PABO Ch 22

On the birthday of such a meteoric Emperor, the weather was, of all things, foul. Even Yirim Beom’s gaze, lifted toward the dull, overcast clouds, was listless to the extreme.

They called it a “birthday banquet,” but this year the scale had been drastically reduced, with the event kept strictly within Munjeong Palace as a family affair. Even that was disrupted by a sudden downpour, forcing the cancellation of the outdoor luncheon and a rescheduling to begin with dinner instead. Still, with forty-one Muhwa in the household, there was no avoiding a certain sense of grandeur when one looked over the guest list.

As a result, the entire palace staff was bustling. Taking into account not only the Emperor’s preferences but also the tastes, beliefs, and allergies of the Muhwa, every chef and pâtissier working in the royal kitchen had been called in to prepare the feast. The performance held in the palace’s small theater was to be a musical accompanied by a full orchestra, and the Emperor had already issued one peculiar instruction. Before the show began, all the lead actors were to introduce their roles loudly, describing their appearance and costumes in detail.

Even so, this year’s birthday banquet was modest compared to that of the previous Emperor. Perhaps that was why the Emperor, glancing out the window, seemed so indifferent—or so the secretary cautiously guessed.

“It is Your Majesty’s first birthday since ascending the throne, yet compared to last year’s celebration, it seems rather simple. Is there anything you would like to add?”

The moment he asked, hoping to lift the mood, Yirim Beom suddenly snapped.

“My father was an old man riddled with illness, always on death’s door, so maybe his birthday was something worth celebrating. Why is my first birthday banquet so important that you keep asking about it right up to the day itself? There’ll be sixty more birthdays after this—what’s the point of making such a fuss?”

The long, warning scolding fell like a blade, causing the secretary’s face to go pale. The sharpness of that voice made him think he would rather be told to shut up outright. All he could do was nod and say, “Understood.” One more careless word, and he really might lose his job this time.

‘Damn… how am I supposed to placate that temper? It’s best to keep my mouth shut and just get through this…’

The secretary’s thought was correct. There was no one here who could ease the Emperor’s mood. His mind was filled to the brim with nothing but the gloomy sky and Haryeon Sol.

Even if the weather had cooperated and the outdoor events gone ahead as planned, there would have been no activities Haryeon Sol could have joined. Horseback riding, archery, and a sketching contest—nearly all were impossible for someone blind. Even so, Yirim Beom wanted to see him sitting in a pavilion, sweets and plum tea always at his lips. Come to think of it, Haryeon Sol was always shut up in that narrow room; Yirim Beom had never once seen him walking around outside.

Suddenly, Yirim Beom’s gaze fixed on the ground beyond the window. Grass lawns, neat soil, stone paths—nowhere was there any accommodation for the blind. Even on ordinary streets, there were yellow tactile paving blocks at every crosswalk, yet Munjeong Palace had precious few. Built without pedestrians in mind, the palace only barely met accessibility laws.

“No wonder he stays holed up and doesn’t come out.”

With his broad shoulders squared and hands clasped behind his back, he muttered like an old man. Behind him, the secretary approached carefully.

“Your Majesty, it is time to move.”

“Right. Is it that late already?”

Yirim Beom replied easily, though he had been checking his wristwatch every minute since the morning meeting.

With a long train of attendants trailing behind him like a dragon’s tail, Yirim Beom moved at a leisurely pace. It took less than five minutes by his stride to reach the hall where all the Muhwas had gathered. The guards holding umbrellas over his head and the attendants following behind practically had to run, but that was not Yirim Beom’s concern.

Arriving before the warmly lit hall, he brushed the raindrops from his shoulders. The doors were thrown wide, and as he strode in, the rows of seated Muhwa came into view at once. At the same time, they all snapped their mouths shut and bowed their heads. It looked as though they might break into a chorus of greetings at any moment, so Yirim Beom silenced them all with a single gesture.

Instead, he walked toward his seat at the very back, scanning the faces at the tables one by one. Though Director Yang Chaerim must have assigned seats to some extent, he assumed the order reflected rank. As expected, the seat closest to the Emperor belonged to Yicha Hyeok.

When the Emperor made eye contact with them one by one, some Muhwa blushed, while others turned pale with nerves. Yirim Beom could easily feel that every one of them held him in their hearts.

