TCBW C12

Chapter 12

Watching Suhoe from a distance, Dowoon found himself thinking something similar.

Compared to before, the boy’s appearance was neat and perfectly in order; the faintly lowered ends of his eyes framed a fringe of long, delicate lashes, and his lips — pressed together as though wounded — lent his face an air that was somehow both lonely and wistful.

It was, perhaps, because of that expression that curiosity stirred within him.

“Does that boy… also have some ability to see or hear things others cannot?”

“No. That boy — Suhoe — possesses no such supernatural faculty.”

As she answered, Gye‑geum kept her eyes fixed past Dowoon’s shoulder, upon the writhing, dark‑crimson aura of restless spirits clinging there, her gaze utterly calm — without pity, without fear, only a depthless detachment.

“That child was simply raised to be an aegbaji. Born and raised solely for you, young master.”

Dowoon mulled over her words for a long moment, until at last the meaning behind them — the same implication that had irked him earlier when she spoke of him being “raised” or “brought up” — became clear.

He finally understood what his father’s earlier remark, ‘I was waiting for the right time,’ had truly meant when delivered with such feigned generosity, as though hinting at some grand plan.

“Just how long has this been in preparation?”

“That, you must ask Chairman Lee himself. I can tell you nothing.”

“Can’t tell — or won’t. My father does keep a loyal dog, it seems.”

“…”

Whether like a ripened fruit left hanging until it dropped of its own accord, or like livestock watched coldly until the most profitable moment to be slaughtered, Chairman Lee and this Gye‑geum woman had waited, deliberately, calculatingly, until the aegbaji they were raising had matured enough to fully serve his role as sacrificial medium.

The sheer foulness of that calculated cruelty made something in Dowoon’s gut twist.

It was the second time.

The second time he’d discovered that, without even knowing it himself, he had already been a piece inside Chairman Lee’s design.

Loosening his necktie as though to ease the pressure constricting his throat, Dowoon asked flatly,

“Then… if my curse had manifested before the aegbaji was ready… what would you have done?”

At that, Gye‑geum’s fathomless gaze met his.

“…The curse has certain conditions for activation, young master.”

“Conditions?”

“Yes. I cannot tell you those in detail either, but what is certain is that until now, you have never been in a situation where the curse could directly manifest.”

It was absurd — not only to be told nothing about a curse with his own life hanging on it, but to realize just how far Lee and Gye‑geum meant to go in deceiving and controlling him.

His jaw tightened.

Reading the tension in his face, Gye‑geum continued in a voice that was as polite as it was unyielding:

“Chairman Lee gave his word that he would explain everything himself when the time was right. So I am not in a position to defy him by revealing the inner details to you, young master. I ask… your forbearance.”

“…”

Dowoon stayed silent. The knowledge that, once again, his father held every key — to the curse, to the aegbaji, to this charade of a wedding — stirred a deep, seething irritation.

That he was, for all appearances, nothing more than an actor bound to move according to some preordained script upon the strange stage of this shrine, opposite that seemingly innocent boy, was something he despised to the point of loathing.

But he had no intention of submitting quietly.

When he finally spoke, his voice was lower and colder than before:

“Very well. Then I’ll hear it from my father.”

She appeared as unwilling as ever to open her mouth further, trained as any well‑kept hound, so Dowoon stepped back for the time being.

The wedding, bound with so many watchful gazes and conflicting thoughts, came to an end.

Before the sun had fully dipped beyond the western ridge and the deepening blue of twilight settled heavy over all, Gye‑geum urged Dowoon and Hae‑eon to depart for the foot of the mountain, saying that late‑night Mount Unbang was all the more dangerous for humans.

When word came that they were gone, Suhoe also hurried back to his room to change.

Once he had stripped away the aged, heavy silk garments that had constricted him all through the ceremony, his breath at last came easier.

“Haa…”

Rubbing at his shoulders with both hands, sighing in relief, he pulled on the worn white T‑shirt and faded jeans he usually wore, and over them a thick padded coat.

Then, standing before the mirror, he wiped away the alien rouge and powder from his face, revealing again the youthful, plain features he knew.

“The hair… It would be best to leave it as it is.”

He had been about to unbind his hair, neatly tied up with a ribbon, when the voice stopped him.

Turning, he saw that Unhyo had entered without his noticing, and was folding the wedding robes he had tossed aside.

His face was marked with deep concern.

“You haven’t forgotten… that it isn’t over yet, have you?”

The voice was low, heavy. At the words, Suhoe swallowed reflexively.

“Of course not.”

Indeed, the day was not yet done — the most important, and most dreaded, part of this strange wedding still remained: the first night, the consummation.

When Suhoe nodded, showing he remembered, Unhyo only sighed heavily, saying no more.

An oppressive silence filled the room.

Laying the folded garments aside, Unhyo came to him and placed a hand on his narrow shoulder, his eyes more serious than ever.

“Young master, you will be leaving this place now — going somewhere far beyond where I can watch over you.”

The faint tremor in his voice was no mistake of Suhoe’s imagination.

“Please… be cautious in your conduct. Keep yourself always in good health. And… stay away from that man as much as you can. I don’t think… he is an ordinary person.”

Then Unhyo looked straight into his eyes, speaking with force:

“And, young master — your dreams. The ones you always have, and the ones you sometimes have.”

In his gaze was a deep worry for Suhoe’s safety.

“You know this — they are a secret for you and me alone.”

Suhoe dipped his head quietly at the heartfelt concern. For it was not an idle worry.

He had always dreamt the same dream. And sometimes, those dreams touched reality in ways too uncanny — showing fragments of the future. It was this that always made Unhyo fear for him.

“Yes, Unhyo‑nim. I… will remember that well.”

Only after that firm answer did Unhyo’s expression ease, though the worry in his eyes did not leave.

Unable to keep holding his gaze, Suhoe picked up the small bundle of belongings he had prepared and stepped out into the courtyard.

Walking toward the gate under the thickened twilight, he saw the faces of several servants who had come to see him off.

Whether by Gye‑geum’s instruction or not, those who had always looked on him with disfavor were nowhere to be seen. Only those who had been kind to him were present.

It was a comfort; in this last moment of departure, he had no strength to endure cold or scornful looks.

“Be careful on the road at night — it’s dark.”

“Please take care of yourself, young master.”

The old retainers who still addressed him as “young master” had eyes rimmed with red.

After a few brief farewells with the handful who remained for him, he came at last before Unhyo.

They stood silent for a moment, simply looking at one another, until Unhyo opened his arms and, understanding, Suhoe stepped in to embrace him.

It was slightly awkward, but warm — the embrace of one who had been both lifelong guardian and only family.

And within it, Suhoe could feel a slight tremor in those great, solid shoulders.

Unhyo was holding back tears.

Realizing this, Suhoe’s own nose stung, his throat tightening, but he took quick breaths to hide it. Then, as if remembering something he had to say, he murmured:

“Unhyo‑nim… you must always stay well.”

“You too, young master.”

“Yes.”

“That bag looks heavy… shall I carry it for you down the mountain?”

Suhoe shook his head, glancing down at the two old sports bags slung over his shoulders.

“This is all. I’m fine. Please — go back inside. It’s already late, and the night air is cold.”

He did not doubt Unhyo wanted to follow — but he, too, worried for the man, and declined the offer politely.

“Even so…”

“I’ll see him down myself, Unhyo. Go and rest.”

It was Gye‑geum, appearing with a servant’s arm for support, who finally stepped in to end the bittersweet farewell that was dragging on.