Chapter 44
The skin on her face split open — yet, strangely, not a single drop of blood flowed out.
“M–My goodness!”
The women, trembling in fear, turned their heads away for a moment.
The worn, outer layer of skin fell away limply, revealing a complexion of an entirely different color beneath. Namgung Chumyeong hastily raised his hand to cover his face, but there was one person who had already engraved that fleeting image in their eyes.
Namgung Heemyeong’s lips trembled in disbelief.
“…A human mask.”
His confused eyes swirled with a storm of emotion.
Shock, surprise, suspicion, denial, suspicion again—then, realization.
“This…!”
Breathing raggedly, he stared with eyes full of disbelief. And finally, Namgung Heemyeong gently set Yeil down on the floor, his gaze sharp with the murderous clarity of someone who had arrived at an unwanted truth.
“This… this damned bastard…”
His face twisted like a demon’s as he drew his sword.
“You— You filthy dog! Since when have you been deceiving Brother Chumyeong?!”
“Heemyeong!”
The hall erupted into chaos. Screams and shrieks filled the air; someone ran, and others followed in pursuit.
Did they know?
That not a single drop of the red liquor—Hongyu—had touched Namgung Heemyeong’s flask.
The one who poisoned Heemyeong’s drink was Yeil.
Or rather, Jin Cheongak, acting on Yeil’s orders.
“[When everyone’s attention turns to me, slip this into Namgung Heemyeong’s food unnoticed.]”
That was the instruction Yeil had given him before entering the banquet hall.
“[And this— the left vial— is the antidote. If either I or Heemyeong are poisoned, you must pour at least six drops into our mouths within half a gak.]”
Had only Namgung Soyou collapsed, it might have been dismissed as a mere disturbance at the banquet.
But if poisoning extended to Namgung Heemyeong as well, the situation would escalate far beyond that.
Namgung Jeokmyeong would not stand idly by.
At the mention of an antidote, Jin Cheongak had raised a brow, but soon, as if understanding her intent, he accepted the two small vials and concealed them naturally in his sleeve.
“[This should be entertaining. But do you need an antidote? It’s not as if your body belongs to the culprit.]”
“[Don’t forget—the antidote must be given within half a gak at the latest.]”
How long had it been since then?
Amidst the uproar, Yeil slowly opened her eyes. Of everyone in the chaos, only Jin Cheongak was looking directly at her.
But he didn’t move.
He simply gazed down at her with an unreadable expression. Seeing that calm, emotionless face reminded her of the first time they’d met—
“Cough!”
Blood welled up her throat again.
She knew exactly what Jin Cheongak was thinking.
‘He’s observing me… trying to see if I’m dying or recovering.’
Those who reached the same realm as Yeil often gained bodies immune to all poisons.
But she had only attained a half awakening—her recovery couldn’t be certain.
Without the antidote, she could very well spend days wavering between life and death before her breath finally stopped. Jin Cheongak was surely waiting for that very moment.
He stepped closer.
Through her blurring vision, his face alone remained clear. He knelt down, his hot hand brushing her cheek. Then, as though he found the situation amusing, he gave a quiet laugh.
If Jin Cheongak betrayed her now, Yeil would die.
Just like that—meaninglessly, without ever fulfilling the purpose that had brought her into the Namgung clan.
“Yeil.”
But perhaps—
“You’re strangely naïve at times, you know that?”
Perhaps crossing that threshold of death might actually—
“Hah… With eyes like that, how could I not want to save you?”
Just before her eyelids shut completely,
a bitter liquid flooded her mouth— the antidote she had entrusted to Jin Cheongak.
Feeling the fluid pool beneath her tongue, Yeil closed her eyes peacefully.
Three years earlier — the outskirts of Xinjiang.
It was a day of howling winds and swirling snow.
A ragged old house stood half-collapsed, buffeted by the freezing gusts that wailed like the cries of trapped ghosts.
Yeil sat silently, watching an old man sew. His hands were deft but clumsy, his stitching both skilled and oddly rough.
