Chapter 20

Letting out a breath of relief, Eunmyeong quietly released a stream of energy. Even though the turbulent wave had subsided, it was best to give the child a little more guiding. He could feel the little one rubbing his cheek against him, kicking his legs, utterly frantic in his desire to feel more of the flow.

This is what’s normal, he thought.

This kind of desperate clinging was normal—ought to be normal. Eunmyeong glanced over at Mujin. His face remained as unreadable as a mask, impassive to the point of absurdity.

What is wrong with that guy? Forget clinging—he acts like he’ll combust the moment a hand brushes him.

Had this been the modern age, Mujin would likely have been shipped off to a research institute. Espers rejecting their guide’s touch was almost unheard of unless their compatibility rating was abysmally low.

Someone supported Eunmyeong by the arm, helping him stand. Looking to the side, he saw Namya brushing the dust off him.

“Shouldn’t the child be laid down?”

“Ah.”

Only then did clarity return. He could not continue sitting in the training yard cradling the boy. As he and Namya returned to the veranda, Jeongho—quick to read the room—ran over and cleared the herbs to one side.

Trailing behind them, timid and uneasy, was Yujo.

The problem began once they reached the veranda.

“Yuseong, lie down at once.”

“Huu—hic, no!”

The child’s grip around Eunmyeong’s neck tightened, drawing a wince from him. The boy clung as though he would die the moment they were separated.

Whether it was guiding or simply the child, he felt utterly drained. When Eunmyeong pried at the boy’s arms, the child burst into even louder sobs.

“Huuuwaaah…!”

“That is my son, you little brat!”

Namya smacked the child on the back, then deftly slipped a hand beneath the boy’s arm.

“Aaah!”

Even the strongest warriors had no defense against tickling. With a screech, the boy detached himself. Namya neatly laid him flat on the floor.

Even Yujo, who had been glaring daggers at Eunmyeong, did not object once Namya intervened. The veranda became crowded with murmuring martial artists. As Namya checked the boy’s pulse, he shot them all a murderous glare.

“What spectacle do you think you’re gawking at! Off with you—unless you want me to give you all a personal demonstration?”

The moment Namya spoke, everyone recoiled and scurried back toward the training yard. No elder was easy to deal with, but Namya was difficult in an entirely different sense—he knew herbs too well, switching between poison and medicine mid-duel, leaving his opponent half-dead before dragging the match on. Many had begged to be poisoned only rather than face both.

Once even Yujo had slunk away, Namya clicked his tongue.

“Should’ve done this from the start.”

Now only Eunmyeong, Namya, Yuseong, and Mujin remained.

Relieved, Eunmyeong glanced toward Namya as he took the boy’s pulse—then turned his head slightly.

Why is he still here?

Mujin stood silent and motionless, lips pressed tight. His presence cast a shadow like a solitary tree behind them.

The child’s life had been saved, yet Mujin’s aura seemed even darker than before. His head tilted ever so slightly.

“You.”

A deep shadow crossed his expression.

“Could you… do that for someone other than me?”

“…Sir? Do what?”

“That.”

He slowly approached. His shadow stretched long like black training robes.

Bending down to match Eunmyeong’s seated height, Mujin seized the hand resting on Eunmyeong’s knee—engulfing it completely.

“This.”

A cold chill seeped from his palm into Eunmyeong’s.

“You mean to say… this wasn’t something only I could receive?”

His voice was low enough that Namya could not hear. Then, just as Eunmyeong had guided him the night before, Mujin slipped his fingers between Eunmyeong’s—interlacing them.

A deep baritone vibrated against his ears, making Eunmyeong’s heart thud violently. It felt—strangely—as though the flow of energy was now running in reverse, seeping from Mujin into him, unsettling and heady.

“Answer.”

Though they had done nothing but hold hands, heat flared to Eunmyeong’s cheeks. Mujin’s grip tightened insistently, making it hard even to breathe. All he had to do was say no, yet his lips refused to part.

“Answer me, Tang Eunmyeong.”

His voice deepened, chilled.

The air shifted instantly—heavy and suffocating. Eunmyeong felt crushed beneath the weight of it, unable to move. Even averting his gaze or drawing breath felt like something that required Mujin’s permission.

