The Open Gate - 3
"Me? Hopil? Whatever could you mean?"
Don't tell me she's seen through me.
"Because you're the author, Young Master Kang. You're Hopil, aren't yooou."
Unable to hold my gaze, Jegal Hyang nonetheless spoke with unwavering conviction.
She had uncovered the very identity I'd worked so hard to bury.
When it came to guarding secrets, the only truly wuxia solution was the classic murder-the-witness gambit. Unfortunately, the only mouth I had ever sealed in my life had been sealed with a kiss rather than a blade — so hearing her out seemed the wiser course.
"Hopil is a friend of mine. He is not me."
If I'd intended to own up to it that easily, I would never have hidden it in the first place. I denied it on the spot.
"You only appeared in Yichang last year. You're from Joseon, so you had no ties there at aaaall."
Utterly indifferent to my denial, Jegal Hyang began unfolding her reasoning.
This is the part where a mystery drama would cue up its big-reveal music.
So I'm the culprit in this scenario, am I? I've lived decently in a world of murim without committing a single violent crime — my sins amount to survival-level cons and a suspicious number of romantic entanglements, that's all.
"Yes. Guilty as charged."
"And yet Wind and Cloud of the Tang Clan went on sale the very moment you opened your bookstore, Young Master Kang."
A man of Joseon — no native of the Central Plains, no local connections of any kind. How, then, could Hopil of Yichang have struck up such perfect rapport with me that the book launched the very day my doors opened?
A fair point.
"Hopil simply brought the manuscript to me while I was still preparing for the opening. Thanks to him, publication went off without a hitch."
"At a bookstore drowning in debt that hadn't even had its grand opening yeet?"
Strange, isn't it?
With my debts, printing a new title would have been difficult, and the city had bookstores a-plenty — so why Daseogak of all places? A razor-sharp observation.
"As it happens, the previous owner of the bookstore I acquired had been financing Hopil all along. That connection is how I came to make his acquaintance."
I'd fielded that particular jab a few times myself, so I had my rebuttal loaded.
"And there's also the fact that if anything happens to you, Young Master Kang, the writing of Wind and Cloud of the Tang Clan comes to a haaaalt."
She's one step short of pointing at me and declaring, "You are Hopil."
"My friend simply cares for me far too deeply."
"Then will Volume 4 of Wind and Cloud of the Tang Clan be coming out sooooon?"
"I imagine it will, once the Wuhan matter is resolved."
"...There's one much simpler conclusion than a hundred coincidences stacking up like this, yooou know."
"When a traveler in dire straits chances upon a companion on the road, do we not call it fate?"
Facing Jegal Hyang and her deeply suspicious expression, I spoke with the reverent air of a man recalling the day he met the master who changed his life.
I concede that the circumstantial evidence is overflowing. But here is the thing — there is no proof. Is there?
"And the autographed copiiiies?"
"I was keeping that under wraps, but... the truth is, I received mine in advance."
Jegal Hyang's brow knotted at once.
There. The one hole in her case, plugged. Done.
All that remained was to steer this into a delightful misunderstanding, share a good laugh, and wrap things up. But it seemed Jegal Hyang had not asked for nothing.
"Then what about thiiis?"
As if producing a gadget from a futuristic robot's four-dimensional pocket, Jegal Hyang drew something out of a box.
More evidence?
What she held up, on closer inspection, was a pair of books.
"Wind and Cloud of the Tang Clan... and our exchange diary?"
How are those evidence?
"The prose style of both texts is exactly the saaaame."
"...Ah."
Jegal Hyang was the novel's most devoted reader. And what if a reader that devoted had pored every bit as carefully over the diary I had written with such earnest devotion of late?
In that instant, I understood exactly how this disaster had come to pass.
"Your favorite words, the way you arrange your sentences, even the structure of how your stories unfold — iiiidentical."
She spread both the novel and the exchange diary open before my eyes for comparison.
I had seen it happen before — web novelists whose true identities leaked out even after they changed pen names. I just never imagined I would end up being one of them.
The shackles of deduction closed in, link by link. Was this what a culprit felt as a master detective laid the whole truth bare? Even so, I had no intention of coming quietly.
"I've devoured my friend's book hundreds of times over. Is it any wonder his style rubbed off on me?"
Writing styles can be imitated, after all.
"...Then what about your handwriting?"
The master detective clearly had no intention of stopping here.
"My handwriting? You can't possibly mean it matches a printed book?"
"I-I once received a thank-you letter from author Hopil, yooou see."
"Pardon? A thank-you letter? Wait?! Did you happen to send yours in a pink envelope?"
In a flash, a single letter swept through my mind.
"Yeeees."
"I knew you'd drawn artwork inspired by Wind and Cloud of the Tang Clan, but I never dreamed you had actually sent it in a letter."
That fan art — fine enough to draw gasps of envy from a professional court painter — had been sent by Miss Jegal Hyang?
"Author Hopil's handwriting and yours are exactly the saaaame."
Checkmate.
There I stood before Jegal Hyang — smiling, the truth all but fully unraveled — unable to produce a single word.
Should I just come clean?
No. If I were going to cave that easily, I'd have told Lim Hayeon first. Then what on earth was I supposed to say?
Hopil's handwriting and Kang Yunho's were identical. With hard evidence like that, was there any way out?
There was.
"That letter — I'm the one who sent it, actually."
"Yooou?"
"I read every letter addressed to Hopil before it reaches him. I write the thank-you replies as well."
"Y-you sent it yourself, Young Master Kang?"
