PABO Ch 23

After a long silence, she cleared her throat once, “Yes. One Muhwa named Haryeon Sol did not attend.”

“I know that. I’m asking why he didn’t come.”

“After hearing the notice delivered at noon… he seems to have thought attendance wasn’t mandatory.”

“Why?”

Director Yang was just as flustered. As far as she knew, Haryeon Sol was living quite true to his name—quietly. He neither stood out nor blended in with the other Muhwa; he simply endured, like a pine tree, neither here nor there. He wasn’t being bullied. Conflict required contact, and Haryeon Sol had no dealings with anyone inside the palace. She had summoned his diligent attendant, Chorong, and heard it directly—there was no doubt about it.

How the busy Emperor had come to know of such a quiet Muhwa, let alone check on him personally, baffled her. Still, when the Emperor asked directly, she had no choice but to answer truthfully.

Carefully gauging his mood, Director Yang spoke as evenly as she could, “He is quite frail. Apparently, he hasn’t been well today.”

“Hah…”

To Yirim Beom, that was outrageous. ‘No… If that’s so, shouldn’t he have dragged himself out and shown his face to me all the more?‘ The retort surged up, but he forced it down. He wanted nothing more than to flare up, storm off, and haul Haryeon Sol out of that wretched loophole himself—but for now, he had to refrain even from asking further questions. Too many eyes were watching.

As if he were no longer interested, Yirim Beom flicked his hand. Director Yang, visibly relieved, withdrew.

Only irritation remained for him. The brightly lit hall no longer looked beautiful. Once his temper soured, the sheer number of people became unpleasant to behold, and the carefully prepared food felt thoroughly unappetizing. He moved his chopsticks because he was supposed to, but he tasted nothing and found no enjoyment in it. He merely produced the proper vocal responses for a few Muhwa who mustered the courage to speak to him. It was a tedious banquet.

The moment the meal ended, Yirim Beom sprang to his feet. He had no desire for idle chatter or dessert. Leaving behind a perfunctory remark about eating at leisure and meeting again at the theater, he bolted as if escaping, trudging toward the auditorium.

On the second floor of the small theater within Munjeong Palace was a special box reserved for two viewers only. The Muhwa who sat beside Yirim Beom as if by right was, of course, Yicha Hyeok.

“Your Majesty. What seems to displease you so?”

Yicha Hyeok asked. Yirim Beom paid little attention to the man who had followed him out. He had nothing he wished to share from his inner thoughts. He simply rested an elbow on the armrest, propped his chin on his fist, and let out a breath that sounded like a sigh.

Yicha Hyeok watched him quietly for a moment, then shrugged. As he leaned back into his seat, a hush settled over the theater. They remained silent until the Muhwas filled the audience. Soon, the lights dimmed.

Spotlights came up on the darkened stage, and the actors lined up. Five leads stood shoulder to shoulder and began introducing the names of the roles they played.

“I am a military officer in a blue cheollik^[1]. I am tall and lean. I carry a saber and wear a wide, flat belt. On my red gat^[2] are four tiger whiskers.”

“I am a court official in a ceremonial robe. The robe is made of earthen-red silk, and I wear no rank badge on my chest. I have on a round black hat.”

Assuming this was part of the direction, the audience watched in silence. With everyone present having no issues with their eyesight, the descriptions of appearance were essentially unnecessary. As the introductions dragged on to the fifth actor, a few Muhwa shifted restlessly in their seats.

Looking down over both stage and audience, Yirim Beom scowled. Yicha Hyeok, who had been watching the stage, flicked his gaze sideways to the armrest between them. Yirim Beom’s wrist lay heavily atop it, thick and solid, his index finger tapping—tap, tap, tap—restlessly against the surface.

From the beginning, Yirim Beom had never considered his birthday particularly special. He hadn’t expected much today, either. What he wanted was no more than a small pleasure. The problem—if it was a problem—was that the object of that desire was entirely Haryeon Sol. With Haryeon Sol absent, everything instantly became dull.

His modest goal had been to watch Haryeon Sol enjoy a proper meal at the banquet. He’d wanted to see how Haryeon Sol reacted upon hearing his voice at the same table. He’d wanted to play the dignified Emperor before him as Haryeon Sol mingled among the other Muhwas, offering congratulations for the Emperor’s happy day. He’d been curious how long it would take before Haryeon Sol began to suspect his identity, eager to see the look of flustered confusion on his face.

Someday, he wanted to ask gently, “Do you know who I am now?” He wanted to apologize for deceiving him, to say it had all been a prank born of fondness.

‘When?’

The long introductions finally ended, and the performance began.

‘When, exactly, will I be able to do that?’

A singer with a powerful voice filled the theater with song. Watching the stage with an indifferent expression, Yirim Beom slowly rose from his seat.

“Your Majesty.”

A heavy force caught his collar. It was Yicha Hyeok.

“Where are you going?”

