The pain medication became completely ineffective a week later, confining Min-jun to his room for the bulk of the day, fading in and out of consciousness. The King appeared once or twice in the subsequent week, wiping down his face with a cold, wet towel. Min-jun mustered a few slurred insults and fell asleep, proud that even in the wake of this pain, his hatred remained strong as ever. The echoes of the King’s quiet laughter rang in his ears.
“Oh love,” he’d say, impossibly fond. “Get well soon. I have something I’d like to show you.”
Get well soon? How about you do your fucking job and get that half-witted shaman to reverse this damned curse? Because surely, he was lying about not being able to reverse it.
He didn’t have enough strength in him to even get the words out properly. Most of the time, he was just waiting for the pain to ebb away enough for him to get some sleep.
The servants were more broken up about it than he was. They spent the days attending to his every need, frightened that he’d eventually be killed by the pain. Min-jun laughed at the very idea: As if he would ever let something like debilitating pain finish him off.
Although, at times like this, late into the night, when Min-jun was exhausted and restless and feeling molten lava running through the veins of his arm, he did wish death upon himself. It’s not like he could make any progress on his mission at this rate. The King would continue to live on as long as the purification was incomplete. How convenient for him. Normally, Min-jun would find reason to believe this had been the King’s plan all along – to take away Min-jun’s ability to act – but he was too tired to do the mental gymnastics at this point. It had gotten to the point that whenever the King showed his outrageously symmetrical face, Min-jun was unable to pick out the falsities in his concern. That meant he was truly done for.
A shuffling sound at the door alerted him. Jeong-eun asked if he needed anything.
“Could you open the window?”
“Of course, Your Highness.” He could hear her walk around the room to crack open a few of the windows, just enough not to cause a draft. The last thing they needed right now was for him to catch a cold.
And then she stood there, so silent he thought she’d disappeared. He cracked one eye open. Jeong-eun stood not far from him, twiddling her thumbs and biting her lip.
“Someone is here to see you,” she managed. He had never seen her so nervous about another person’s visit. Not even when the King arrived, which bred a different sort of excitement in Jangmi Villa. No, there was a distinct fear in her face, her eyes wide. And anger, so uncharacteristic in Jeong-eun, but Min-jun knew all too well how to spot it.
“It’s the crazy shaman, isn’t it?” Min-jun sighed. Ah, he’d have to sit up for this. What a pain.
Jeong-eun froze up in surprise. “How did you know?”
“A lucky guess, I suppose.” Min-jun groaned as he pulled himself up on his good arm. Jeong-eun was beside him in a second, pleading with him to take things one step at a time. “Let him in.”
“What?” Jeong-eun hissed. Such indignance in her tone, one might think she was talking to a particularly stupid friend and not a Royal Family member. “But what if he tries to hurt you?”
“Then the King will punish him and I’ll finally have some vindication.” His Majesty wouldn’t kill the shaman, but it wasn’t like he could simply ignore the pain and death of his own Consort. Then again, Min-jun had no family to back him, and the Ministers thought he was some lowborn scum. They’d have a field day if his past ever came to light: The middle-class Consort revealed to have been a courtesan in one of the most notorious red-light districts in the nation.
So maybe the King wouldn’t care.
The other maids helped him into his robes, applied makeup under his eyes to mask the effects of countless nights without sleep. He took his place behind the table in the drawing-room, pleased to see that his looks hadn’t faded over the weeks that his illness had worsened. His face had grown thinner, making his cheeks a bit too sharp for his liking, but a little pain couldn’t wipe away years of honing his features to protection.
We’re sorry for MTLers or people who like using reading mode, but our translations keep getting stolen by aggregators so we’re going to bring back the copy protection. If you need to MTL please retype the gibberish parts.
The shaman walked in with a neutral expression, lips pulled into a thin line. His eyes, usually so full of disdain, were now ungiving. He sat down on the offered cushion, making no attempts to close the distance between them.
