his quiet battle—
was only just beginning.
Before the Door of Physician Seolgyeongseong's House
The boy had followed well.
He never seemed troubled by the adults' brusque attempts to keep their distance.
The more curt his companions became, the more honestly, precisely, and steadfastly he carried himself—
there was no helping but to find him endearing.
Park Jin-sul's son.
Park Seong-il's younger brother.
Park Seong-jin.
Each time that name was spoken, it hurt the chest.
That he accepted those truths without expression only made them more cruel.
Yet he had never shrunk back.
Never once had he worn the look of I am pitiful.
It made him admirable.
And that made him all the more infuriating.
The foolish boy never took care of his own body.
Poison crept into his breath, and he was cut by blades steeped in toxin.
He could have avoided it, yet he did not.
Because if he stepped aside, the king would be in danger.
Then poison seeped in through wounds earned in battle.
His body must have reeled, his vision blurred—
yet he forced his inner strength to turn and fought on to the end.
That was why assassins were sent in numbers.
They attacked until it worked.
They were never satisfied with a single success.
Small wounds accumulated.
Minor damage piled up.
In the end, it led to death.
The boy, knowing nothing of such designs, fought whenever he could move.
Each time, it was because he could still bring down at least one foe.
Carrying the unconscious Park Seong-jin on his back,
Song I-sul arrived at a solid, square house—
a place Seolgyeongseong used like an attached quarters.
Before the high gate.
The door was firmly shut.
When Song I-sul knocked, a voice drifted out from within.
"We are not receiving patients at this hour."
It was not a matter of time.
Their clothes were shabby, and a weapon was held in hand—
from the other side, it was a sight one would wish to avoid.
Come another time.
Or perhaps: even passing this gate would be troublesome.
It was a firm refusal, delivered without overt rudeness.
At that moment, Song I-sul felt suddenly lonelier.
They had come to this state protecting the realm,
yet those who benefited from it now found fault with them.
"If we come at another time, the man may be dead…"
Park Seong-jin hung limp, teetering on the brink.
"That is none of my concern."
The words came out wrong.
At that single sentence, Song I-sul's eyes cooled.
Though there was no wind, his collar swelled.
"Right. Of course.
If you die here snapping at us, that's none of my concern either."
The outer boundary of the aura around him shuddered and swelled.
The space his body occupied seemed to double—no, to grow tenfold.
Was this how an enraged beast looked when it expanded its frame?
The air froze.
A single breath rose sharp as a blade's edge.
"Say that again."
As Song I-sul's words fell, a short sigh leaked from beyond the door.
"Haa… we are not receiving patients."
The tone was cold.
Yet the door soon opened a crack.
An eye, caught at the threshold, swept over Park Seong-jin's slack face.
The door, about to close, halted where it stood.
The one who opened it was Seolgyeongseong's attendant.
Into her gaze flowed the traces of battle—
ragged clothes, the reek of blood and rotting flesh,
and a patient too weak even to groan.
After a brief silence, a low voice emerged.
"…Master Seolgyeongseong will come out shortly."
As the words ended, footsteps sounded from within.
They were regular—neither hurried nor slow.
He must have sensed the surge of inner force Song I-sul had drawn up.
That sensation was likely what brought him out.
The door opened wide.
What appeared first was an unusually neat manner of dress.
Beneath it showed a single layer of white sash.
It was Seolgyeongseong himself.
His face was firm, like the surface of an old medicine jar.
His expression was stone, his eyes sharp beneath fine wrinkles.
Yet somewhere deep within, a trace of compassion flickered.
"I am Seolgyeongseong," he said.
His voice was low, resonant like an ancient bell.
He looked at Park Seong-jin for a long moment, then glanced at Song I-sul.
Without a word, he gestured inward.
"Come in."
Truth Within the Scent of Medicine
The room was filled with gentle lamplight and the smell of herbs.
It was a clean space, stripped of ornament and excess.
Between old medicine cabinets stood a large wooden table,
upon it spread medical texts laid open like blank pages.
