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The first time Tang Soso met Yoo Iseol was almost forgettable. She behaved as any well-mannered host would— a mildly forceful Tang woman, waiting for the day in which her hand would be bid on. Neither spoke to each other, in the midst of the far more exuberant crowds around them; Iseol didn’t want to, and Soso had a bigger task at hand. It was a meeting in the barest sense of the word. One the world counted less than she herself did.
The first time that Soso allowed herself to truly meet Iseol was on the sidelines of a fight against an opponent that should’ve been out of her league. A man— someone privileged to be trained in the Tang poisons as a combatant— against a woman of the fallen Mount Hua. It was an absurd premise that could barely be allowed. Women weren’t to be taught combat; their cultivation could progress enough to not bring shame on the sect, but it was little more than performative nonsense, if not an outright bid to show how strong prospective heirs could be.
Soso had stood at the viewing stands past the raised training grounds, and stared up at the untroubled face of Iseol. She had looked in her eyes, and had challenged her worldview, and Soso had known from that moment on that she could not live as a proper Tang— that she could only be Hua.
In the air between them, everything went light. Soso’s qi stirred within her, called out by the unashamed strength of Iseol. Flower buds seemed to line the space, shapes that Soso knows must be plum blossoms, reaching out to the very core of Soso until she could feel the coming of spring in her very being. It was warm, a thick haze of inner qi that Soso’s own reserves couldn’t yet compare to. Her own lifeforce was leaving her, drifting out of her body in a faint venomous green, flowing in a constant cycle, winding around closed petals.
On the muscle of her arm, she could feel the energy settling, her own body seeming to welcome in the impossibly familiar qi. For a moment, she could swear her heart stopped, the oxygen running through her blood pausing, and yet the breathlessness that followed was relief and not strain. It was as if everything had gone weightless and all that existed was her, Iseol, and a cascade of pure, perfect moonlight.
Then her chest expands, her grin wider than decorum would dictate appropriate, and she pushes at the sleeve of her hanfu until it hits her shoulder. She has to crane her neck to see it, the delicate, almost translucent pink of budding plum blossoms on her shoulder.
She’ll eventually get the chance to stare at it in a mirror, seeing the intricate details that would entrance her for the rest of her life, tracing the lines forever etched into her skin, beautiful and strong, like a promise. Another’s spirit would curl around hers, unconsciously mingling with her qi until Soso feels her reserves brimming overfull.
In the moment, all she can see are the faint edges of color. Even so, it’s enough.
Iseol’s cheeks are pink, her smile something small, and Soso can hardly wait for her to make it all the way to the crowds of viewers. The blend of pink and green lingers in the air, slowly fading from sight, but never from Soso’s memory. There is no time for them to talk now, as Iseol stands by her sect and Soso by her family, but it will only be another moment.
Everyone watches in the back, quiet whispers exchanged between Tang family members, not enough to break the peaceful, almost reverent silence.
Cheongmyeong watches from the back. None of them notice the flatness of his eyes, or the way he rubs painfully at the place above his heart. It’s probably heartburn from the alcohol. Those darn Tangs mixed poison in with it! They haven’t learned anything in all these years.
He’ll have to beat them upside the head for that slight! It was no wonder Tang Bo hated his family if the elders of his time were the same as they are now! They’ll learn what it takes to grow as martial artists, even if he has to beat it into their skulls.
There’s a unique phenomenon among martial artists, a bond so intimate, so strengthening that sworn-siblings pale in comparison.
Your qi winds around another, looping through the inner energy of your most compatible partner until the two distinct forces are closer to a swirl of one. They’re nearly impossible to untangle, cycling between bodies like there was no gap at all.
Two become one; you breathe together, grow together, and die together. Your souls touch and neither come away unmarked. Your skin blossoms with the touch of another’s lifeforce, painting a seal atop flesh.
It is a sacred bond. Not inherently romantic, not intrinsically distinct from love; it is a binding of souls, and no less. To survive the loss of it once gained would be a fate worse than death, if it was possible at all.
“You’re the Plum Blossom Sword Saint, aren’t you?” Cheongmyeong flicks crud from out of his ear. The sun is barely halfway down, if he returns now Jangmun Sahyung won’t stop lecturing him until the day ends. He scratches his nose, eying the forest around him skeptically. He’s pretty sure he has an alcohol stash somewhere in here.