"Yes. I sent it on his behalf — I apologize if that wounds you."
At my courteous apology, Jegal Hyang clenched one small fist, then opened her mouth again.
"Ev-every single piece of circumstantial evidence — an autographed copy that shouldn't even exist — identical handwriting — a letter sent by you, Young Master Kang — and matching prose styles — and you're calling all of that a m-misunderstandiiiiing?"
Jegal Hyang spoke as though she could not believe her own ears.
Hearing it all laid out in a row like that, it did rather sound as though a confession were the only thing left to me.
"You appear to have fallen into a misunderstanding. Decide that one man is the culprit and gather evidence against him alone, and anyone on earth starts to look guilty."
Not that I intended to confess. I would brazen this out to the bitter end.
"B-but it isn't. Everything, everything points to yooou."
"Haha. If I possessed a talent for the written word, I would be flaunting it, would I not? What reason could I possibly have to hide it?"
"..."
Liar.
From that face far too honest to hide its feelings, a searing glare bored straight into me.
"You are free to believe whatever you wish. But rummaging through a man's room without so much as a by-your-leave? That, I must say, has disappointed me too."
Her pure, wounded gaze stabbed at me far more painfully than any accusation.
At this rate, I might truly be left with no choice but to nod.
Before that could happen, I hastily hardened my expression and raised a grievance of my own.
"Ah! Th-that's, uuum..."
No room left for excuses, hmm? Flustered, Jegal Hyang began to stammer.
"I shall give you the autographed copy as a gift. In the future, kindly knock before entering a man's room."
Consider that a formal notice of eviction. Out.
With an expression of utter frost, I ushered Jegal Hyang out the door.
"Y-young Master Kaaang! N-no, wait, that's not iiiit... Hold on, how did I get caught in the first plaaace... Young Master Kaaaang!"
Her deductive skills might have been master-detective grade, but Jegal Hyang was, in the end, still Jegal Hyang.
"The work uniforms have arrived, so I will be distributing two sets to each of you."
The next day, the three of us reported to the branch together and began handing out uniforms to the staff.
"...Why did she catch meeeee."
Had I thrown her out too coldly yesterday? From first thing in the morning, Jegal Hyang had been muttering to herself, face stricken, sneaking glances at me all the while.
"Miss Jegal? What's gotten into her? Did you two quarrel?"
Thankfully, Lim Hayeon — lodger in the separate quarters that she was — appeared not to have overheard yesterday's exchange. She turned to me, face full of puzzlement.
"It's nothing. Miss Jegal, there's no need to dwell on yesterday. I certainly don't mind it much myself."
My purpose in throwing her out had been served, after all. I gave a careless shrug and flashed Jegal Hyang my sunniest smile.
So take the hint, and stop suspecting me already.
"Okay..."
Perhaps somewhat mollified by the smile, Jegal Hyang managed a small, grudging nod.
"Changing rooms have been prepared, so try yours on now, and speak up if the fit is off."
At my word, the staff dispersed to their assigned spots and began changing.
"I changed too!"
"Miss Hayeon, there was truly no need for you to— ...Miss Jegal?"
"Uuuuhh..."
What on earth had frozen her solid, beyond mere shock?
"This garment is called a qipao."
A cut that laid bare every graceful line of a woman's form. Side slits baring the thigh — daring, yet never vulgar. Luxurious silk caressing the skin it covered: an ensemble designed to magnify a woman's beauty to its fullest.
Lim Hayeon stood before Jegal Hyang in a qipao that put her dizzying hourglass figure on unashamed display, and said:
"Y-y-y-your wh-whole figure is showing! E-even your th-thiiighs!"
Culture shock, apparently. Scarlet to the ears, Jegal Hyang gulped like a carp hauled out of water, her lips opening and closing without a sound.
"Hoh. It only shows because there is a figure worth showing off."
"D-do — d-do I-I-I-I have to w-wear one toooooo?"
Ashamed, was she? Jegal Hyang wrenched her eyes from Lim Hayeon's qipao and looked to me, posing the question without a shred of confidence.
"If you would rather not, you are under no obligation to wear one."
It would certainly be a tall order for the sheltered youngest daughter of the Zhuge Clan.
"That's right. Manager Kang only dresses the employees he's especially fond of."
Lim Hayeon — why must you square your shoulders and thrust your chest out on purpose while saying that? Do that, and even a girl who wanted to wear one will be too embarrassed to try.
"Do not speak misleading words, Miss Jegal. These uniforms are for the staff best suited to attending our customers."
The way she tells it, I'm some unscrupulous boss who dresses beautiful women in qipaos and aprons purely to savor the maid-meets-qipao ensemble for his own gratification.
When in truth I am a thoroughly benevolent manager, providing silk garments to his staff as a simple employee benefit.
"Oh, the others are coming out now. Everyone — anything sitting awkwardly anywhere?"
Lim Hayeon bestowed on Jegal Hyang a smile of unfathomable meaning, then glided off toward the staff.
My, my. Mangeum Hall had personally handpicked these employees for both their beauty and their refinement.
And yet with Lim Hayeon standing in the center of them, the rest might as well have been sprigs of baby's breath arranged to set off one glorious rose.
"Yoooung Master Kaaaang."
I had been gazing at Lim Hayeon like a man bewitched when I felt a sleeve tugging at me from my side, its owner radiating displeasure.
"Yes, Miss Jegal?"
Jegal Hyang gazed quietly for a long moment at the women in their qipaos, then lowered her head and spoke, as though arriving at some great resolve.
"Sh-shall I go put one on toooooo?"