It carried the meaning: at that level, surely he won't betray me by dying early.
But to Mok-young it sounded so unexpected that he stopped mid-tour of the house and turned to look at I-yeong. Today, this faceless, rumor-shrouded prince kept puzzling him, again and again.
"Extreme yang-in? I've never heard of an invalid among extreme yang-ins."
At Mok-young's incredulous repeat, I-yeong lightly shrugged his shoulders. It meant agreement. I-yeong too had never heard of a yang-in — let alone an extreme yang-in — being so sickly. He'd certainly never seen one.
Northern Wei and Namwi had originally been one country called "Baekmuk." It was a thousand-year empire founded 1,700 years ago upon quelling chaos; its splitting back into two nations was some 700 years ago. And the "hwa-in (化人)," divided into "yang-in (陽人)" and "eum-in (陰人)," descended from "Song Taehwa," the founding ancestor who established Baekmuk 1,700 years ago.
Song Taehwa was no ordinary man. He was the child born between the two divine beasts who had quelled the thousand-year chaos — the Vermilion Bird and Hyeonmu, the Black Tiger — a being hard to call "human" in the first place. From the Vermilion Bird, who could be called his father, he inherited the energy of yang; from Hyeonmu, who could be called his mother, the energy of yin — a mysterious being in whom yin and yang coexisted. And upon the world regaining peace, he founded "Baekmuk" and, wedding an ordinary girl, spread his descendants.
And his bloodline became a great trunk, spreading "hwa-in" through later generations.
Over 1,700 years, the river of blood Song Taehwa left behind spread deep and wide as the sea, until now the great majority of people in both nations could be considered his descendants. But diluted as it had become, only a tiny minority were actually born as hwa-in. Those with special energy showed extraordinary traits compared to the ordinary majority — by and large handsome, physically gifted, exuding a captivating scent, commonly described as being like "celestials descended from heaven."
But whether yang-in or eum-in, a hwa-in was by nature physically robust. So for Go Hae-gang to be not just a yang-in but an "extreme yang-in" — no wonder Mok-young found it absurd.
"Who established that he's a yang-in?"
"Their physician said so. 'His Highness's yang energy is strong, so don't hesitate at yin energy — just find him a cold place,' he said. He claims to have attended him since childhood, so it's probably no lie."
If the prince were so sickly that he'd begged to avoid cold places at all costs, I-yeong would in fact have tried somehow to find another place. In the hell that is compromise, he'd extended his hand first, so to speak.
"And that physician — he's not some bought man, is he?"
"Ah, surely not. Who would try to harm a man by laying him in a cold spot?"
Killing a man slowly by laying him in the cold would be terribly difficult — but if the other party is sickly—
Could this be something else again? Perhaps because he stood before the mirror, ominous thoughts drifted through his head. But he didn't bother digging into them seriously. It was just that the prince being a yang-in was hard enough to believe to inspire such thoughts.
"A yang-in, that beautiful — hard enough to credit — and he might even be extreme yang? Just what happened to that prince, to be born in such a body and live on, unable to die?"
A flicker of curiosity — very slight, like a breath of wind bleakly brushing past weeds at an abandoned house — flitted briefly through the northerner's mind.
***
A few days ago it had been the house; today it was the clothes. With the final fitting done for the wedding robe and the other ceremonial robes to be worn on the wedding day, Mok-young had stopped by the palace to try them on once.
Things were proceeding steadily, if slowly. In the 8th month the marriage was decided; as summer ended the bridal house was prepared; and now, entered into the 10th month with the cold wind beginning to blow, the entire trousseau was ready. Of course, Mok-young had hardly been involved at all.
The most important garments of the wedding — the ceremonial robes — had the kingdom's finest needle-master attached to them, stitching each stitch with care. For the robes' fabric, the finest silk bestowed by the Emperor himself was used. "We shall make a masterpiece worthy of our lifeblood" — the artisans of the sewing bureau vowed. For it was a state marriage before all, and moreover the revered General would wear them — so they burned with dedication, giving their all.
Feared as he was — enough to be called the Ghost King — in another light Mok-young was also a stalwart hero protecting the nation. His exploits were loved by women and children alike, spreading like legends, which was proof of how much attention and love he received from all.
That such a general would marry some sickly yang-in of a neighboring country's prince — no few found it heartbreaking and wretched. If the imperial command weren't so absurd, who could bear to see our general so slighted?
To one side of the sewing bureau, a space for fittings. Mok-young stood at the center while two attendants bustled about, holding his collars and dressing him, also minding the mood of the Junwang, who was in good spirits. Though he seemed to take it lightly, he overflowed with dignity — and to the workers attending him now, it felt such a waste of their general.