It might be the other forest though. They all look the same, how is he supposed to know!
“Fight me!”
Cheongmyeong glances at the boy out of the corner of his eye. His face is too delicate, sharp features, long shining hair, and expensive outer robe— despite his cold expression it couldn’t be clearer, this is just some pretty boy. There isn’t even a sword at his side; no visible weapon at all.
He scoffs. Why bother? All of these losers challenge him day in and day out! If they want to fight, they should get stronger! Always wasting his time and getting him in trouble with Jangmun Sahyung! It’s hardly his fault weaklings are easy to throw around; they should pay for any damages! It was their bodies that broke everything! Tch!
He tilts his head to the side— it might not be this forest, he decides after a moment of pondering. Where is he meant to get a drink now? A dagger sinks into the flesh of a tree in front of him, splintering the bark around it with truly pitiful force.
“Is this the best you can do? Gosh, we call anyone martial artists these days, don’t we!”
There’s a phantom nagging in his ears, the image of his sect leader yelling at him to not provoke members of other sects unprompted, but honestly, if this kid is any indicator, whatever sect this is is pathetically weak! Cheongmyeong could take him without unsheathing his blade; a good old fashioned beat down will work just fine!
He cracks his knuckles, qi burning where it cycles through his veins. It pushes at the edges of his skin, trying to break free. He must really be itching for a fight.
The boy keeps his distance, small blades flying from the sleeve of his robe. The tree that had first been hit decays, bark splitting apart from the wood with an acidic stench polluting the air. Poison.
Eh, who cares!
Cheongmyeong clears the distance between them in a blur, fists raised.
Another dagger follows the path of the first, and Cheongmyeong is sidestepping before the reflection of light catches his eyes. A sharp static pierces his leg, where a spattering of needles stabs his flesh.
Tch!
The second Cheongmyeong gets the first hit in, the boy is on the defensive. His daggers do little to protect him— though the countless little scratches on Cheongmyeong’s skin are annoying, the blades are clearly more for throwing than close combat. Traces of poison must be on every sharp edge, as his stepping on his leg sends shocks up his body, and the cuts across his chest aren't slowing in their bleeding.
He said he could do it without unsheathing his sword, and Cheongmyeong refuses to eat his words, but his uniform has been ruined and his limbs are vaguely tingly, and it’s honestly a little annoying! There’s a jolt, a split-second of distraction and a dagger too rapid to dodge- a sheathed blade parries the blow.
It’s just a second that he spares, glancing down at the weapon he’d used. He grins, teeth bared and something wild crawling through his veins. Yeah, this will be more fun than he’d thought.
The boy is pummeled before half an hour has gone by. Not bad compared to all of the other losers he’s seen, but not quite his match.
He’s left on the ground, face in the dirt and thoroughly trounced. And Cheongmyeong still has to find somewhere to drink. He pats his torn uniform, pulling out the limp bag of coins. Devoid of coins. Jangmun Sahyung! He should be glad Cheongmyeong isn’t taking the alcohol from the sect this time, leaving him with such low funds— outrageous!
There’s a groan, followed by an oddly cheerful sounding whine, and then the boy is in his peripheral vision, running to catch up with Cheongmyeong. He’d swat him down, but his qi is unsettled, reaching out towards this pretty face like it’s trying to make a home with him.
His own qi…
“Wait, Dosa Hyung-nim!” Hyung? This brat is getting a little familiar, isn’t he!
He turns, ready to give him a piece of his mind, but the second he meets those jade eyes— a green so tempting it would lull people into a poisoned death— it’s like his breath is rudely stolen away from him.
Around them, the entire forest seems to glow, harsh winds rustling the branches. His own qi is flowing in the air between them, plum blossoms floating in the wind, wrapping the pretty boy in a shower of flower petals. The sweet scent is strong, but there’s a sharp undercurrent, something herbal, bitter— like a medicine and a poison in one. Objectively, the smell reeks like a physician’s office. It’s not the worst thing he’s ever smelled though.
The green of the other’s inner energy is more transparent, weaker than the nearly opaque pink of his own plum blossoms. It’s acid in his veins, a burn to the smooth cycling of his own lifeforce, like the sting of a sore muscle. It scratches an itch, and everything it touches smooths over, qi flowing like a cascading river inside of him.