Seolgyeongseong looked down at Park Seong-jin, then turned his gaze to Song I-sul.
"What is this child's standing?" he asked quietly.
Song I-sul recited the circumstances—brief, but precise.
The fighting at Hwajuh, the infiltration of the guards, and this brush with death.
Seolgyeongseong nodded.
Then, very slowly, he took Park Seong-jin's pulse.
It was a method Song I-sul had never seen.
Three fingers placed in sequence:
lightly at the cun,
deeper at the guan,
and finally touching the chi.
Seolgyeongseong drew in a breath and held it, not letting it go.
A second-like stillness passed.
He pursed his lips and murmured low,
"Floating and weak at the cun, constrained and faint at the guan, severed at the chi."
He lifted his head.
"The heart of breath is scattered."
He rose and walked to the medicine shelf.
He selected pieces of coptis, slivers of ginseng, dried fragments of pinellia.
He burned them gently, creating a faint incense.
That scent he wafted softly toward Park Seong-jin's nose and chest.
"It is poison," he said.
The words were firm.
"A man-made poison, carrying yin energy and killing intent."
Song I-sul's breath thinned.
"Then… can he be saved?"
Seolgyeongseong fell silent.
It was the silence of measuring what was possible.
"It is possible," he said at last.
Then he added, "On one condition."
The word condition settled heavily in the room.
"This matter exceeds the realm of medicine," Seolgyeongseong said, his voice low and clear.
"It is poison from the great capital, entangled with the flow of politics.
The Empress's hand is in it.
It is her poison."
He looked straight at Song I-sul.
"If word leaks that I treated him, I will not suffer merely inconvenience."
Song I-sul's face hardened.
Would the Empress take revenge on a physician who cured her poison?
Seolgyeongseong placed a thin sheet of paper on the table.
On it was written a simple line:
Treatment in secrecy. Responsibility made explicit.
It was written by the king.
The vermilion seal was unmistakable.
"Even if you act on the king's will, what is needed now is a clearer guarantee."
Lee Ji-seon spoke without hesitation.
"His Majesty gave the order himself and charged us with ensuring safety."
Seolgyeongseong closed his eyes briefly.
"For now, this seal is sufficient," he said.
"But later, proof that the treatment was by royal command will be required."
Song I-sul clenched his teeth.
"Fine. I will bring it. Whatever it takes."
There was no submission in his voice—only resolve.
Seolgyeongseong stepped to Park Seong-jin's side and laid a hand upon him.
That hand was surprisingly warm, its strength gentle.
He placed his palm on the boy's forehead and closed his eyes for a moment.
The air in the room trembled, just slightly.
"Gather the breath, turn the poison outward, and calm the heart-mind."
Song I-sul moved at once, loosening his collar and regulating the paths of breath.
Seolgyeongseong trickled a small amount of warm medicinal decoction into Park Seong-jin's mouth.
Lee Ji-seon wiped his nape with a cloth.
Seolgyeongseong took out his needles.
Dozens of them were arrayed by size, like troops in review.
His hands moved with an artist's grace.
With each needle inserted,
a regular sound began, little by little, to return in Park Seong-jin's chest.
Soon, scores of needles covered his body.
As they settled one by one,
the living pulse crept back, inch by inch.
Seolgyeongseong spoke softly.
"This child's will to live is strong.
That is why he has endured this long."
After a pause, he continued.
"Power and war reduce people to this.
That is why I came to hate them—not individuals, but such scenes themselves.
I have seen them for far too long.
That is why I refused at first…"
He trailed off with a sigh.
A faint warmth spread through the room.
Anxiety remained, but the breathing deepened.
Seolgyeongseong looked at Song I-sul.
"And the guarantee you have offered will protect me."
Song I-sul clenched both hands tightly.
Lee Ji-seon bowed his head, steadying his breath.
Outside, the light of dawn was seeping in, thin and pale.
Seolgyeongseong's small, solid struggle—
his quiet battle—
was only just beginning.