TBML 29

The first thing Yeon saw upon opening his eyes was a ceiling—old, no, not just old, but so decayed it looked as if it might rot away at any moment.

His mind slowly clearing, he scanned the unfamiliar space with uncertain eyes.

Everything—the voice, the smell—had been so vivid, as if he would open his eyes to find his mother seated at his bedside, a meal tray beside her.

But in truth, there was nothing at his side.

His eyes had opened easily, yet his body felt unbearably heavy.

So vivid had the sound and scent been, Yeon could only roll his eyes around the room, hoping to glimpse even a puppet, a dokkaebi, anything to give form to that dream.

The room, more rundown than even his own wretched home, was filled oddly with well-kept but clearly old books, stacked high.

As if the owner had no clue how to fold clothes, garments were crumpled and shoved messily into the corner.

This place clearly wasn’t his, and naturally, there was no trace of his mother.

Even knowing it had only been a dream, it had all felt so real.

Or rather—because it had felt too much like a dream—he had wanted desperately to believe it, and so he searched the room for traces that couldn’t possibly exist.

Everything his eyes took in was unfamiliar.

Too shabby to be heaven, yet not dire enough to be hell.

It wasn’t the realm of the dead—that much was clear.

Whatever had happened, Yeon realized he had somehow clawed his way out of the pit with his life intact.

And the moment that truth registered, it wasn’t relief at being alive that rose up first—but one thought:

Mother.

How many days have passed like this? Is she all right? Where is this place? I need to get home.

Now that his thoughts were flowing again, they came in a jumbled rush, like a dam breaking.

All the thinking that had stopped while he was unconscious now surged back at once.

His dark eyes trembled with confusion, overwhelmed by the flood of questions.

The moment he knew he had survived, it was his mother’s safety that came to mind—not the tiger, not his failure, not his pain.

Even though he had returned empty-handed, he had to go back.

He had to return home, where his mother would be waiting.

Who had been the one to give up the moment he realized he couldn’t climb out of the pit?

That person seemed like a stranger now, as Yeon summoned every ounce of will to move his motionless body.

He started with his fingers.

They were stiff, as if frozen from disuse.

With all his might, he forced them to twitch, just once—and finally, the rest of his body began to stir.

Like a long-dead flame catching spark once more, the feeling returned—his fingers moved, and he could feel the dusty, gritty floor beneath him.

And then—pain.

His left arm, numb until now, flared with a sharp throb the moment he tried to move.

Nothing about his condition had changed; only the place where he lay had shifted—from a pit in the forest to a stranger’s floor.

There was no way he had climbed out by himself, not like this.

Someone must have helped him.

But his injured left arm was still untreated, and there was no sign that anyone had tended to him.

Perhaps he hadn’t been unconscious for very long.

Clinging to that small hope, Yeon bit down hard—so hard his teeth clicked audibly, as if something might shatter.

Gone was the man who had once surrendered all will to live.

Now there was only a son who had to return home—to the place where his mother was.

Driven by that one thought, Yeon forced his battered body upright.

It took a great effort, with many groans, to rise without using his left arm, but at last he stood on two feet.

And just as he prepared to take a step—

The door, neither fully closed nor truly open, creaked aside, and through the gap thrust a mass of jet-black hair.

The man who stepped through had to bend low to clear the doorframe, he was so tall.

Even straightening up took him a while.

His clothes—a jade-colored dopo, sleeves and hem much too short—were mismatched in size, but something about the style felt oddly familiar.

As the enormous man slowly stood upright, Yeon slowly raised his gaze, looking up at the figure who now completely blocked the doorway.

The man’s size was such that not a sliver of light slipped past him—he filled the frame entirely.

His long hair, dark as polished ebony, was left untied, cascading past his shoulders like the branches of a willow.

Smooth and lustrous, it glinted like flowing water as it slid down over his face, revealing it bit by bit.

His features were flawless, as if carved from the finest white porcelain.

His eyes were piercing, the kind that made one shrink back instinctively upon meeting them.

Bold brows arched above them, and beneath a high, straight nose were lips firmly pressed together in a shape of quiet resolve.

He was the kind of beauty that could leave people breathless.

But half-lost in a daze, Yeon took none of this in.

All he registered was that this man didn’t seem like someone from his world.

Even without recognizing the luxurious fabric of the man’s robe or the noble air in his features, Yeon instinctively bowed—no, he threw himself face-down onto the floor.

He meant to offer a proper bow—after all, by the look of it, this man had saved his life.

But the moment he bent forward, pain lanced through his shoulder and arm, and his balance gave out.

He crumpled straight down with a dull thud and groaned, “Ugh…”

The man, unfazed, picked him up with one hand—easily, effortlessly.

Like a mother dog lifting her pup by the scruff of its neck, he hoisted Yeon from the floor.

Dangling in midair, Yeon kicked his legs in surprise and stared, wide-eyed, at the man.

