The point of contact burned briefly before returning to its natural warmth. The breath he had drawn in was released without a sound, his face turned away from Wi Saheon.
“Are your eyes from your mother’s side?”
Wi Saheon turned his head just slightly — only within the range that kept him from losing his aim.
Every time the prince posed an unexpected personal question like this, Shin Yigyeom found himself fumbling, unsure of how to respond.
“Please focus, Your Highness.”
“On what.”
“…….”
“On you, you mean?”
The focus Shin Yigyeom had held on the target wavered for just a moment. Wi Saheon could see the tips of his fingers stiffen slightly. At the same time, the faint peach scent that had been quietly settled became markedly richer.
The man himself had no idea, but Wi Saheon could tell.
He laughed without a sound. What kind of expression is Yigyeom making right now.
Wi Saheon was skilled at reading others’ expressions — but only ever out of necessity. To identify a person’s weakness, sort out their lies, and anticipate their next move.
But with Shin Yigyeom, it was different.
At some point, he had become curious about every expression and shift in Shin Yigyeom’s face. And he wanted to confirm each one with his own eyes.
“Your Highness, please focus. The center of that cloth.”
The white cloth standing before the target swelled lightly and fell. A fragrant breeze swept across the nape of Shin Yigyeom’s neck.
“Yigyeom.”
“Yes…?”
“Won’t I need you to let go of this before I can shoot?”
Shin Yigyeom’s hand was still resting on the back of Wi Saheon’s hand. He hadn’t even noticed. What in the world had his attention. Shin Yigyeom hastily drew his hand back.
“I apologize, Your Highness.”
“What. No need to apologize for something like that.”
Wi Saheon glanced at Shin Yigyeom’s eyes rather than the arrow nocked on the bowstring or the target ahead.
The blue ring encircling his pupils caught the sunlight and shimmered beautifully, making Shin Yigyeom look as though he had just stepped out of a mysterious old tale.
Wi Saheon, who had been about to say something, held his silence. He couldn’t remember what prank he had been about to pull, or what he had meant to say — his mind simply went blank.
It was a rare thing.
Wi Saheon was a man who knew precisely when to stay silent and when to speak. But whenever he faced Shin Yigyeom, words he had never thought about came to mind, and then the moment he moved to open his mouth, his thoughts scattered.
Before he knew it, Wi Saheon had schooled his face back to cool indifference and readjusted his grip on the bowstring without a word.
When Shin Yigyeom carefully caught his elbow and drew it back, Wi Saheon raised both eyebrows.
“Drawing all the way to the end like this must be the Baekah style.”
“That’s right. You’re as perceptive as I’ve heard.”
“Now I’m curious what else you’ve heard.”
“…….”
“Why is your face turning red?”
“It isn’t turning red at all.”
“You can’t exactly see your own face.”
Unable to find a response, Shin Yigyeom only blinked. Wi Saheon swallowed yet another smile at the sight of his profile. Truly, this man wore his heart so plainly it was as though you could see straight through him.
“You need to draw it this far for the arrow not to waver.”
“Understood.”
Wi Saheon’s lips curved slowly upward.
The cool temperature of Shin Yigyeom’s skin against the back of his hand gradually quieted the heat that had been burning so fiercely in him, like a flame on the verge of ignition. Just a little more —
…He wanted to keep touching.
He couldn’t quite identify what it was, exactly, that made him feel that way.
Shin Yigyeom wasn’t particularly warm-natured, and he made no effort to please him.
And yet, strangely, having him nearby made his mind go quiet.
Like a bowstring that had been pulled taut for a long time, finally going slack.
“What’s wavering isn’t the arrow — it’s your hand, Yigyeom.”
Only then did Shin Yigyeom’s hand fall away from his elbow.
“…Shoot.”
Wi Saheon released the string just like that, and the arrow cut through the air and flew. It buried itself deep — just barely missing the dead center of the target.
Strangely, neither of them looked at the target.
As though they had made some prior arrangement, they had both turned their gaze to each other’s faces at the same moment.
Wi Saheon gazed quietly at Shin Yigyeom’s eyes, which seemed to gain a little more light each time they turned toward him. There was something there beyond what loyalty or reverence alone could explain.
And at that time, Wi Saheon did not know.
That those blue eyes, which knew nothing but to look straight ahead, would remain held within his chest for the rest of his life.
Shin Yigyeom opened his eyes to the pain of every fine blood vessel in his palm rupturing at once.
Only his left hand was injured, yet his entire body was on fire.
