THE KING’S SAHEONBU chapter 6
The dust of the capital had barely settled, but across the provinces, the scattered remnants of Kang Mu-shin’s household were already being swept into the tides of fate.
In the southern province of Miryang, the old midwife trudged through the magistrate’s gates, holding ten-year-old Pung by the hand.
The local Magistrate, remembering how Mu-shin had once risked his life to defend their township from mountain bandits, took the boy in without hesitation, shielding his true identity beneath a curtain of total secrecy.
Five months later, far away on the misty slopes of Mount Gwanak, the tiger hunter returned to the quiet sanctuary of the Buddhist temple.
The Chief Monk met him in the courtyard and led him down a quiet, incense-scented wooden corridor.
“The boy is no ordinary child,” the Chief Monk murmured softly.
“To cling to life after a traumatic injury like that… it is nothing short of a miracle from the heavens. He possesses a strange, formidable aura for one so young.”
“Has he awakened?” the hunter asked, his deep voice hushed.
“Only once, about two months ago,” the monk replied, stopping outside a quiet paper-screen door.
“He stirred briefly, but slipped back into a deep, feverish sleep. Before we changed his bloodied robes, we found this tucked inside his sash.”
The monk held out a small woven basket.
Inside lay an intricate, hand-carved tiger tooth pendant—its gold-inlaid mounting crafted in a style found exclusively within noble houses and the imperial court.
“Look closely,” the Chief Monk added.
“The name *Woon* is carved into the bone.”
The hunter took the pendant, running his thumb over the smooth ivory.
“Please… continue to look after him.”
The Chief Monk bowed deeply.
“Of course, old friend.”
Fate, however, was unforgiving.
Back in Miryang, the exhausted midwife succumbed to a sudden, violent chest fever and passed away.
Fearing that keeping Pung in his own household would draw unwanted eyes from capital spies, the Magistrate arranged for the boy to be quietly adopted by his distant relatives in the quiet mountain district of Cheongdo-gun.
Seven months passed before the tiger hunter stepped foot on Mount Gwanak once more.
“How is the boy?” the hunter asked after exchanging traditional greetings with the Chief Monk.
“His body has healed, though the scars across his back will remain for the rest of his life,” the monk answered, leading him toward the rear courtyard.
“He is exceedingly quiet. At first, we feared the trauma had stripped away his voice entirely, but he speaks when necessary. Mostly, he passes his days in silence, consumed by practicing martial arts.”
Each strike cut through the air with raw, disciplined precision.
The tiger hunter approached the boy, a warm smile breaking across his weathered face as he spread his arms wide.
“Come here, son. Your father is back.”
Woon lowered the wooden blade, his dark eyes cold and unreadable.
“You are not my father.”
“Do not be disrespectful, child,” the Chief Monk chided gently.
“This is the man who carried you through the mountains and saved your life.”
Woon paused, then stepped forward and bowed with cold, flawless etiquette.
Watching the boy’s sharp demeanor, the tiger hunter broke into a loud, booming laugh that echoed off the stone walls of the temple.
Seven years passed in the blink of an eye.
High atop the roof of the Main Royal Pavilion, a senior eunuch held the late monarch’s crimson dragon robe toward the northern sky.
Waving the silk garment in the wind, his voice pierced the solemn silence of the capital three times:
“Return to the Throne, Your Majesty! Return to us!”
Below, the court ministers stood in black mourning attire alongside the Crown Prince, performing the sacred three-day funeral rites.
On the fourth day, the throne room doors swung open.
The Crown Prince received the imperial seals and officially ascended the throne as the new King of Joseon.
Far from the capital, time had forged the two brothers into very different men.
In the peaceful valleys of Cheongdo-gun, seventeen-year-old Pung grew up bright, sharp-witted, and formidable.
By day, he mastered classical archery and swordplay, his natural genius commanding the respect of the local villagers.
Meanwhile, Woon lived a semi-nomadic life, moving from jungle to mountain pass alongside the tiger hunter.
He grew terrifyingly strong, single-handedly hunting full-grown Amur tigers across the wild ridges.
Cold, quiet, and possessing a fierce, unpredictable temper, he roamed the wilderness like a phantom, his past buried deep beneath his scars.
Several months after his coronation, the new King sat in his private royal library.
He gestured for his most trusted personal eunuch to close the heavy doors.
“Have your men found any trace of the two brothers?” the King asked, his voice low and laced with an old, unhealed guilt.
“No, Your Majesty,” the eunuch answered, bowing his head.
“Seven years have passed. The boys have grown into men by now, making them nearly impossible to identify from old records. We will continue the search, unless…”
The King’s eyes narrowed. You are reading on g.com, the official source.
“Unless what?”
“Unless they did not survive that night on the mountain, Sire.”
“They are alive,” the King commanded, his hand tightening into a fist.
“Find them. No matter how long it takes.”
“As you command, Your Majesty.”
That very night, around the Hour of the Pig (10:00 PM), a far different gathering took place at the private estate of the Chief State Minister.
High-ranking court officials sat around long wooden tables, drinking rich wine and whispering sedition into the night air.
“That young insolent on the throne must surely know his place by now,” the Left State Minister sneered, raising his brass cup.
“He must realize that the true power of this kingdom rests right here in your hands, *Daegam*.”
The Chief State Minister chuckled softly, swirling his wine.
“He was once a warrior, gentlemen. We should not dismiss him entirely.”
“Ah, but *Daegam*,” the Minister of Personnel interjected with a smirk.
“All a warrior knows how to do is wave a piece of steel around! Governing a state is a completely different matter. That is why Joseon truly needs you to guide the court—even if it is from behind a puppet King.”
A wave of quiet laughter rippled through the room.
“Did you see his face seven years ago?” the Chief State Minister mused, his eyes gleaming with cold amusement.
“When his dearest friend was executed right before his eyes by his own father?”
The ministers broke into malicious laughter.
“Who would have thought the late King would strike down his own most trusted general?” the Left State Minister added.
“Indeed,” the Minister of Taxation agreed.
“Eliminating Kang Mu-shin removed a massive thorn from our side. We owe you a great debt, *Daegam*.”
The Chief State Minister set his cup down, his expression turning sharp.
“Has there been any word regarding Mu-shin’s missing sons?”
“None, *Daegam*,” the Minister of War replied smoothly.
“And even if those boys somehow survived, their hatred will be directed entirely at the Royal Family who ordered their father’s death—not at us.”
“A valid point,” the gathered ministers agreed in unison, raising their cups once more.
As their cruel laughter echoed through the grand estate, the candles flickered, drowning their conspiratorial shadows in the deep darkness of the night.