His meridians welcome the foreign energy without hesitation, guiding the poison touched qi throughout his body like an esteemed guest, until it comes to his heart. All of the qi feeds into his core, warming his chest from the inside out, and he can feel the mark forming like a physical sensation— the settling of somebody else’s qi on his body, familiar as it impossibly is.
He blinks a few times, spreading the top of his shirt apart to stare at the skin over his heart, the same place where twin daggers lay atop a bed of plants. They’re either medicine or poison— maybe it’s both.
The boy’s eyes are wide when Cheongmyeong looks at him, open and awed, and it’s weird! Their qi is perfectly intertwined, and he doesn’t even know this guy’s name. Worse yet, he’s been bound to someone as pathetically weak as this! Can barely even defend himself from a beating.
“You’re kidding.”
His… whatever, makes a face, but the grin on his face is back in a second. What a weirdo, being so happy after being beaten into the dirt.
“This one is called Tang Bo.” He rolls his eyes at the formality, especially when the kid’s bow is only half-done, rushed through and over eager so the brat can walk at his side. “Hyung-nim should come with me.”
Where did that peerless beauty go, huh? Where did this sticky leech come from? “Eh! Why would I do that!”
Tang Bo, of the Sichuan Tang snobs probably, curves his lips down into a pout. It barely lasts more than a second before an irritating smile takes its place— he wants to smack it off of him already. “Hyung-nim was kicked out of the restaurant nearby, wasn’t he?”
Already this guy is getting on his nerves. What did he ever do to deserve this?
“What’s it to you, huh!”
Tang Bo only seems to get more annoying, reaching his hand into his sleeves and coming out with a filled bag. He shakes it and metal clinks together inside. His qi tugs at Cheongmyeong’s, as if coaxing it into his own body, to swirl around his meridians as if they were Cheongmyeong’s own.
“We should talk over a drink. My treat, of course.”
“You should’ve said that earlier, brat!” He slaps Tang Bo’s back, pulling him into his side, picturing all of the alcohol to be had with a thick sack of coins like that, and the boy dares to shoot a glare at him, wincing.
Their eyes meet, a hand raises to knock some sense into this Tang Bo, and the boy ducks with a yelp, grinning. “Ah, Hyung-nim, let’s not be so serious!”
Aigo, youth nowadays are too disrespectful! Cheongmyeong is fairly certain he’s older than this kid, so what’s up with this attitude, huh?
“Who said you could call me hyung, you leech!”
“Ow- ah, Hyung-nim! We’re soul-bound, what would you be if not my hyung?” Tang Bo pauses, arms in the air to preemptively block the next strike. “Cheongmyeong-ah?”
Eugh! The sound of it is all wrong! This brat calling him by name, right after they met no less! His voice is all smooth and low, just as delicate as his face! His blood is boiling just hearing it.
Tang Bo peeks out from behind his arms when no blow comes. Whatever he sees on Cheongmyeong’s face makes him exhale in a shaky laugh, cheeks going pink when he tries to hold it back.
“Wait-! No, don’t- I’m sorry, Hyung-nim! You're meant to be a Taoist— why are you so violent?"
The qi cycling through his veins is weaker than it’d been even when they first met. It’s down to the barest dredges of energy, and Cheongmyeong refuses to acknowledge it. They’ve all been run ragged since the war started, Tang Bo was no exception to that— not even Cheongmyeong’s reserves were doing well.
That’s all it is. Tang Bo is stronger than any number of martial artists on the battlefield— and their best physician on top of it. There’s no way he’s getting enough sleep to properly recover, and his own inner qi had never compared to the vast ocean he always described Cheongmyeong’s as.
He doesn’t stop moving. Following the pull of the dregs of energy still flowing, he runs. It’s teasing, soft, gentle, the way his Bo-yah tugs at the qi moving between them. It’s worse that he isn’t taking any of it, that he’s yanking at the energy like he’s pulling at his ponytail and then pushing it back into Cheongmyeong before any of it can take root.
He knows exactly where Tang Bo had been assigned to fight— it’s not the only time they’ve gone out separately; it’s a war, they can’t always be glued to each other. He doesn’t go there though, to the chasm where dozens of bodies no doubt lay. No, he goes to the same cliff where Bo-yah had promised him that he would survive. Bo-yah tells tall tales, stretching the truth until it’s thinner than a thread of silk, but he isn’t a liar.
