Chapter 8

Without exaggeration, Seomun Cheon-oh—the Seomun heir—was the first child his age who refused to listen this stubbornly.

“N-Noona! The scabs have formed!”

“The new skin is probably still tender, so let’s keep it wrapped. Hey, how’s your throat?”

“…”

With Sa-yeong’s hair hanging loose and Sa-hyeon’s tied back neatly, the siblings each took one of Cheon-oh’s legs and began wrapping them in silk bandages while staring at him. Faced with their intense, unblinking gazes, Cheon-oh finally opened his mouth.

“…It’s fine.”

“H-he still doesn’t sound very good.”

“Maybe that’s just his natural voice?”

They chatted happily right in front of him as if he weren’t even there. They repeated everything their master had told them—how internal injuries healed slowly, and how, without unblocked acupoints and formed energy meridians, he couldn’t be treated with qi healing and had to rely on medicine. Then they moved on to how he still wasn’t putting on any weight despite being fed so much chicken, and finally, to how he simply wasn’t a cute kid.

Unable to listen any longer, Cheon-oh opened his mouth again, prompting both Sa-yeong and Sa-hyeon to snap their heads toward him.

“W-well, at least… he can talk now.”

“So talk! Does it make any sense that we’ve been taking care of you for over half a month and we don’t even know your name?”

“M-Master didn’t tell us either…”

“If you have any sense of gratitude, you should spit out your name right away!”

Cheon-oh parted his lips, then sighed in resignation.

“…I am Seomun Cheon-oh. Please call me Cheon-oh.”

“Cheon-ah, got it.”

“Not Cheon-ah. It’s Cheon-oh…”

“Hold your hands out for a second. Hurry up.”

Flustered by the sudden nickname, Cheon-oh’s protest was cut off by Sa-yeong, who rummaged through a bundle she had brought in. As if suddenly remembering something—”Ah!”—Sa-hyeon quickly washed his hands in the wooden basin and dug through his own pockets.

Still frowning, Cheon-oh hesitantly held out both hands.

In the next moment, a pumpkin-shaped danggwa and a tanghulu made of hawthorn berries were unceremoniously dropped into his small palms.

“What is this…?”

“T-thanks for… telling us your name. Th-there was a m-market at the bottom of the mountain yesterday. We got p-permission to go down.”

“Did you hear that starting today, you’re getting goat meat instead of chicken?” Sa-yeong asked. “Since Master told us to buy goat bones too, it’ll probably be another soup, but do you think it’ll taste better than chicken?”

“P-probably, right? Goats are w-way bigger!”

“I can’t wait. It’s our first time having goat. Do you think we’ll ever get to eat beef or pork?”

Just as abruptly as they’d barged in, the siblings dashed out of the room. Left alone, Cheon-oh stared down awkwardly at the snacks in his hands. Carefully, he took a small bite of the danggwa first.

The candy was hollow inside and crumbled crisply in his mouth. Having eaten nothing but clear broths and mushy porridge for days, it had been a while since he’d tasted anything with texture. The tanghulu—hawthorn berries coated in a hardened shell of thick sugar syrup—was piercingly tart on his tongue.

Cheon-oh grimaced; he didn’t like sour flavors. Even so, he eventually crunched his way through the entire tanghulu, then steadily munched on the hollow, fist-sized danggwa. When he finished, he picked up the flat shoes beneath the bed, slipped them on, and stood.

Though the shoes were a bit loose, his body felt incredibly light. It was all thanks to the devoted care he had received since arriving here. Despite having starved for a week and suffering severe psychological trauma, his body, at least, was completely healthy.

And humans were simple creatures. When the body was healthy, the mind naturally followed.

Cheon-oh took a moment to survey the room. It was such an unassuming, scholarly space that one would never imagine it belonged to a master of profound martial arts. The wooden furniture, polished smooth from years of use, naturally brought to mind the pale hands that must have run over it.

Every martial artist who had ever frequented his clan had rough, calloused hands, with fingernails thick as pig hooves and brutish fingers. The Immortal’s hands, however, were entirely different. The touch he’d felt while being treated had been completely devoid of calluses—nothing but softness and delicate care.

Come to think of it, he said he wasn’t an immortal.

He had called himself a mere student of medicine, a simple martial artist. Yet Cheon-oh still found it hard to believe. If he wasn’t an immortal, what kind of person could possibly exude such an aura and fragrance, move with such ethereal grace, and speak with such a voice?

Cheon-oh lacked the vocabulary to fully describe him, but he could feel the surreal atmosphere that constantly enveloped the man. He seemed like someone whose feet weren’t entirely planted in the mortal realm, someone who might return to his own world without a single lingering regret at any moment.

That was Cheon-oh’s impression of him.

Walking out of the room, Cheon-oh couldn’t stop thinking about Cho Yoon’s indifferent eyes and unwavering, expressionless face. For a while now, whenever he was alone, thoughts of Cho Yoon multiplied until they filled his mind.

