PABO Ch 16-Covering the Sky with One Hand

That left Haryeon Sol utterly flustered. He slowly moved the hand he had placed on the floor, searching for the edge of the tray Choryong had left behind. It was strange to him that the attendant who diligently explained the kinds and positions of food every single day had suddenly been so careless. Just as his fingers were about to brush against the cold glass bottle, Nachalsa blocked his hand.

“Wait. I’ll pour it for you.”

Opening the bottle and pouring a little tea into a glass was easy for Nachalsa. He poured the cold-brewed green tea into the glass, then added two spoonfuls of honey he scooped from a small dish. When he stirred it lazily with a teaspoon, the sound of glass meeting ice was pleasantly crisp.

While Nachalsa prepared the drink, Haryeon Sol felt around the low table and confirmed there was only one fish-shaped bread left. He snatched it up at once, split it in half, and handed the upper portion—the part with the mouth—to Nachalsa.

Staring down at the plump, warm fish-shaped bread suddenly placed in his hand, Nachalsa blinked. He gazed at the cut surface, densely packed with red bean paste, then tilted his head to the side.

“Hyung, could it be… have we met before, back when you lived outside the palace?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Compared to the careful way the question was asked, the answer came quickly. Perhaps embarrassed by his own words, Haryeon Sol lightly ran his tongue over his lips and hurried to add an explanation.

“You’re the Emperor’s relative. Why would I ever have had a chance to meet someone from the imperial family….”

At the voice filled with unshakable certainty, Nachalsa narrowed his eyes. Then he leaned in very close, presenting his face so the near-sighted Muhwa could try to make it out.

“Look carefully. Up close.”

Closing the distance until their breaths brushed, Haryeon Sol’s pupils wavered. Nachalsa could tell he was trying, with his limited vision, to inspect each of his eyes in turn.

“Even this close, you still don’t recognize me? Not at all?”

Even as he asked, Nachalsa did not know what answer he wanted. His attention was entirely on Haryeon Sol, who looked flustered and at a loss. After fumbling for a way to escape Nachalsa’s gaze, Haryeon Sol squeezed his eyes shut. Then, as if he had made up his mind, he spoke in a very solemn, dignified tone.

“Hey…. I’m His Majesty’s Muhwa. I came in here resolved to look at no one but the Emperor for the rest of my life. I do like you, but this is…. You and I can’t be like this.”

At the abruptly returned words of refusal, Nachalsa’s head rang. He paused to think about what kind of situation this was, then promptly folded away even that thought along with a faint smile forming at his dimples.

“Pfft!”

It seemed Haryeon Sol had taken “haven’t we met somewhere before?” as a textbook flirting line. No wonder he might have mistaken it for a serious attempt at seduction.

Nachalsa’s pride was not particularly wounded, nor did it need to be. If anything, he found Haryeon Sol adorable for rejecting him so earnestly. Like a talentless stage actor, reciting every line in the same tone, he was not only cute but at times downright comical.

“Hahaha!”

Unable to hold it in, Nachalsa burst out laughing. It was raw, unfiltered laughter, mixed with a rough sound scratching his throat.

“Why… why are you laughing?”

Haryeon Sol muttered in confusion. The more serious he was, the louder Nachalsa laughed, until tears nearly welled up.

“Don’t laugh. I’m His Majesty’s man!”

Haryeon Sol shouted, bristling.

Clutching his stomach as his muscles cramped, the man who had introduced himself as Nachalsa narrowed his eyes. In his dark pupils was reflected the forty-first Muhwa.

‘That Emperor is me, you brat.’

Covering the Sky with One Hand^[1]

The purpose of the massive hall crowned with blue tiles was none other than to serve as the Emperor’s office. Known for the hydrangeas in its garden that straightened their stems proudly, and for the ferns hanging in the corridors as though stretching out lush arms in midair, this hall was the largest in Munjeong Palace and the second most beautiful.

The most beautiful building was Gyotaejeon, and by a curious coincidence, the day the former bedchamber within Gyeongbokgung was dismantled, a new bedchamber was completed at Munjeong Palace. As a result, the name of the sleeping quarters once used in Gyeongbokgung was transferred and attached to it.

Originally, “Gyotaejeon” referred to the bedchamber used by the Emperor’s consort, and in keeping with that function, Munjeong Palace’s Gyotaejeon has remained without an occupant to this day. To preserve the building, it is regarded as a treasure, and visits by outsiders—aside from a few caretakers—are not permitted.

Instead, the place that always opened its doors wide whenever visitors arrived from outside was here: the Emperor’s office. In the event of an incident within Munjeong Palace, this vast hall, large enough to accommodate all the Muhwa and staff with room to spare, had a rather unusual structure. Four rectangular buildings were joined at right angles, forming a square along the outer perimeter, making it seem as though another palace stood within Munjeong Palace itself.

