The battlefield smelled of iron and smoke.

Jin Seung-hwan sat atop his black warhorse, its flanks streaked with blood and ash, its nostrils flaring as though it too drank in the chaos. Around him, the cries of the dying rose and fell like waves, a grim music that had followed him since his youth. His army—thousands strong—stood in the ruins of their enemy’s stronghold. The banners of the defeated hung in tatters, flapping limply in the night wind.

Yet Seung-hwan did not feel triumph. He never did.

The cheers of his soldiers reached him distantly, muffled, as though carried across water. He lifted his gauntleted hand, signaling for silence. Instantly, the camp quieted, men dropping to one knee, their armor clattering in unison. To them, he was not simply a general. He was the War God—the man who had never lost, who had carved his name into history with every corpse left behind.

But to himself? He was a prisoner of the very title he bore.

His eyes, sharp as obsidian, scanned the battlefield once more. The blood was not only his enemy’s. His men had fallen too, and though victory belonged to him, he could not wash away the weight of their sacrifice. Every soul he claimed whispered in his dreams, clawing at him, reminding him that his power came at the cost of peace.

That was the curse.

The War God was destined never to rest. The priests had told him so after his twenty-fifth victory. With every triumph, the gods tightened their grip on his fate. He would fight and fight until he burned out the world itself.

And tonight, as the cold wind carried the stench of corpses, he felt the prophecy pressing tighter on his chest.

Later, within his war tent, Seung-hwan removed his armor piece by piece. His second-in-command, Kim Do-jin, entered without ceremony, carrying a scroll marked with the seal of the royal court.

“My lord,” Do-jin said, bowing, “another envoy has come from Gyeongsa. The ministers wish to celebrate your victory.”

Seung-hwan snorted. “Celebrate? They cower in their palaces while I paint the earth red for them. What use is their wine to me?”

Do-jin hesitated. He had followed Seung-hwan since they were boys, and had seen him rise from an orphaned soldier to the feared War God. He knew the man’s moods like he knew the weight of his own sword.

“You cannot refuse forever,” Do-jin warned gently. “The court fears what it cannot control. They already whisper that you no longer serve the king but only yourself.”

Seung-hwan’s jaw tightened. The court could whisper what it liked; it was true. The king had become a puppet, and Seung-hwan the hand that held the strings. But even so, he felt no satisfaction. Power had not freed him from his fate.

He poured himself a cup of rice wine and downed it in one swallow. “Tell them I will come when the dead stop haunting me.”

Do-jin did not reply. Instead, he unrolled the scroll he had carried. “There is another matter, my lord. This… concerns your curse.”

That made Seung-hwan look up sharply.

On the parchment was a report from the southern provinces. A healer had appeared in the borderlands, they said—Han So-yeon, a woman who could mend wounds no physician dared touch, who had saved entire villages from plague and war with nothing but her hands and forbidden herbs. Some even whispered she could draw a soul back from the brink of death.

“The priests believe she is dangerous,” Do-jin said. “They fear she meddles with forces meant only for the gods.”

Seung-hwan leaned back, studying the words. Dangerous? No. She was an opportunity.

If the gods had cursed him with endless war, then perhaps only one who stood in opposition to war—a healer—could break that chain.

A slow smile curved his lips, cold and calculating. “Han So-yeon,” he murmured. “If the gods think to mock me with hope, then let us see if she can bear the weight of their games. I will have her brought to me.”

Do-jin’s eyes widened slightly. “Brought… my lord, you mean—?”

“I mean,” Seung-hwan interrupted, rising to his full height, “that she will be my bride.”

The words hung in the air, as shocking to Do-jin as if thunder had split the sky. But to Seung-hwan, they were a vow. If the curse chained him to war, then he would seize healing with both hands, even if he had to drag it into his tent by force.

Far to the south, Han So-yeon rinsed her hands in the river until the water ran clear again. The coppery stain of blood faded slowly from her skin, but the memory of the young soldier’s cries clung to her ears.

She had failed.

Despite her efforts—the poultices, the chants, the careful stitching—his wound had been too deep, his body too frail. His final breath had left her hands trembling, her heart heavy. Around her, the villagers bowed and thanked her anyway. To them, she was a miracle worker. To herself, she was a girl chasing a dream she could never fully reach.

