man’s silent gaze. The young man’s hand, touching the man’s, was cold. Looking up at him felt unfamiliar to the man, but it wasn’t noteworthy. What was unusual was the young man walking out on his own, unscathed, after such a long summons.

“Will you walk?”

The question, implying other transport if needed, made the young man blink blankly before shaking his head with a smile.

“How tall are you?”

“197.8 centimeters.”

The man’s gaze curved as he answered the abrupt question. The young man, descending the remaining steps, stood beside him and measured the height difference with his hand, from his crown to the man’s. His long, slender fingers folded and unfolded, once long, then shorter. Their briefly held hands had already parted.

“How much is this?”

“About 18 centimeters.”

“Then, with a 25-centimeter difference, my height must be between 170 and 172.”

Meeting the man’s eyes without further comment, the young man smiled, crinkling his eyes.

“I’ve never measured my height.”

“170.8 centimeters.”

Though petite, the young man’s proportions made him appear taller unless compared directly. The man’s prompt answer stemmed not only from a soldier’s keen eye but also because the young man’s measurements were clearly listed on the first page of that thin document, unbeknownst to him. Satisfied with knowing his height, the young man nodded and descended the steps first, now accustomed to leading with the man behind.

“To the right.”

The young man, striding confidently but briefly lost, was guided by the man, who also began walking. When the man gave a second direction, the young man wisely chose to match his pace rather than lead.

“Let’s eat before heading back. There’s a 24-hour burger place if you turn right at the intersection.”

“Before eating?”

“I didn’t eat much.”

Seven hours and thirty-five minutes had passed since dropping the young man at the lobby.

The young man hadn’t eaten a single meal yesterday, and based on their brief exchange, it was likely he hadn’t eaten properly at the party either. Opening the back door to let him in, the man lowered his gaze further. The young man, a head shorter, looked up at him instead of climbing in.

“Is it dangerous to sit in the front?”

The young man was speaking to him today with even more ease than usual.

“I’ve actually never ridden in the front seat.”

I want to try it, he said with a bright smile. The man, gazing down at him silently, closed the back door he had opened. He then opened the passenger door and gestured for the young man to get in. Thanking him, the young man quickly climbed inside. His movements were light but sluggish. However, it wasn’t concerning enough to warrant attention, so the man ignored it, closed the passenger door, and walked around to the driver’s seat.

Regardless of where one sat, if an attack was deliberate, any position was equally dangerous. Especially in a car, even with bulletproofing, it was risky. A car was a confined space where the outcome depended solely on luck and the driver’s skill, making the driver’s role critical.

For the man, the ideal situation was one where the person being protected didn’t lose their composure, regardless of the seating position. However, such cases were extremely rare, so it was often easier for the protector if the person was unconscious.

“Can I open the window?”

“No.”

“Can I play some music then?”

“Yes.”

With permission granted, the young man turned on the radio and settled on a channel playing music.

The music that flowed was old-fashioned classical. Listening briefly to the somber cello melody, the young man changed the channel again, stopping at another station playing music. A female singer’s lilting voice carried over a calm guitar melody in a folk song. Perhaps recognizing the tune, the young man hummed along, tapping his knee while looking up at the city beyond the window. His voice-voice was clear and tranquil.

“Here. Turn right here.”

At the unusually quiet intersection, rare for the early dawn, the car turned right as the young man directed and stopped in front of the 24-hour burger joint. Unbuckling his seatbelt and turning, the young man was stopped by the man, who got out of the driver’s seat first and briefly surveyed the surroundings. There were no following vehicles, and he sensed no unusual activity.

In the pre-dawn stillness, where even the streetlights seemed subdued, discarded trash skittered across the road in the wind. Hearing a tap on the window from inside, the man looked down at the passenger seat, where the young man tilted his head, asking with his eyes if he could get out.

“I’ve never been here before.”

It wasn’t something the person who guided him here should say, but the young man looked around the interior with genuine curiosity.

As it neared 5 a.m., the burger joint had two staff members, one person starting the day early, and three finishing a late day, each seated and eating. After scanning the interior, the man chose a seat relatively close to the entrance, out of sight from outside but with a good view of the exterior, and handed the young man a menu.

The young man, accepting it gladly without hesitation, opened the flimsy, plastic-coated menu. The 24-hour burger joint seemed to have a reputation for its artisanal burgers, as the counter was plastered with colorful advertisements boasting media appearances. The man, watching the young man carefully study the menu across from him, shifted his gaze to the counter again, where a menu with detailed calorie counts was displayed next to the promotional placards.

“They say this one’s good.”

Following the young man’s voice, the man lowered his gaze slightly. The young man had pushed the menu to the center of the table, pointing with a pale finger at a tantalizingly photographed artisanal burger.

“Shall we order two and split them?”

“Yes.”

“What about drinks? You don’t drink alcohol, right?”

“Order what you want.”

“Then let’s get two of these and share them too.”

