TCBW C10

Chapter 10

Even if he could not guess why Gye‑geum was intent on keeping this truth from young Suhoe, Unhyo felt it instinctively.

If Suhoe became entangled with that man, he was certain, without a shred of doubt, that the boy’s life would become irreversibly wretched.

“What… what kind of man walks around so casually with something that horrifying — knotted, tangled resentments — clinging to his back?”

The words slipped from Unhyo before he could hold them back.

“Hm? Unhyo‑nim, what did you just say…?”

“…Nothing, young master. Only… that I pray the ceremony finishes without incident.”

Schooling his expression again, Unhyo resumed arranging Suhoe’s hair. And in the end, because of his manner, Suhoe could not muster the will to seek Dowoon out again before the ceremony began.

“Pardon? You’re saying… you want me to wear these clothes?”

For a moment, Hae‑eon thought his ears had betrayed him.

It was beyond awkward — he nearly let out a disbelieving laugh and had to force it back. What in the world was this situation?

After over an hour of wandering lost in mist, enduring bizarre and unsettling events, they had finally reached this mountain shrine — only for him to now be told to put on wedding robes.

Still in shock, Hae‑eon cast a desperate, pleading glance toward his employer, Dowoon, who stood at a distance by the window, gaze fixed steadily on the scene outside.

But Dowoon did not so much as glance his way, showing no interest whatsoever in his silent cries for help.

At that moment, one of the older servants attending him spoke in an utterly businesslike tone.

“Under normal circumstances, the young master himself would wear them, but due to… certain circumstances, we must request this of you instead, Hae‑eon‑nim.”

Certain circumstances? Due to… what circumstances?

Repeating her words inwardly, Hae‑eon eyed the wedding attire laid out before him — a men’s hanbok that had clearly seen decades of wear. The embroidery was frayed in many places, and the once‑bright gold leaf detailing had blackened with age.

So this is just because the boss doesn’t want to wear something this musty.

Swallowing dryly, he tried one more time:

“This isn’t just a matter of wearing these robes — it sounds as if you’re telling me to conduct the ceremony in them. Are you sure that’s all right?”

The servant nodded without the slightest change in expression.

“The young master’s spirit is far too strong, in any case. What truly matters lies elsewhere.”

Even after that, Hae‑eon continued glancing at her with suspicion, wondering whether it could really cause no problem to go through with this. But in this bizarre, overbearing atmosphere, he quickly realized everything here would move according to Dowoon’s will.

With a long, resigned sigh, he accepted the futility of protest, silently shrugging out of his fine overcoat and handing it to the servant.

Gye‑geum approached without a sound, stopping only at close proximity — yet Dowoon did not turn to face her.

His gaze remained fixed instead on the servants bustling about in the broad courtyard, setting a wedding table whose fare looked, to his eyes, paltry and makeshift.

“Forgive my intrusion, young master.”

Even as Gye‑geum spoke softly to make her presence known, Dowoon’s eyes lingered unblinking on the offerings.

“Chairman Lee has sent word of an urgent matter, and says he will regrettably be unable to attend the ceremony today. I had briefly stepped away to receive this message — may you be gracious in understanding the delay.”

She bowed low in formal apology, but still he gave no glance or reply.

From the start, he had never expected his father to deign to appear at such a perfunctory display of a wedding; instead of answering, he kept his attention on the bleak midwinter landscape.

After studying his cool, indifferent manner for a moment, Gye‑geum spoke in a lower tone:

“…It seems something troubles you.”

Only then did Dowoon open his mouth.

“From inside, this space feels far more expansive than it appeared from outside. Is that my imagination, or is it truly so?”

“It is exactly as you perceive, young master. Most who come here for the first time are too preoccupied with the strange events of the climb to notice such a subtle distortion in space. But you… as expected, you are perceptive.”

Dowoon’s eyes narrowed faintly at the words as expected.

“When your father first came here, he too noticed it at once. Like you, he possessed sharp discernment — and like you, he did not lose his composure even before the most unthinkable phenomena.”

“…”

“Records say your ancestor, the founder, was equally unshaken by the uncanny… It makes me think, at times, that perhaps all things are connected through the generations.”

To Dowoon, her meandering words were anything but welcome — they spoke of destiny’s misfortunes being handed down as surely as any inheritance.

“Why is it only this mountain — no, only this shrine — from which such strange things emerge?”

“That is because the heavenly dragon dwelt on Mount Unbang for a very long time. His mere presence imbued the mountain with a singular sanctity, and the divine energy that seeped into the shrine’s foundation condensed most strongly here.

The nearer you came to the shrine, the more you began to see and sense what is normally beyond perception. The way the sense of space itself seems warped so that the inside feels larger than the outside, and all the other peculiarities you experienced — they are all due to the same cause.”

To Dowoon, the explanation sounded uncomfortably like an assertion that the curse, the dragon, and the Yeouiju were natural, unquestionable facts.

Before long, calls came that everything was ready. Servants moved briskly in and out to make their final checks.

With Gye‑geum’s quiet guidance, Dowoon stepped out into the courtyard.

The cold air bit sharply against his skin.

The rear yard of the shrine was fairly broad, yet carried a barren air.

At its center lay a straw mat, yellowed with age; behind it stood a worn folding screen painted with faded scenes, and in front, a small, low ceremonial table.

To Dowoon’s critical eye, nothing about the setting could be called refined — the food, the red cloths, even the offerings, though laid out with intent, were shabby. The fruit had long since lost any freshness, some blackened with rot; to set such things on a wedding table was almost laughable.

Just then, like a man being led to sacrifice, Hae‑eon appeared, pale‑faced and dressed in violet danryeong², supported by servants.

The nervous flutter of his fingers, hidden partly behind his body, betrayed his state plainly. Practically dragged into position as groom, he cast about with his eyes.

Spotting Dowoon’s tall figure among the crowd of shorter attendants, he fixed his gaze on him at once — a silent, desperate plea for rescue.

Please, sir — save me…

But even as the silent cry radiated from him, Dowoon feigned not to see it, turning his gaze instead toward the still‑empty bride’s seat.

Ding‑ling…

At that moment, from somewhere in the air, came the clear, silvery sound of a bell.

Its cool, uncanny timbre seemed to belong more to the unreal than to the mundane. Already on edge, Hae‑eon flinched hard in surprise.

Dowoon saw it immediately — the way fear now had him in its grip.

“Do not move.”

The low murmur came from a servant crouched in the shadows behind him.

Hae‑eon straightened again at once, but the line of his jaw still trembled beneath the angle of his head — an expression steeped in confusion and dread at this absurd situation.

“Wh‑what is that sound?”

“…You needn’t concern yourself.”

As the mysterious chime rang again, Dowoon’s brows drew together.

Sharpening his eyes, he let them sweep every corner of the courtyard, seeking the source of the sound he had not been told to expect.

There was only the taut awareness of something present — nothing visible at all.

Gye‑geum watched him searching for a moment before she extended her finger toward the very center of the empty air beside Hae‑eon.

“Young master, if you are looking for the source of the bell, it is there — in the center.”

His head snapped in the direction she indicated.

But his eyes saw only emptiness, the faint stir of dust in the cold winter wind.

No one, nothing — certainly no bell.

The only object in view was the old folding screen, with its faint, worn painting of children playing with a ball.

As he was about to examine it more closely, Gye‑geum’s voice spoke again at his side.

notes:

1. Danryeong (단령) – A traditional Korean formal robe for men, historically worn as official or ceremonial dress.