Cheongmyeong arrives at the cliff with his heart pounding harder than in any of the recent fights he’s been in and the remnants of untreated wounds stinging; Tang Bo hasn’t gotten to them yet and no other person is good enough to force Cheongmyeong to stay still long enough for him to be treated. The smell of iron is always sharp in his nose nowadays— there are very few places where he can escape it— but it’s fresh here.
There’s a person at the edge. Sprawled across the ground, blood pooling underneath him.
He sees it, and yet it makes no sense. Tang Bo is stronger than any of the Magyo. He could take on five, ten, dozens, single-handedly. And he was sent out with companions— pathetically weak in comparison to him, but martial artists at his side.
He’s there before another breath broaches his lungs, dropping to the ground as his shoes squelch underneath him with the lifeforce of his soul-bound. What little qi he has in his body is flooding to his hands, reaching out to press against the everspilling rush of blood from his Bo-yah’s chest.
There’s too much blood around them. Not a single body aside from the two of them.
He pushes harder, until Tang Bo is groaning at the pain, eyes fluttering open and meeting Cheongmyeong’s. There’s a second where he blinks, as the glazed over look pulls back and he finally sees who is at his side. Then a smile spreads across his lips, carefree and easy, as if there is no red staining their skin, as if his side is not splayed open, as if Tang Bo is not breaking the only promise Cheongmyeong has ever truly cared about him keeping.
“Hyung-nim-” He coughs, his body shaking underneath Cheongmyeong’s palms, and he can feel the way it trembles. He can feel the strain of every beat of his heart. His Bo-yah keeps smiling at him though. “Cheongmyeong-ah.”
He’s reaching a steady hand up to grab Cheongmyeong’s, peeling it away from his wound to hold it instead. Barely any blood comes out, even with the loss of pressure. Tang Bo tries to sit, tries to push himself up, he’s about ready to fall when Cheongmyeong cradles his head. His hair is coated in blood and dirt, the strands he would painstakingly comb through every night, and now they’re covered in grime. The plum blossom hair stick isn't there, and Cheongmyeong knows it's been left in a safe spot— so he wouldn't lose it during the fighting, Tang Bo had said, a silent vow to live another day.
“The Tang family-” His breath is breaking, their hands are shaking, “My brothers, my sisters- look after them for me?”
You promised. You promised!
He wants to say no. Looking after the Tangs is his Bo-yah’s responsibility. He can do it himself.
But he’s still smiling. He’s bleeding in Cheongmyeong’s arms, asking him to look after the same people who treated him as an outcast, and he still looks up at Cheongmyeong with such a gentle gaze. Soft, adoring, like Cheongmyeong is something delicate. He’s the strongest swordsman in the world, one of the strongest men in Murim, and his Bo-yah acts like he’s some flower.
“I promise.”
He’s the only friend that Cheongmyeong has.
They have a world to travel, once all of this is over. They can complain about their families— Tang Bo wants to teach the next generation, to bring his family up to a higher degree, and Cheongmyeong can’t let him win. Their disciples were meant to compete, the ties of friendship and rivalry pushing them to achieve greater strengths.
The green of his eyes is glazing over, and it’s an unfamiliar shade. The energy cycling between them is slowing, the gentle tug of acidic qi which he’s felt for decades of his life stops— he’s always teasing, pulling at spare qi to get Cheongmyeong to look over then hiding away whenever he finally gets annoyed.
“Bo-yah?” It’s so quiet, so quiet that Cheongmyeong can barely hear his own breath. It’s so quiet that he thinks the world may be coming to an end.
But there’s a hum, so subdued that it could be nothing at all; it’s all Cheongmyeong can focus on. “You’ll be fine, stop being so dramatic.”
He lifts him up, pulls him to his chest, forces his dredges of qi through Bo’s body. He keeps his heart pumping manually, flooding his dantian with as much qi as he can. He’s shaking, Bo’s entire body trembles, until Cheongmyeong realizes that it’s him who’s shaking. His hands that tremor in their shared grasp.
