Guide of the Sichuan Tang Clan C17

Chapter 17

 

Mujin strode toward Eunmyeong in long, unhesitating steps—closer to a charge than a walk. His long black hair fell over his shoulders, casting sharp shadows against his dark training robes, making him look even more menacing than usual.

As he drew nearer, his expression came into focus: twisted, as though staring down a mortal enemy. Eunmyeong flinched and instinctively stepped back.

No way… is he angry at me?

If only he had a little more sense, he might’ve fled. But Eunmyeong’s instincts failed him at times like these.

Can’t be. We just met a minute ago. What could he possibly be mad about?

While he fidgeted in place, Mujin stopped directly in front of him, his brows lifting sharply.

“You…”

Up close, it was even worse. His outer robe was half slipping off his shoulder, his belt barely hanging by a thread—and the inner robe beneath had come loose entirely. Mujin’s fury spiked when his gaze caught on that.

Through the parted collar, pale skin peeked out, and just beneath it, a faint, pink-tinted mark caught the light. His eyes froze. Eunmyeong’s skin gleamed like ripened fruit, soft and luminous, as though one bite might release a flood of sweet nectar.

His vision went white with rage. He wanted to gouge out the eyes of anyone who might’ve seen it—and that fury turned squarely toward Eunmyeong.

“Tang Eunmyeong.”

“Yes?”

“You walked here like this?”

He grabbed Eunmyeong’s collar, shaking with barely contained temper. His teeth ground audibly between his words.

“You came out dressed like this?”

“…”

“Are you trying to disgrace the Tang Clan?”

The outburst left Eunmyeong stunned. Was this really something worth screaming about? He wasn’t yet accustomed to the clan’s strict customs, and honestly couldn’t tell what he’d done wrong. His confidence shrank, his voice faltering.

“I didn’t mean to, it’s just—”

“Is it so hard to stand still and let the servants dress you properly? You deliberately make things difficult, don’t you? Is that it?”

“…”

“From the very first day, this is how you behave? I dread to imagine the rest.”

He released the collar with a sharp shove, then pointed his wooden sword at Eunmyeong’s disheveled robe.

“Fix it. Now.”

“…”

“Unless you’d like to be thrown out.”

The threat in his tone left no room for doubt. Mujin crossed his arms and glared, radiating deadly authority.

The problem was… Eunmyeong truly didn’t know how to dress himself.

If I could do that, I wouldn’t have come looking like this!

Explaining that the servants had abandoned him would sound like a lie anyway.

Glancing up nervously at Mujin, he reached for the undone tie of his inner robe. Wrapping it around his fingers like a shoelace, he tied it into a messy bow—then, for good measure, tied another bow over that.

“…”

A soft swish—the knot came undone instantly, as if mocking him.

Eunmyeong looked up. Mujin’s eyes blazed, his glare so sharp it could’ve burned holes through him.

Ah, damn it.

He tried again: a loop knot, a double knot, even a finger twist. Each time, the result was the same—the robe loosened further. Every attempt only made the situation worse.

When even his waistband began to slip, a vein pulsed visibly on Mujin’s temple.

“…You’re doing this on purpose.”

“What? I’m trying my best!”

Frustrated, Eunmyeong yanked the cord—and it slid free entirely.

“Ah—!”

“What in the—!”

Mujin grabbed the hem of the falling trousers just in time.

“What are you doing?!”

“You told me to tie it!”

“I said tie it, not—wait, stop!”

In his effort to hold the fabric, Mujin stepped closer, and before he knew it, Eunmyeong was pressed flush against his chest.

His focus fixed entirely on Eunmyeong’s waist. To him, those trousers might as well have been a lifeline; his expression was one of near-desperate concentration.

When Eunmyeong wriggled in his arms, his voice cracked like a thunderclap.

“Don’t move!”

His arms tightened around Eunmyeong’s waist, pulling him in. He glared down, voice rough with restraint.

“Just—stay still, for heaven’s sake!”

Mujin rarely shouted. As the Young Master of the Sichuan Tang Clan, he almost never needed to. A word or a warning glance was usually enough; if not, a simple strike across the training floor did the job.

But Eunmyeong was… a different species altogether. He couldn’t toss him to the ground, and if he tried, the little menace would probably curse him out or throw a hidden weapon in retaliation.

Even as Mujin held him still, Eunmyeong began to squirm again, half-protesting, half-pouting.

“Then help me! I told you I can’t do it alone!”

“How can someone grow up not knowing how to dress himself?!”

“That’s an insult to my father! And my grandfather, too!”

He flailed like a colt, kicking and twisting as his robe slipped again. Mujin genuinely contemplated ending him right there.