No matter how light and scrawny Yeon might be, he was still a grown man.
To lift another man like that with one hand—just how strong was this person?

Startled, Yeon stared at the man, and as their eyes met, a strange sense of familiarity washed over him.
He had seen that face before, somewhere.

Disheveled, ink-black hair. Sloppy clothing. That jade-colored dopo.
And just barely visible beneath the robe, a dark blue tassel swaying from a hopae.

Kim Hyeon-hak.

That uncanny scholar who had vanished in the rain.
As soon as Yeon recognized him, he let out a breathy “Oh…!”—but it quickly turned to a puzzled “Oh…?”

Was Kim Hyeon-hak always this tall? This mature?
In Yeon’s memory, Hyeon-hak had been large-framed, sure—but with the awkwardness of youth still clinging to him, a touch unripe.
The man before him now was fully grown—every inch a man.

The thought nagged at him, left him a little confused, but it wasn’t the important part.
The man—Hyeon-hak—set Yeon lightly down and then, without a word, held something out to him.

The sudden gesture made Yeon flinch on instinct, but when he saw it was a gourd filled with water, he snatched it up and drank greedily.

The moment he laid eyes on the water, a searing thirst ignited in his throat.
Courtesy, shame, even thoughts of his mother—none of it mattered.
All that remained was the primal instinct to drink.

He guzzled the water down with abandon, so hastily that he choked, coughing and sputtering in a pitiful mess.
After several harsh coughs and wheezing breaths, Yeon rasped out, just as he had on that rain-soaked day, “Thank you, My Lord.”

“……”

He handed back the now-empty gourd and instinctively bowed again.
But the moment he moved, pain surged through his body once more—sharp, spinning pain—and he nearly collapsed to the floor.

Thankfully, Hyeon-hak caught him by the scruff just in time, keeping his face from smashing into the ground.

“I will never forget this kindness. Thank you… Thank you, My Lord.”

Now that it was clear—without a doubt—that the man before him had pulled him out of the pit and brought him to this house, Yeon bowed again and again, words tumbling from his mouth.

This was a grace deserving of the deepest of bows, but the moment was not right.
Still held by the back of his collar, Yeon hurried to explain.

“I have a mother to care for. I must return to her right away. But I will come back to repay you, no matter what. Truly… thank you, My Lord.”

He had to offer his thanks, and he also had to leave—urgently.
There were questions he wanted to ask, but those would have to wait.

He had seen the man’s identification tag, so he already knew his name.
Still, he asked, carefully, hoping to formally learn the name of his savior.

“May I ask my benefactor’s name…? Once I see that my mother is safe, I will return without fail, and somehow—somehow—repay this life-saving grace.”

“……”

“My Lord?”

But Hyeon-hak said nothing.
Even during their last encounter, he had barely spoken. Yeon had thought him mad—but at the end, hadn’t he said Be careful?

He knew Hyeon-hak could speak.
So Yeon guessed perhaps it was beneath such a noble person to tell someone lowly like him his name.
He nodded to himself and glanced up, watching for any reaction.

But Hyeon-hak simply stared at him, silent and still.

With that silence stretching on, anxiety welled up in Yeon’s chest.
Instead of waiting to hear the man’s name, he offered his own.

“My name is Yeon. I apologize that I cannot offer proper thanks before leaving in such haste. But I will return. I swear it.”

Whether he’d be able to return—well, he had to get to the village first to find out.
All he knew for certain was that he had to get out of this house and back to his mother, now.

Words poured from his mouth in a rush—the most he had ever spoken in his life, and at the fastest pace, too.

He didn’t even know where he was, how much time had passed, or whether he could properly walk yet.
But there was no time to confirm all that, one by one.
A thoughtless son who owed everything to his mother had to get back. Immediately.

But Hyeon-hak still held his scruff, refusing to let go.

Suddenly, unease crept in.

What if he was like Seo Do-ryeon, demanding payment for his rescue in cruel and unjust ways?
Not that he wouldn’t do anything for his benefactor, but he was in a hurry.
He just wanted the man to say something—anything—and let him go.

But Hyeon-hak only stared.

Yeon clenched his jaw, nerves fraying, teeth clicking from tension.

“Um… My Lord?”

When Yeon, eyes darting anxiously, called out again, Hyeon-hak finally moved—he hoisted Yeon up and began walking.

It felt… strange. To be carried like this by another man.

Still dangling in his grasp, Yeon’s eyes widened at the sight that greeted him beyond the doorway.
The inside of the house had been run-down, sure—but the outside was wild. Overgrown. A tangle of thick, untamed nature.

It was hard to believe anyone lived in such a place.

Hyeon-hak didn’t respond to Yeon’s call.
He simply walked forward, striding across the yard choked with weeds.

Each step sent Yeon’s body bobbing in the air, and the motion made pain spike through his injured left arm.

“Hhhgh…”