“What business do you have here?” Min-jun asked, hating the hoarseness of his own voice. Mother had always instructed him to protect it, since ‘the voice made an average man seem above average, and a beautiful man seem heaven-sent.’ But he was exhausted, and Mother’s voice echoed like a distant memory, drained of its power. “Come to gloat? To throw more insults around?”
“I’m here to assist you,” the shaman said, dull brown eyes half-lidded and focused on the ground.
“What?”
The shaman huffed, regaining some of his haughtiness. “I’m not doing it for you. His Majesty, the King . . . has expressed concern for your wellbeing. I could not turn him away.” He lowered his voice, tilting his head away, as if that would block his voice out. “Even though you don’t deserve it.”
Delightful as always.
“Did you really have to come all the way to my home for this?”
The shaman opened his mouth, indignant and stumbling over his word. “I . . . b-beg your pardon. I have gone out of my way to be near to ensure it doesn’t go wrong.” He clicked his tongue. “You really are an ungrateful fiend.”
“Indeed, the feeling is mutual. You must know a great deal about ungrateful fiends.”
“Do not make me regret this, boy.”
“Boy?” The gall to look down at him in such a way. As if Min-jun was nothing more than a bratty child. Well, he supposed it was preferable to being treated like something sub-human.
The shaman took a deep breath, whispering “for the King”, as he pulled out a small book from his robes.
“Have you done this before?”
“Stop talking.”
Fine. He was either going to help him or do something even worse than the purification. Going by how reluctant he looked, Min-jun was inclined to believe the former. Sun-woo’s acting paled in comparison to the King’s.
Min-jun shut up and let the shaman do his job. Being civil with him wasn’t enjoyable, but he’d do it if that’s what it took to get rid of this curse.
Flipping through, Sun-woo eventually stopped somewhere toward the end of the book, his hand splaying across the pages. He started to speak, so softly now that Min-jun couldn’t hear him. The effect was almost immediate. The burning sensation that engulfed his arm suddenly transformed into a mere echo of what it used to be, something more akin to sunlight. Slowly, the dark blue marks on his arm began to fade. A minute later it had disappeared, leaving his arm unmarred and blissfully painless.
That was it? A couple seconds and the pain he’d been dealing with for the last few months just disappeared?
“I thought you said you couldn’t reverse it?”
“I can’t,” Sun-woo muttered, snapping the book shut. “I merely used another method to complete the purification. It’s hardly effective, though. You’re still the filthy heathen you were before.”
“Sun,” Min-jun called, glad to be able to stand on his own again, even if his legs wobbled like that of a newborn deer. His guard had been standing in the corner of the room, glaring holes into the back of Sun-woo’s head, daring him to even try hurting his charge again. “Can you escort our guest back outside? Hearing him talk is almost as painful as enduring this injury.”
“Yes, your Highness.” Sun grabbed Sun-woo by the arm and proceeded to drag him out of the arm, much to the chagrin of the shaman.
“Do not touch me, you fiend!”
Ah, so he called everyone that. And Min-jun had begun to think he was a special sort of sinner.
Hands on his hips, he turned to the maids standing outside the open doors. “Jeong-eun, can you run a bath for me?”
“Right away, Your Highness!”
Min-jun fixed his gaze outside instead, out toward the garden paths. The King had said he’d liked Jangmi Villa’s gardens the best, and since that night, Min-jun had managed to spot him there from time to time, sitting among the roses and the streams like some wayward god. Tonight the gardens were empty, save for the incessant chirping of crickets.
Min-jun unwound his hair from its topknot, placing the gold pin on the table. He preferred it this way, as improper as it might be. He tied it up in a gold ribbon to keep it from whipping around in the wind and walked out of his chambers without a second thought.
“Your Majesty, where are you going?”
“For a walk. I haven’t been able to go outside for weeks now, and I think it’s about time for a change of scenery.”
