Chapter 1 – The War God’s Curse

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.

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