Exhaling in shallow, labored breaths, Shin Yigyeom pressed his elbow against the stone floor and pushed himself upright. With every movement, the shackles connecting his hands and feet clinked and rattled.
It wasn’t the interrogation room. The familiar torture implements were nowhere to be seen. Nor was it the Imperial Propaganda Corps’ barracks.
From partitioned spaces came the murmured voices of prisoners. The ceiling pressed down low and dark; damp moisture ran along the walls where they met the corners. Straw was scattered here and there across the stone floor.
It appeared to be one of Gamsimwon’s holding cells. From within the iron bars joined to a stone wall that reached waist height, Shin Yigyeom searched for signs of the young unit member and Three. No — he tried to.
“Ngh.”
The thick bandaging wound around his hand was stained dark red through to the surface. His palm twisted as though the red-hot iron was still pressed against it. He couldn’t even tell whether the flesh was still attached or had been seared away.
He moved only the tips of his fingers, and a harrowing pain drove straight through his spine. The throbbing ache kept rousing other sensations. The mere touch of air against skin set every nerve on end.
“Bastard….”
Shin Yigyeom ground his teeth as Wi Saheon came to mind, then curled his body inward and clasped his knees with all his strength.
He tried breathing quickly, but rather than the heat dying down, it surged higher still. A burning sensation seeped into every joint, and gradually something indescribable — a strange, unsettling feeling — rose up from deep within his abdomen.
Suddenly, an instinct cut through him: this isn’t only from the pain.
…The Chunheunggi?
A chill ran down Shin Yigyeom’s spine.
If it were the Chunheunggi, there should have been warning signs. The sequence too should have been consistent. Body temperature rises first, then the five senses sharpen, and then the heat spreads through the bloodstream and blooms.
He had taken the suppressant that delayed the Chunheunggi’s cycle on the day he infiltrated the palace walls.
It had placed considerable strain on his stomach — being a condensed dose carrying three months’ worth of effect — but he had swallowed it without hesitation so as not to impede the mission. Under normal circumstances, the medication should still have been active in his body.
…How much time has passed.
He couldn’t gauge the date. Locked in a place where no sunlight reached, making it impossible to distinguish day from night, his sense of time was entirely lost. It felt as though only a few days had passed, and yet it also felt as though years had leapt by entirely.
At least in the Imperial Propaganda Corps’ labor yard, breathing outside air had allowed him to vaguely sense the season. Right now it was probably the very beginning of summer.
“Haah….”
Shin Yigyeom barely managed to lean his back against the wall and sit. The cold stone wall burned against his back. His vision flickered and he felt severely dizzy. The dense mass of heat lodged deep in his abdomen spread as though it meant to consume his entire body.
He bit hard into the inside of his cheek. If this was the Chunheunggi, he had to endure it. The same applied to the torture that was yet to come.
If he held on and persevered, time would pass, and he would find himself placed at some point in the future. As it had always been.
Shin Yigyeom’s lips parted blankly, and before his eyes the training ground unfolded. Unit members in dark grey uniforms were swinging daggers.
The Mumyeongdan — composed entirely of those of Baekah descent.
From the moment they joined, they discarded their names, personal relationships, and past of their own will. Unit members who shared the same cause referred to one another by number alone.
Their ultimate goal was not survival — but how well they could function as a Mumyeongdan member.
And Shin Yigyeom was functioning well enough.
Not revealing a single piece of information related to the Mumyeongdan. Surviving to the end alongside his comrades. Those were the most he could do, given that contact with the Mumyeongdan had not yet been established.
“…….”
Wi Saheon, who had been walking down the corridor, came to an abrupt stop. The metal fittings on his neatly fastened uniform — buttoned all the way up to his neck — caught the cold light.
From the moment he had reached the fifth floor, a foreign scent had been drifting between the stone and the damp. The scent of wet peach skin. Sweet and soft, a smell that wound around him like a membrane.
“Wait here.”
“Yes, Your Excellency.”
The Deputy Commander, while not necessarily catching the fruit scent himself, had sensed something off from the moment they turned into the corridor. It felt as though only the area where Shin Yigyeom was being held was hazy with faint fog.
A ferocious energy radiated from Wi Saheon’s back as he moved toward the holding cell.
The moment the tense guards opened the door, he stepped quickly inside.
“…Haah, hh….”
“…….”
The smell of ripe fruit — as overwhelming as standing in the middle of a peach orchard — stabbed at his nasal passages. The density of the scent was suffocating. Wi Saheon’s brow creased.
It was an uncontrolled Chunheunggi.
