Ah, Yeah.
Hwaryun stared at Ryeon in utter bewilderment before silently opening his mouth.
He took the yakgwa she fed him bit by bit, munching it away with surprising gusto. He looked just like a baby bird, and Ryeon grinned as she said, “Tasty? This is my favorite.”
“Yeah, well…… tasty.”
“But……”
“……?”
Ryeon gazed at the half-eaten yakgwa, then flashed a mischievous grin.
No matter if he’s the young cult leader of Machun-gyo. In two years, just counting rice bowls—three, six, nine, twelve… 2,100!
Ryeon planted a firm knuckle on Hwaryun’s crown. “Where do you get off talking casual to your noona, you little twerp?”
“……”
Ryeon put her hands on her hips and spoke in a mock-threatening tone, but Hwaryun’s face was frozen in shock, as if he’d been struck by lightning right then and there.
He dropped the battered old basket from his hand. His extreme startle made Ryeon flinch in turn.
“D-did it hurt a lot? I went easy…… just a tiny knuckle……”
“……No, it doesn’t hurt……”
“Good? Then take this!”
“……!”
Ryeon delivered another knuckle. Hwaryun flinched back a step, rubbed his crown a few times, and stared at her with an incredulous expression.
Then, out of nowhere, he burst into laughter.
“……?”
He cut it off abruptly and scrutinized her face from every angle, long after she’d tilted her head in confusion.
“Hmm, I should head out now.”
Whether it was because she’d knuckled him for the casual speech or he was playing along, Hwaryun switched to polite language.
His sudden announcement caught Ryeon off guard, and she blinked in surprise. “Huh, now? Already?”
Hwaryun nodded and picked up the dropped basket. Ryeon shoved the remaining yakgwa into his mouth, then dashed to where her nanny was hiding to grab an umbrella. She thrust it at him hurriedly.
“Take this at least. It’s raining…… And I feed the chickens here every morning. Come around this time, and you’ll run into me. Got it? You have to come play.”
Hwaryun waved his hands to refuse, but Ryeon seized one firmly and slapped the umbrella into it. He glanced at her, nodded once, and turned to go.
Ryeon fidgeted awkwardly and grabbed the boy one more time just as he started away, stuffing all her remaining yakgwa and sticky rice cakes into his arms.
He shot her a look that said why are you giving me this, but when she pushed at his back, he accepted without further protest and walked off obediently.
As Ryeon stared blankly at the boy’s retreating back, Jang ssi hurried over to her.
“Miss!”
“Ah, Nanny.”
Jang ssi wiped her hands with a thin cloth, draped an outer garment over her head to shield her from the rain, and peered at her face.
“Miss, you like that boy?”
Ryeon swallowed her complicated expression and forced a smile. Like him? It wasn’t about that……
“……If you see that boy, treat him well, okay? And make sure to give him something tasty.”
Jang ssi nodded at Ryeon’s earnest plea, though she couldn’t fully hide her worried look.
Lately, Danmok Cheon-gi had one nagging headache: his eldest grandchild, who seemed utterly clueless about reading the room.
“You come every single day—think my mind’s gonna change or something?”
“No?”
“……No, you know it won’t, so what’s the point of coming?”
“Yes? I wanted to see Grandfather.”
Her tone was so matter-of-fact that Danmok Cheon-gi found himself at a loss for words.
“Ahem.”
“Ah! I fetched today’s water myself. From the stream behind Wolyeongjae.”
“What if you’d fallen in……”
“Gang-rip went with me. I’ll brew your tea today, Grandfather.”
Danmok Cheon-gi let out a groan and waved her off—do whatever.
She began moving her hands without a hint of hesitation, every motion flowing as smoothly as water.
What……?
Danmok Cheon-gi watched her gather and grind the tea leaves, his gaze flickering with odd unease as he looked down at his granddaughter.