It had already been a year since the old man had taken her in when she was on the verge of death.
“[Tch, damn it. What kind of unlucky rag doll have I dragged in now?]”
This eccentric old man only ever grew quiet and stopped pestering her when he was sewing—just like now.
Probably because he owned so few garments. Yeil wasn’t much better off, so she often watched him work carefully, studying his needle and thread.
At least, until she heard footsteps crunching over the snow.
“Old man.”
“…”
“Is that someone you know outside?”
In a dangerous land like this, there were only two kinds of people who would come seeking a reclusive master:
Debtors—or enemies.
But the old man’s reaction that day was… strange.
He stiffened, then straightened his posture, adjusting his hair and collar.
No amount of dusting could make him look less like a beggar, but still—seeing that wild beast of an old man suddenly concerned with appearances caught Yeil’s attention.
“Don’t come out,” he told her firmly.
It was an unnecessary warning—one that only made her more curious.
Still, she only watched with mild interest, not enough to interfere. But sound travels, and her curiosity had ears.
The old man stepped outside to greet his visitor.
“I greet the Young Lord.”
The stranger, referred to as Young Lord, replied evenly.
“Rise.”
Rise? Did that mean the stubborn old man had actually knelt? Unbelievable.
“It has been a long time, Young Lord. You’ve grown splendidly.”
“Have I? I suppose I’ve shot up a bit. It’s been three years since I last saw you—hardly surprising.”
The visitor’s voice was relaxed, deliberate—someone well accustomed to giving orders.
Was the old man once his bodyguard or retainer?
But he didn’t seem like just a mere guard. His presence was… extraordinary.
“I never thought the Young Lord would come all the way out here.”
“I didn’t think I’d have to shake down every rat hole to find you either. Life’s like that, isn’t it? Overcome one hardship, and another always waits—just as my dear elder brother waits for me.”
“Your insight has deepened, Young Lord. How fares the First Young Lord?”
First Young Lord?
What a strange title. A ‘Young Lord’ is a ‘Young Lord’; one doesn’t usually need a number before it—unless the family was divided or hierarchical in a peculiar way.
“What do I care? That meddlesome man never leaves me in peace.”
“Still, as they say, a needle in a sack will always show its point. His senses are sharp; unless one of you is gone for good, he will continue to hound you.”
“Then why don’t you kneel before him and offer your wise counsel? Tell him his younger brother has no ambition, and it would be best if he left me alone.”
“How could a heretic like me dare to offer counsel to the First Young Lord? The moment our eyes meet, he’d draw his sword and chase me down.”
A heretic? So the old man was an outcast of their clan.
The visitor gave a short laugh—not of joy, but of weary amusement.
“Shall we end the pleasantries here?”
“…”
“Let’s get to the point. My brother dearly wishes to see you. As his sibling, I can no longer delay.”
“You speak of taking my head so calmly, Young Lord.”
“For a heretic, that’s a merciful end. Obey quietly, and those inside won’t be harmed.”
At that moment—
Yeil rose, gripping her sword.
Her steps did not falter as she tore through the flimsy paper door and stepped into the snowy courtyard.
The visitor was a tall, broad man—his physique so solid that no warrior would dare stand lightly before him. Three or four grim-faced guards stood behind him, radiating a chilling aura.
He indeed looked every bit the Young Lord—refined and powerful.
He was also strikingly handsome; the way he wore his dark robes and black hat exuded quiet authority.
“You damned girl!” the old man yelled.
“…”
“Have you lost your mind? In this blizzard, showing your bare chest like that—what lunatic would go out dressed like that?!”
Yeil slowly looked down. Through her half-opened jacket, her cleavage was faintly visible—but it wasn’t as scandalous as he made it sound.
“I’m a maiden?” she asked flatly.
The old man’s eyes went wide, his finger trembling as he pointed at her.
“Is that what’s important right now, you crazy wench?! Go inside and put on some proper clothes!”
“I don’t have any. You were still mending them.”
“Oh, heavens… I’m going to have a stroke…”