“So-yeon,” called Lee Hae-rin, her childhood friend, carrying a basket of fresh herbs. “You should rest. You’ve been healing since dawn.”

So-yeon smiled faintly, pushing back strands of hair damp with sweat. “Rest will not bring him back. Nor will it stop the next man from falling.”

Her voice held no bitterness, only quiet determination. Since childhood, she had watched war steal fathers and brothers from her village. While other girls learned embroidery or song, she had sought the forbidden arts of healing, defying laws that claimed such power belonged only to temples. To heal was her rebellion against a world drenched in blood.

She dried her hands and looked toward the horizon, where the sky burned crimson with sunset. She hated that color. It always reminded her of spilled blood.

“Promise me, Hae-rin,” So-yeon whispered, “that we will not let this war swallow us whole.”

Hae-rin nodded, but her eyes darted nervously toward the road. Rumors of the War God’s conquests had reached even this far. His armies marched closer with each passing month.

And fate, unseen but unrelenting, was already winding the threads of So-yeon’s life toward his.

Three nights later, under a silver moon, the War God’s riders thundered into the southern province.

So-yeon awoke to shouts and the clash of hooves. Villagers scattered, hiding their children. Soldiers bearing the black banners of Jin Seung-hwan dismounted in the square, their armor gleaming like obsidian. At their head rode Do-jin, his expression grim.

“We seek the healer, Han So-yeon,” he announced. “By command of the War God himself.”

So-yeon froze where she stood, clutching her satchel of herbs. The villagers looked at her with wide, fearful eyes, as if she had summoned this upon them.

“The War God?” Hae-rin whispered at her side. “So-yeon, you must hide. If he takes you, you’ll never return!”

But So-yeon did not move. For all her fear, a strange calm settled over her heart. She had long fought against war with her hands alone, mending broken bodies, soothing broken hearts. If the War God himself sought her, then perhaps the gods were demanding something greater of her than she had ever imagined.

She stepped forward into the torchlight.

“I am Han So-yeon.”

The soldiers turned, eyes narrowing, but Do-jin gave a sharp nod. Within moments, rough hands seized her arms, though not cruelly.

“For what purpose does your master want me?” she asked, her voice steady despite the pounding of her heart.

Do-jin met her gaze, and for an instant she glimpsed pity in his eyes. “To become his bride.”

Gasps rippled through the villagers. Hae-rin cried out in protest. So-yeon’s own breath caught. Bride? Of the War God?

As the soldiers bound her hands, So-yeon lifted her chin. If this was fate, then she would meet it unflinching.

But deep inside, fear gnawed at her. Because she knew: healing and war could never walk the same path. And yet, the gods had set them upon it together.

The War God awaited her.

And so began the story that would shake the kingdom.

The night was long and the road was unkind.

Han So-yeon sat atop a horse she did not know, surrounded on all sides by armored riders. Their torches swayed like fiery stars, their banners whispering with every gust of wind. The rhythmic pounding of hooves echoed against her chest like a drumbeat of doom.

She had treated countless soldiers in her short life, but she had never ridden with an army before. The air was heavy, tinged with smoke and steel. Every breath reminded her that she was no longer a healer tending villages—she was cargo being carried to the lair of a man whose very name made children cry in the night.

The War God. Jin Seung-hwan.

So-yeon pressed her hands together in her lap to still tremble. Fear battled with defiance inside her heart. She had chosen not to resist in front of the villagers, but now that choice weighed heavily. Could she truly face a man whose sword had cut down thousands?

Beside her rode Do-jin, silent as a shadow. Of all the soldiers, he seemed the least cruel, though his face bore the hardness of one who had seen too much war. She had tried to ask him questions, but he gave no answers beyond the barest words: “We ride to Gyeongsa. You will meet him there.”

The rest of the men treated her as if she were fragile glass—and a dangerous blade at once. They did not strike her, but neither did they look her in the eye. It was as though carrying her was as perilous as carrying fire.

So-yeon understood. She had heard the prophecy once, whispered among priests: When War weds Healing, the world will either end or be reborn.