Just what kind of person is he? Why is he living in seclusion here? I feel like I’ve heard of Mount Dumang before, but where? Did his hair turn white over time, or was he born with albinism?

Even when they shared the same room, Cheon-oh found himself tracking Cho Yoon’s every move, desperate to figure him out. Perhaps because his entire focus was anchored on the man, the traumatic memories that had been gnawing at him had quietly sunk to the calm depths of his mind.

He pushed open the wooden door and stepped outside. Refreshing sunlight poured over his head. The mountain air was crisp and pristine, and the vibrant scent of trees and grass filled his lungs.

The person he wanted to see wasn’t far away.

Pushing past the wooden gate, Cheon-oh stepped out, one careful stride at a time. Uneven stones and soft weeds crunched beneath his shoes. The man had his back turned, his white hair fluttering in the wind as if he had no interest in the boy whatsoever, but Cheon-oh knew he had long since sensed a child’s clumsy approach.

As Cheon-oh drew closer, Cho Yoon turned his head to look down at him. In the sunlight, his light brown eyes gleamed like amber.

“You did not fall this time.”

It sounded like a compliment, but his tone was completely indifferent. Fidgeting with his hands clasped in front of him, Cheon-oh hesitated before speaking.

“Thanks to your care, I have fully recovered. I was too overwhelmed to say it last time… but thank you for catching me.”

“Catching a falling child is hardly something to be praised for.”

Speaking as if it were nothing, Cho Yoon bent at the waist. Only because his eyes were fixed on the man’s movements did Cheon-oh finally notice the boulder beside him, covered in drying herbs. Cho Yoon picked up a bone-dry rhododendron leaf and crushed it in his palm, then nodded.

“This is sufficient. It is time to gather them. Go inside and fetch the folded sacks for me, won’t you? They are on the table next to the medicine cabinet…”

“I… I know where they are. I shall return shortly.”

“All right.”

Cheon-oh had surveyed the room tens, hundreds of times while thinking of him. He already knew exactly where everything was. He had never opened or rummaged through drawers without permission, so his knowledge was limited to what was visible, but he still knew where the sacks would be.

Quickening his pace, Cheon-oh hurried inside the cabin. When a voice called from behind him—

“Do not run.”

—he forced himself not to sprint. The sacks were neatly folded exactly where he expected them to be. Taking one, he returned to Cho Yoon.

Accepting the sack Cheon-oh offered with both hands, Cho Yoon said, “You went through the trouble even when your body is not fully healed. Thank you.”

For some reason, Cheon-oh found himself absurdly happy to hear it. He knew it was only polite courtesy, but it still felt like he’d done well. He wanted to do more; he wanted to help more. His heart, constantly shredded by a thirst for revenge that flared up like poison, felt a brief moment of ordinary, simple joy.

Unaware of Cheon-oh’s inner turmoil, Cho Yoon opened the sack, held it out to him, and continued.

“Place the rhododendron leaves inside.”

Nodding at once, Cheon-oh carefully scooped up the bone-dry herbs with both hands and placed them into the sack. As he poured his entire soul into ensuring not a single leaf crumbled, Cho Yoon remarked, “It is fine if they break, so there is no need to be overly cautious.”

Feeling as though his mind had been read, Cheon-oh wondered if the man truly possessed an immortal’s art, like telepathy.

Once he had gathered all the herbs, Cho Yoon wordlessly patted the boy’s shoulder a couple of times before rolling up the bamboo mat spread beneath the leaves. Staring blankly at him, words Cheon-oh hadn’t anticipated suddenly burst from his lips.

“Immortal… what exactly can you do for me?”

Shocked by his own question, Cheon-oh slapped a hand over his mouth. He had tried so hard to be careful, yet he’d spoken as if he were testing Cho Yoon again. This was the third time he’d spoken out of turn; surely the man would be angry now. Bracing himself for a harsh reprimand, Cheon-oh looked up.

However, Cho Yoon showed no signs of anger. Instead, he touched his chin, as if genuinely considering what he could offer the boy, then finally spoke.

“Well… at the very least, I can ensure you are capable of overcoming every poison in this world.”

Impervious to All Poisons.

Golden sunlight cascaded over Cho Yoon’s head as he casually uttered such an unrealistic promise.

Just then, a gust of wind swept through, rustling the leaves of every tree on the mountain. The clouds drifting across the vast sky seemed to pause for him, and his fluttering hair gleamed brighter than spun platinum.

In that fleeting moment, he truly looked like an immortal straight out of an ancient folktale, descending from the heavens solely for the suffering Cheon-oh.

With that one sentence, in that one moment, Cheon-oh hardened a resolve that would alter the course of his entire life.

Having hopelessly swept up the heart of a seven-year-old child, Cho Yoon was blissfully unaware of the price he would one day pay, merely delighted that the boy seemed to have brightened so much.