PABO Ch 17

By the time the old monk reached the desk, the Emperor was completely naked. His shoulders were broad, the flow of muscle that began at the center of his chest tracing a neat inverted triangle down to his abdomen—a body without flaw, superb in every sense. Below his navel, shadows of winding veins stretched across smooth skin, the faint lines growing darker as they reached his groin. One especially long, heavy shadow cut across his thigh. His thick, solid thighs were ridged with muscle.

Sunlight poured over the towering body standing like a statue. The light that filtered through the papered windows cast patterned shadows across half of him like tattoos. What remained spilled across the floor as a long carpet of brightness.

What completed the already perfect body, above all else, was his face. Jet-black hair like ebony, predatory eyes worthy of the name “tiger,” a nose that carved sharp darkness, and lips as precise as if measured by a ruler—he was a perfect man and a flawless Emperor.

Yirim Beom took a step forward. The old monk faltered slightly. Unbothered by the startled reaction, the young Emperor strode right up until he stood before the monk. With his tall, athlete-like build and the monk’s frail, withered frame, it was a perilous contrast. It seemed the old man might be snuffed out if the Emperor so much as breathed too hard.

“In your dharma name, Gapi means ‘grace,’ doesn’t it?” The Emperor asked, eyes wide open, unblinking. “So what grace can you bestow upon this sentient being?”

“…”

“Hm?”

The silence was not limited to the monk. The secretary who had willingly ushered him in stood mute as well, like someone struck dumb after swallowing honey. He could not even steady his trembling heart, much less think of an appropriate response. Like a tiger roaming the mountains, the naked Yirim Beom stood proud and shameless. Shame belonged not to him, but to those who gazed upon his perfect body and were made aware of their own insignificance.

“Venerable, so what of mine can you fix?” The young Emperor asked again, stepping even closer. It looked as though their bare bodies might collide.

The secretary cried out, aghast, “Y-Your Majesty…!”

As if he had been waiting for it, the naked Emperor turned sharply toward him. What followed sounded calm, like a recorded message being played back, “You’ve worked hard up to this day, Secretary Park. Stop by Director Yang’s office, then go home.”

“Pardon? Your Majesty, what do you mean—”

“On your way out, see our venerable guest off.”

Before he could even process the words, the secretary had to move. He was crushed beneath the inhuman pressure radiating from the Emperor. He rushed to the monk’s side, hooked arms with the old man, and pulled him along. Whether by misfortune or luck, Gapi said nothing as well.

As he led the monk, lips tightly pressed together, beneath the shade of the blue roof tiles, the secretary’s mind swam with anxiety the entire way. It felt as though he would no longer be reporting to the Emperor’s office starting tomorrow. Even if he were saddled with old-fashioned labels like “eunuch” or “castrate,” he loved his job. And there were more than enough people who would gladly take his place. When he thought of the staggering competition he had fought through to become the Emperor’s secretary, it felt as though tears of blood were welling up inside him. Only then did his maternal grandmother’s oft-repeated refrain—worn into his ears, “Respect your elders,” with its second verse, “And the greatest elder of all is the Emperor”—truly sink in.

Meanwhile, having driven everyone out by thoroughly intimidating them, the Emperor was left alone in his office. He thought it had been the right decision to dismiss the tactless secretary at once. The fact that the man had withdrawn exactly as he was—without fetching a single piece of clothing for him or even picking any up—only confirmed it.

When the secretary returned to the office, Yirim Beom thought he should tease him about this incident. If it were Director Yang Chaerim—who knew the new Emperor’s temperament well—simply hearing how things had unfolded would be enough for her to grasp His Majesty’s intentions and frighten the secretary just the right amount. She would have him sign confidentiality documents under the pretext of exit procedures, then give him one last chance, telling him to return to the office and beg for forgiveness, giving his backside a shove as she sent him on his way.

“Hoo….”

Resting a hand at his waist, Yirim Beom shook his head. He felt uneasy, thinking he might have vented his irritation on a secretary who had done nothing wrong. He dropped his weary body heavily into the chair. With the sudden weight, the chair’s wheels spun uselessly and his bare body tilted at an angle. Raising a hand, he kneaded his shoulder. His fingertip caught on a scar at the end of his middle finger.