He’d been surprised when she first awoke and came to thank him for the Balsa Sesu, acting as if the burn scars marring half his face weren’t even there. But she’d only been awake a few months, so he’d chalked it up to her not yet grasping what was ugly or beautiful.
Yet she kept coming every day after that.
She didn’t do much—just sat with him for about an hour, sipping the tea he brewed while chattering idly about nothing important before leaving. That was it.
But in all that time sitting, her posture never faltered, she never grew bored, and she never found the occasional silences awkward.
Wasn’t perceiving the truths of the world in a single falling leaf the mark of a peak master? To Danmok Cheon-gi—who had once commanded the world before his injury—it was clear she showed the budding sprouts of extraordinary talent.
Even so, it’s astonishing. Is it because of the Balsa Sesu? No, that can’t be……
She arranged the cups in order, scooped tea leaves into the lidded teacup, poured hot water to wet them, shook to release the aroma, and inhaled—just like him.
It was enough to spark the absurd notion that the ritual had granted her this skill. But above all, watching this child grip a teacup the size of his own hand made something in his chest stir strangely.
“Grandfather, here.”
Her tiny mouth pursed in total concentration, she held out the steeped cup—but her short little arm couldn’t even reach halfway across the table.
Danmok Cheon-gi nearly laughed despite himself, covering it with a cough as he wrapped his hand around hers to take the cup.
He closed his eyes and savored it. Clear pale hue, deep aroma, a natural sweetness lingering long in his mouth.
Was it ever this good?
Decades ago, when the clan was at its peak, he’d tasted all manner of rare leaves. But not now.
He’d long grown accustomed to the musty flavor of aged tea, yet the brew his granddaughter made evoked the scents of those glorious days’ rarities.
It tasted almost like pure spring water at first sip, and with it, his breathing and innards felt a touch more at ease.
The exact same leaves he’d brewed himself just days ago……
“How is it?”
“……”
As he settled his surprise and slowly savored the aroma, the chronic pain from his damaged dantian—lingering since the Blood Valley battle decades prior—seemed to ease as well.
Not just my imagination……?
He opened his eyes to find her bright, sparkling gaze fixed on him, expectant of his thoughts on the tea.
“……Thy skill is not altogether wanting.”
Did she take after her father? His eldest son had been a true tea connoisseur, often sitting with him to enjoy the aromas.
Danmok Cheon-gi thought of his firstborn, gone too soon, and fell silent.
Recalling his son felt like a spike driven into his heart—but could it compare to the pain of his daughter, who’d never even laid eyes on her father?
“Best not waste time on sticky rice cakes. Practice thy tea arts instead.”
He’d meant it to shift his thoughts, but a shadow fell over her young face.
Danmok Cheon-gi inwardly cursed his slip but didn’t take it back.
And rightly so—once, she’d brought him some sticky rice cakes during her morning visit.
The red bean filling was so oversweet it turned bitter, and the white dough barely yielded to chewing. Afterward, a strangely refreshing, cool mint lingered in his mouth.
He was an old warrior who’d seen battle; eating was a necessity, not a pleasure. He had no hobby for snacks or delicacies.
He stoically ate whatever was given. His one indulgence was tea—and even that had dwindled to sips of ancient leaves as the household fortunes faded.
Yet his granddaughter’s clumsily shaped red bean cakes had been a taste so shockingly awful—even to him—that it stood out.
He’d thought it natural for a child so young, but seeing her brew tea so masterfully now confirmed it: she was simply hopeless in the kitchen.
Danmok Cheon-gi secretly resolved that when she came of age for marriage, he’d include Zhejiang’s finest chef in her dowry.
“But the tea……”
She mumbled, trailing off.
The thought flashed that too much praise might make her arrogant, but Danmok Cheon-gi couldn’t bring himself to scold harshly.
“I told thee, ’tis well enough.”
Only then did the shadow lift from her face, replaced by a smile.
Danmok Cheon-gi realized that in the brief moment her expression had darkened, he’d forgotten the tea’s flavor entirely.
Now it returned: a warm, soft sweetness.