One way or another, first love was bound to end. No matter the outcome, Cho Yoon hoped this would help the child grow. He wanted to help him learn how to love in a healthy way—sometimes adjusting to the other person, sometimes drawing clear lines between what could be given and what could not. Even the extra emotions—fluttering excitement, anguish, frustration—would surely become nourishment for him.

In truth, this wasn’t so different from what he had always done.

Still, he’s certainly taking the hard road for his first love, Cho Yoon mused. Whoever it is, it won’t be an easy endeavor. Should I gently pry and ask who caught his eye? I wouldn’t immediately play the cheerleader, but knowing their identity might help me offer tailored advice. I’m genuinely curious about what drew him to them… Does Cheon-oh even have a specific ideal type?

“The night grows late,” Cho Yoon said softly. “It is time we returned to our quarters.”

“…Master.”

Having imparted his own clumsy version of unrequited love advice, Cho Yoon turned to lead the way back, his mind still swirling with somewhat pathetic, overbearing parental worries.

However, Cheon-oh’s voice anchored him in place.

Glancing over his shoulder, Cho Yoon found the boy wearing his usual, placid expression. It seemed Cheon-oh had already wrangled his chaotic adolescent emotions into submission, his resolve firmly reestablished.

A strange, almost magnetic gravity radiated from the boy’s eyes, which were entirely consumed by a fervent yearning he was experiencing for the very first time. Instantly captivated by the sheer intensity of that gaze and the weight of his tone, Cho Yoon met his stare head-on.

Those perfectly sculpted lips parted, releasing a voice that had dropped a half-octave in pitch. Without Cho Yoon even realizing it, Cheon-oh’s voice had nearly finished breaking.

“Master…” the boy murmured. “What kind of person do you admire?”

“…”

To be entirely honest, a fleeting premonition that this situation was spiraling in a slightly—very slightly—bizarre direction grazed Cho Yoon’s mind. He mentally tallied the clues: the boy’s ashen face upon being caught after his nocturnal emission, the sheer, crushing guilt radiating from him just hinting at the dream’s contents, his admission that the subject was older, and someone who had profoundly aided him.

These fragmented puzzle pieces converged, painting a vague, uncomfortable picture. Yet, Jeong Hayoon was fundamentally incapable of extending his deductive reasoning to its horrifying, logical conclusion. Consequently, Cho Yoon spent the next agonizingly brief seconds desperately rationalizing the entire scenario.

Cheon-oh simply wants to understand the traits of a ‘universally beloved person,’ and since I’m his sole guardian, he’s asking me for advice, Cho Yoon theorized. Or perhaps he assumes that if someone can meet my impossibly high standards, they’d be liked by anyone. Or maybe, out of the pure goodness of his heart, he just wants to know my preferences since we’ll be living together for a few more years. Yes. That is absolutely all this is.

Whichever the case, the burden of delivering a flawless, educational answer fell squarely on Cho Yoon’s shoulders. Shoving his suddenly blooming anxieties aside as mere paranoia, he turned his back to the boy and spoke in a measured, monotonous drone.

“I favor those who possess a righteous strength.”

“…Are you referring to martial prowess?”

“No, it differs from mere martial superiority,” Cho Yoon clarified. “It is also distinct from the mental fortitude forged through endless physical conditioning. Nor does it imply one must exclusively commit acts of pure, selfless altruism.”

How on earth do I articulate this? 

Pacing slowly as he pondered, Cho Yoon listened to the soft, steady crunch of the boy’s footsteps trailing right behind him. It felt like only yesterday that a tiny Cheon-oh would trot up and immediately grab his hand. He honestly had no idea when the child had grown so imposing.

Drawing upon a lifetime of countless conversations, deep introspection, and bitter modern experiences, Cho Yoon attempted to verbalize his meticulously constructed ideal type.

“I would say… it is someone who possesses unwavering principles and convictions, yet remains open-minded enough to genuinely consider the perspectives of others,” he began. “A person who never seeks to elevate themselves by stepping on those beneath them. Someone who, when wounded, seeks to heal themselves with grace and moderation rather than lashing out. Yes, that is the mold. Though, someone earnestly striving to become such a person is equally admirable.”

He worried the concepts were too philosophical for a teenager, but he refused to compromise on the truth. His previous life had taught him a harsh lesson: age gaps, physical attraction, and superficial personality matches were ultimately meaningless. The only metric that truly mattered was a person’s fundamental character. He was absolutely certain that as long as their core nature was solid, every other friction point could be gradually smoothed out over a long, enduring relationship.

Yet, Cho Yoon knew firsthand exactly how impossibly rare those three seemingly simple traits were.

He had long since accepted the bitter reality that a person could preach about these ideals until they were blue in the face, but actually encountering a single individual who embodied them in one lifetime was a near-mythical feat.

Therefore, as he swallowed a melancholic sigh, drowning in memories of his failed real-world relationships, Cheon-oh’s sudden response struck him like an absolute bolt from the blue.

“So… you are looking to court a benevolent sovereign?”

“—Ack! Ahem! W-Why on earth would you jump to that conclusion?!”

“You once taught me that possessing clear convictions without being easily swayed, yet never silencing the counsel of others… refusing to solidify power through the inhumane subjugation of subordinates, and prioritizing wisdom over indiscriminate purges—those are the exact requirements of a benevolent sovereign,” Cheon-oh recited flawlessly.

“You must never carelessly utter such words in public,” Cho Yoon hissed, immediately scandalized. “Especially where eavesdroppers might linger! Such philosophical debates are permissible within the walls of Estate of Deep Mists, but you must be incredibly cautious lest casual treason becomes a verbal habit. Keep ‘kings’ and ‘sovereigns’ out of your mouth until you are entirely free from the Imperial Family’s eyes and ears.”