Perhaps that was why he wanted her.

The thought chilled her to her bones.

---

They arrived at the war camp by dawn.

The field stretched endlessly, a sea of black tents like an army of shadows. Soldiers moved with discipline, sharpening weapons, mending armor, tending to wounds. Even in the quiet of morning, there was no peace—only the anticipation of the next battle.

So-yeon’s heart ached at the sight of so many injured men, bandaged and limping. She longed to run to them, to press her hands against their wounds, to offer salves and comfort. But the soldiers leading her gave no room for such mercy.

Do-jin dismounted first and gestured for her to follow. “Come. He waits.”

So-yeon slid clumsily from her horse. Her legs wobbled, unused to the ride, but she forced herself upright. The soldiers parted for her, their stares heavy, some curious, some openly hostile.

They must hate me, she thought. To them, I am a weakness. A distraction.

At the heart of the camp stood a grand tent, larger than the rest, its black fabric stitched with red thread in patterns of dragons and flames. Two guards stood before it, spears crossed. At Do-jin’s signal, they moved aside.

So-yeon’s breath caught. She was about to face the War God.

The tent’s interior was dimly lit by braziers. Weapons lined the walls—swords, spears, axes—each meticulously kept, each no doubt stained with countless deaths. Furs covered the floor, trophies from conquered lands.

And at the center sat Jin Seung-hwan.

He was taller than she imagined, broad-shouldered, his long black hair tied back, his armor half-removed as though he had just come from battle. His eyes—cold, sharp, and impossibly dark—rested on her with the weight of a storm.

So-yeon froze. It was not merely his size or the aura of power around him. It was the silence. He radiated danger in stillness, like a blade drawn but not yet swung.

At last, he spoke. His voice was deep, steady, carrying command even in its calmness.

“So. You are the healer.”

So-yeon swallowed hard. “I am Han So-yeon.”

Seung-hwan studied her, his gaze moving slowly from her plain robes to the satchel still slung at her side. He noticed the faint stains of blood on her sleeves—not her own, but from those she had tried to save.

“You are smaller than I expected,” he said bluntly.

So-yeon lifted her chin, forcing her voice to remain steady. “And you are crueler than I expected, to drag me here against my will.”

A dangerous silence filled the tent. The soldiers at the entrance stiffened, expecting his wrath. Do-jin closed his eyes briefly, as if bracing for impact.

But to their shock, Seung-hwan laughed.

It was not a warm laugh. It was edged with something sharp, like steel scraping stone. Yet it was laughter all the same.

“Bold,” he said. “Good. I would not want a wife who trembles at every word.”

So-yeon’s heart skipped. Wife. The word echoed in her ears like a curse.

“I did not agree to be your wife,” she said firmly.

“You will,” Seung-hwan replied, rising to his full height. His presence filled the tent like a thundercloud. “The gods themselves have woven it. War and Healing. Death and Life. Together.”

“I am not some tool for your curse,” So-yeon snapped, anger breaking through her fear. “I heal to save lives, not to serve your blood-soaked throne!”

Gasps came from the guards. No one spoke to him this way. No one dared.

Seung-hwan’s expression hardened, his dark eyes narrowing. For a moment, she thought he might strike her down where she stood. But instead, he stepped closer—so close she could see the faint scar across his jaw, the calluses on his hands, the faint red flecks still staining his armor.

His voice dropped, low enough for only her to hear.

“And yet, healer, it is precisely because you save lives that I need you. I am cursed for an endless battle. Perhaps you are my only chance to end it.”

So-yeon faltered. The weight of his words pressed against her. For the first time, she glimpsed something beneath his iron exterior: not just arrogance, but desperation.

Still, she clenched her fists. “I will not marry you.”

Seung-hwan’s gaze did not waver. Instead, he gave a faint smile, one that did not reach his eyes.

“Then you will stay in my camp until you change your mind.”

---

The days that followed blurred into a strange rhythm.

So-yeon was not locked in chains. Instead, she was given a tent of her own, guarded day and night. She was not treated cruelly, but neither was she free. The soldiers regarded her with suspicion, some even hostility.