Though he’d likely had these drinks before, the young man, seeming in high spirits, insisted on ordering two different ones to share. Adding juice and a soda, he seemed to have nearly finalized the order when he added fried potatoes and fried chicken as well. Wondering if two grown men could finish it all but noting the young man’s small appetite, the man confirmed the order and stood. The young man, who he’d expected to stay seated, slipped out from the narrow table and stood beside him.

“Add a fruit salad too.”

At the end of the man’s order, the young man casually added the request, then looked at the man pulling out his wallet with a startled expression. Having never paid for anything in his life, the young man had forgotten the transaction that naturally followed. In fact, it had been a long time since he’d sought out something he wanted to eat on his own, accustomed to simply accepting what was given.

“I didn’t think of that.”

“I know.”

It was obvious, without much effort, that the young man, who relied entirely on his master for food, clothing, and consumption, lacked any practical life skills. Conversely, seeing him want something of his own accord was unusual. Brushing off the anomaly, the man completed the payment nonchalantly. Watching him quietly, the young man, now seated on a nearby waiting chair, added something he’d forgotten.

“If they find out I ate this, I’ll get in trouble.”

“Is that so?”

Expecting another comment, the man glanced at the now-silent young man, then crumpled the receipt and tossed it into the trash. Though expenses were reimbursed, the man often covered meals like this personally. Even the obsessive master didn’t assign additional surveillance to the young man besides the man, so as long as they kept quiet, the master would never know about such an outing. Still, looking down at the young man seeking confirmation, the man spoke.

“Understood.”

“You won’t tell anyone?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Trying to discern the intent behind the question, the man looked at the young man, but his dark eyes held only pure curiosity. It wasn’t a question expecting an answer. Choosing not to respond rather than citing the manual’s requirement to humor the protected person to some extent, the man turned away upon hearing the order number.

Carrying a tray laden with the generous order to the designated table, the young man, trailing a step behind, grabbed four straws in different colors. Even such trivial actions seemed to delight the young man now. Accustomed to seeing him lie like a corpse after outings, the man felt an odd sense of déjà vu but showed no reaction.

He paused. The young man, staring at the man while his hand was grabbed, soon gave an awkward smile.

“There. It’s on you.”

Burger sauce was smeared on the man’s lips. Spotting it and instinctively reaching out, the young man’s hand faltered at the man’s cold reaction, embarrassed.

“You’re really sensitive.”

“Sensitive” wasn’t quite the right word, but it wasn’t entirely wrong.

The man’s nerves, honed by over twenty years of hyper-vigilance, remained taut even in this moment of easing tension. Instinctively scanning the surroundings, he’d grabbed the arm reaching toward him. Releasing the young man’s arm to avoid leaving a mark, the man wiped his lips with a napkin.

“Do you shoot well too?”

Picking up a perfectly fried potato and popping it into his mouth, the young man displayed impeccable table manners, unbelievable for someone from the East. This too was the result of rigorous training.

“I went to a hunting ground once.”

He remembered the rough panting of excited males, the deafening gunfire, and the fishy taste of raw meat forced into his mouth.

“They didn’t shoot to kill right away but waited until it was gasping its last.”

A red fox, shot through the side of its heart, bled out, its entire body stained the same color, slowly kissing death. As its faint wheezing faded, the master’s eyes gleamed, patiently awaiting the fox’s final breath. He wholly savored the fleeting silence of a living thing’s end.

Watching the master’s blazing red eyes, the young man briefly held his breath. For a human animal capable of killing for pleasure, a beast’s death was merely a thrilling amusement. Fortunately, the young man didn’t make the mistake of comparing his worth to the bloodied beast that died there. He simply couldn’t shake the image of the master’s gleaming red eyes and the red beast’s carcass, dangling from a skewer in an attendant’s hand.

“They say it makes the meat taste better.”

Tearing the hide off the dead beast and biting into raw flesh, the young man smiled brightly. Staring at a wineglass filling with the beast’s hot, dripping blood, he undressed. The grotesquely dancing, crimson flames devoured the skewered beast. The master and his party, eagerly stirred by the barbaric act of hunting, indulged in its aftermath without restraint. They lit a fire, tore apart the captured beasts to taste raw, and drank freshly drawn blood instead of wine, willingly intoxicated by madness. The young man, too, surrendered his entire body to that madness, reveling in the hunt’s afterglow.

“It wasn’t really my thing, though.”

Smiling softly, the young man brought a straw to his lips and sipped. The two drink cups, ordered to share, each had two of the straws he’d grabbed. Taking a couple of sips, he moved on to the salad. The canned fruit and lettuce tossed in tangy sauce were far from fresh, even as a courtesy, but the young man ate it eagerly.

The man’s gaze briefly swept the two-person table. Of the two burgers, cut in half for sharing, one was entirely gone, and only the man’s half of the other remained. The young man’s share of the fried potatoes and fried chicken was also completely gone. Leaving just enough salad for the man, the young man took the red straw again, this time sipping juice instead of soda.

“Not eating more?”

The young man asked.

“Doesn’t suit your taste?”

It was easy to guess he’d happily finish the rest if the man said no. The man didn’t answer. Staring at him, the young man reached for the leftovers and began stuffing them into his mouth.