Suddenly exhausted, Yirim Beom slumped forward onto the desk. Fatigue and a sense of reality washed over him all at once.

‘Damn old man.’

Venerable Gapi. He would have understood immediately what the single flaw left on Yirim Beom’s body was. If Yirim Beom had merely turned around, he could have shown him the dozens of scars carved from shoulder blade to lower back. The only reason he had not was simple: there was no need. Every scar etched into his body had been carved by the very monk who bore a dharma name meaning “grace.”

‘…’

Yirim Beom squeezed his eyes shut. A headache surged, and a salty taste filled his mouth. Even clutching his head with both hands did nothing to ease it. A small stone pagoda in a temple, the corner of a dark room, the roots of a tree flickered into view one after another, then vanished. He shook his head hard to dispel the blinking hallucinations.

At the end of the vision, a window inside his mind flew open. A brave boy, come searching for a goblin from a folktale, woke a young prince from his sleep. Poking his head into the pitch-black room, the boy smiled wide enough to carve deep dimples.

“Are you the goblin?”

The boy in his memory asked. Yirim Beom nodded. Then the boy etched into his eyelids frowned.

“No, you’re not. You’re just a person.”

Suddenly, he thought of the loophole. He thought of the face of the forty-first Muhwa hiding away in a palm-sized building. Newly formed routines overlaid old memories.

‘Should I go see Haryeon Sol…’

For all that he acted as though everything in the world annoyed him, Haryeon Sol was a bright, positive man. And every time they met, he was always eating something.

Once his thoughts reached that point, Yirim Beom felt better. A belated smile spread across his face.

A few days earlier, the small attendant had nearly jumped out of her skin upon recognizing the Emperor seated together in the forty-first Muhwa’s sleeping quarters…. He had called the attendant back once more on the way out and firmly warned her to watch her tongue, but he still could not quite trust it.

If possible, he wanted to deceive Haryeon Sol for a little longer. He wanted to live as the fabricated imperial relative “Nachalsa” for a few more months.

‘What should I feed him today?’

By playing someone who did not exist in front of a stranger, Yirim Beom felt a sense of release. He liked being by Haryeon Sol’s side. When he was with Haryeon Sol, he did not have to be himself.

---

Even so, the Muhwa the Emperor visited most often was Yicha Hyeok^[1]. Among all the Muhwa now filling Munjeong Palace, he was the longest-standing patient of the flowering sickness. His onset had occurred six years ago, at the airport.

Having just turned twenty, he boarded the plane on his own feet, preparing to leave to study abroad, only to be carried off on an emergency stretcher before takeoff. It was because sudden paralysis had struck his lower body.

The moment he was diagnosed with the Flowering sickness, he chose to live in Munjeong Palace. Over six years, as new patients entered one by one, Yicha Hyeok took on the role of the older brother, and everyone followed him well. Even now, with the number of Muhwa having reached forty-one, most still respected Yicha Hyeok. If they were to choose a representative among themselves, they would all point to him without hesitation.

Although the times had changed and the meaning of hierarchical relationships had blurred, the power of seniority still remained. Within the closed-off Muhwa community, there was an especially strong tendency to flatter seniors who knew more than oneself, while remaining wary of newcomers who might threaten one’s position.

Of course, to play the role of a senior and lord it over others, one needed a certain level of ability as well. In Yicha Hyeok’s case, his greatest weapon was his appearance. He was the tallest man among the Muhwa, and at the same time, a beauty possessed of the most striking looks.

On top of that, he enjoyed the Emperor’s singular favor, and his Flowering sickness symptoms were reduced to the point of being barely noticeable. No one wanted to fall out of Yicha Hyeok’s good graces. They merely envied him.

“They say His Majesty’s been visiting him often since he was still Crown Prince. Apparently they even drank together alone on the night of the enthronement.”

“If Hyeok-nim moves his quarters to Gyotaejeon, who’ll take over his current residence?”

“Me. I’m scheduled to move in.”

“Stop spouting nonsense…”

The whispers always ended up circling back to Yicha Hyeok’s residence. The Muhwas were keenly interested in the real estate allotted to each of them. In their closed society, the size of one’s quarters directly reflected one’s standing. Among them all, the most splendid residence belonged, without question, to Yicha Hyeok.