Walls Have Ears (4)
A month had passed since Jin Yeo-rip arrived at Cheongeumbang, and he was gradually growing accustomed to his new life.
“Yawn.”
Jin Yeo-rip stretched languidly as he yawned. Freshly awake, he blinked his eyes to shake off the sleep.
Cock-a-doodle-doo!
The distant cry of the first rooster pierced the air—a natural alarm clock. He couldn’t help but wonder how those birds always woke up at the exact same time every day.
“Ah, damn it. Overslept again.”
It was all Baekhak’s fault. The old scholar piled on the studies so relentlessly that Jin Yeo-rip half-jokingly thought he might end up taking the imperial exams at this rate. His packed schedule of lessons had pushed everything back, forcing him to train until midnight once he returned to Unjeong Pavilion.
“He’s just too damn enthusiastic,” he grumbled, pulling on his clothes.
Over the past month living at Unjeong Pavilion, Jin Yeo-rip had settled into a routine: meditation before the rooster crowed to complete a full circuit of his meridians, then running once the bird sang out. It was a habit ingrained from his time at Shaolin. The temple’s warrior monks, who emphasized balanced training of body and inner arts, would run before the communal meal after morning prayers to build stamina.
The reason was simple. The world was full of eccentrics who cultivated external arts to make their bodies impervious to blades or honed internal energy to resist cold, heat, and even poisons. But no one was immune to all illnesses. Even martial artists who grew stronger with age through their inner power were done for if sickness struck. That was why Shaolin monks ran—to stay healthy.
Live long... Wait, hold on. Can’t they just die early and head straight to paradise? Isn’t that the point? Or maybe they just hated the food. Who could blame them? Eating nothing but grass all day? No wonder they ran—to work up an appetite. And leaving food on the plate meant enduring a full swing from the senior monk’s staff.
But he’d believe it! Running for health, that’s all.
In his previous life, he’d been given a terminal diagnosis and hadn’t made it past thirty. Now that he’d hitched a ride in someone else’s body? He wasn’t just going to slap shit on the wall—no, he planned to live far longer than average, healthy as a horse, savoring the good life.
That’s why, even after leaving Shaolin for Unjeong Pavilion, he kept it up: once his breathing exercises wrapped up and the rooster crowed, he’d start his run. From Naemiwon, where Unjeong Pavilion stood, all the way to Oesiwon—the village he’d first seen upon arriving at Cheongeumbang.
He’d learned that Oesiwon hadn’t always been part of Cheongeumbang. Desperate folks drawn by the organization’s promise had gradually clustered along Naemiwon’s walls, forming a settlement. As the population swelled, inns sprang up, merchants followed, and a proper village took shape. They were Cheongeumbang affiliates in name only, unrecognized by the core. Life at the bottom was laid bare there.
Oesiwon was also home to servants and laborers from Taewon and Naemiwon, along with their families. Sure, Naemiwon had dorms for them, but who wanted to live apart from loved ones? Families stuck to Oesiwon.
Not that it was all cozy homes. There were dingy inns and taverns, street stalls galore, blacksmith alleys echoing with the clang of hammers. Beggars haunted every corner, and back-alley thugs lurked in the shadows...
That last part struck him as odd. Thugs near Cheongeumbang? The answer was obvious: the higher-ups never bothered looking under their own feet. They didn’t care about the lives of the lowly.
That made Oesiwon feel more alive, more human, than the glittering Naemiwon.
Jin Yeo-rip set off from Naemiwon, running a full hour to scour Oesiwon as the early risers greeted the dawn. Ironically, those scraping by at rock bottom started their days far earlier than the well-fed elite.
“Oh? Young master, out for your run again?”
“Yeah.”
“Not a single day missed. Truly admirable. A true martial artist must be diligent like that. Persistence is the—”
Im Pilsaeng, the burly courtyard sweeper who’d just finished his chores, gaped in admiration before launching into a lecture, a proud grin on his face.
“I’m off.”
Jin Yeo-rip neatly ignored him and dashed through the gates.
“He didn’t even let me finish!”
Grumbling, Im Pilsaeng propped his broom against the wall and gave chase. Even inside Cheongeumbang, Jin Yeo-rip couldn’t let his guard down. Time to switch from sweeper to bodyguard.
***
Outside, Jin Yeo-rip’s eyes fell on the walls dividing Naemiwon from Oesiwon. Below, servants already bustling for their morning shift hurried through the gates.
His runs were routine now; gate guards and passing maids bowed respectfully as he went by. Awkward at first, but familiar now.