“I asked if it was possible… with others as well.”

His low voice reverberated. Eunmyeong swallowed hard; his throat felt tight, words stuck.

Mujin’s stare pinned him inescapably in place. It was the look of a man who would not release him until he heard the answer he wanted. Finally, Eunmyeong forced his lips apart.

“It’s… not something that works only with you, sir.”

“You mean you can do it for them as well?”

“A skilled physician does not choose his patients.”

Lower-grade guides matched only with compatible espers, but he was not A-rank—he was S-rank. It would be harder to find someone he couldn’t guide.

Mujin’s brow arched sharply, displeasure carving his features.

“And must you touch them to do it?”

“…”

“Like this?”

He pressed their fingers together more tightly.

“Deeply?”

His thick fingers pushed in further, making Eunmyeong’s own hand feel constricted. Mujin pinned his wriggling fingers firmly beneath his own.

How is his bone structure even real…?

Staring down at their joined hands, Eunmyeong noted how Mujin’s fingers were not merely thick—they were solid, the bones themselves substantial. With their hands interlaced, it felt almost like being cuffed—impossible to escape.

He truly was of Cheongu’s bloodline; from neck to shoulders to back to flank, everything about him was built differently. Powerful, imposing.

As Eunmyeong found himself admiring the structure of him, Mujin spoke again.

“Answer. I asked if touching is required.”

“If I say yes, you look like you’ll kill me…”

Eunmyeong muttered sideways.

“Aren’t you going to chop off my hand? You remember I’m a physician who uses needles, yes?”

“Stop spouting nonsense.”

“I mean, I’m scared—ugh!”

As if to silence his rambling, Mujin yanked his hand. Eunmyeong gasped softly and raised his free hand.

“All right! All right!”

Only then did Mujin loosen his hold.

Hand tingling, Eunmyeong answered honestly:

“At the very least, I need to touch them. That’s the only way to transmit my energy.”

“…What?”

He echoed the words as though in shock.

“Touching is necessary?”

Mujin looked… conflicted. Irritated, yes, but more than that—lost. Just as Yuseong had clung as though he would die without him, Mujin now clutched Eunmyeong’s hand tightly.

“Then… it doesn’t have to be the hand?”

“If you’re as unstable as you are, your hand alone won’t do. At the very least, I need to be beside you.”

“…There is no other method?”

“If there were, I would’ve learned it first.”

It had never existed even in the modern age—certainly not here.

“Ha… ridiculous.”

Mujin muttered through clenched teeth, glaring down at their joined hands. The idea that someone else could feel the same overwhelming rush he had felt was intolerable.

A martial artist with internal energy would be undone after experiencing even a fraction of that flow—wanting more, wanting to touch, wanting to claim, wanting to hide the guide away in a cave where only they could reach him. Knowing others might feel that same dark hunger made fury boil in his veins.

His jaw tightened. He muttered curses fit only for men of the demonic sect.

It was never mine to begin with.

Eunmyeong wasn’t his—never had been. He was merely a child from a branch family. So why did it feel like something was being stolen from him? Mujin couldn’t understand it—only that the unnameable mix of fury and frustration kept surging up.

If he couldn’t find a reason, he would simply make one. All of that emotion poured directly onto Eunmyeong.

“To you… none of this feels strange?”

“Sir?”

“Holding hands like this, lying beside me last night—none of that felt strange to you?”

His expression twisted, waiting for the answer. He needed to know whether he alone felt the strangeness of holding him, of embracing him.

It was a curious question—and unfortunately, Eunmyeong was the wrong person to sense such subtleties.

“It’s treatment. It’s not as though we’re courting.”

His tone was clean, clinical. His face held no trace of emotion—only the duty of a professional physician.

“I’m saving lives. What’s there to hesitate about? It’s not as if touching someone makes your hand wear down.”

“…”

“So, sir, you should stop worrying about—”

Before he could finish, Mujin tore his hand away, turning sharply. Without a word, he strode back toward the training yard.

 

AGHGHHGHGHG JELLY HES JEALOUS