"Then, I’ll be in your care."
Cheongyeon bowed politely, and To-seong quickly waved it off, bowing in return. Then came a series of awkward throat clearings—dry, hacking coughs that went on long enough for Cheongyeon to stare at him blankly. At last, To-seong muttered that he would be going and turned to leave.
"Excuse me."
Cheongyeon had only called out from behind, but To-seong jerked in alarm, practically
"I’ve already packed all of my things, so I don’t really have anything to offer... but your throat sounds dry, so please take this."
He held out a small container from behind the counter, filled with powder. To-seong blinked, staring in confusion at the little jar in Cheongyeon’s hand.
"It’s ground ginger. If you mix it with hot water, it’s good for the bronchial tubes."
Cheongyeon himself sometimes drank the powder in warm water. To-seong’s eyes widened as though they were about to split open.
"You’re... giving this to me?"
"Yes. It’s nothing much, but still."
When To-seong received it with both hands, the tiny jar looked like nothing more than a bean in his palm.
"Please... speak well for me."
"Yes, sir!"
He nodded vigorously, promising Cheongyeon he could trust him, then left the shop after only a few steps.
Only then did Cheongyeon exhale a long sigh, dropping into the chair sticking out from the counter. Glancing outside, he saw To-seong standing there, carefully opening the jar and peering inside.
‘Does he think I’ve poisoned it...?’
Cheongyeon had given it out of genuine gratitude, so a bitter smile crossed his face. ‘Well, if he throws it away, so be it,’ he thought, standing to head toward the broker’s office.
But just then, To-seong tilted the container back and swallowed the entire contents. Cheongyeon froze in disbelief as ginger powder burst from the corners of To-seong’s mouth, scattering into the air.
He had told him to dissolve it in hot water...
‘What if he gets angry, thinking I tricked him...’
For a moment, Cheongyeon worried To-seong might lash out.
But when To-seong turned back, his lips pressed tightly shut. His nostrils flared as though he were holding back coughs, and bloodshot lines crept into his eyes.
‘If it goes down the wrong way and clogs his airway...’
Startled, Cheongyeon rushed inside to fetch water, but when he returned, To-seong was already gone. Even the powder he had forcefully spewed had long since scattered on the breeze.
******
The last time Mu-won had seen a member of the Flower Clan, the man had possessed hair black as midnight, with eyes even darker still. Since they were all one clan, wouldn’t their appearances resemble one another?
It seemed a reasonable assumption, yet Mu-won’s instinct told him otherwise.
There was no way to verify whether the rumors were true—that the Flower Clan were the ones upholding the continent. All Mu-won knew was this: after the Flower Clan he knew had died, the continent sank.
It might have been an enormous coincidence. But because the sinking occurred immediately after, it was easy for others to flip the story around into a legend—that the Flower Clan had literally been supporting the land. Having experienced the collapse first hand, Mu-won could not dismiss them as mere folklore.
"Tae Mu-won, you asleep?"
Mu-won sat with both legs stretched across the desk. He didn’t so much as twitch when someone entered. The boss’s office, at the top floor of the sea-tower, was accessible only to Mu-won and Tae Cheon-oh.
"Asleep?"
"Yeah."
He reclined deeply into the chair, eyes still shut. Behind him, within the glass display, stood several model ships cast entirely in gold—all of them Tae Cheon-oh’s prized possessions.
"Funny, a sleeping bastard who answers."
"Yeah."
Tae Cheon-oh clicked his tongue at Mu-won, still motionless with eyes closed.
“So? what wind’s blown you here, camping out like this?”
Normally, Mu-won spent more time aboard the Peira than in the tower. Yet here he had been, shut in for two full days without leaving once. Mu-won let Tae Cheon-oh’s question pass in silence.
"Oh, right. To-seong said he’s waiting in the lounge on the 13th floor."
In Cheonghwajin, communications technology amounted to little more than radios or wired telephones. Before the sea levels had risen so drastically, people had enjoyed far freer contact—but that had been centuries ago, a time so far removed no one could truly imagine it.
"Why?"
"Hah. Funny how a sleeping bastard suddenly talks when it suits him.”
Mu-won cracked his eyes open, golden irises drowsier than usual, as if genuine sleep clung to them. He drew a cigarette and a Zippo lighter from the inside of his suit. The sharp clink as the lighter flipped open rang out like a blade sliding from its sheath.