“You aren’t allowed to die, you hear me? I’ll kill you if you try it.” Cheongmyeong will die with him, if he goes, that’s what his Bo-yah seems to have forgotten. The inner qi will pour out of his body, trying to find the partner at the other end of the bond until eventually Cheongmyeong’s reserves run dry. If his reserves were full, maybe he’d last a month. As it is, running on empty, barely having time to eat, sleep, breathe… Cheongmyeong might fall right here.
The Murim Corps wouldn’t be able to stand up to Cheonma, what with the great bunch of cowards the other sects are. What remains of Mount Hua would have no protection. He wouldn’t be able to live up to his promise.
He can’t die here, which means his Bo-yah has to live too!
“Cheongmyeong-ah-” His words are weak, but the smile remains and a sense of dread rushes through Cheongmyeong. He can’t explain it, how he knows, but he does. Tang Bo is planning something stupid!
“Live.” And all of the qi that he’d been cycling between them, all of the bare scraps of Bo’s lifeforce flood Cheongmyeong’s heart. They rush through his meridians, settling at his heart, and Cheongmyeong doesn’t know if it’s poison, or- or what, but the connection between them closes. He can see the shallow fall of Bo-yah’s chest, but there’s no way to get to him.
The qi is locked inside of him, the pathway barricaded shut. The acidic bubbling of Tang Bo’s lifeforce circles around his heart, over and over again. His chest does not rise again.
Cheongmyeong’s does. With heaving sobs, it rises and it falls.
Again and again. It refuses to stop.
…
What a liar his soul bound him to.
Cheongmyeong dies not long after. The head of Cheonma is taken by his blade, but there is nobody left around to sing praises. Jangmun Sahyung is dead at his side, the remaining Cheong disciples— even the Myeong and the Un— they’re all gone. His sect is down to the children who’ve barely been taught the sword. They have no sect leader, no elders.
There are scant few people who might be able to impart the techniques of Mount Hua onto them. They will have to rely on old literature and word of mouth to remember the culture. His knowledge will die with him. The techniques that he knows, the memories he has— of his family, of their sect, of everything that made Mount Hua Mount Hua— it will all die with him.
He does not know the fate of the Tang clan. Has heard no tales of their extinction. It feels like another failure.
He dies, one arm lost and every person he’s ever called family in the grave with him.
There are twin daggers on Cheongmyeong’s bare chest. There is a green tinge to them, but that could also be the nausea dragging Baekcheon by his hair. It’s certainly not the first time their junior brother has beaten them this badly, but the sick feeling afterwards never seems to lessen.
The tear in the robes was from a lucky— or rather, unlucky— strike by Jo Gul, when the tip of his sword caught on the crest of Mount Hua. He’d had his head bashed for tearing the uniform so thoroughly, and it would doubtlessly be him who had to repair the outfit.
Cheongmyeong has never made any attempt to hide his soulmark, having bared his chest countless times over the time he’s spent training them. He’s never truly spoken on his soul-bound though.
Even after careful timing, waiting until Cheongmyeong had a jug of alcohol in his hand to ask, they heard nothing more than a soft sigh, a brief pause to swirl his drink. Only once did they witness such sentimentality, after such, any attempt to bring up the matter led to a swift and brutal beating.
Baekcheon would assume that he’d met them before entering Mount Hua, if that had made any sense at all, but there was no way his dantian would’ve allowed the bond to be made at that stage. For as strong as he’d supposedly been— even from day one— Cheongmyeong hadn’t had the reserves to make a bond. But then, when could it have happened?
Nobody has ever seen the person at the other end of the bond. And even their subtlest attempts at information gathering… the last poor victim to do so had been trained so thoroughly that… Baekcheon would rather not remember.
After Tang Soso and Iseol’s bond formed, he's been especially bad though. Do you hate seeing your sect siblings happy? Well, it's not his fault your samae bonded, leave the rest of them out of it!
Baekcheon is almost glad he hasn't met his soul bound yet, if this is the reaction that it yields. He pauses, staring blankly out— what an evil junior brother he has, making him glad to not have met the one who will touch his soul.
Admittedly, he is a little jealous of his Samae. There are many advantages that come with being soul-bound, even if the increased pressure from Cheongmyeong is a heavy weight to bear.
They’ve gotten stronger in leaps in bounds, but it doesn’t make the training any more pleasant. If anything, the second they get strong enough to make the previous training bearable, Cheongmyeong kicks it up ten notches! His sajil is truly evil!
