There was a time when sea levels rose with a ferocity no one had expected.
Whole tracts of land vanished beneath the water. Around that same era, a group of people who had lived secluded on high ground—cut off from the outside world—began to descend toward the lowlands.
They were called the Flower Clan.
That name spoke for itself.
The Flower Clan possessed an ability to hold the earth fast, so continents would not slip beneath the waves; each member was, in effect, a vast pillar. When a member of the Flower Clan revealed themselves to the world and spread outward, entire continents found support beneath those outstretched roots.
Wherever a Flower Clan settled, the land did not drown. Unsurprisingly, those continents swelled with refugees—people fleeing the drowned lands—so a great variety of peoples gathered where the Flowers made their home.
All Flower Clan observed one immutable taboo: NEVER, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, REVEAL THEIR POWER TO OUTSIDERS.
For a very long time, the truth—that the Flowers propped up continents—remained buried.
The trouble began on the now-vanished Eleventh Continent. There, the ruler—the Magistrate—and a Flower had fallen in love.
By chance the Magistrate discovered the Flower’s ability and confided the secret to his inner circle.
The Magistrate and his retainers were native to the Eleventh Continent. Like elsewhere, the continent was flooded with refugees; in fact, they outnumbered the natives.
The Magistrate and his circle feared losing power to the growing population. They swore to possess every Flower in the world and seize absolute control.
He pressed his beloved Flower. How could they be found? How did their power manifest? No amount of coaxing loosened the Flower’s lips.
Eventually, the Magistrate’s men, driven into fury, struck. They murdered the Flower.
Not long after the Flower’s death, a titanic wave swept the Eleventh Continent—an effect caused by the land collapsing downward. The entire continent vanished from maps that day. It took less than an hour for the Eleventh Continent to drown. And with the continent went the truth that the Flowers had been holding it up.
“Woo-oo, woo-oo—this tale’s been told for twenty years now, ‘The Last Day of the Eleventh Continent,’ woo-oo.”
The singer’s refrain faded into a hum.
The four-stanza ballad read like a novel. Cheongyeon, pouring beer, stole glances at the guitar singer.
The bard’s tale had brought the tavern to a fevered pitch: corn and popcorn flew in salute, and even beer mugs sailed through the air—some claiming the song ruined the taste of their ale.
Inside the Dandelion, only Cheongyeon listened earnestly. The drunks around him cared nothing for how the Eleventh Continent had foundered.
“The people who lived on the Eleventh Continent are all dead—how would that minstrel know anything?”
One man snarled and took aim at the singer’s next song. Corn and snacks tangled in the singer’s hair as he jumped to his feet.
“You speak as if you know! That’s the wellspring of creation!” he snapped.
More dried snacks flew in reply.
Cheongyeon wanted the singer to stop aggravating the crowd and come down—he wondered who would clean up the mess. Eventually, a dockhand roughly hauled the singer off the makeshift stage. Gasping and grumbling, the singer approached the tavern owner and the owner slipped him a few coins.
“Don’t come back out front again.”
The guitar singer was sacked on his first day. He bundled up his pride, pocketed the money, and left.
Cheongyeon hoped he would never again sing his self-penned dirge, “The Last Day of the Eleventh Continent.”
Any mention of the Flower Clan—no matter how poetic—made Cheongyeon uneasy.
“Herb shop! One more beer over here!”
A boisterous sailor’s voice cut through the din.
“Cheongyeon, you better hype the mood a little!”
A man at the center table leapt up and shook his hips in a ridiculous dance.
….. ‘Disgusting’, Cheongyeon thought.
He ignored the man and brought a fresh draught to the sailor. The center-table man had already bared himself down to the waist.
This part-time job had been only until his deal with the smuggler captain was finished; then he would quit.
But since Tae Mu-won now knew he worked at the tavern, Cheongyeon stuck around a few extra days to keep an eye on things. Four days had passed and he had yet to cross paths with Tae Mu-won again.
“Boss.”
“Jeez—give a fellow some warning, will you?”
The tavern owner, startled as she neared the counter, was ladling foam from a keg. The place was loud; no excuse offered.
“Say it.”
“Um… has Tae Mu-won ever come in here?”
The owner froze, ladle poised. Her eyes rounded.
“Tae Mu-won? That Tae Mu-won? From the Peira?”
“Yes.”
She set the beer down for a man sitting at the bar, then returned and began counting on her fingers—one, two, three—muttering under her breath before snapping to realization.
“It was four days ago already. It came down in a raging rain—why? That was your day off, wasn’t it?”
Her manner hinted at astonishment, as if to ask, How did you know? She smiled with narrowed eyes.
“You saw him, didn’t you?”
“Huh?”
Cheongyeon widened his eyes.
“He was at the inn right in front of your shop.”
Cheongyeon blinked in confusion. There was indeed an inn opposite the medicine shop.
“Oh? Is that right?”
“I’m not quite sure what you spotted.”
“Then why were you asking about Tae Mu-won?”
The conversation felt oddly askew. Cheongyeon shook his head.
“…It’s nothing.”
“You don’t have a thing for him, do you?”
Cheongyeon hastily waved his hands. Even as a joke, the idea was abhorrent.
“No. Never.”
“Good. Don’t you dare fall for him—that man will cause you no end of trouble.”
The owner’s voice dropped mischievously. “There’s no better one-night companion than him,” she added with a sly chuckle.
“I’m not about to give him my heart. No way.”
“Who said you were? I meant Tae Mu-won. Men like him, when they fixate on something, they stir up trouble.”
Suddenly she clapped her hands.
“That’s right—right! I was so drunk that night I forgot, but then you asked and it came back to me. Oh my, our lucky charm.”
She reached to pinch his cheek; Cheongyeon dodged the hand and stepped back.
“You’re so picky.”
She lowered her hand with an exaggerated sigh.
“That day Tae Mu-won left enough to raise a month’s takings. Said the medicine shop wanted our tavern’s sales up—your shop, right?”
Cheongyeon parted his lips.
“Did he say anything else? Did he ask about that job I requested?”
He lowered his voice and the owner followed suit.
“Are you kidding? He wasn’t asking about your errands—what, did you think he came here to kill you during sex? Well, he nearly did knock me flat, but that’s a different story. Keep your mouth shut. Honestly, I’m glad those folks tied to that business are dead.”
A person dying being a cause for relief—that contradiction sat oddly, but Cheongyeon couldn’t completely deny the sentiment.
“So, you’ll really quit after this weekend?”
“That’s the plan.”
He even thought about moving the medicine shop elsewhere.
In Cheonghwajin, except for the wealthy, people rarely bought houses for money. Like barter, most deals were exchanges: mutual benefit. Moving meant finding a lowland spot similar to his current tucked-away location—no easy task. The working folk here didn’t move unless forced.
There was a quick solution: swap his place for a far worse shack. But Cheongyeon didn’t want to live in a more dilapidated place than he already did.
“Want me to raise your hourly pay?”
A tempting offer—money was always welcome.
“As I said, I’ll only work this week.”
“Fine.”
The owner didn’t press it. She turned to the burner and stoked the flame for frying dried snacks.
“By the way—”
“Yeah?”
“If the takings went up because of me… could you slip me a bonus?”
Her red lips stretched into a long, comical pout.
“I really can’t get used to you at times like this. Makes it hard to refuse when you pout like that.”