What on earth…

And yet—Eunmyeong wasn’t wrong. Men in the martial world went shirtless all the time; half the warriors training outside were practically bare-chested. But every time a flash of that white skin caught his eyes, Mujin’s heartbeat thudded harder, uncontrollable.

The words burst out before he could stop them.

“Damn it all—!”

He’d lost. Completely.

Gripping both of Eunmyeong’s shoulders, Mujin straightened his robe himself. His hands moved fast—faster than when wielding a blade—tying precise knots, smoothing the fabric tight.

Finally, he reached for the fallen belt, hesitated for a breath, then knelt on one knee.

The sight was almost absurd: the proud, unbending Young Master kneeling to fasten someone’s waistband. Because the tie was at the back, he had to draw Eunmyeong closer, his hands wrapping lightly around him.

A view for the ages.

Usually, Eunmyeong had to look up at him, but now, gazing down, the scene felt strangely intimate. Smirking, he flicked Mujin’s forehead lightly.

“Don’t frown. You’re wasting a handsome face.”

“Don’t touch me.”

“You were frowning in your sleep last night, too.”

Mujin’s brows pinched tighter—apparently, being watched while he slept didn’t sit well with him.

“Let go.”

When Eunmyeong twisted playfully again, Mujin recoiled as if burned, stepping back. The belt sat perfectly in place.

But before he could retreat further, Eunmyeong lunged forward and wrapped his arms around him.

“What are you—!”

The sudden contact sent a rush of energy through Mujin’s body. His turbulent qi smoothed instantly, anger dissolving under the gentle current of guiding energy.

A tremor ran through him. His body longed to lean closer, but he forced the feeling down.

“…Tang Eunmyeong.”

“Yes?”

“Stop. Now.”

“Nope.”

He ignored him, fingertips brushing along Mujin’s cheek.

“You can’t even push me away properly.”

“How far do you think I’ll tolerate your insolence?”

Even his glare had softened now, more exasperated than frightening. To Eunmyeong, he just looked… endearing. Like an untamed cat bristling but unwilling to bite.

Eunmyeong’s eyes curved into a bright half-moon. His smile lit up the space between them.

“Until you start liking me.”

“…”

“Until you like me enough to get treated properly.”

“…”

“So hurry up and like me already. I’m getting tired.”

Mujin’s lips pressed shut. Whether he was trying to absorb the energy or the meaning of those words, Eunmyeong couldn’t tell. But after a long pause, he exhaled, eyes fluttering closed.

His long lashes cast delicate shadows, making him look almost ethereal—like a solitary crane at peace.

How can someone look this divine while being guided, Eunmyeong thought, half in awe, half in disbelief.

Then he glanced down at himself. His robe sat perfectly in place for once—tidy and immaculate.

Step by step, he thought, one day he’ll accept guiding quietly.

The fact that Mujin had dressed him himself was progress. No matter how often he said “get out” or “stay away,” the instinct to cling to his guide had already begun.

It was only natural. Espers—no, warriors with uncontrolled energy—always grew possessive of the one who could save them. For Mujin, who’d lived his entire life without a guide, that hunger would be all the stronger.

And when the day came that he finally begged for it… oh, Eunmyeong planned to savor that victory.

“If you dress me again tomorrow, I’ll let go,” he said sweetly. “Otherwise, I’ll just stay like this till sunset.”

“You can manage your clothes on your own—”

But his words faltered when he looked at Eunmyeong’s bright, guileless face. That slight waver in his eyes didn’t escape notice.

Time to strike while the iron was hot.

“Tomorrow too,” Eunmyeong pressed.

“I’ll… summon a servant.”

“You.”

He poured a sharp pulse of energy through his palms.

“Ah—”

A low sound escaped Mujin as he tensed, eyes closing again. After a long moment, he sighed, voice barely above a whisper.

“Fine. Fine—just stop already.”

“The day after tomorrow, too?”

“Tang Eunmyeong!”

“Oops.”

Before the sparks could fly, Eunmyeong quickly released him and stepped back, hands raised in mock surrender. Best not to tempt the wild cat into clawing.

He grinned, disarming and unapologetic. But if he thought that smile would earn forgiveness, he was sorely mistaken—Mujin’s expression only hardened further.

“Stay out of the way,” Mujin said coldly. “Try not to get yourself poisoned and carried out.”

He brushed off his robes and turned to leave without hesitation.

At that moment, both of them noticed it—the faint rustle, the shifting gazes.

Several Tang Clan members had been watching from a distance, frozen in shock.

The sight of their stoic Young Master kneeling to dress someone had left them trembling like aspen leaves.