But then he remembers the face of his brother after his embarrassing loss during the tournament. He thinks back to how all of the second grade disciples suffered humiliating defeats when they had refused to follow Cheongmyeong’s guidance, and how all of their Sajils had destroyed the Zhongnan disciples without struggle.
The tile is drenched in sweat underneath him, and he pushes himself back up. He will beat his brother the next time they meet. Mount Hua has already risen higher than anyone had expected, thanks to the monstrous strength of Cheongmyeong; now it’s up to the rest of the disciples to follow in his footsteps. Even if it means agony and pain with every movement of their body.
For as awful as he sometimes… no, often is, Cheongmyeong remains dedicated to Mount Hua. Somebody as strong as him could’ve thrived in any sect he chose, and yet he continues to choose Mount Hua, going as far as to raise the caliber of all of the disciples around him. His actions may be more akin to torture than training, but the results do not lie.
His samae are privileged to be granted training in regards to their soul-bond. Cheongmyeong does seem impossibly used to the exchange of qi between soul-bound, and it makes him wonder if his bound has somehow turned traitor and abandoned him. Perhaps he left him for another sect. It is the only reason Baekcheon can fathom as to why Cheongmyeong would regard the subject with such dismissal, despite his clear experience in the matter.
After all, between Mount Hua and his soul-bound, Baekcheon really doesn’t know which Cheongmyeong would choose.
In the end, he really doesn’t have time to speculate.
He calls his fellow disciples back to their feet; Cheongmyeong may be focused on their samae at the moment, but not a second of time that could be spent training can be wasted.
Not after what his sajil has given to award them this opportunity.
Honestly, they really were more trouble than they were worth. He picks at crud in his ear, flicking it blindly off to the side.
They were lucky the trip could count as good training for Cheongmyeong’s pathetic reincarnated body. Even the few years of practice he’s had haven’t brought him back to anywhere near his old prowess
This trip wouldn’t have even been half a day before and now it was an entire trek. Aigo, he was wasting away. He would have to triple his workload when he returned to Mount Hua. How was he meant to surpass his previous self like this?
It felt too slow. But Cheongmyeong knew better than to try and rush the results. His previous self had been one of the greatest alive, but he could’ve been so much stronger if he’d only been patient with his training. If he hadn’t been so weak, perhaps more disciples would’ve made it out of that final battle alive, and then Mount Hua wouldn’t be in this mess.
But there was nothing he could do about it now. Besides, already, his foundation was a million times better than before, his qi was infinitely more pure, and the third grade disciples were being shaped into something that vaguely resembled martial artists.
He might as well make the best out of the situation. This new generation of Mount Hua disciples would have to best the one of his time; that was the only way he would be satisfied.
Either way! What sort of welcome was he getting, huh! He makes the trek all the way to the Tang estate and nobody is at the door to greet him? It’s only a little dark outside!
Back in his day, even at the peak hours of night, Tang Bo-
Aish. Why did he even bother coming? This could’ve been handled through a series of letters, but no, he insisted on doing things himself.
He barges through the gate, waving off the guards who stand at attention. At least some people knew how to do their jobs. He wanders through the estate, and honestly, there’s no real point to it.
Mount Hua and the Tangs have a bond of friendship now, but that’s all there is. Cheongmyeong has no reason to come here anymore. There is nothing left for him, and lingering on the past won’t do anyone any favors.
One last night. There’s one last thing he has to do before he can let go.
There isn’t any business that can be dealt with at this time, so he wanders the halls. If he was any other guest, he’s sure the Patriarch would crack down on this, but after demolishing their elder council, he doubts taking a walk through their estate will be what gets him kicked out.
Besides, the room he’s going towards shouldn’t be in use anymore. In fact, he’d be surprised if it hasn’t fallen into a little bit of disarray, considering how far on the outskirts it is as compared to the rest of the family.
There’s a garden nearby. He can smell the assortment of plants and poisons that Tang Bo had traveled around Murim to amass. He’s surprised they’re still alive after all this time.
It wouldn’t be so outlandish for someone else to have started taking care of them, he supposes. It is a family of poison users, surely someone would see the value in the bunch.
He steps into the dirt, as if to take the path back to the valley of poisons.
Aigo, what is he doing? He’s meant to be moving forward, not doing whatever pathetic lingering this is.
