Seon hesitated for a moment before answering with a slightly awkward smile—a smile that implied, “You know how he is,” as if he found it difficult to openly criticize the behavior of this household’s eldest son. Grand Secretary Choi clicked his tongue for a long while, glaring in the direction of the small study.
“He’s becoming more of a problem by the day. Now he even ignores his father’s direct orders and skips out whenever he pleases…”
Sighing, Grand Secretary Choi turned to Old Man Suno beside him and instructed, “Well, there’s nothing to be done. We’re having breakfast in the outer pavilion of the main hall—tell Jihan to come there when he returns.”
“Yes, Grand Secretary.”
Only after Grand Secretary Choi and the guests turned away did the smile vanish from Seon’s face.
He followed them out of the annex, then paused and glanced back. The wide inner courtyard, swept by a chilly wind, looked the same as always, and the sliding door of the annex remained firmly shut.
***
There had been a time when he lived in the beggars’ slums beyond the capital, surviving on scraps of alms. On days when even that was unavailable, he would sneak into commoners’ homes to steal gruel, only to fall ill from it and spend days bedridden. And on days when even that failed, he simply went hungry. When the desperation of starvation made him feel like he might actually die, he would scour the entire marketplace, begging for even the leftover dregs of meals.
One day, as he wandered through that living hell, he met Grand Secretary Choi at the ferry dock on his way to Gwangyang. That was how he ended up in the capital, in the grand estate where the most powerful ministers resided. The house was the largest in the district—a magnificent 99-kan mansion with an expansive garden filled with rare flowers, reminiscent of the palace grounds his real father had once described to him.
He felt nothing. No awe, no intimidation. To him, it was just a temporary place to stay, so he harbored no foolish expectations or admiration. As long as he smiled sweetly and acted like a child, he could enjoy the luxuries of a wealthy noble household.
“Jihan, be kind to the poor boy.”
“Yes, Father. Don’t worry.”
But there was a catch.
“Your name is Seon?”
The eldest son of the house crouched down, matching his height, their eyes level. For the first time, Seon felt an inexplicable unease—something he hadn’t experienced even when facing the grandeur of the estate. So this is what they meant by a face cursed with peach-blossom luck. Soft, doe-like eyes with a damp, innocent gaze; skin as pale and delicate as magnolia petals; gentle brows; lips tinged with the faintest hint of red; clean, fragrant sleeves… And when those sleepy eyes crinkled slightly in a smile, it sent an odd jolt through his mind.
“Such a handsome boy. Treat this as your home and stay comfortably.”
“…Thank you.”
It was the first time he had ever averted his gaze from someone first. The first time he had stolen glances at someone’s face when they weren’t looking. From that day on, Jihan became a figure who imprinted many firsts upon Seon.
That same day, Grand Secretary Choi ordered an old servant to prepare the large annex beyond the main hall for Seon—a space usually reserved for honored guests, with three grand rooms and a lotus-filled pond in the rear garden.
The old servant obeyed, settling Seon into the annex with meticulous care—stoking the brazier, serving a lavish dinner, and assigning a young attendant to wait on him until he fell asleep.
But late that night, when the servant returned to the outer quarters, he was beaten senseless with a straw mat. Young Seon watched from his hiding place behind the rafters.
“An adopted son, huh?” Jihan murmured, examining his own perfectly manicured nails.
“Did you truly not know?”
“P-Please spare me, Young Master! I knew nothing!”
“If you, as a household steward, were unaware of something so important, then you’re incompetent and deserve to be beaten to death. And if you did know and pretended otherwise, then you’ve insulted me, the eldest son of the Choi clan—and for that, you deserve to be beaten to death. So, which is it?”
The seasons passed slowly. The old servant, enduring Jihan’s repeated abuses, was finally driven out the year Seon turned thirteen—framed for stealing gold from the master’s trouser pocket.
Everyone knew Jihan was behind it, but no one dared speak up. Unable to openly torment Seon in front of Grand Secretary Choi, Jihan settled for eliminating those around him instead.
He was excessively wary of Seon yet worked tirelessly to isolate him. The older Seon grew, the clearer this became.