Beyond the gates, Wang Sik, the fruit vendor in the market street, tossed him a peach.
“Young master!”
A peach.
“Thanks!”
“Aigoo, I’m the one who’s grateful every time. Looks like business’ll boom today thanks to you.”
Jin Yeo-rip flicked a coin back, and Wang Sik bowed deeply.
As if he were the reason for good sales. Just polite flattery to brighten the day.
But it wasn’t just Wang Sik. Pounding every alley in Oesiwon during his runs meant early-bird merchants greeted him warmly.
And as always, his pit stop.
“Noodles again today?”
“Breakfast means noodles!”
At least they tasted somewhat like what he’d known in his past life. Damn, I miss kimchi.
A moment later, Jang Il, the noodle shop owner, beamed and slid over a steaming bowl, prepped in advance. Possible only because he ran like clockwork.
“Whew!”
Jang Il watched fondly as Jin Yeo-rip slurped down the noodles and broth like a flash flood.
To them, he was a strange one. The young master heir who’d returned after years away—untouchable status. Yet he always greeted first, used honorifics with elders. Unheard of.
And more: he’d help push struggling carts or share heavy loads. Suspicion at first, but now they accepted his sincerity.
Cheongeumbang overflowed with delicacies—yet every morning, he devoured their cheap noodles with gusto. That sealed it. Jin Yeo-rip had quickly won over Oesiwon’s folk by approaching without airs, blending in.
But he had a real reason for stopping here. Jang Il was a social butterfly—known to all, friends with everyone. Gossip traveled fast to him. And once he started talking? Like a pro athlete on a rant, endless. He just loved to chat; once his mouth opened, it rarely closed. One tale birthed another.
Jin Yeo-rip just listened.
“Hey, any fun stories lately?”
“Fun stories?”
“Yeah, like some daughter running off, or folks catching eyes.”
“Aigoo, young master. What’s fun about us little people’s tales? Just everyday life.”
Jang Il waved it off with a laugh, but Jin Yeo-rip grinned. Fun? Absolutely.
To Jang Il, they were mundane. To Jin Yeo-rip? A window into Cheongeumbang’s underbelly.
He hadn’t realized at first. But after a day or two, bonding with them, he saw how invaluable their chatter was.
Walls have holes, walls have ears. Daylight whispers reach birds, nighttime ones rats. Jang Il’s tales were Cheongeumbang’s cracks, the birds’ and rats’ reports.
Who lived in Oesiwon? Families of servants and laborers toiling everywhere in Cheongeumbang. Porters from the shops, low-rank guards on patrol. Exhausted after a day’s grind, what did they tell their kin? Gripes about bosses. Rants about superiors. Venting was relief.
Those rants hopped mouth to mouth until they reached Jang Il—and then Jin Yeo-rip’s ears.
Slow, secondhand intel? Better than nothing.
Over noodles, he gleaned Cheongeumbang truths unavailable elsewhere.
His “distant relatives”? Biased, factional. Even if aligned with the patriarch, divisions meant self-serving spin. Lacking objectivity.
Jang Il’s words? Pure underling perspective. Unaligned, perfect.
No skipping runs. Oesiwon was mandatory; Jang Il’s shop, a must.
“Let’s see, what was that talk from yesterday...?”
Jang Il pondered, then dove in. Jin Yeo-rip reacted—surprised, frowning—nodding along, deliberately savoring his nearly empty bowl.
“Here’s your noodle money. Gotta head out.”
“Already? Not hitting the blacksmith alley today?”
“Overslept.”
“Aigoo, old man Hwang’ll be disappointed. That stubborn coot’s been waiting to beat you at go, eyes about to pop out.”
“Tell him I’ll swing by tomorrow.”
“Got it.”
“See ya. Time for the academy.”
“Heh, don’t be late. Baekhak’s no joke.”
“Tell me about it.”
Jin Yeo-rip pouted and bolted toward Naemiwon.
Merchants watched his unusual route, tilting heads. Routine breeds expectation.
“What’s up with the young master?”
“Yeah, he always goes to the smithy.”
Jang Il bellowed over the murmurs.
“Overslept!”
“Ah, that explains it. Thought he was done with us for a sec—nearly got bummed out.”
They nodded, still wistful. Jang Il smiled warmly. To them, Jin Yeo-rip was that feel-good first customer of the day.
Bit by bit, he’d slipped into their world—not as the lofty heir, but as a familiar face.
Not intentional, of course. It started for health, then just felt right. Oesiwon’s gritty humanity evoked his past life more than Taewon or Naemiwon’s deference or hostility ever could.