Compounding his sudden terror was the stark reality that this very villa belonged to the Hao Sect—an organization with significant ties to the Imperial Court.

Cho Yoon slapped a hand over the boy’s mouth and frantically swept the perimeter.

Fortunately, no unseen informants seemed to have caught the borderline treasonous political critique.

When on earth did I even teach him that? he wondered wildly.

Yet, upon brief reflection, he remembered dropping those exact lectures in a desperate bid to prevent the boy from devolving into the heartless, tyrannical Sovereign of the Underworld, Joo Cheon-oh, of the Demonic Cult.

His intent had merely been, ‘Please become a successful corporate-style leader rather than an insane cult dictator!’

But I just wanted to raise him into a decently functioning adult! It’s not like I was reciting Machiavelli’s ‘The Prince’ to him! Cho Yoon’s internal monologue shrieked. Wait a minute. If he thinks my leadership lessons match my romantic ideal type… doesn’t that make me look like a total creep grooming a child to perfectly fit my dating preferences?! Are you kidding me?!

“A truly decent human being will inevitably draw the admiration of others,” Cho Yoon rambled, hastily trying to backpedal and clarify his teachings. “If your mere presence positively influences those around you, naturally, people will flock to you. Continuous effort and self-reflection are simply the baseline requirements for a functioning member of society. Nothing more!”

Realizing the catastrophic optics of his previous lessons, Cho Yoon practically tripped over his own words trying to inject supplementary context. The most maddening part was that Cheon-oh wasn’t technically wrong in his deduction.

For the first time in years, a chilling bead of cold sweat slid down the master’s spine.

That does it. I have to stop lecturing this kid about life, he vowed. I wanted to raise him to be a fiercely independent thinker, but what if I’ve just been brainwashing him with my own personal ideologies? 

Even if his advice stemmed from genuine, maternal anxiety, the boy absorbed it like absolute gospel.

He had to be infinitely more cautious.

Considering how wildly unpredictable and perilous a simple, everyday conversation could become, Cho Yoon was utterly convinced that parenting was objectively the most terrifying job on the planet.

Forcing his frantically galloping heart to steady, he finally released his vice-like grip on the boy’s mouth and smoothed his expression.

“I merely prefer the company of someone who fulfills their basic duties and obligations as a human being,” Cho Yoon declared firmly. “And frankly, you need not worry yourself over such standards.”

“…Why is that?”

“Because I already cherish you deeply as my disciple,” Cho Yoon said. “You have no need to desperately attempt to earn my favor or catch my eye.”

He had spent eight grueling years meticulously cultivating Cheon-oh’s moral compass, and he prided himself on the undeniable results.

The fact that the boy had embarked on a wholesome, refreshing first crush was absolute proof!

The original novel’s psychotic Sovereign of the Underworld would never be capable of such tender emotions.

Yes, Cho Yoon had definitively succeeded as an educator.

Desperately inflating his own ego to soothe his parenting insecurities, Cho Yoon offered the boy’s shoulder an encouraging, paternal pat.

However, Cheon-oh’s reaction was deeply unsettling.

The boy dropped his gaze, his eyes darting aimlessly across the dirt path as his lips parted and closed repeatedly. He clearly harbored unspoken words that were fighting to break free.

“…What I actually wished to know was…”

“…”

“…Never mind, Master,” Cheon-oh abruptly retreated, swallowing his confession. “I will deliberate on the matter further before seeking your counsel. The predawn wind bites bitterly; please retire to your chambers. Your body has only just recovered, and we face a long journey tomorrow, do we not?”

Instantly sealing away whatever emotional turmoil had threatened to spill over, Cheon-oh expertly smoothed his expression into a mask of stoic perfection. Offering his flawlessly polite, customary bow, the boy pivoted on his heel and strode purposefully back toward the main residence.

Left utterly dumbfounded in the moonlit courtyard, a sudden realization slammed into Cho Yoon.

…I didn’t actually give him a single piece of practical dating advice, did I?

Rewinding the conversation, he cringed.

He had predictably derailed into yet another excruciating lecture on moral philosophy and human duty.

The poor kid had clearly been fishing for actionable tips on how to woo his crush, and Cho Yoon had responded with a convoluted thesis on ‘righteous strength.’

There was zero chance that had answered the boy’s question.

Derailing a perfectly good bonding moment into a morality seminar was an unmitigated disaster on his part.

…And I completely forgot to bring up his father, too.

He had fully intended to segue into the horrific revelation that Joo Yeok, the wielder of the Dark Python Sword, was rotting in the Demonic Cult’s subterranean dungeon. Yet, the moment the topic of crushes arose, the critical intelligence had vanished entirely from his mind. He had literally stayed up agonizing over that exact secret, only to be distracted by the boy’s suspicious midnight excursion.

And what was the grand result of his intervention?

A terrifying reminder of how rapidly the child was maturing, and a lingering anxiety over whether he had even adequately explained that nocturnal emissions were a standard biological function.

Standing utterly alone in the moonlit garden, Cho Yoon dragged a heavy hand down his face, overwhelmed by a crushing sense of inadequacy.

He desperately wanted to collapse into the dirt and yank his own hair out in frustration, but the agonizing reality was that his transmigrated body—a vessel bound by the absolute necessity of saving face and projecting martial elegance—physically refused to permit such an undignified tantrum. It was utterly miserable.

The kid is maturing at lightning speed, but emotionally, I haven’t grown an inch. What am I going to do…?

The longer he parented, the more impossible the job seemed to become.

Trading a fleeting shred of pride for a mountain of impending, bleak uncertainty, it was shaping up to be a truly miserable night.