"Truly, clothes find their light when they meet their master."
Looking uncomfortable, his nape unaccustomed to the formal dress, Mok-young's neck was revealed. The workers stopped what they were doing, stepped aside, and with hands gathered respectfully before them, bowed their heads toward one spot. Mok-young too slowly turned to look toward where the sound had come from. There stood a man with his hands behind his back, standing straight — not in the dragon robe he usually wore like an impassive mask, but in comfortable everyday dress, yet his noble bearing let one guess his rank without asking.
It was Ju Geon-yang. The Emperor of Northern Wei. He'd grown up with Mok-young as close friends since childhood, and they were still quite unreserved with each other — yet he was the very one who had personally placed Mok-young's hand in that faraway prince's.
As the other workers brought a chair and laid a cushion, Geon-yang sat and slowly looked Mok-young over from top to bottom. The black mask he always wore and the guard on his neck were as ever, but—
Seeing him dressed in the ceremonial robe and set standing there, even that looked harmonious — it could fairly be called enchanting.
The deep navy robe set off Mok-young's gallant frame, making him look taller and more striking; the lavish embroidery delicately filling the fabric's empty spaces lent him a general's spirit, as if wings had been set upon a tiger.
"You flatter me."
Mok-young answered shortly. There was no feeling in it.
"Don't resent me too much, Mok-young."
Geon-yang spoke lightly, as if Mok-young were merely grumbling peevishly. But he knew. He knew Mok-young was not a man to merely whine. But knowing also that Mok-young had no desire to converse with him, he'd tried idly striking up talk.
"…"
Mok-young didn't answer; turning back to the workers, he signaled with a jerk of his chin for them to finish what they were doing. It could be called rude before the Emperor, but Geon-yang didn't make an issue of it. For all that he could push a man into a wedding everyone thought absurd, his usual generous manner was unchanged.
"Killing two birds with one stone — your rank rises too. Isn't that good? Enjoying a little sweetness in moderation isn't a bad way to live."
Geon-yang idly spoke again. It was clearly not comfort. He knew Mok-young wasn't "that kind of person," yet it was close to scratching at his insides. And so, though Mok-young still kept his mouth firmly shut, Geon-yang merely held a small smile. Without demanding an answer, he calmly let his gaze drift to Mok-young's nape.
As his gaze swept up over where the guard wrapped and reached the side of the face veiled by the strange cloth, Geon-yang's eyes narrowed faintly; the smile vanished from his lips, and an unnoticed chill settled over his gaze.
"Unsightly, isn't it? All of you — out."
Geon-yang was one of the few people who knew what Mok-young was hiding. And he was the one who had told him to wear the mask and the guard.
It was petty jealousy. He had cultivated the Hyeoneum Divine Art as a younger brother nursing malice toward his elder brother — yet Mok-young had dared to reach the supreme realm ahead of the Emperor himself. Right before his eyes. Since only one person could stand as the supreme, once Mok-young had completed it, Geon-yang's own hope of fully mastering the Hyeoneum Divine Art grew distant. And so Geon-yang came to feel the "trace" of the supreme left on the back of Mok-young's neck as a personal insult, and he didn't hide that humiliation.
There was no need to hide it. He was the Emperor, reigning above all. If anything, Mok-young should read the Emperor's mood and endure it in silence if he disliked the sight.
On Mok-young's neck — precisely, climbing up the right side of his nape to just below the ear — was engraved a lavish, intricate pattern. It began at the small of his back. Like rough rapids crossing his broad back, or like vines powerfully climbing, tangled together — the mysteriously, intricately blooming "Mark of Hyeonmu" coiled all the way up to his nape.
Naturally the Emperor disliked it, and it was hardly ordinary to look at, so Mok-young always wore the guard and the mask to hide the mark. The coming wedding would be no exception.
"This is your 'bride's' wedding robe."
Geon-yang, who had risen from his seat at some point, said this standing before a wall. Before his eyes hung a red ceremonial robe, spread wide on a long rack. The vivid fabric — as if it might burst into flame at any moment — was of course the finest silk; the ornamentation was sumptuous, yet it was borne with such ease that the single garment could fairly be called a masterpiece.
At the word "bride," Mok-young turned to look again, as if his ear had caught on it. And at once the beautiful robe imprinted itself on his view.
The bride's robe was red not because the prince was the "bride." Namwi held as its guardian the vermilion bird symbolizing "yang," so the color symbolizing the country was red. That Mok-young wore deep navy was likewise because the guardian deity Northern Wei served was Hyeonmu, and because he himself was one who had mastered the Hyeoneum Divine Art.
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