Guide of the Sichuan Tang Clan C7

Chapter 7

Eunmyeong swallowed hard, his eyes fixed on Cheongwoo. Then, carefully, he began to speak.

“It was I who made the request, Clan Head — to see you in person.”

One of Cheongwoo’s eyebrows lifted, just slightly.

“You?”

“Yes, Clan Head.”

Eunmyeong nodded calmly, his voice steady despite the pressure pressing against his chest.

“I wished to explain why the Young Master collapsed — the true cause behind it.”

No sooner had the words left his lips than the elders flanking Cheongwoo erupted in outrage.

“What nonsense! Did you hear such audacity, Clan Head?”

“There’s no need to listen to this drivel! The moment this fool laid hands on the Young Master, he vomited blood — what explanation could there be for that?!”

Their neck veins bulged, their tones sharp enough to cut. Eunmyeong could feel the killing intent rolling from them like heat waves. He pressed down the tremor rising in his body.

“Enough.”

Cheongwoo’s raised hand silenced the hall. Even the sound of breathing died away.

When he spoke again, his voice was unhurried — cold and resonant.

“All the physicians of the Tang Clan — the finest in Sichuan — have examined him and found nothing. And yet, you claim to know the reason?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have any idea what you’re saying?”

His tone sank low — too low. The air itself grew heavy, crushing down upon Eunmyeong like a mountain.

“Ugh—”

A choked sound escaped him as his knees buckled under the weight.

“Tang Eunmyeong.”

The sound of silk brushing stone whispered from above. Cheongwoo’s steps were deliberate — not silent as a martial master’s could be, but audible, intentional.

He wanted his prey to hear him coming.

“A branch family child of a branch family. The only remarkable thing about you is being the son of an elder.”

“…”

“You have no talent for medicine, no skill in our martial arts — is that not so?”

“…”

Cheongwoo stopped before him. The embroidered leather shoes at his feet bore patterns far more intricate than any Eunmyeong had ever seen.

The aura radiating from the man was suffocating. Eunmyeong’s lips refused to move. He had to speak — to say something — or he was as good as dead.

And then —

A large hand gripped his chin, forcing his face upward.

Cheongwoo tilted his head slightly, as though to kiss him.

“So tell me — what exactly can you do?”

In those black eyes, Eunmyeong saw his own fear reflected back at him. His whole body shook — hands, feet, even his breath quivering.

“Speak.”

Cheongwoo leaned closer until their eyes met.

“You called for me, did you not? Then I came. Now speak.”

Eunmyeong’s throat constricted. The terror he felt now dwarfed even the killing intent Jeongho had radiated earlier.

He couldn’t tell whether he wouldn’t speak or couldn’t. Even when he had faced rampaging Espers, he’d never been this paralyzed.

His mind screamed at his lips to move. Please. Please, move!

But they stayed frozen.

“I’ll give you a chance.”

“…”

“For your father’s sake, I’ll count to three. If by then you remain silent, I’ll take your head myself.”

His grip on Eunmyeong’s jaw tightened.

“One.”

Was the Tang Clan’s patriarch always this terrifying?

Was he always this young?

More importantly — why couldn’t he just talk?!

“Two.”

Would he die again? Would he be thrown into another novel next? What if, next time, he remembered nothing of the plot?

Panic twisted his expression.

Maybe this place is heaven compared to that…

“Three.”

As the final number fell from Cheongwoo’s lips, Eunmyeong made his choice.

To hell with it.

He shut his eyes tight — and lunged forward.

Their lips met.

The warmth of contact spread vividly through both of them.

In that instant, Eunmyeong sent his energy surging through the connection.

“Clan Head!”

“Hah—!”

A wet sound, a sharp chup, and their mouths parted.

Eunmyeong looked up, panting.

Did he feel it? Or was it too brief?

Cheongwoo’s expression hadn’t changed at all.

He remained frozen in place — still leaning close, unmoving.

Did he… freeze?

Before Eunmyeong could think further, chaos erupted.

“The Clan Head!”

“Gasp!”

Even the dignified elders on the upper steps rushed forward in panic.

Dozens of hands seized Eunmyeong — by the hair, the arms, the collar. Someone yanked his head back so hard he screamed.

“Let— let go of me!”

“How dare you touch the Clan Head!”

“This lunatic— what have you done?!”

He was seconds away from being torn apart. Through the blur of motion, he caught a glimpse of Cheongwoo — still sitting exactly as before.

Slowly, the man raised a hand and brushed his own lips.

His thumb passed over them once, twice, tracing the faint residue of warmth. His thick lips moved slightly, as if recalling the touch.