The remaining half of the second burger disappeared, followed by the two pieces of fried chicken, the half-portion of fried potatoes, and the salad. Eating diligently without pause, the young man finished the last of the order with a final sip through the straw. It took less than twenty minutes to clear everything.

“Delicious.”

Wiping his mouth with a napkin, the young man looked at the table, now holding only empty wrappers, and spoke again.

“If I’d known it wasn’t to your taste, I would’ve gone somewhere else.”

Silently gathering the leftovers onto the tray, the man stood.

“I’ll do it.”

The young man grabbed the other side of the tray, and the man let go smoothly.

Staring at it briefly with wide eyes, the young man walked to dispose of the tray and turned back. The man was looking out the glass. His impeccable profile recalled the master’s voice calling him a fine asset. The young man deeply agreed. But whether that was proportionate to how good it was remained unclear.

The young man wasn’t ignorant of the master’s intentions in hiring the man.

Don’t die recklessly. Don’t lay a finger on your body without my permission. Harming your body, ending your breath—all of that is mine. So don’t even dream of such insolence.

It was a warning.

The young man was a disposable item, uncertain when he’d be discarded, and the only one who’d care enough to kill him was the master. If he were to die, the master would surely be there. Thus, the man’s role was inappropriate. A pearl on a pig’s neck. Guarding a mere prostitute like this was unjust for the man. It was also unjust for the young man, whose freedom to die had been forcibly castrated.

The young man gave a small smile to the man looking at him.

In truth, he hadn’t wanted to live for even a moment. Not for a very long time.

“I think I ate too much.”

Standing near the tightly closed bathroom door, the man’s gaze turned to the open storefront at the corridor’s entrance. The three customers present when they arrived had long since left, and two new ones barely filled the empty seats.

Glancing at his watch, the man noted the young man, who had gone to the bathroom claiming nausea, had been in there for over ten minutes. No sounds of vomiting came through the thin bathroom door.

The cramped bathroom had a small window above a sink, a still-wet urinal beside it, a mop in a cleaning supply closet, and two toilets separated by a partition. The loose door creaked and rattled whenever the ventilator ran.

Before letting the young man in, the man, as a matter of course, checked the bathroom and, finding it empty, opened the door for him. Some might call it excessive, but the young man didn’t complain.

Creak. Clatter. The sound of the rattling door came rhythmically from inside. Standing with arms dangling, staring at the corridor’s exterior, the man suddenly straightened from leaning against the wall. He glared at the glass window by the entrance. From this angle, only one staff member was visible inside the counter, though there had been two when they entered. The faint clattering through the thin wooden door pierced his ears.

Turning, the man grabbed the bathroom doorknob.

It wouldn’t open. Recalling the young man curled up like a heartbeat, tied to the pool’s bottom, the man kicked the door hard. With a bang, the nearly torn-off door revealed the narrow bathroom. The man’s lips tightened.

The young man was perched on the sink. Between his wide-open legs, a man in the burger joint’s uniform was urgently thrusting. Clatter. Clatter. One of the young man’s pale legs dangled from the loose, shaking sink.

The clattering stopped, leaving only the panel door creaking. The startled staff member, turning and seeing the man, began babbling incoherently. The young man, crumpled against the small mirror, had his mouth smeared with splattered mucus.

The young man showed no expression. The man said nothing. Panicking, the staff member, glancing between them and stammering, scurried out through a half-door by the partition, marked as the cleaning supply closet but connected to the kitchen.

Shifting his gaze from the rattling door to the young man, the man stepped forward. The young man, sitting limply with legs spread, flinched only when the man reached out.

A hot palm wiped his mouth. Eyelashes, dirtied with splattered mucus, blinked slowly. Then, grabbed under both armpits, the young man was lowered from the sink. His chin briefly touched the man’s shoulder before falling away. The man picked up the pants, thrown aside by the staff member, and handed them to him. Unfazed by the young man’s grotesquely spread legs, the man didn’t leave him alone in the bathroom this time. Closing the supply closet and standing at the entrance in place of the broken door, the man watched as the young man, bending over, began pulling the pants over his pale legs. Murky mucus trickled down his inner thigh. Without wiping it, he pulled the pants up to his hips.

Feeling nauseous and wanting to vomit but unable to, the young man leaned over the sink, washing his face. The sound of running water drowned out the noise of the door by the partition opening and the staff member entering. When the young man straightened, the staff member’s face appeared in the small mirror.

Their eyes met.

One thing the young man knew well was the feverish gaze of impulse. It was also a gaze that desired him. He’d keenly sensed the staff member’s glances at the counter and during the meal. Turning to face him, leaning against the sink, it was as simple as breathing to draw him between his legs and embrace his desire.

Raising a finger to remind him of the man outside, the easily excited staff member quieted himself. The young man knelt on the floor, burying his face in the staff member’s lower body. Before he could take it in his mouth, the staff member’s first ejaculation came quickly, splattering his face. Simultaneously, he was roughly hoisted onto the sink. With legs spread wide, the staff member entered forcefully. Familiarly opening, the young man’s anus swallowed the staff member’s eager thrust as he stared at the thin wooden door.

Beyond it was the master’s watchdog.

