Chapter 33

After renting more horses and carriages in Mianyang and traveling all day, they arrived in Chengdu late at night. True to its name as a city of food and pleasure, the streets were adorned with lavish red lanterns and filled with the enticing aroma of sizzling oil. Hawkers shouted their wares with fervor, and drunkards swayed past in cheerful stupors.

The city of Chengdu was a dense, opulent tapestry of prosperity, far more crowded and flourishing than either Xi’an or Angang.

The children trotted along with their heads swiveling constantly, trying to take in the sheer scale of the metropolis.

Cho Yoon found himself equally fascinated by the spectacle, though he was forced to maintain a stoic front; a guardian could hardly afford to lose himself in the sights.

By the time they emerged from the bustling main thoroughfares, each of the children was clutching three or four different snacks. These were treats like fried sparrows and soybean-flour cakes, quiet gifts pressed into their hands by porters who, despite knowing Cho Yoon’s true identity, continued to dote on them without a word.

Upon entering a relatively quiet district lined with inns, Cho Yoon came to a halt as if he had been waiting for this exact moment.

He turned to face Nan Wi-jeong.

“We shall remain here for the time being. Please, send for us once you have settled the caravan’s affairs.”

“Pardon?” Nan Wi-jeong’s brow furrowed. “I cannot possibly leave the Esteemed Immortal Healer in a common inn. Won’t you accompany us to the Tang estate?”

“Arriving unannounced would be a breach of etiquette. Besides, ‘Single Drop Execution’ likely knows nothing of my arrival yet.”

It certainly wasn’t Cho Yoon’s own will that prompted him to use polite honorifics with Nan Wi-jeong while speaking of the Tang Clan’s Clan Head with such casual familiarity. Rather, it was the lingering, ingrained emotions of the original ‘Cho Yoon’ toward Tang Yeom-cho that dictated his tongue.

Fortunately, Nan Wi-jeong didn’t seem to take offense at the informal address. Instead, he looked troubled, just as Cho Yoon had expected. 

With the King of the Green Forests blocking the way, he couldn’t have sent a messenger ahead, and a carrier pigeon would never have survived the mountain crossing. He had no way to send word.

If the man who had shattered the sect’s pride suddenly appeared at their front gates without warning, Tang Yeom-cho, now well into his seventies, would likely suffer a stroke.

Feeling a twinge of guilt for the predecessor’s past antics, Cho Yoon added a final reason out of consideration for the old man.

“There is also a separate matter I must attend to. Do not trouble yourself.”

“I had hoped to show you how much the clan has changed over these twenty years,” Nan Wi-jeong said, his voice tinged with regret. “But I suppose it cannot be helped. I shall return for you soon.”

To Cho Yoon’s surprise, the merchant, whom he had anticipated would cling to his sleeve, yielded gracefully.

As Nan Wi-jeong bowed and offered a respectful pogwon, Cho Yoon found himself acting on a sudden, impulsive whim.

“Hyungnim will suffice.”

“Pardon?”

“The title. I prefer you call me hyungnim.”

Nan Wi-jeong’s face brightened instantly.

It was painfully obvious that he was inflating the gesture into something grand, like ‘being recognized by the Immortal Healer’ or ‘becoming a brother to a legend,’ but Cho Yoon truly couldn’t stand the alternative.

Every time someone called him ‘Esteemed Immortal Healer,’ a chill of embarrassment ran down his spine. He could tolerate ‘Immortal Healer’ on its own, but the added honorific was a bridge too far. He would much rather live with a bit of a reputation than that stifling title.

With his mood noticeably lifted, Nan Wi-jeong personally arranged the children’s rooms, insisted on paying for their lodging and meals in advance, and finally vanished with a beaming smile.

Once he was gone, Cho Yoon let out a long, heavy sigh.

***

In contrast to the vibrant, chaotic pulse of the night, Chengdu during the day felt relatively tranquil.

Only the diligent workers remained on the streets, while the lanterns that had sparkled so ostentatiously through the night hung limp and extinguished outside the shopfronts.

Cho Yoon sat before a latticed window, bathed in the soft morning light as he looked down at the street.

It was a relief to spend the day without the constant weight of his bamboo hat; his vision felt wide and free. Feeling a rare sense of leisure, he had even ordered a tub for his room and taken a long bath.

He had ignored the waiter’s bewildered looks when he insisted he didn’t need boiled water brought up. Harnessing the formidable internal energy unique to a Murim master, he had heated the bathwater with a simple thought. He had briefly wondered if this was a shameful waste of legendary talent, but he decided that a man capable of doing such a task with ease should do it himself, rather than forcing a child to haul heavy buckets of scalding water.

He swept his damp hair over his shoulder, but as he ran his fingers through the strands, the fine, silky locks began to crackle with static.

Resigning himself to a proper grooming session, Cho Yoon produced a bottle of osmanthus oil—originally intended for the children—and a fine-tooth comb.

He propped a small bronze mirror on the table.

“Um… Master.”

He turned at the sound of the soft voice.

Cheon-oh was hurrying down from the bed where he had been practicing his meditations. While Sa-yeong and Sa-hyeon had taken their pocket money and scrambled out to see the sights of Sichuan, the youngest had stayed behind to remain by Cho Yoon’s side.

“What is it? I sensed no issues with your Qi cultivation.”

“It’s not that,” Cheon-oh murmured, approaching Cho Yoon as he slid into his shoes. He stood with his hands clasped, fidgeting for a moment before blurting out a request that was surprisingly endearing. “I… I would like to help you comb your hair.”

“Oh?”

