PABO Ch 21

“He was coughing and burning with fever? When did that happen? He’s not like that every night, right…?”

All at once, the image of Haryeon Sol in Yirim Beom’s mind changed. Looking utterly wretched and pitiable, he was crouched in a mouse-sized side room, coughing weakly. With a damp cloth pressed to his feverish head, he might spend the entire night tossing in pain, unable to sleep….

His heart grew heavy, and Yirim Beom scowled deeply. His own bedchamber was vast and comfortable. The ondol floor was warmly heated, the bedding soft as clouds. Above all, the bed itself was enormous. It would be perfect to lay Haryeon Sol down beside him and sleep while holding his hand. Even just holding hands would be nice.

‘This is driving me insane.’

In the end, worry and anxiety stole his sleep. Eyes closed, his thoughts wandered until he finally managed to cling to one good thing. Come to think of it, his birthday was approaching.

It would be his first birthday since ascending the throne, so a grand celebration would be held within Munjeong Palace. As a Muhwa, Haryeon Sol would of course attend. If his capable attendant dressed him in something pretty, how adorable would he look? He wouldn’t be able to seat him beside himself, nor show his face openly, but simply sharing the same space would likely make Haryeon Sol feel lighter in body. He loved little crow-tits and adored snacks. A stroll under the sun, a delicious meal to fill his stomach, would make him wag his tail like a puppy. Yirim Beom wanted to see that very much. Even if all he could do was steal glances in passing, he wanted to see him.

‘Would he recognize my voice right away?’

The thought suddenly occurred to him—a curiosity wrapped half in worry, half in anticipation. “Nachalsa” was said to be a distant relative of the Emperor, so even if Haryeon Sol suspected the voices were the same, there would be an easy excuse. Blood relatives often had similar voices; that would do.

Once the thought reached that point, anticipation overcame worry. He wondered what expression Haryeon Sol would make in the moment he realized that the Nachalsa who frequented the loophole was Emperor Yirim Beom himself. The curiosity was intense, thrilling enough to make his heart race.

‘I should change the performance from a play to a musical. Even if he can’t enjoy watching it, at least he’ll be able to hear the songs.’

The young Emperor felt an unfamiliar delight. He had never once looked forward to his birthday as a child, yet now the day filled him with eager anticipation.

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This summer’s temperatures were 0.5 degrees higher than average. The monsoon rains that had poured down like a storm fizzled out quickly, replaced instead by frequent light showers. During the day, the heat and humidity were so severe that outdoor activity restrictions were issued; at night, the tropical heat lingered relentlessly. Heat-related illnesses increased with the heat waves, yet the number of deaths declined compared to the previous year. In truth, it was thanks to Yirim Beom.

On the day of his enthronement, a sudden downpour had also fallen. Images of the Emperor standing in the rain were broadcast live and spread across the internet in countless videos and photos. One photograph in particular—of him brushing away a raindrop caught at the tip of the jade beads on his ceremonial crown with his index finger—was featured in an overseas magazine and earned the title of “the most expensive photo sold this year.” Public attention poured onto Yirim Beom alongside talk of the capricious summer weather, prompting the activation of disaster-safety countermeasures to prepare for the heavy rains and heat.

Listening to his secretary proudly recount this series of events with one ear while letting it pass out the other, Yirim Beom set his tablet down with a dull tap. For a few seconds, the headline “The Yirim Beom Effect” filled the screen in large letters before it faded into a black mirror.

“They’re calling you an Emperor who brings good fortune. Public opinion is extremely positive. Your approval ratings are also much higher than the previous Emperor’s.”

“What have I done, exactly?”

The secretary’s voice was bright, but Yirim Beom’s response was flat. He didn’t smile at the good news at all. The expression on his sculpted face was not merely neutral, but almost cold.

This kind of luck—something stumbled upon by chance—didn’t even qualify as a special blessing in his life. He had always been an extraordinarily fortunate man.