In any era, under any circumstances, Muhwa could not help but love the Emperor. With their illness like a buried mine, only the Emperor’s side was a safe zone. Simply living together within Munjeong Palace was enough to ease their symptoms to the point where death felt distant. Gathering together in a hall like this would help even more.

From the Muhwas’ perspective, the Emperor was the one who, even on nights they came to his sleeping quarter for the third time, merely drew the curtains and let them hear his sleeping breath. For such a man to gather them all in one place, carefully meeting each of their gazes, was bound to excite them. Some of the younger Muhwa even grew giddy at the thought that perhaps the Emperor, who had always been so aloof, was actually kind at heart.

Yirim Beom, meanwhile, felt as though he were playing a game of hidden pictures.

‘What? Where is he?’

Step by step, he searched each face among the Muhwas, but Haryeon Sol was nowhere to be seen. Since he lived in that out-of-the-way loophole, Yirim Beom had assumed he would be tucked into some corner seat, but that wasn’t the case.

‘Looks like his standing has improved quite a bit.’

Well, with those lovely features, that pretty chin, and such a warm personality, it never made sense for him to be the lowest-ranked Muhwa anyway. The closer Yirim Beom drew to the head table, the better his mood became. Soon, he would see Haryeon Sol sitting before the banquet, staring blankly into space with wide eyes.
Then his feet reached his seat.

“…”

He stopped before the wide table, steam rising from the dishes. Confused at not finding the one who should have been there, he nevertheless moved as protocol dictated. He sat in his large, sturdy chair and lifted his impassive face. Then he once more surveyed the Muhwas he had just examined so carefully.

“Your Majesty.”

From the seat beside him, Yicha Hyeok called out softly. Seeing him look over with a furrowed brow, as if asking whether something was wrong, Yirim Beom cleared his throat once.

“Everyone must be hungry. Go ahead and eat.”

Skipping all pleasantries, he picked up his chopsticks without further ado. The Muhwas seated around the Emperor’s table, who had hoped to exchange words with him, were bewildered. They glanced at one another, then followed his lead and lifted their chopsticks.

Soon, the many Muhwas became the Emperor’s shadows. When the Emperor’s chopsticks touched the rice, they ate rice; when he prodded the side of the grilled croaker, they quietly picked at the fish. Among them, the vegetarian Muhwa could only chew on a few stray grains of rice.

Seeing this, Yirim Beom set his chopsticks down with a sharp clack. The sound of utensils being lowered echoed through the hall in unison.

“Enough,” Yirim Beom spoke loudly. “Just eat comfortably. Is there any need to give yourselves indigestion by watching others’ faces?”

The room fell instantly silent. The Muhwas hesitated, clutching their utensils uncertainly. Yirim Beom scowled deeply and shot a look at Yicha Hyeok beside him. With a sigh that sounded like a breath through his nose, Yicha Hyeok lifted his spoon and demonstratively took a mouthful of soup. Only then did the Muhwas, who had been darting glances around, begin to eat freely one by one.

Swallowing a sigh, Yirim Beom picked up his chopsticks without thinking. It was he, not they, who felt suffocated before this lavish spread. He mechanically tore at a piece of grilled short rib, but found no enjoyment in it. He couldn’t even tell who this banquet was meant to please.

“Khm, khm….”

As the Emperor’s foul mood showed plainly, Yicha Hyeok kept sending him looks. Even so, Yirim Beom didn’t speak. He didn’t raise his gaze to study anyone. He seemed distracted, his mind elsewhere.

When the Emperor’s brow creased, Director Yang Chaerim, who had been watching from afar, edged closer.

“Lady Yang.”

Yirim Beom was the only one who addressed her as Court Lady instead of by her director’s title. At his low, troubled call, Director Yang inclined her upper body slightly. Though he was seated and she was standing, the difference in height was small, so she didn’t need to bow deeply.

Leaning toward her ear, Yirim Beom whispered, “Isn’t the number of Muhwa short? What’s going on?”

Director Yang blinked, then glanced around the hall before meeting his gaze again. Confusion showed plainly in her eyes, as if thinking it strange that he had noticed. That reaction irritated Yirim Beom. How could anyone fail to notice Haryeon Sol’s empty seat? Where else would one find a Muhwa with such a striking appearance? And yet, seeing the usually competent Director Yang flounder like this was entirely unexpected.