Yet wounded men soon came to her tent, whispering of injuries they dared not bring to their commander. Against her will, So-yeon found herself healing once again—binding wounds, mixing herbs, whispering prayers she had learned in childhood.

And with every life she saved, the soldiers’ gazes softened. Resentment gave way to grudging respect.

But Seung-hwan himself was another matter.

He visited her often, sometimes in silence, sometimes with questions. He would watch as she worked, his dark eyes unreadable. He never raised his voice, never forced his hand, yet his presence was suffocating.

One evening, as she ground herbs into paste, she finally demanded, “Why me? You have power, armies, wealth. Why not any noblewoman from the capital? Why chase a healer no one cares about?”

Seung-hwan leaned against the frame of her tent, arms crossed.

“Because noblewomen bring dowries, not salvation,” he said simply. “You… bring something I cannot seize with a sword.”

So-yeon’s hands are still over the mortar. His words unsettled her more than any threat could have.

“You speak as if I am an answer to your curse,” she said softly.

He stepped closer, his shadow falling over her. “Perhaps you are.”

Her heart thudded painfully in her chest. She wanted to deny it, to laugh at the absurdity. And yet, deep within, a voice whispered: What if it’s true?

Before she could answer, a horn blared outside the camp—long, harsh, urgent. Soldiers rushed to arms, shouts rising.

Seung-hwan’s expression hardened instantly, the softness gone. He turned toward the entrance.

“Stay here,” he ordered. “This is not your battle.”

But So-yeon’s healer’s heart clenched at the sound of chaos. Already, cries of pain rose from beyond the tent.

And she knew, no matter what he commanded, she could never stay idle while men bled.

---

Thus, on her first night in the War God’s camp, Han So-yeon would step into battle—not as a soldier, but as a healer.

And in doing so, she would begin to bind herself to him in ways neither could yet foresee.

The camp had erupted into chaos.

The sharp blare of horns still rang in the air, joined by the thunder of boots and the clash of steel. Soldiers scrambled into formation, torches scattering like fireflies as men shouted orders over one another. The acrid smell of burning pitch rolled in from the eastern ridge where arrows had already set tents aflame.

Han So-yeon’s heart raced as she pushed aside the flap of her tent. She had never been inside a war camp before, and now it has become a battlefield. Smoke stung her eyes, and the cries of the wounded clawed at her chest like hooks.

“Stay inside!” barked a soldier stationed near her. He thrust his spear toward her, as though her slender form might slip into the fray and shatter.

“I can’t,” So-yeon said firmly, already grabbing her satchel of herbs and bandages. “There are wounded out there. Let me through.”

“The commander gave orders—”

“I am a healer!” she snapped, louder than she meant to. “And you’ll regret stopping me when your comrades die while I stand idle.”

The soldier hesitated, jaw tightening, then let her pass.

So-yeon darted into the camp, weaving between soldiers rushing toward the eastern wall. Arrows hissed overhead, some striking the ground close enough to spray dirt across her face. She ignored them. Her eyes searched for the fallen.

She found them near the outer barricade: men groaning, clutching bleeding wounds, others already still. She dropped to her knees beside the first soldier, tearing open her satchel.

“Hold still,” she whispered, pressing cloth against the gash in his side. Her hands worked quickly, packing the wound with powdered herbs before binding it tightly. The soldier gasped, but color began to return to his face.

Another man cried out nearby, an arrow through his leg. She crawled to him, snapping the shaft and easing the barb out with practiced hands. Blood poured freely, but she did not flinch. She had seen worse in plague-ridden villages, worse in childbirth gone wrong. War wounds were brutal, yes—but they were wounds all the same.

Her calm steadied the soldiers around her. Panic dulled in their eyes as they saw her work, as if her presence itself was a balm against the terror of battle.

Still, her heart thundered. Every scream reminded her she was not strong enough, not fast enough. For each man she saved, another fell. She whispered apologies under her breath as her hands moved, as if the dead could hear her.

---

High above, Jin Seung-hwan stood on the ridge, watching the enemy advance.

They were raiders from the north, desperate men with little discipline but dangerous in their ferocity. They had timed their attack well, striking before dawn when the camp was weary.

But Seung-hwan did not fear them. He never feared battle.