Capable. A former military dog. Silent as a mute.

Biting the young man’s nape to stifle his panting, the staff member whispered hoarsely, What’s your name? Swallow. Fuck, even your name’s like a cheap whore’s. Yeah, you’re right. The young man, lightly frowning, quietly responded to the whisper.

Clatter. Clatter. The loose sink rattled with the staff member’s thrusts. The young man stared at the grimy, unwipeable doorknob. Until the door tore off, revealing the man. As the master said, the man was an excellent watchdog.

Excessively so.

“I want to throw up.”

Speeding down the road, the man reacted instantly to the young man’s faint voice. Turning the wheel, he slowed and pulled onto the shoulder. Before the wheels fully stopped, the young man flung open the door, stumbled out, and retched onto the concrete. He soon vomited everything he’d eaten at the burger joint. Standing near the hood, the man silently watched as the young man, writhing as if coughing up blood, emptied his stomach.

🍯

The master called me Honey.

Sweet honey. Flowing nectar. The crystal of desire.

Thousands of insects clung to my body, drenched in honey and lifted from the jar.

I wanted to scream and escape the extreme mental panic, but in reality, I couldn’t even blink. The master said he wouldn’t forgive me until I properly repented. But I didn’t know how to repent properly. I only desperately wished the insects crawling over me wouldn’t enter my body, biting back the sobs threatening to burst out.

My mind was gripped by vivid terror. As the insects devoured the honey coating my body, they also gnawed at the slender thread of my sanity. If I could kneel before the master and beg, I could rub my fingerprints away doing so. If the master told me to kneel and kiss his feet, to clean and lick them, I could do so with sincere devotion.

But the master controlled me by imposing a punishment that left me unable to breathe. A black insect crawled down my nose, seeking sweet honey, and slipped into the dark hole. I wanted to open my mouth, writhe, and scream. But feeling thousands of insects crawling inside me, I couldn’t even blink. The master told me to only breathe. Otherwise, he’d let the insects devour me alive.

I breathed as the master commanded.

Even as unknown insects crawled inside me, I clung to a thread of sanity, eyes wide. A repulsive thing crawled over my eyeball. To avoid madness, I desperately clung to my wandering mind. Mister Wood’s sweet voice, softly whispering in my ear as if soothing my despair, lingered like a specter from a grave.

The most horrific part of pain is its beginning.

The pain of your body breaking. The pain of your soul shattering. When it reaches its extreme… if you still want to die.

The most horrific part of pain is its beginning.

The pain of your body breaking. The pain of your soul shattering. When it reaches its extreme… if you still want to die.

The most horrific part of pain is its beginning.

The pain of your body breaking. The pain of your soul shattering. When it reaches its extreme… if you still want to die.

The most horrific part of pain is its beginning.

I had to cling to that.

To avoid madness, I recited the curse lingering in my ear like a mantra.

The master called me Honey.

Sweet honey. Flowing nectar. The crystal of desire.

I spilled bile at the master’s feet. When I bowed my head, unable to swallow the rod prodding my throat, my stomach’s contents poured out. The rod, smeared with filth, struck the floor with a thud. It then lashed my head, my cheek, my nape. As I lay prostrate, the rod relentlessly struck my back.

Until the master’s furious punishment ceased, I lay on the floor, apologizing, begging for forgiveness, but I couldn’t earn his mercy. Two men he commanded dragged me to a massive honey jar and threw me in. Unable to steady myself as I sank endlessly, I looked up in terror as the master told me to only breathe. Then, submerged in honey up to my head, I was pulled out and thrown to thousands of insects as food. Left until I was on the verge of irreparable ruin, I was barely retrieved at the threshold.

By then, my sanity had completely snapped.

The master called me Honey.

Sweet honey. Flowing nectar. The crystal of desire.

Sitting on a bed with needles dangling from one arm, I looked out the window. In a corner of the wide lawn, I stared at a dog and a pig mating. Even through the tightly closed window, their panting seemed to come from right beside me.

I spread my legs. Then I pulled the white hospital gown up to my waist. The soft cock, previously hidden, stood stiffly erect. Watching the dog and pig’s depravity, I got an erection. Looking down at the lightly flushed tip, I smiled. Would the master praise me? I wondered.

The master called me Honey.

Sweet honey. Flowing nectar. The crystal of desire.

My mouth was raw. My throat felt torn too. Yet, I parted my lips, caressed my uvula, and eagerly took in the cock that reached down my esophagus, sucking it with devotion. Something sour dripped heavily into my freshly opened throat. With a slurping sound, I swallowed it down to the root, then pulled back to the tip, cleaning the cock soaked in my saliva.

Even after ejaculation, I licked the still-hard black cock from base to tip, then pushed my pointed tongue into the slit at the head. As the trembling cock pressed and rubbed against my face, my dry skin quickly became slick. I opened my mouth wide again, deeply swallowing the cock that was growing thicker.

This cock had only just had its first release.

The master wanted to teach me everything, starting with how to breathe, step by step. Everything I had done while rolling through the East streets and oil tankers, the master told me to forget. He said he would teach me everything properly from the beginning.

