To My First Love, With Regret - 104

Saved.

A miraculous squadron of fighter jets had appeared, scattering the enemy forces in an instant. As the relentless gunfire ceased, Owen cautiously poked his head out of the trench. On the temporary runway, a massive transport plane was attempting a landing.

Of course, it was too early to thank his lucky stars.

Screeeech! The aircraft let out a bone-shaking roar as it skidded precariously across the frozen ice, looking as if it might shatter. If it crashed into the frozen river, Owen would be stranded in this hell once more. He watched the fuselage hurtle toward the water, a scream building in his throat, but the transport finally ground to a halt at the very edge of the runway.

Ha… I’m alive. I’m actually alive.

Owen scrambled up the trench wall, letting out a sound that was half-sob, half-laugh. His mind was now entirely consumed by thoughts of escape. He would get on that plane even if he had to use ‘tending to the patients’ as an excuse. What did the Hippocratic Oath matter if he could just survive this nightmare? He would have sold his soul for a seat.

The moment he pulled himself out of the trench’s mud, he bolted toward the transport without looking back. He was kicking away the reaching hands of the wounded when his feet finally touched the runway.

Thump!

The heavy doors of the transport swung open, and armed troops poured out. From behind the soldiers scattering in disciplined ranks, an officer in pilot’s gear leaped down onto the runway without hesitation.

—Damn it, I almost died without ever holding my kid.

The voice, heard over the fading whine of the propellers, sounded terrifyingly familiar. The pilot reached up with a leather-gloved hand and irritably yanked off his goggles. The moment Owen locked eyes with the Air Force officer—who was roughly sweeping back his hair—he froze, paralyzed by the man’s sheer presence.

Ethan Fairchild.

The man recognized him, too. A gaze colder than the northern wind slicing between them pierced right through Owen.

—Ha.

Fairchild twisted his lips into a derisive smirk.

—Still alive, I see.

The vulgar villain didn’t even bother to hide the fact that he’d hoped Owen was dead. It was crystal clear now: the one who had driven Owen into this death trap was Ethan Fairchild.

Suddenly, a surge of reckless bravado, fueled by fury, pierced through his terror. A holster swayed at the waist of the man striding toward him. Even the murderous aura Fairchild exuded couldn’t break Owen’s newfound defiance. Unless the man dreamed of rotting in prison for life, would he really pull the trigger here, in front of so many witnesses?

Are you disappointed I’m alive? How satisfying.

Owen’s jaw trembled with the weight of the killing intent closing in on him, but just as he prepared to retort, Fairchild brushed past him as if he weren’t even there, throwing out a command.

—What are you standing there for? Doctor, start loading the wounded.

It was like a dousing of cold water; Owen snapped back to his senses. Right. Escape first. The transport was the only way out. If he crossed the pilot now, he might be left behind on this snowy wasteland surrounded by enemies.

I won’t die. This isn’t losing to him; it’s a strategic retreat for survival.

Owen comforted himself with the thought and ran toward the aid station. However, the first thing he grabbed wasn’t a medical kit for those in critical condition, but a pistol dropped by a soldier who had died fighting.

I don’t know when Ethan Fairchild might turn on me and try to kill me.

While keeping a wary eye out for the man’s sudden appearance, he rushed the medics to carry the wounded to the plane. All around them, enemy artillery was closing in, tightening the noose.

His only thought was to flee this hell, but the transport crew insisted they wouldn’t depart until every seat was filled. Growing frantic, Owen treated the patients hovering between life and death as if he were sorting luggage, hurrying them along.

—Move it! Get out!

Finally, the medics carried the last patient out on a stretcher. All he had to do now was follow them and board the plane to escape this land of death.

But as Owen shoved through the tent flaps in pursuit, he found he couldn’t run toward the transport. The patients and medics he had just pushed out were sprawled across the frozen ground in front of the tent, soaked in blood.

Trampling over the corpses that were still bleeding, the butcher crossing toward him was a soldier in an enemy uniform.

I didn’t realize the Constanza forces had pushed this far.

The noise of the transport idling and preparing for takeoff had drowned out the sound of the enemy closing in right under his nose.

The enemy soldier aimed the blackened muzzle of his rifle at Owen. Owen frantically fumbled at his waist, but his hands found nothing. In his mindless rush to get out, he must have dropped the pistol somewhere.