They followed him out, fluttering around him in their white and blue robes while uttering nervous pseudo-complaints. Min-jun’s mood had brightened, though, and nothing could stop the welling excitement within him as he drew nearer to the outside. The moon was nearly full when he walked out, shining in its place between the stars. With the arrival of autumn, the leaves had begun to change color. A week more and the palace grounds would be a swath of orange and gold. And yet, the flowers showed no signs of dying. The King’s influence, no doubt. He should let them wither. They’d be back next spring anyhow.
Min-jun sat down in the grass near one of the streams, feeling the blades bend underneath his palms and fingers. He leaned back, tilting his head up, eyes shut. A cool breeze shuddered through the trees.
And then, he felt a hand behind him, gliding through the length of his hair. “This expression suits you, my love.”
Ah, fuck. He’d let down his guard.
He straightened, tucking his legs underneath him, and the hand disappeared. The King laid down in the grass, his perfect figure stretched out before Min-jun.
“Your Majesty,” he greeted, averting his gaze. “What brings you here?”
“I wanted to see if Sun-woo had done as I’d advised.” The King refused to take his eyes off of him. “It appears that he had.” The King’s fingers ghosted over his arm, before seizing Min-jun’s hand, lifting the sleeve. “As if nothing had happened. Fascinating . . .” And, before Min-jun could pull away, the King brought his knuckles to his lips, lingering there, a smile curling into Min-jun’s skin. “Is it not?”
Min-jun snatched his hand back, but he couldn’t deny the way his heartbeat had quickened as those lips moved against him.
“Well, now you’ve confirmed it,” Min-jun snapped. He rose to his feet. “Since you have nothing of value to share, I’ll be leaving now.”
He would’ve done just that, but a moment later something rough and unforgiving wrapped around his ankle. Next thing he knew he was falling to the ground, his palms reaching out to catch himself. The dirt laid soft underneath him, so he was unscathed. Unscathed, on his knees, and furious. So much for a good mood. Min-jun whipped his head around, finding the offending root wrapped around his ankle, effectively trapping him there.
“You bastard,” he muttered, grabbing at the plant, desperate to get it off. Being near the King was too dangerous. He pulled and pulled, but it was no use. He couldn’t get it off. “What is this thing made of?”
“It’s the root of an oak tree.” The King had laid back down in the grass, unbothered.
“Get. It. Off.”
The King hummed. “No.” And that smirk. Gods, that smirk. It made Min-jun want to kiss it off. Ah, this was too dangerous, too dangerous. He tried to pull at the root again, but it wouldn’t give. “You’ll run away if I do that.”
“Fine. Then, what do you want?”
“I wanted to discuss your debt.”
Min-jun sneered. “Debt?”
“Yes, love. For getting Sun-woo to cure you.” One of the King’s hands wove into Min-jun’s hair, until it reached the strings of the ribbon. A gentle tug was all it took to unravel the ribbon. “It took up quite a bit of my time. So, I expect you to give me yours in return.”
The King moved closer, and even if Min-jun had not been trapped there, he would’ve been spell-bound by that violet gaze. With the ribbon still in his hand, the King advanced until their lips were just a breath apart. Min-jun shut his eyes, certain he would be kissed. They always took kisses as payment, or else something more than a kiss. He wouldn’t mind either way.
Alas, the King’s lips never brushed against his own. Never came close to it. Instead, he felt the King’s hands in his hair again, tying that damn ribbon back into place.
“It had become undone,” the King whispered in his ear.
This damn tease!
How dare he play this game with him. Min-jun had worked in a brothel for goodness sake. He knew every trick in the book, and the King had tried this particular ploy one too many times, but Min-jun wouldn’t let himself be beaten this time.
He took hold of the King’s chin, and those violet eyes turned curious, questioning. Without a second thought, for he would surely back down if he thought about it twice, Min-jun leaned in, bringing their lips together.
Trying to out-seduce him, hmph. The nerve.
This Shaman is some kind of self-entitled “righteous” saint my god, makes me want to stab him so much 😐🔪
And Min-jun… you’re falling, dear Murderous Muffin 🤭
I love the term “Murderous Muffin” for Min-Jun. Perfect! (And it gave me a chuckle. 😁)
Oooh, la la~~~!