Like a child learning to walk, I obeyed the master’s words and followed his teachings. I learned how to breathe, how to crawl on the floor, how to open my mouth, how to move my tongue, and how to suck a cock. Through punishments so severe I’d rather die if I failed to meet the master’s standards, I was molded, acquiring each skill exactly as he desired.

My blank slate was gradually filled anew by my master.

🍯

The man’s gaze, following the long wingbeats of a kite, stopped at a crumbling warehouse.

The kite, renowned for its free, soaring flight, rested with folded wings under the very roof where the young man had tried to hang himself. The man stepped forward and entered the old warehouse. The door, sealed for half a year, creaked as it permitted a sliver of light.

Inside, the man easily found the kite’s nest. Perched in the center of a beam supporting the roof, the kite, as if wary of an intruder, circled its nest, puffing up its feathers. Pausing at the threat from the raptor, the man looked up at the high, triangular ceiling. The warehouse, untouched since its closure until the man’s arrival, remained exactly as it was when the young man had tried to hang himself.

After encountering the young man, the man’s first task was to investigate the warehouse. By stepping on haphazardly stacked straw, one could reach the high beam. Near an old, motionless truck, a rope lay scattered, likely used to tie around the beam for the attempt. Even now, as he surveyed the warehouse, the man traced the young man’s movements from that time, heading toward the corner where the broken rope lay abandoned.

With a sharp sound, the kite, which had been flapping its wings menacingly, settled near its nest, watching the man with gleaming eyes. Kneeling on one knee and picking up the blunt rope, dust drifted over the man’s head. He examined the rough, uneven end. It wasn’t cut by a knife or damaged by a gun or any external force. The rope, bearing the young man’s weight, had indeed snapped due to internal decay. Standing up, the man looked at the sunlight streaming like rain through the loose roof. Around the still-tied knot below, faint dust danced in the air.

A colleague had called the young man the noble’s mistress. Three years ago, he had shown a photo of the young man, and six months ago, he had shown another. The colleague dismissed it as trivial, hinting at the young man’s suicide. The thin document, just one page, mentioned only a single suicide attempt, with no other indication of self-destructive tendencies.

The man recalled the young male prostitute crawling under the passenger seat, pleading for mercy in a small voice, and the young man curled up tightly, writhing as if in the depths of despair. And the white eyes from last night, devoid of any spark.

Walking barefoot through the dark path at night, the young man likely hadn’t made a single proper sound even as he tried to hang himself. Around the broken rope, old bloodstains spread like blotches. They belonged to the young man, whose legs had reportedly broken when he fell. Releasing a handful of straw stained with hardened blood, the man stood. The kite, now relaxed, climbed into its nest, folding its large wings to shrink its form. A glance into the nest would likely reveal the eggs it was brooding.

“Kites don’t eat carrion. Their silent, graceful hunting, riding air currents, is almost miraculous. War took much away. Kites are a symbol of Baden’s few remaining raptors, but driven from land to sea in search of prey, they can neither rest on water nor dive. They’re just declining birds. Even when they fold their wings weakly, they never gather food by means other than hunting, except in one case. I’ve seen a mother kite, drenched in rain, brooding her eggs. In that nest, a black-beaked male fought off a flock of crows, bleeding.”

In a cave, hiding from the rain, the man, watching his uncle’s hunched back as he lit a fire, suddenly asked about parents he didn’t even remember. After a long silence, his uncle, with his usual gentle voice, haltingly told the story of the kite. A bullet had pierced his uncle’s vocal cords, making speech difficult, and the man had learned to speak from him.

Closing the creaking warehouse door and retracing the path, the man’s view caught a large sedan, crouched nobly. Arriving on the outskirts road around noon, the sedan had dropped off its master in the yard and lay still. The sun was tilting. The master wanted the man far from the residence, and the man was in no position to defy his employer. As he rounded the wooden terrace, the master’s driver sat in the sedan’s driver’s seat, smirking. The driver stepped out, lighting a cigarette.

Spotting the man emerging from the path, the driver spat out his cigarette, crushed it, and vanished back into the driver’s seat. Despite the blatant hostility, the man felt no particular reaction. Over two hours had passed. In that time, he had walked the path, climbed the hill, and lingered in the warehouse, following the kite’s wings. There were no signs of spying or intrusion around the residence. The colleague had hinted at the young man’s suicide. The man wondered what he was supposed to protect the young man from.

The door opened, and the master, impeccably dressed, appeared. Spotting the man, the master gave a faint smile with thin lips and descended the wooden terrace. Attended by the driver, the master got into the car, and the large sedan roared to life, exiting the narrow yard. Staring at the sedan’s rear as it kicked up thick dust on the dirt ground, the man turned around. Dark clouds rolled in, as if to block the afternoon light. The rainy season was settling over the West’s southern end as autumn waned.

The drawing room was in disarray. Spotting an overturned sofa and a diagonally cracked glass table, the man moved inward. A golf club, carelessly tossed on the floor, was stained with red blood. Around it, a sharp razor and black hair lay scattered like ash. Bending down, the man picked up the blood-stained golf club.