Damn it.

To make matters worse, the entrance of the tent was blocked by cover. The very safety zone that had hidden him from enemy eyes and bullets had turned into a blind spot that obscured him from the sight of the allies who could save him, driving Owen straight into the arms of death.

—Please, please spare me.

Turning a ghostly white, Owen raised both hands high and pleaded in Constanza.

—I am not a combatant, I’m just a doctor!

The muzzle followed him mercilessly as he dropped to his knees, the barrel tilting slowly downward.

—M-my child will be born soon. Do you not feel pity for a child born without a father? Please, for the sake of the child, show mercy!

No matter how much he begged, the enemy’s murderous intent did not waver. The soldier glared at him like a man hollowed of all emotion save for resentment toward the enemy, his finger hooking around the trigger.

This is the end. I’m going to die without ever holding my child. Still, I’ve left my bloodline behind in this world; perhaps that much is a blessing….

The moment Owen squeezed his eyes shut, sensing his death…

Bang!

A gunshot exploded, loud enough to tear his eardrums apart. Surely, his bone and flesh had shattered along with it. The stench of gunpowder stung his nose. Soon, the copper scent of his own blood would follow.

The shock drained the strength from his body. Owen collapsed onto the frigid earth.

Crunch, crunch.

The sound of footsteps treading on the white snow echoed in his ears. Were they coming to deliver the coup de grâce? He prayed his consciousness would fade forever before he had to feel the agony of bullets mangling his body.

But what fell upon the man awaiting death was not a bullet, but a sneer.

—Hey, you cowardly doctor. Stop playing dead and get up.

It was Mercian. The owner of the combat boot nudging him was not an enemy, but an ally.

Owen’s eyes snapped open. Behind the polished black boot, the enemy soldier—now with a hole in his head—glared at him with unfocused eyes. The life claimed by the gunshot a moment ago had not been Owen’s.

I’m alive.

Gasping for air, he lifted his head to find Ethan Fairchild standing before him, his hand still gripping the pistol from which a faint wisp of smoke drifted.

Even seeing it with his own eyes, Owen couldn’t believe the man had saved him.

Didn’t he want me dead? Is he going to use that gun to shoot me now?

With his senses paralyzed, he couldn’t reach the logical conclusion that if Ethan intended to kill him, there would have been no need to save him in the first place. His legs had turned to jelly; unable to stand, Owen scrambled backward on his haunches to flee. Fairchild watched the pathetic display as if it were a comedy and let out a short, sharp laugh.

The man eventually raised his pistol. But just as Owen flinched, the gun was slid into its leather holster.

Click.

He even fastened the cover. It was a sign he had no intention of shooting.

Fairchild leaned down, picked up the glasses that had fallen at his feet, and held them out to the still-dazed Owen. Receiving the glasses reflexively, Owen stared up blankly at the man looking down at him.

What on earth is he thinking?

The inexplicable kindness continued. But it was undeniably kindness.

Only after facing the Reaper did Owen realize something: the stale dregs of old emotions that had plagued him meant nothing in the face of death. Otherwise, how could he be so glad to see the rival and enemy who had killed his father?

Owen gazed at the man who had saved him with trembling eyes.

Perhaps he, too, has realized the same truth.

They might be enemies outside the battlefield, wishing for nothing but the other’s death, but here, perhaps they were bound by the loyalty of allies who save one another.

The enemy he had to guard against had become a reliable ally; the hated foe, a savior. Above all, the man he had considered a devil looked, in this moment, like an angel descended from heaven.

It was time for Owen to do his part. He moved his trembling lips to heave out words he thought he’d never say to Ethan Fairchild in his entire life.

—…Thank you.

Fairchild turned away with an indifferent air, as if it were nothing. He leaned over the enemy soldier, whose body was growing cold.

Was he looking for a trophy? His hands were relentless as he rifled through the ragged uniform of the corpse, and he whistled a jaunty tune like someone in a strangely high spirit.

Such a frivolous funeral march.

It was a blatant desecration of the dead. But Owen, trying to respect the bond of an ally, looked away and pressed his hands to the ground. Just as he was about to stand on legs that had finally regained their strength.

Clack.

The metallic sound of a pistol’s hammer being cocked echoed right above the crown of his head.