Is this one of those ‘I want to give Dad a massage’ moments? Cho Yoon wondered. A wide, internal grin spread across his mind, though his physical features remained as stoic as ever. He’s too cute. This is exactly why people raise children!

“Give me your hands,” Cho Yoon said, his voice calm despite his inner giddiness. He let a single drop of osmanthus oil fall into the boy’s small palms. “Rub your hands together to spread the oil evenly. Start from the middle of the hair and stroke downward as if you are combing with your fingers. Avoid the roots as much as you can, and you may rub the ends together. You’ve seen me do it for you, so you should know the way.”

Cheon-oh stared at the oil for a long moment before diligently rubbing his hands together. He stepped behind Cho Yoon, making sure to coat the spaces between his fingers with the fragrant oil.

It was clear he was determined to do a perfect job.

Through the bronze mirror, Cho Yoon watched the boy’s reflection.

Cheon-oh looked as solemn as if he were facing a life-or-death crisis, completely focused on the tresses of white hair. He didn’t even seem to notice that Cho Yoon was watching him.

The boy swallowed hard before finally reaching out. His fingers trembled slightly, a sign of nerves that Cho Yoon found both touching and adorable.

Cheon-oh worked with meticulous care, untangling the knots and using his palms to smooth the static-frizzed outer layers with the oil. Despite his initial hesitation, his touch was surprisingly adept. Cho Yoon had never seen the boy handle the siblings’ hair, so he realized the child was pouring an extraordinary amount of effort into this task.

Cho Yoon, who would have been happy even if the boy’s efforts had been clumsy, felt a wave of tranquility wash over him.

He turned his gaze toward the window.

The bright sunlight filtering through the lattice cast a delicate, geometric shadow across the back of his hand on the table.

It was a peaceful afternoon, the kind that made Cho Yoon think that perhaps descending the mountain and eventually settling in a quiet village wouldn’t be such a bad life for the children once they grew.

Sensing his master’s gaze had drifted, Cheon-oh stole a glance at Cho Yoon’s profile in the mirror. He committed every detail to memory: the eyelashes that blinked slowly like the wings of a white butterfly, the eyes that seemed to hold fragments of liquid gold, the clean line of the forehead, and that perpetually serene expression.

It was only a momentary lapse. Master sensed the boy’s focus and immediately looked back, their eyes meeting in the mirror.

Startled, Cheon-oh hurriedly ducked his head to hide his face.

“The… the scent is lovely,” he croaked, the excuse sounding dry in his throat.

His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic, thrumming rhythm that made his lungs ache. He didn’t understand why he had looked away, or what he had done wrong—or even if he had done anything wrong at all. He felt like a criminal caught in the act.

Fortunately, Cho Yoon seemed oblivious to the boy’s inner turmoil.

“The osmanthus oil? It is made by steaming the blossoms in perilla oil before pressing them. The scent is much clearer than other flowers. I use it often when I groom your hair, after all.”

Cheon-oh found his voice failing him.

How could he explain that when Master combed his hair, he was focused on the touch, not the scent of the oil?

How could he say that the scent he found so lovely right now was the medicinal aroma emanating from Master himself?

How could he describe the intoxicating, bittersweet fragrance of long-simmered herbs mingled with the faint hint of blossoms?

“…I’ve always liked it,” he managed to whisper.

His ears and the back of his neck felt scorched with heat.

The clumsy addition only made him more embarrassed. He reached out and grasped the fine-tooth comb from the table, deciding it was time to move on to the next step.

Master didn’t offer a reply.

Relieved, Cheon-oh began to comb the feather-light white hair, starting carefully from the ends. He fell into a silent, focused rhythm, channeling the memory of his master’s own gentle touch, until a sharp knock sounded at the door.

“Sir! A letter has arrived for you!”

At the waiter’s call, Cho Yoon reached for the bamboo hat resting on the table. Cheon-oh set the comb down and volunteered to check the door, eager for the distraction.

He opened the door just a crack.

The waiter bowed deeply, offering the envelope with both hands. They were staying in the inn’s finest suite, and it seemed the staff was trained to treat even a young child with the utmost deference.

Cheon-oh took the paper with a cold, expressionless face, offered a perfunctory thanks, and shut the door firmly in the man’s face.

He carried the letter back to Cho Yoon, taking care not to let any lingering oil from his hands smudge the paper. He suspected this was the response to the several letters Cho Yoon had sent out the night they arrived.

Cho Yoon scanned the contents quickly. Once he finished, he looked at Cheon-oh, who was standing by patiently.

“I believe I told you I would teach you about the Great Pox.”

“Yes, Master. You did.”

Angelica, licorice, bittersweet, gardenia, peony, forsythia, honeysuckle, pagoda tree, burdock, silkworm, siler, white-skinned root, schizonepeta, skullcap. 

The boy remembered every ingredient. He had watched Cho Yoon prepare various medicines for the ailment previously.

“Tonight, we shall visit a patient,” Cho Yoon said gravely. “It is a disease that manifests as ulcers on the skin and eventually invades the brain and the heart. It is highly contagious, so you must be extremely cautious with your conduct. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Master.”

“You must never, under any circumstances, touch the ulcers. And you must never put your hands near your mouth after being in the room. I am not taking you there to perform a treatment. I only wish for you to observe the symptoms, learn the cure, and develop a healthy sense of vigilance.”

Cheon-oh nodded vigorously. He had no intention of defying his master’s stern warning. Seemingly satisfied, Cho Yoon turned back toward the mirror.

With silent permission granted, Cheon-oh picked up the comb once more and resumed his work.

For a long while, the only sound in the sunlit room was the soft, rhythmic whisper of the comb passing through hair.