Blood splattered rapidly stood out starkly on the white walls. Following the long, curving bloodstains, his gaze lowered. Drops of blood, smeared and crushed, led to the bathroom. Stopping at the bathroom entrance, where the door had been torn off, the man knocked on the doorframe. A faint sound of swallowed breath came from inside. The young man was there.

“I’m coming in.”

“I’m, I’m washing.”

“I’m coming in.”

“Just, just a moment.”

The young man’s speech was unclear. Counting to three, the man stepped into the bathroom. The young man, sitting in the bathtub, looked up. Bloodshot, bruised eyes stared blankly at the man. The man couldn’t speak. The young man’s condition was utterly horrific.

🍯

It was a swelteringly unbearable day, where even sitting still brought sweat.

I submerged myself deep in the pool, swimming until I was exhausted.

Last week, I was summoned to the master’s mansion in central West, sucking the cocks of noble guests until my mouth was raw. I was praised, and the master was proud of me.

But as soon as the noble guests left, I was struck with a cane until both cheeks burst.

The master said the cheap oil smell emanating from me was foul. He struck my jaw, saying that no matter how much he disciplined me, my vulgar movements and gaze, befitting a lowborn whore, couldn’t be corrected. My skin tore, but it was fine. I was only confused and tormented, unable to understand how to satisfy the master.

My collarbone cracked, and my molars wobbled.

Panting on the floor in the center of the study after the master left, I sensed someone’s presence. It was Mister Wood. The man who whispered those cursed words in my ear every other day when I was submerged in the honey jar finally showed his face when I was moved to the northern West’s old castle. Though he was supposedly the master’s steward and far above tending to someone like me, he took charge of my care.

After moving to the castle, I met no one but the master and Mister Wood. No one knew of my existence, and no one would care if I died and was buried. Thus, I couldn’t resent Mister Wood. I hated him, but he was the only one, besides the master, who knew I existed, and the only one I could miss. He was also the only one who quietly approached and brushed back my hair when I groaned. Those moments allowed me to endure.

Don’t speak.

Mister Wood, pressing a silk handkerchief to my bleeding jaw, whispered softly. The dizzying pain gradually intensified my suffering, but I drifted into a daze, captivated by the faint grassy scent emanating from him. Perhaps I’d lost too much blood, clouding my consciousness. Mister Wood didn’t scold me for what I’d done wrong.

I found comfort in him. If he’d cast a reproachful glance, I surely wouldn’t have been able to respond. I had no idea why the master inflicted violence and punishment on me. No, I didn’t know what I could do to please the master, who despised my vulgarity and filth. While my body and mind were repeatedly crushed, I only learned to obey and worship him, yet he berated my every aspect as crude and base, ruthlessly disciplining me.

The pain of not knowing was more agonizing than physical suffering. I feared the master, who could smile gently one moment and then grab my hair and slap me the next. I struggled to stay sane, terrified he’d throw me back into the honey jar if he grew tired of kicking me.

I’ll carry you.

I thought Mister Wood was kind.

It was likely just part of his duties, but how I imagined and accepted it was up to me. Even if it was a lie, I needed someone’s kindness. I needed someone’s care. I needed someone’s comfort. Yet, I felt guilt and fear for needing anyone other than the master. If he knew my heart, he’d surely throw me back into the honey jar.

When the master’s discipline left me battered, Mister Wood cared for me tenderly. That was a relief. I surrendered my body and mind to him completely, gratefully accepting his care and leaning on his hands to ease my pain.

Mister Wood’s touch was gentle as he applied ointment to my body, making even severe abrasions and cuts vanish quickly. Each time he treated me, I got an erection. It was the result of the master’s training. My body had become one that could easily get aroused anytime, anywhere. Like a rutting dog. That was me.

Erect, I looked up at Mister Wood’s composed face.

His green eyes, lush yet lonely like a mystical forest, remained expressionless as he meticulously applied ointment to every scar on my body. His dazzling blonde hair, like something from a fairy tale, drew attention, but his features were average. Still, I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He was my only light, my only outlet, my only healing. I liked him. From the moment he first greeted me politely with his eyes, I couldn’t look away. I couldn’t hate him.

What are the starting point and peak of pain for you?

Exhaling a held breath, I surfaced from the water. The gentle sunlight of northern West enveloped me from head to toe. Stepping up the stairs, I dried my wet body. The master had taught me to swim. If throwing me in and pulling me out just before I sank counted as teaching, then he was my teacher.

Bending to dry my calves, I raised my head and met the eyes of a stranger. Beyond the transparent glass wall, a man in a worn straw hat blushed and quickly averted his gaze upon meeting my eyes. I sensed his desire instantly.

I stood, spreading my legs wider. My limp cock brushed against my pubis. The sparse pubic hair I’d once had was gone, plucked out one by one in front of the master. My cock was pink. The master said it was fine for a lowborn male prostitute. He was also pleased with the color of my anus, which had undergone multiple reconstructive surgeries. I expressed deep gratitude for his praise. The master poured an entire bottle of red wine over my head. I licked it clean, down to the last drop on his custom-made shoes.

