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Chapter 09
It had been five days since the secret remedy began. Half a sijin remained before the Ming envoys were due to arrive.
Dawn slowly spread through the latticed windows of Gangnyeongjeon Hall. Pale light brushed across the bed, revealing the king’s face. With only a single lamp lit, Soheon sat beside him, carefully examining his condition.
If they could endure just a few more hours, it would suffice.
Yet a bluish tint seemed to seep faintly along the back of his neck. Though his body temperature remained barely sustained and did not emit the chill of a corpse, there was an unmistakable sensation—as though the shadow of death were creeping up from somewhere deep within.
Soheon lightly pressed her fingers against his skin, tracing its texture. The slightly swollen veins and the strangely dulled color of his lips pounded against her heart like a hammer.
If this continues…
Her thoughts tangled at once. Had the balance of her prescription faltered, even slightly? Or was his body itself unable to endure the potency of the herbs? And if, as warned, he were to slip into true death—what then?
Her hand, resting unmoving near his wrist, revealed her unease.
“Medical Woman Yun, does it not seem that the scent about His Majesty has grown stronger of late? Is something amiss with his royal body?”
“For now, it remains manageable. But I must observe him more closely.”
The door opened. Into the chamber thick with the scent of death stepped Hahm, carrying with him a crisp, refreshing fragrance that did not belong in such a place. He always smelled faintly of pine. Whenever she caught that scent, her spinning thoughts stilled and her anxious heart calmed.
Now, too, his presence alone steadied her.
After studying the king for a moment, he looked at Soheon with concern.
“Father’s complexion appears paler than yesterday.”
“Your Highness… there are slight signs of adverse effects. Perhaps the quantity of herbs I used in the second stage was excessive. It is my failing. I beg you to punish me.”
Regret and self-reproach weighed heavily in her voice.
Hahm moved quietly and sat beside her. He gazed at the king for a long moment, then shook his head.
“What are you saying? No—this cannot be done without you. Do not drive yourself so harshly.”
His words held both certainty and comfort. Smiling gently, he lifted a damp cloth and wiped the medicinal residue from the back of her hand.
Soheon felt herself drawn helplessly into that warmth.
May this never wound him. May his warm hands never be stained by this cruel undertaking.
Lost in thought, she looked up as he smiled again. The tight knot of anxiety within her loosened.
Why did her heart grow calm when she looked at him—yet also beat faster?
But there was no time for sentiment. Steeling herself, she spread out bundles of herbs—roots and dried leaves arranged with care.
She recalculated the proportions with her brush while Hahm leaned in to examine the revised prescription.
“Here. What if you add baekchul to this formula?” he suggested. “When I once studied herbs, I encountered a similar case. The root’s energy may suppress the toxicity of the others.”
“You seem to know a great deal about medicinal plants.”
“When I was young, after being scolded by my mother, I once slipped out of the palace. I happened to meet a woman who taught me about herbs. We wandered the mountains together. Since then, I have grown familiar with their scents and names.”
A faint smile touched his lips at the memory.
Beside him, Soheon ground the new combination into fine powder. Mixing it with a drop of water, she created a small extract and spread it thinly along the inside of the king’s wrist.
Before their eyes, the bluish cast slowly subsided.
“Your Highness! It is working.”
“I am relieved to have been of help.”
She examined the king’s face again. He was not restored—but a subtle warmth seemed to return, whispering of hope.
It was still too early to employ the third stage, which carried grave risks. They would have to sustain this fragile balance a while longer.
At that same hour, beyond the palace walls, sunlight slipped over layered rooftops of tiled eaves. Unlike the clamor of the outer world, a vast estate stood hushed, as though holding its breath. Even the distant cry of cicadas faded into silence, leaving only the whisper of wind.
The heavy black walls of Chief State Councillor Min Hyeong-seok’s residence seemed to embody the weight of power itself. Tall and fortified, they shut out both sound and scrutiny, like a fortress severed from the world.
Only after passing through several gates did faint voices emerge from the sarangchae pavilion deep within. There, three men—including Min Hyeong-seok—sat in tense silence.
The air inside was taut as stretched wire.
“Does His Majesty not seem… different of late?”
“Yes, my lord. I hear he has postponed all audiences with officials. He has not attended to state affairs at all. It is troubling.”
“And tomorrow the Ming envoys arrive, yet the Crown Prince handles all matters in his stead. This is unprecedented.”
The words strengthened Min’s suspicions. He stared into the wine cup in his hand, the red liquid flickering in candlelight. He lifted it halfway, then set it down untouched.
“I hear his illness is grave.”
A memory surfaced—twenty years past, when he had been a young official. He and the then-Crown Prince—now the king—had sat late into the night envisioning reform. Beneath lamplight they had spoken of the people’s suffering and how to rescue Joseon from decline.
“Scholar Min,” the young prince had once asked, “what kind of nation should we build?”
His eyes had burned with conviction—not mere idealism, but resolve.
“A nation where the people do not starve, and where neighboring states dare not encroach,” Min had replied.
“Then bold decisions will be necessary. If you stand beside me, nothing will be impossible.”
That promise had bound Min with fierce loyalty. He had served devotedly. Yet after ascending the throne, the king had changed—cautious, moderate, at times indecisive. Strong reforms were postponed; diplomacy toward Ming and even barbarian states grew overly deferential.
The king sought stability. Min believed such gentleness was poison.
“With his former vigor, such an illness should not lay him low. Could there be another cause?”
“My lord, perhaps His Majesty is truly in critical condition—and thus everything is being concealed.”
“Perhaps. But if so, should we not confirm it? If he is too ill to govern…”
He did not finish the sentence. He did not need to. A vacant throne meant opportunity.
“If His Majesty is indeed gravely ill, should we not prepare—for the nation’s future?”
“Shall we look among the collateral royal line for a suitable age?”
“Do not speak so rashly while the Crown Prince lives!” Min snapped—then paused. “Still… contingencies are necessary.”
Though a crown prince stood ready, to mention collateral kin was to question him. Min did not trust Hahm. The prince resembled his father in moderation—far from Min’s iron vision.
“If a new king must be enthroned, he will require loyal ministers such as ourselves. Experience and wisdom will be essential.”
“But my lord—if His Majesty regains his former strength and resolve? Would you proceed nonetheless?”
“If he truly demonstrates such will again, I shall follow as duty demands. Yet… has not too much time already passed?”
Silence fell heavily.
His resolve was set. Further words were meaningless.
Yet one question circled endlessly in Min Hyeong-seok’s mind.
That night… everything should have ended.