What caught his attention, however, was the small figure moving amid the chaos—So-yeon.

She knelt among the fallen, her robes already stained crimson, her dark hair loose around her face as she worked with frantic determination. Arrows landed near her, swords clashed mere feet away, yet she did not falter.

His men, hardened veterans, glanced at her with awe. They had seen healers before, yes, but none who threw herself into the heart of battle as if the battlefield were her temple.

Do-jin stepped to his side. “She defies your order.”

Seung-hwan’s eyes narrowed, but not in anger. “She defies death itself.”

He drew his sword, its blade gleaming with a reflected firelight. “Guard her. If she falls, you will answer me.”

Do-jin blinked but gave a sharp nod before rushing down the slope with a handful of soldiers to form a protective ring around her.

Seung-hwan himself descended into the fray, his blade a streak of silver. Wherever he passed, enemies fell. His presence was like a tide of violence, crashing into the raiders and scattering them like leaves before a storm.

Yet even as he fought, his eyes found her again and again. The healer who dared enter his world of steel and blood.

---

So-yeon’s arms ached. Her satchel grew lighter with every wound she bound, every poultice she applied. Sweat dripped down her back, soaking her robes. But she refused to stop.

When a soldier screamed nearby, she spun to find him clutching his chest, an arrow embedded dangerously close to his heart.

Her breath caught. This wound was beyond her skill. And yet—she could not walk away.

“Hold him steady!” she shouted to the men around her. Her fingers trembled as she reached for her herbs, her mind racing through every remedy she knew.

The soldier’s blood bubbled with each breath. He did not have long.

So-yeon pressed her hands to his chest, closing her eyes. Please. Please, let me save him. Just this once more.

A warmth spread from her palms—not the simple heat of flesh, but something deeper, something forbidden. She felt his pulse falter beneath her touch, felt the edge of his life slipping away.

And then—something pushed back.

It was as though the world itself exhaled through her, pouring strength into her hands. The soldier gasped, coughing, as his breathing steadied. The arrow wound stopped bleeding.

When she pulled her hands away, the men around her stared in stunned silence.

“What… what did you do?” one whispered.

So-yeon’s own heart is pounded with fear. She knew. That was not ordinary healing. That was the ancient art the priests had forbidden—the power said to steal from the gods themselves. She had sworn never to use it.

But she could not let him die.

Before she could answer, a shadow fell across her. She looked up—and met Seung-hwan’s eyes.

He had seen everything.

His gaze was unreadable, dark and steady as stone. Blood stained his sword, his armor, his hands, yet he looked at her not as a conqueror but as a man who had glimpsed something rare.

“That,” he said quietly, so only she could hear, “is why you are mine.”

So-yeon recoiled, her hands curling into fists. “I am not yours. I saved him because I had to, not because of you.”

His lips curved, not in mockery, but in something dangerously close to admiration.

“Then keep saving them,” he said. “Do that, and you will see—healing and war are not as far apart as you think.”

Before she could reply, he turned back into the battle, his blade flashing once more.

---

Hours later, the raid was broken. The raiders fled into the hills, leaving their dead behind. Seung-hwan’s camp was bloodied but unbroken.

The wounded filled So-yeon’s tent until dawn. She worked without rest, refusing food, refusing sleep. By the time the last soldier finally drifted into slumber under her care, her own body trembled from exhaustion.

Still, she whispered a prayer over him, her voice hoarse.

“Live. Please… live.”

When she turned, she found Seung-hwan waiting just outside, his armor discarded, his tunic streaked with blood. He leaned against the frame, silent.

“You disobeyed me,” he said at last.

So-yeon bristled. “Would you rather I let them die?”

His eyes locked with hers. For a long moment, there was only silence. Then, to her astonishment, he gave a slight nod.

“No,” he said. “I would rather you never stop.”

Her breath caught. For the first time, his voice held no command, no threat. Only something raw. Something human.

And though she hated herself for it, part of her heart ached at the sound.

---

That night, as the camp fell quiet, both healer and war god lay awake.

One wondered if her defiance could ever break free of his shadow.

The other wondered if, at last, the gods had given him a chance for salvation.

And neither realized that the threads of fate had already begun to bind them tighter than chains.