The man, who had turned away, hesitantly looked back at me. Through the glass wall, his eyes, filled with curiosity or fear and intense heat, stole glances at me. I looked at him too. The man in the straw hat seemed to reek of dirty sweat. His white, sweat-soaked wool shirt, oil-stained suspenders, and agricultural boots suggested a mix of alcohol, garlic, mold, and sweat. His chest, with curly hair poking through the shirt, heaved heavily.

The towel slipped from my fingers. I bent to pick it up, then knelt and lay prostrate on the floor. Brushing my hair behind my ear, I looked up at the man. His bloodshot eyes, dilated with excitement, swallowed hard. Staring at his cock, likely erect under his bulging belly, I licked my lips. Bringing the palm that had touched the floor to my face, I licked it slowly. I slid my index finger into my mouth, sucking it like delicious candy.

Thud, thud. The man’s running footsteps echoed beyond the glass wall. His hole-ridden straw hat fell onto the gold-woven carpet. The door burst open, and the man rushed into the pool area, pouncing on me. My erect cock swayed wildly under his forceful grip from behind. His hot breath, a mix of alcohol, tobacco, oil, garlic, mold, sweat, and fertilizer, clung to my ear. I raised my hips high to receive him. Something large and thick pierced me in one thrust. I didn’t need to use the master’s teachings. The man, crazed, panted like a dog.

Semen from the man’s release dripped from my loose anus. Standing before a mirror reflecting my reddened neck and arms, marked with handprints, I spread my legs wider. Without scraping it out, thick mucus dripped heavily. I turned on the shower and washed.

The man said my insides were tighter than any woman’s. Mating like a beast, he called me a siren, a slut, a fantastic fuckhole. He said he knew me. The story of the esteemed count’s infamous honey jar was something even the town dogs knew, he said, greedily licking my cheek with his thick tongue. He said if he bragged about the count’s prized concubine having a cock and a tastier hole than any woman, people would call him mad. He ejaculated into my anus a third time.

The esteemed count’s refined hobby. That’s what people called me.

I learned that even debauchery, when done by the count, became a refined hobby.

My back ached. Knees bruised blue from the man’s weight, I scrubbed my body thoroughly with foam. My hair smelled sweet. Rinsing off the comically adorned foam, I left the bathroom. Drying meticulously to not drip a single drop, I walked across the golden carpet to my bedroom.

A lukewarm breeze blew through the open window. Beyond the white curtain fluttering like a cat’s tail, a wide garden glimmered. I sat on the bed’s edge, where the outside was clearly visible, basking in the sunlight. Drowsiness crept in. Curling up naked, I lay diagonally on the bed and fell asleep.

Honey.

It was the master’s voice.

Before I could react, my hair was grabbed. Dragged and thrown to the floor, my senses snapped awake. My forehead hit the marble floor, but there was no time to feel pain. Trying to right myself and prostrate, a foot flew at me. A blow to my chest choked my breath. Before I could regulate it, hunting boots kicked my head, chest, and stomach.

Thud. Thud. Thud. I was struck relentlessly. It felt like every bone in my body was breaking, my organs bursting.

Convulsing, a hand in soft leather gloves grabbed my hair again. Dragged and thrown onto a tea table, the master, who had no need to tear my already bare clothes, made a sound as he unbuckled his belt behind me. Goosebumps rose, but this brief lull was the only respite I was granted. As I parted my lips to exhale unsteady breaths, a leather belt whipped across my back with a whoosh.

I gripped the table legs tightly with both arms to avoid slipping off. Gasp. Gasp. Each time the tough leather belt struck my back and hips, I let out suppressed groans, but the master didn’t stop. When blood trickling between my buttocks reached my groin, forming a red stream, he paused.

Lie down.

As the master commanded, I lay on the table. The hard surface pressed against my wounded back, raw flesh screaming in protest, but I gritted my teeth and spread my legs wide. I saw the master pick up a whip instead of the blood-soaked belt. Soon, it was swung toward my genitals. I screamed and cried out. Yet, I neither closed my legs nor fled from the table.

The master swung the whip at me with full force until sweat rolled from his temples. I pleaded, begged for forgiveness, admitting my wrongs. He didn’t listen. He struck me again and again until his anger subsided. When I could no longer endure and crawled off the table, leaving long bloodstains on the marble, the master picked up a hunting rifle instead of the whip.

I wailed.

But all that escaped my crushed mouth was terrified sobbing.

Click. The sound of the bolt being pulled pierced my rectum, shaking my organs. My body trembled uncontrollably. I was gripped by terror. The master, shoving the rifle’s muzzle into my anus, called me a rutting dog in a gentle voice. A loose harlot. A shameless, lewd rag. Reiterating the definition of my existence, he released the trigger mechanism.

Hot tears streamed down as I shook my hips. The hard, blunt rifle muzzle moved tightly in and out of my anus. The inner walls tore, blood dripping, but I kept rubbing the muzzle against them, hoping to appease the master. Throughout, my cock remained erect.