Any servant who showed favor to Seon or followed him loyally was accused of false crimes and expelled. Seon’s close friends from the Southern Academy were driven away, and whenever Seon tried to build connections for a marriage alliance, Jihan would appear out of nowhere to sabotage it subtly.
And when they crossed paths, Jihan would ignore him completely, as if Seon weren’t even worth his attention. Perhaps that was what made it worse.
If Jihan had just openly struck him or picked fights every time they met, the anger might have been easier to bear. But Jihan was the height of hypocrisy—skulking in the shadows, spying, yet putting on an air of noble indifference to his face. Seon despised him for it.
And yet… he was obsessed.
That obsession carried a strange, sadistic edge. At some point, the thought of crushing Jihan underfoot, reducing him to a broken mess, began to consume him.
Simple fantasies—slapping him until he sobbed and begged, pinning him down and grinding his stomach under the sole of a wooden clog, spitting in his face and forcing him to lick it clean—no longer satisfied him.
What Seon truly wanted wasn’t submission through violence, but true domination. A perverse urge grew stronger with each passing year—the desire to stand at Jihan’s bedside and own him completely.
He didn’t stop at mere thoughts. He acted. He mocked Jihan to his face after he failed the civil exams three times, including the special examinations. He took advantage of Jihan’s grief over Lady Shin’s death to ingratiate himself with Grand Secretary Choi, playing the role of the filial son. And though he knew Nan, the Left Minister’s daughter, was Jihan’s long-standing fiancée, he feigned coincidence to get close to her.
The Choi family’s wealth and prestige, the Left Minister’s daughter—a match every noble dreamed of—and even the coveted position of Royal Inspector… None of it meant anything to Seon on its own. But if it belonged to Jihan, the rules changed. If it was Jihan’s, he was willing to take it all away.
So he would never ignore me again.
So he could never act superior in front of me.
So he would finally see me for who I am.
“…So maybe the one who was truly twisted, the one who was truly mad, was me all along.”
He tapped his fingers against the half-door, brushing against the branch stretching over it, and murmured to himself. On the back of his hand, the faint scar from the cigarette ash Jihan had flicked at him in his youth was still visible. He stared at it for a long moment before a slow smile curled his lips.
“So…”
Seon lifted his head.
“You’re telling me what you gave me last night wasn’t chongmyeong-tang, but that goblin’s water secretly circulating in the capital?”
Maki, summoned immediately after the breakfast with the Left Minister’s family, flinched and bowed his head. “Yes… I’m deeply sorry, Young Master.”
Maki confessed everything—how he had visited the blind shaman for the recipe, obtained the aphrodisiac, and slipped it to Seon. A bitter laugh escaped Seon’s lips.
“So all of this… was Jihan-hyung’s scheme?”
Maki couldn’t meet his eyes, nodding repeatedly as he apologized over and over.
Ah. So he went that far just to break me.
…That far?
His hand, which had been tapping the table, stilled. He was furious, of course. And yet, he couldn’t suppress the laugh bubbling up inside him. As always, Jihan never failed to evoke such conflicting emotions in him.
“If you’re going to start something, see it through properly.”
In the end, Jihan had dug his own grave and buried himself in it. Seon rested his chin on his hand, the corners of his mouth twitching upward.
“Uh…”
Maki hesitated, his face reddening as he stammered, “Is… Young Master Jihan… still in the annex?”
Seon studied Maki for a moment. Good question. He doubted Jihan had returned to his room in the small study after the state he’d been in that morning—dragging himself across the main hall in that condition.
…That condition.
Seon continued rubbing the tabletop with his finger, still propping his chin. The memory of Jihan’s tight, wet heat—how those pliant inner walls had clung to him, sucking from the tip of his glans all the way down his shaft—flooded back. Even under the influence of the drug, his mind had been clear enough to remember every detail of last night.
“I’ll… suck you with my mouth. Be good.”
“Please… stop…”
Oh, he had been good. His eyelids, the tip of his nose, his shoulders, fingertips, toes, knees, the dip of his collarbone—every inch of him had flushed a delicate pink. His firm, well-proportioned body had fit perfectly against Seon’s, trembling in his arms. His legs spread so flexibly, every position he took so graceful.
And yet, he had kept pushing Seon away. If he hadn’t remembered, he might have felt wronged.
Author: Hyacinthus B
Hyacinthus