"Tae Mu-won."
Lounging back, Mu-won shifted his gaze lazily toward Tae Cheon-oh.
“Just curious… you got any interest in the medicine shop?”
“Got plenty of time for bullshit, huh?”
“You told To-seong yesterday to help him move, didn’t you?”
“Did I?”
“If you don’t know, how should I?”
“Then how the hell do you know that guy?”
Mu-won’s tone turned sharp, enough that Cheon-oh grabbed the coat he’d tossed carelessly across the sofa. As he fished for a cigarette and lighter, Mu-won flicked his Zippo toward him.
“‘That guy’ doesn’t really suit him, does it?”
“Then what—call him ‘old man’?” Cheon-oh retorted around the cigarette.
“That’s worse.”
Cheon-oh took a drag, smoke spilling from his lips.
“The herbalist’s… kind of famous.”
“In what way.”
Mu-won lowered his legs from the desk, the chair back straightening.
“For his ill-fated destiny.”
“Destiny?” Mu-won drawled.
“They say anyone—man or woman—who falls for him never ends well.”
That was more interesting than the dull monotony of the day.
“So what, he swindles them?”
“Then it wouldn’t be cursed—it’d just mean he’s attractive.”
“Ah, so you’re saying you keep getting played by pretty boys, huh?”
Mu-won chuckled. Better to do the playing than be played. An herbalist who bewitched people with that handsome face only to strip them of their money? Now that was a story worth hearing.
“Dumbass, I was doing charity work.”
“Then why him?”
Beneath his easy grin, Mu-won’s golden eyes showed nothing. Cheon-oh lit another cigarette off the first.
“Don’t act like you’ve got no interest. You’ve got plenty, enough that even I notice.”
“Interest? Sure.”
“For real?”
Cheon-oh looked at him, half disgusted, then went on.
“Could just be nonsense, but best to steer clear of the herbalist. There aren’t many who look as good as he does—but why run headlong into a burning house?”
“Coward.”
“Hey, listen. His history’s a damn mess.”
According to Cheon-oh, Cheongyeon had been raised by a florist after being left alone at a young age. When the florist fell into debt, he had planned to sell the boy to pirates—but that very night, the flower shop alone had flooded, the owner drowned.
After that, no one dared take Cheongyeon in, calling him ominous. He lived alone, supporting himself with his skillful hands, gathering and preparing medicinal herbs to sell. Piece by piece, coin by coin, he had saved enough in his teens to purchase the medicine shop that now bore his name.
On the surface, it was the pitiable yet admirable life of a child survivor.
“Think about it. Before we came here, pirates ran wild. Isn’t it strange he survived untouched?”
Mu-won silently agreed. Lives of the poor and beautiful rarely ended well.
“Every bastard who tried to mess with him vanished without a trace. Plenty of them died screaming, they say.”
Cheon-oh shuddered. Mu-won only laughed under his breath.
“Shit, sounds like an urban legend, huh?”
“No lie—it’s true. That’s why the people of Cheonghwajin leave him alone. A guy that damn tempting.”
“Is that so?”
Mu-won glanced down at his lap, then rose from the chair.
“Then I’m all the more convinced.”
“Of what?”
“He’s Flower Clan.”
Grinding his cigarette out in the ashtray, Mu-won stood.
“Damn, Tae Mu-won, you’ve lost your touch. No way it’s him. Think about it. Could a Flower Clan live so miserably—agh! Shit, fine, fine!”
Cheon-oh barely ducked as an ashtray came flying at his head.
“Where the hell are you going now!?” he shouted at Mu-won, who was slipping into his ornate suit jacket.
“To go dote on To-seong.”
“Crazy bastard.”
Mu-won shoved the Zippo back into his pocket, strode out of the boss’s office, and stepped into the rickety elevator, descending to the thirteenth floor.
The maritime tower had twenty levels: the lower ranks on floors 1–5, the middle ranks 6–10, the upper ranks and planetary officers 11–15. Floors 16–20 were reserved for Mu-won and Cheon-oh, though in truth, they only frequented the twentieth.
When Mu-won reached the thirteenth, he kicked aside Mok-seong, sprawled drunk in the corridor with a bottle in his arms.
“Damn it! Which bastard—!”
“Mok-seong, you want me to beat you to death?”
“Ah—n-no, hyung-nim!”
The moment he recognized Mu-won, Mok-seong dropped his fists and bowed low.