If one were to judge, his childhood had been marked by misfortune. His mother, once the Empress Consort, was someone with a heart too tender, easily wounded, and his father—who possessed a painfully earnest, single-minded devotion—loved a Muhwa other than her.

As a child, Yirim Beom felt as though his soul was wedged perfectly between them. He believed that survival required remaining unnoticed. Between a cold father and a mother whose nerves had frayed, he knelt like a shadow, playing a suffocating game of hide-and-seek, unable to move a finger. The seekers were his parents. His only goal was to avoid being discovered as the living remnant of their failed love. If he caught their attention the wrong way, he would be blamed as the source of all misfortune—accused, beaten, scolded, and eventually sent far away, to Monk Gapi…

In those days, he was unhappy.

But everything changed in the early autumn of his thirteenth year. Around that time, Yirim Beom thought for the first time about the existence of a god. He wasn’t a man of deep religious faith, but he believed that a god existed in some form. Perhaps that god had finally noticed him floundering in misfortune and said, “Why is this child like this? This won’t do!”—and returned all the luck that had been delayed and misplaced, all at once.

It was the only way to make sense of how suddenly his life began to sail smoothly. Almost overnight, he began to be recognized by family and others alike. Attention, affection, and respect came easily. After leaving the hellish palace behind to study abroad, life became even easier. Studying in the United States, traveling across Europe, he never once heard the word “no.” Revealing his status as a prince only multiplied the goodwill he received, and even concealing it made little difference.

With that, he came to fear nothing. He already knew what true hell looked like, how real terror seeped into the skin. The wounds of childhood hardened him. He never clung emotionally or shrank back. Before anyone, he remained indifferent and cynical.

He grew up without knowing how to enjoy achievement. Even while settling comfortably into foreign lands and receiving praise and affection, he felt little joy. It was as though he didn’t know how, or how much, one was supposed to be happy.

His life traced a splendid upward arc. He learned everything quickly and made full use of both his sharp mind and exceptional athletic ability. Opportunities to test his skills appeared at just the right times, and instead of mistakes, he scored lucky hits. Recognition followed again and again.

Anyone who met Yirim Beom once would never forget him. With only slight exaggeration, everyone loved him. With his striking features, unforgettable physique, and effortless way of drawing admiration and goodwill, he lived as though flying through the sky. Even ascending the throne felt easy.

After his coronation, good fortune continued to flow. Diplomatically, the times were stable, and Yirim Beom himself was a splendid, healthy mascot whose very existence people admired. Domestic and international media alike treated him as something special. Everyone consumed the young, sound, capable, and beautiful Emperor as though he were chocolate.

‘So what? I can’t even control the weather.’

Standing before a window heavy with the scent of rain, Yirim Beom remained unimpressed. The view of Munjeong Palace beyond the glass was soaked and damp. The dancheong looked even greener with moisture, and the hydrangeas that had grown tall enough to brush the window frames were beautiful. Their once pale petals had deepened into lush reds.

All living things seemed to unleash their final surge of vitality just before withering, and plants did so most of all. After the rain passed, the last brilliant struggle of flowers, soon to fade, was striking.

Yirim Beom stared intently at the hydrangeas holding beads of water. Rain pooled on each small leaf, making the blossoms themselves look like round drops of water.

‘If hyung saw this, would he think it’s pretty?’

When he tapped one lightly with his fingertip, the droplets merged and slid down in a single line. Thinking of the bleak little courtyard of the loophole and its owner, Yirim Beom smiled faintly.

Watching him, the secretary quietly stepped aside. A royal photographer quickly captured the moment on camera. Photos posted on the official royal website against the many backdrops of Munjeong Palace consistently drew immense public interest. The previous Emperor had been considered warm and likable, but never inspired this level of affection among younger generations. The photos taken month by month would later be narrowed down to twelve at the end of the year to produce a calendar for the year after next.

When that new calendar was completed, August 29—today’s date—would be marked as the Emperor’s birthday. These days, the term Mansuseongjeol is no longer commonly used, but given the attention surrounding the seventh emperor, it seemed likely the old name would make a comeback nonetheless.