Among them, the building attached to the main gate was the smallest. After passing through the tall gate flanked on both sides by guard quarters, one would enter to find long, narrow buildings positioned on either side once again. The central space, enclosed by the surrounding structures like a fence, held a garden, and straight through its middle ran a covered walkway with a roof meant to shield passersby from snow, rain, and the blazing sun.

As one walked while gazing down at the shadows cast by the blue roof tiles—tiles that appeared all the bluer when touched by sunlight—a natural rhythm crept into one’s steps. Following that shaded path brought one to the main hall, which served as the formal office used when foreign envoys came to visit.

However, the young Emperor, Yirim Beom, had a different temperament from his predecessor. Though renowned worldwide as a handsome Emperor, he did not enjoy exposing himself to the public. As a result, he rarely used the open office.

Instead, he mainly occupied a room in the long corridor to the left. With eight bookcases already installed, the room was packed to capacity, yet a desk and chair had been added all the same. Sitting in an office chair beneath the shadows of traditional patterns cast through the papered windows, he remained at his post for over ten hours a day.

If a foreigner indifferent to this nation’s administration were to see the scene today, they would not have realized that the office’s owner had changed not long ago. Yirim Beom was that competent. He made decisions without hesitation and resolved matters swiftly. He seemed to have no need for an adjustment period at all—like a man born to be Emperor.

Even so, there was one thing he continually put off. Just one: facing an uninvited guest.

“Venerable Gapi has arrived.”

At the secretary’s report, the Emperor replied coldly, “Send him away.”

The secretary swallowed a small sigh, retreated, and closed the door behind him. Stepping out from the cool air of the air conditioner and purifier into the outdoors, the late-summer heat was stifling. Even a young man would see heat haze shimmering before his eyes on a day like this, and it was difficult to drive an elderly monk away to stand under the blazing sun, leaving the shaded path cast by the blue tiles unused.

The old monk who called himself Gapi wore both a traditional monk’s robe with wide sleeves and, pulled from a pocket, an old-fashioned mobile phone—both equally worn. Bent at the waist, he took pictures of the hydrangeas blooming in the garden, looking peaceful yet pitiable all the same. Secretary Park Chongmyeong, raised by his maternal grandmother to value respect above all, found the situation deeply uncomfortable. Surely nothing disastrous would happen if he indulged the old monk just once. That thought only grew stronger knowing that the old monk was a figure who had long been respected, having been addressed as hoeju^[2] by the previous Emperor.

Trying hard to appear composed, the secretary relayed the Emperor’s words to Venerable Gapi. At that, the monk smiled until the wrinkles on his face deepened, then made a single request. He said there was something he absolutely must convey to His Majesty, and asked whether he might deliver just that message before leaving.

It was already the fourth week. Every Monday, the old monk would come calling, bowing deeply as he declared, “I have come to see His Majesty the Emperor,” and then endure half a day with ease, as if engaged in a contest of patience. To make matters worse, the previous Emperor had treated the monk with exceptional courtesy, even granting him the right to come and go within Munjeong Palace. Because of that, the secretary found himself soft-hearted, unable to simply drive him away.

After a brief moment of deliberation, he returned to the Emperor’s office. As a secretary in service to the Emperor, it was forbidden to argue with his decisions or request that they be overturned. Still, the secretary thought that merely passing along the monk’s words might, perhaps, be acceptable. And so he spoke calmly.

“The monk says there is something he must tell Your Majesty, and that he will leave after conveying just that.”

This time, the young Emperor nodded at the secretary’s words. Then he readily gave his assent.

“Tell him to come in.”

The secretary, delighted, escorted the old monk inside. Wrinkled and gaunt, easily appearing to be well past eighty, the monk entered the office with his head bowed. As he did, his gaze moved in sequence over the books and file folders covering the large desk, the computer, and finally the young Emperor, Yirim Beom, seated at the center.

And then something strange happened. With each step the Monk took closer—one step, then another—the Emperor cast off one article of clothing after another. First, he removed the golden durumagi, then untied the sash of his red inner garment. He shed his trousers and even his underclothes without hesitation, kicking them aside and pushing them into a corner with his foot.

TL’s Note:
Another thing I forgot to explain: the previous chapter subtitle—though I’m not entirely sure it counts as a subtitle. The phrase “a rolling stone” comes from a Korean proverb that literally means “a rolling stone pushes out the stone that was already embedded.” It refers to someone who has only recently come in from the outside, trying to drive out or harm someone who has been there for a long time.

The closest English equivalents would be “The new broom sweeps clean” or “Bad money drives out good.”