PABO Ch 5

Haryeon Sol was just as indifferent to others as they were to him. Whether someone pitied him or ignored him, he did not care. The illustrious Muhwa of Munjeong Palace were all people who had nothing to do with him.

Haryeon Sol was a man who understood his own position better than anyone. He had long since accepted, with certainty, that he would never regain his lost sight for the rest of his life. It had been enough, on the first day he entered the palace and finally found his room after much difficulty, to overhear snippets of conversation from afar. The women’s voices sounded like jade beads rolling together, and the men spoke so gently that one wondered if they had even been to the military. All of them seemed younger than the Emperor, while Haryeon Sol would be turning thirty next year. Long ago, children of twelve or thirteen who fell ill with flowering sickness had been brought into the palace immediately. For a Muhwa, twenty-nine was far too old.

Moreover, he was desperately poor, so the first stipend for maintaining appearances that entered Haryeon Sol’s bank account was spent immediately on repaying interest, as if passing straight through a highway tollgate. As a result, he could not afford to buy even a single new outfit.

There were some belongings that the staff Director Yang had sent brought over from his semi-basement studio apartment. The problem was that he had no money to repair the electronic devices that had broken down. His clothes, too, had all been damaged by flooding and were deeply soaked with the stench of filthy water.

The only thing worth salvaging was a stuffed toy he had carried like a talisman since childhood. Once the small pouch doll with a zipper down its spine was washed and dried, it regained its original form. Its color had faded completely to gray, the stitching had come undone so it bulged unevenly all over, and both its eyes were on the verge of popping out. It looked like a frog straight out of hell.

Wearing the white T-shirt and modified hanbok pants issued as standard to Muhwa, Haryeon Sol lay sprawled on his room’s floor. Kneading the familiar texture of the frog doll, he calmed his mind.

By his own assessment, his charm rating was a solid zero. Zero. Becoming a Muhwa did not mean his attractiveness would suddenly explode and usher him into a beautiful, glamorous life. From here on out, the future allotted to him was to be neglected until he became an old man in the back rooms.

Even so, he was happy.

‘I have to hold on to this place!’

Clenching his fist, Haryeon Sol made a vow. He would not let even the ugliest person steal the title of last-place Muhwa from him. He would live blind and tucked away on the outskirts of Munjeong Palace until the day he died. This was a life where meals arrived on time, where living expenses were provided without having to work, where there was no risk of sudden, misfortune-laden accidents or being chased out onto the streets—a life of lying low and living like a mouse. Haryeon Sol liked that kind of life.

He pressed his back flat against the smooth wooden floor. The temperature of the floor he felt by groping with his outstretched arms was cool. The sensation of summer sunlight touching the back of his hand was so vivid it felt as though even the fine hairs were dancing, while at the same time a cool breeze from the air conditioner tickled his cheeks.

Crawling and reaching out, his hand found a soft blanket. Reading the headboard by touch, he realized it was made of bamboo, and the bed frame was very low. It seemed a deliberate choice to avoid spoiling the scenery of a palace built in traditional hanok style. When he carefully lay down on the bed and stretched out his limbs, the mattress felt quite large—at least a double bed. There was no chance the Emperor would ever come here, much less share intimacy with Haryeon Sol, but the diligent staff had provided a two-person bed without neglecting even the slightest possibility.

Lying spread like an eagle in the center of the bed, Haryeon Sol closed his eyes. Whether his eyes were open or closed, it was pitch-black all the same, so even with his eyes open he felt drowsy. The cool air conditioner breeze stroked his hair.

It was simply,

‘I’m happy…’

Because he was happy.

“This place is heaven.”

Just being able to lie in his room and bask in sunlight was happiness. That such a soft, warm bed belonged to him made emotion well up to his throat. The thought that breakfast, lunch, and dinner would all be delivered to his room at set times made him want to bow in gratitude to the flowering sickness virus itself.

The Emperor? Whoever he was, whatever kind of man he was, Haryeon Sol did not care. He did not need to meet the Emperor for the rest of his life. No—he would rather not meet him.

Haryeon Sol felt no need to catch his eye. He had no desire to cure his illness by receiving the Emperor’s love.

‘Sure, it’d be convenient to get my sight back if things went well, but it’s not like getting favored comes with a bonus…’

The voices of male Muhwa he had heard while walking all the way to this tiny room in the farthest annex of Munjeong Palace had not sounded pleasant. Whether because they were fellow men or for some other reason, they had openly appraised Haryeon Sol’s height, leg length, and clothing. Even from what he caught in passing, their jealousy and rivalry seemed intense. But Haryeon Sol was not as young, as sturdy, or as full of heat as they were. He did not want to be among them, nor did he want to catch their attention. Getting entangled in troublesome matters would do him no good.

They said that the best possible outcome in a Muhwa’s life was becoming empress, but that sounded even worse. Wasn’t the empress the position where people all over the world scrutinized everything—appearance, personality, background, even a single mole on the skin?