The straw-hat man, who had ejaculated into my anus three times, was hung on the castle wall. A stablehand, he was sentenced to 100 lashes and ten days and nights on the wall for daring to covet a noble’s property. Since noble discretion was guaranteed by law for crimes on their estate, the stablehand was tried and sentenced by the master. On the sixth day, I heard he died. Someone had cut off his cock, and he bled to death.

Sitting blankly on the bed, I listened to Mister Wood’s voice. Delivering the stablehand’s news, he said nothing about my wretched state. Feeling his familiar touch as he applied ointment to my body, I thought of the master. Though he willingly offered me to noble guests, he disciplined me for satisfying their cocks after they left. After spreading my legs for the stablehand without permission, I had to beg for mercy with a gun shoved into my ass.

The master was obsessed with me.

As if uncovering a horrific truth, I peered into my lightened chest.

Do you want to die?

Mister Wood, occasionally probing my thoughts with indifference, looked at me intently. I couldn’t understand why he asked. Wasn’t he the one who dragged me into this hell? No, he was merely the master’s limb.

Born to sell my body, I came into the world this way. The place I was birthed, a bloody mess, was already a pit of chaos. My life’s end was set from the moment I sat curled in my mother’s womb. Yet, I wanted to live. A filthy, wretched desire. I shook my head. Looking at Mister Wood’s white hand applying ointment even to my tattered, sausage-like cock, I groaned softly. The sensation was painful because I was certain to get an erection.

🍯

The young man’s earlobe was also partially cut off. The flesh, sliced along with his hair, stuck to the drawing room floor. Unable to endure the master’s frenzied golf club swings, the young man fled to the bathroom, where he was beaten in the bathtub until the tile walls and tub railing shattered.

Four broken teeth rolled on the bathroom and drawing room floors, his left wrist was crushed, and his ribs and shinbones were cracked. Even when laid on the bed, the young man trembled uncontrollably. The man called a doctor. This time, perhaps due to the master’s influence, a doctor arrived without being stopped at the checkpoint, examined the young man, and treated him for a long time. The young man, like minced meat, had no unscathed part.

“He’s in critical condition. Hospitalization isn’t feasible, so the guardian’s role is crucial.”

A 20-week recovery was estimated. Until his bones healed, the young man was confined to bed, unable to move. After sending the doctor away, the man looked at the young man lying in the first-floor bedroom and moved. He cleaned the wrecked drawing room and bathroom.

Did the young man scream?

Wiping bloodstains that traced his crawl to the bathroom, the man retraced his movements.

Slapped until his face burst while sitting on the sofa, thrown onto the table and beaten with a golf club until his flesh tore and bones broke, his hair pulled and earlobe sliced off with a razor, scattering hair on the floor, crawling to hide in the bathtub yet still beaten—did the young man scream? While the man walked the path, climbed the hill, and followed the kite’s wings to the warehouse, was the young man, exposed to the master’s vivid madness, screaming in a way that reached no one?

Throwing the blood-soaked rag into the trash, the man recalled the young man’s faded white eyes. And the rainy night. The small plea. The loosened pupils at the deep pool’s bottom. The red blood hardened in dirty straw. Turning his gaze outside the glass, he saw rain falling. Thick droplets struck the pool’s dark surface, raising a thick mist. Wiping his hands, the man headed to the first-floor bedroom. The young man’s pain was too severe to move him to the second-floor bedroom. The man looked down at the young man, lying like a corpse on the bed where he himself had rested and opened his eyes in the silent dawn, breathing faintly.

The man was hired to protect the young man.

Before him was the young man, mercilessly ruined like a broken toy.

On sleepless nights in the white desert, the memory of children’s gaping chests and civilians pleading for life haunted him, culminating in the young male prostitute. But the man buried those thoughts. The nation told him to discard personal emotions. For the nation, the king, the people, it told him to abandon his life. He willingly did so.

It was the nation his uncle loved. The battlefield his uncle pitied. The land of death his uncle couldn’t leave even in death. The man’s life was wholly the groaning battlefield and his uncle’s anguish over those groans. Like fate, he submitted to that order. Under the guise of patriotism, he killed countless weak, purged martyrs, and committed mass slaughter without regret, anguish, or torment.

The man marched forward. Near a temple where sandstorms raged, he aimed at guerrillas while a young boy, laughing and mimicking shooting, stood overhead. Bullets rained down. Aiming and firing, he shot six guerrillas precisely in the forehead and targeted the backs of fleeing children.

As gunfire erupted inside the temple, screams and shots rang out. The man didn’t wait. Calmly pulling the trigger, he shot fleeing children and monks dead. When the cacophony of sounds—screams, gunfire, and rustling sand—subsided, he saw red blood pooling at his feet.

The laughing boy lay sprawled like a rag, eyes wide. Hot blood poured from his bullet-pierced chest, still claiming life. The boy’s breath lingered on the brink of death. The man raised his gun, aimed precisely at his forehead, and pulled the trigger. In three minutes, the temple, deemed the guerrillas’ final stronghold, was cleared. A single old missile pod, suspected to be explosive, sat corroded and unusable.

Rallying stunned subordinates with a sharp command, the man withdrew.

To my dearest. Operation complete.