Eunmyeong’s face burned crimson.

Who chooses a Clan Head for his looks?!

Even as his scalp screamed in pain, he couldn’t tear his gaze away.

Cheongwoo finally rose. His expression was unreadable — not anger, not mirth, only cold neutrality.

“Enough.”

The single word cut through the commotion like a blade. Instantly, everyone froze.

He gestured lightly to the guards holding Eunmyeong down.

“All this noise over a mere kiss? Ridiculous.”

“But Clan Head! He— he dared to touch your—”

The Tang Clan, Eunmyeong realized, was like an overzealous fan club defending its idol’s honor.

He wanted to laugh and cry all at once.

“That’s enough. Stand down.”

As Cheongwoo approached, the men released him.

The crowd parted like the sea, revealing even Jeongho among those who had rushed forward.

Cheongwoo’s expression did not change.

Eunmyeong couldn’t tell if he’d actually felt the guiding energy or not.

When the Clan Head stopped in front of him, he extended a hand.

“We’ll discuss this further in my quarters.”

“…Pardon?”

Eunmyeong suddenly wished he were back in prison.

When he came to his senses, he was already there.

Cheongwoo’s chambers.

How did this happen…!

He’d escaped one beast’s den only to stumble into another’s.

Sitting across from Cheongwoo, Eunmyeong’s eyes darted nervously around the room.

For a Clan Head’s quarters, it was surprisingly austere.

A few scroll paintings, a modest desk, a small cabinet — and little else.

Matches his face perfectly.

Eunmyeong glanced at him.

Cheongwoo was quietly pouring tea, pressing the lid of the pot with one long-fingered hand.

Even such a mundane act looked graceful — magazine-worthy, almost.

The deep green of his robes, the signature color of the Tang Clan, suited him too well.

Is he Mujin’s brother? Eunmyeong wondered. He’s too young to be his father.

They shared some resemblance, yet were opposites — Mujin’s beauty was delicate, while Cheongwoo’s was sharp, cold, dangerously refined.

Maybe cousins?

“If you’ve finished gawking, drink your tea.”

Cheongwoo slid a cup toward him.

“I’ve never seen anyone stare at my face with such fascination.”

“Ah…”

Eunmyeong’s cheeks flushed red. He hadn’t realized how obvious his admiration had been. Couldn’t the man just ignore it?

He quickly grabbed the cup, trying to hide his embarrassment.

Still, Cheongwoo wasn’t exactly innocent — his gaze lingered, studying Eunmyeong’s constantly shifting expressions with quiet intrigue.

Tang Eunmyeong, he thought.

It had been a long time since anyone had dared meet his eyes so boldly — and certainly no one had kissed him.

Even so, that defiance alone was enough to spark his interest.

“This isn’t an interrogation,” Cheongwoo said at last. “Nor an accusation.”

“…”

“I merely want an explanation… for what just happened.”

Finally. The time to speak.

Eunmyeong sighed softly, gathering his thoughts.

“You felt it too, didn’t you?”

“Felt… what?”

“Oh, please. You wouldn’t have called me here otherwise.”

He carefully avoided using the word kiss. If Cheongwoo asked why it had to be a kiss, he’d just say his hands and feet were tied — literally.

“What you felt — that was exactly what I wanted to show you.”

“You mean you can control qi?”

“To be precise, only that of others.”

Cheongwoo hummed, low and thoughtful. His fingers tapped the rim of his teacup, the sound echoing lightly in the silence.

Eunmyeong waited patiently. The fact that he was considering it at all was already a good sign.

“Having experienced it myself, I can’t deny it.”

“Yes.”

“Then it was you who stabilized Mujin’s energy? Why, then, has he not awoken?”

“Because of the elixirs.”

“Elixirs?”

“Yes. The ones he took after collapsing. You must have felt it, Clan Head—”

He stopped, realizing how that sounded. He coughed awkwardly before continuing.

“That same energy you felt in yourself — I only just managed to stabilize his flow. That’s why he coughed blood; it was a natural reaction. But then, they fed him more elixirs. His energy flared again, uncontrollably.”

“So the medicine became poison.”

“Exactly. Even medicine works like that when the body’s in good condition.”

He gave a small, sheepish laugh, remembering a long-ago flu shot gone wrong.

He’d been exhausted from endless Guiding sessions, yet had taken the vaccine anyway — and ended up sick for weeks afterward.

Cheongwoo’s eyes lifted from his cup.

“Then why did you hide such an ability until now?”

There it was — the question he’d been dreading.

Eunmyeong’s throat bobbed as he swallowed nervously.

He had known this was coming.