The person would have to endure the curses of forty Muhwa, attend national events, have their face plastered everywhere globally, and even bear the crown prince. It was an unbearably busy and bothersome life. Whoever among those in Munjeong Palace would become empress, Haryeon Sol already felt sorry for them.

‘Tsk, tsk, tsk…’

Even becoming an imperial concubine was like that. If even a single photograph were to leak of the Emperor walking with them tucked at his side, it would be hell beyond doubt. Fifty-one million Koreans would pick apart and judge their face, their body, and their clothes piece by piece—the thought alone was horrifying. If there was any being in twenty-first-century Korea that lacked human rights, it was the Muhwa.

Shaking his head, Haryeon Sol pulled the blanket over himself. On a sweltering summer day, lying under a thick blanket while basking in the blast of a powerful air conditioner was the greatest luxury of his twenty-nine years of life.

Haryeon Sol made up his mind. He would live on—thin, long, and well-fed—for another sixty years, then become a white-haired old man holed up in a room, and finally fall asleep peacefully in a warm bed. Just like this.

His number one goal was never to leave his room. The reason was simple: it would be troublesome if he wandered the palace and accidentally met the Emperor’s gaze. Of course, there was no chance the accomplished Emperor would take a liking to him while leaving all the illustrious Muhwa aside. The situation Haryeon Sol worried about was the opposite. He feared that His Majesty the Emperor, who neither knew nor cared whether he even existed, might fly into a rage, demanding to know why a penniless—and even blind— Muhwa was wasting tax money by living in the palace.

Feigning stupidity, illness, and incompetence, and living in seclusion seemed easy enough when he imagined it. Aside from mandatory appearances, all he had to do was not go out. With forty other Muhwa besides the Emperor, his absence would hardly be noticed. “I can’t go, I have a fever.” “I can’t go, my eyes hurt.” “I can’t go, my legs are numb.” Incurable flowering sickness would serve as an excellent excuse.

For four days, Haryeon Sol carried out his goal flawlessly. He did not take a single step outside his room. All he did all day was lie on the bed and sleep. It was an extremely precious and important time spent restoring his depleted stamina. When awake in a daze, he slowly walked around with both hands on the walls, learning the room’s layout by touch.

Even so, he felt no inconvenience. That was because a servant came three times a day with meals, and once with tea and snacks.

“Sol-nim, have some sikhye. I got it from the royal kitchen!”

The servant, who introduced herself as Chorong, was in her mid-twenties, small in build, quick in speech and movement. In the mornings, she brought him fresh, fluffy towels and a change of clothes. Throughout the day, she prepared every meal, and at necessary moments, lent her hands and feet to assist him. Then, when evening came, she tidied the bedding, latched the windows shut, and left.

To Haryeon Sol, the diligent Chorong was little different from a lifeline.

“Thank you.”

As Chorong placed a cup of sikhye into his right hand and guided the end of the straw to his left, Haryeon Sol thanked her. At the sight of him bowing his head politely, Chorong broke into a wide smile that he could not see.

“There’s nothing to thank me for! Please speak comfortably! I’m truly honored to be assigned to you, Sol-nim.”

“Chorong-ssi…”

Looking down at Haryeon Sol, whose eyes had grown watery with emotion as he sucked on the straw, Chorong’s smile deepened. She was not good at lying. Every word she had spoken to him was sincere. Becoming the attendant of the poorest man in Munjeong Palace—one with no connections and hardly any presence—suited her just fine.

By today, there were exactly forty-one servants working in Munjeong Palace, with one assigned to each Muhwa and to each room they occupied. Among them, the small, secluded palace where Haryeon Sol resided was practically a gold mine. So much so that Chorong—who had drawn the stick bearing the three characters “Haryeon Sol” in the lottery—received seven requests to trade assignments.

“Please trade with me! Name your price, I’ll transfer it right away!”

“Chorong-ah, give that one to me. How are you going to take care of a male Muhwa? What if he’s a creep?”

“Chorong-ssi… Chorong-ah… Chorongie-nim…!”

In the Joseon era, serving an unpopular Muhwa relegated to a corner room might have been hell. But dealing with Muhwa in the twenty-first-century Korean Imperial Household was a very different matter. Being assigned to a low-profile, quiet Muhwa meant a servant could enjoy an easy ride. Compared to those assigned to other Muhwa, the work was lighter while the pay was the same.

TL’s Note:
Just a note in case you are not familiar with how Korean honorifics are added to names:

-ie / -ah: usually used to show familiarity. It is used when addressing someone you are close to.
-ssi: a polite and respectful form, commonly used for someone you are not close friends with or when you want to maintain a respectful tone.
-nim: more respectful than -ssi, and indicates a higher level of respect from the speaker.

So in the last line of dialogue, when the speaker uses all three forms, she is intentionally showing different levels of closeness with Chorong in order to persuade her: a respectful approach, a friendly approach, and an approach that conveys higher respect.