Yirim Beom looked down at the hand gripping his sleeve, then shook it off. He jerked his chin toward the stage, a gesture telling him to enjoy the show, and easily slipped away. Yicha Hyeok rose as well, intending to follow—but the moment he stood in the spacious box, he hesitated and sat back down. He extended his index finger and jabbed hard into his left thigh.

It didn’t hurt. In fact, he felt nothing at all.

“…”

He lifted his head and looked toward the stage. The actors were running, singing, and dancing across the dazzling set. The backs of the Muhwas filling the audience all looked uniformly young. Staring at the crowns of their heads, Yicha Hyeok clenched his left thigh in his hand.

In the darkness, wrinkles formed across his nose and his brow twisted. His complexion darkened in an instant. Lately, his meetings with the Emperor had sharply decreased. It had been ten days since the Emperor last summoned him to sleep beside him in the bedchamber, and a full week since the Emperor had come to his residence to spend time together without incident.

‘A week…’

Counting on his fingers, he calculated how long it would take for the cursed illness lodged in his body to bring him down. Cold sweat dampened his neck.

Suddenly, he thought of the airplane. The moment he collapsed in his seat amid the stench of jet fuel, the faces of countless passengers looking down at him had burned themselves into his mind like fragments. The terror brought on by hands grabbing at him indiscriminately, the doctor shouting urgently to leave him alone and lay him flat, the strangers openly displaying their irritation as boarding was delayed while an emergency stretcher was unfolded….

He was no longer on an airplane. He would never again board one with strangers for the rest of his life. Even if he had to go abroad, it would be with the Emperor, on the Emperor’s private jet. So this suffocating feeling had nothing to do with that day.

Even knowing that rationally, his emotions said otherwise. He never wanted to show his condition to anyone ever again. He would rather wither away in this seat like a mummy than expose the unsightly sight of himself limping off before any other Muhwas.

Turning his head, he checked the secluded corridor at the back of the second floor. As expected, Director Yang Chaerim stood by with a small radio in hand. Yicha Hyeok calmly waited for her to meet his gaze. At last, she snapped her head up.

Smiling faintly, Yicha Hyeok rested his hand on the armrest. He raised his index and middle fingers and mimed walking. There was no need for further explanation. Director Yang immediately nodded and adjusted the channel on her black radio, issuing instructions. That was all Yicha Hyeok had to do. In about ten minutes, staff would be waiting with a wheelchair at the deserted rear entrance.

The musical continued in a lively mood. Bright stage lights spilled across Yicha Hyeok’s blank expression as he stared ahead. He leaned back as though he wished to avoid even the slightest exposure. When he settled fully against the backrest, the shadows embraced him.

---

Outside the small theater, everything was dark. Despite it being early evening, heavy clouds and rain had blotted out the sun, making it feel like night. As the Emperor gazed up at the pitch-black sky, his secretary hurried over. Standing to his left, the secretary opened a large umbrella wide, while the head of security, wearing a bamboo rain hat, fell in on his right. The Emperor shot them a sidelong glance, pointed at the ground, then snatched the long umbrella from the secretary’s hand and began walking on alone.

His footsteps echoed—step, step… step, step. At the doubled sound, Yirim Beom stopped again. Frowning deeply, he turned around. The head of security, who had been trying to follow him in secret, froze mid-step. Despite his bear-like bulk, the aura he gave off was pitiful, like a small animal abandoned on the roadside.

His name was Kim Woongjin. Position: Head of Security. To others, he was called Chief Kim, but when addressed by Yirim Beom—who named people as he pleased—he became “Chief Woong.” These days, he was in a state of rigid self-discipline. After hearing that His Majesty had found it deeply displeasing that he had arbitrarily turned away the forty-first muhwa in front of the palace gates, he had changed.

Already overly vigilant in his duty, he went so far as to voluntarily write a written statement and stay up through the night, engaging in unprompted self-reflection. Since then, his security detail had become even more airtight, leaving no room for lapses.

“Tsk!”

At the moment, the Emperor treated such a head of security as though handling an unruly puppy. He shot him a sharp glare and left behind a warning sound. Then, after once more pointing at the rain-soaked ground, he turned away. As he walked on, cutting through the rain, there was no longer any echo of footsteps following him.

The head of security was left standing alone in his place. A moment later, the secretary came up and stopped beside him. Toward the secretary, who had yet to grasp the situation and was about to chase after the Emperor, the head of security let out a sharp intake of breath, a soft “tssss.”

Soon, two men remained behind in the rain. The Emperor’s secretary and the head of security alternated their gazes between each other’s faces and the Emperor’s retreating figure. Before long, the Emperor’s back disappeared from view.

Illuminated by soft lantern light, the Emperor strode alone across the stone path. As he did, he kept checking his wristwatch. Inside the watch—specially made for the imperial family—was a rose of Sharon^[3] that bloomed and withered in time, and it was in the process of slowly closing its bud to match the evening hour.

There were two hours and ten minutes left until the musical ended. It was more than enough time to visit the Loophole and return.

TL’s Note:
This is Cheollik.

The one on the right, wearing a red robe closer to purple, is the court official.

Here’s the hat the court officials wear.