He turns back to the walkway right as a flash of green turns a corner. But why would anyone be out here? Cheongmyeong hasn’t heard of any black sheep in this generation, and it’s a little suspicious to be out taking a walk at this time of night.
Obviously, like the upstanding citizen he is, Cheongmyeong has to see what he’s up to. They turn a few corners, and it honestly just seems like useless meandering— ah, no fun, Cheongmyeong was hoping for a head to bust.
There’s something about him that Cheongmyeong can’t look away from though, no matter how aimless his path seems to be. Something egging at his nerves.
It’s probably the eerie resemblance to a young Tang Bo. All of the Tang robes look the same, and the way he styles his hair is the same half-pulled back style that his Bo-yah had been so fond of.
There’s not much more point in creeping around like this, he eventually decides. He’ll drop off a letter detailing why he’d come by and then head home. Everything left here is historical. He no longer has any right to it, and frankly, he doesn’t know if he’d want to bring it home anyway.
But he looks one last time, at the building where an outcast had made his home, at the boy who now wanders its halls, and-
Peeking out from the boy’s half-up bun is a pink hairstick. It isn’t especially ornate, no elaborate carvings at the end, and it looks worn, but Cheongmyeong can feel his breath catch.
It’s a plum blossom.
Or rather, carved from the heartwood of a plum blossom tree.
He knows that hairstick. He knows the exact tree that it came from, prized for the unblemished color that filled its inside.
It was only ever meant for Tang Bo.
He stomps over to the boy, ready to give a beating, and he doesn’t do a thing. His hand stills in the air, fist clenched to punch down, and he stops. The Plum Blossom Sword Saint has been dead for 100 years. The Dark Saint a month longer. There is nobody left who should know the history behind that stick.
Now, it is little more than a testament to the friendship Mount Hua and the Tangs once shared.
What is it to him if some boy wears the heirloom of his most esteemed ancestor? If anything, it just means one of these foolish descendants has some taste.
His hand slams down on the kid’s shoulder. There’s an immediate wave of killing intent so thick that you’d think Cheongmyeong challenged him to a duel. He tugs him in by the arm around his back, and the intent only doubles down, darkening the world around them.
Yah! What is this kid! Cheongmyeong hasn't even said anything and he’s already giving this attitude! This brat needs a stern talking to!
They turn to look at each other at the same time, the distaste for each other thick in the air. The line of this kid's brows are furrowed, as if he’s trying to kill Cheongmyeong with his stare alone, with those poison laced eyes.
His face goes pale, and for a moment his arm stills. The color is the same. Yah, Bo-yah, you left a couple of clones behind didn’t you? The shape of their eyes, the slope of their noses, it really is all the same.
“Aigo, is this any way to treat an esteemed guest? And here I thought the Tang family was one of the Five Great Families! They call any lout great nowadays, don’t they!”
In a moment, light comes back into the hall, the meager— it really was quite a pathetic amount, what was he trying to scare, a rabbit? Please, even his juniors could do better!— killing intent rescinds back into the boy. Even his harsh glare is fixed, as his eyes widen with surprise— at Cheongmyeong’s generosity for not busting his skull, no doubt, it really is quite magnanimous of him.
If he was one of the Mount Hua disciples… oh, the joys of being a teacher.
The boy just looks at him, up and down, eyes catching on the Mount Hua logo. He pauses there, leaves the silence lingering a moment longer. He recollects himself, tucking his hands into his sleeves to make a proper bow.
“This Tang Bo asks Dosa Hyung-nim for his forgiveness.” What. His ears go staticky, and the boy— Tang Bo, he says!— only stares before continuing, his words slow and deliberate. “He did not keep his word.”
What word- what is he saying-
It’s not possible. Yeah, Cheongmyeong reincarnated, but what are the chances it would happen to both of them?
“Bo-yah?”
He raises his head, meeting Cheongmyeong’s stare head-on, and his voice goes soft. “Hyung-nim.” The edges of his lips curve up until Cheongmyeong is caught, until the corners of his eyes are wrinkling.
He pokes at the qi in his chest, searching for a hole where his soul-bound should be connected, but there’s nothing. Not even a stray thread leading to him. It’s like a thick wall, his body seems to know there should be something beyond, but it’s unreachable. In his past body, Tang Bo’s internal energy had lingered by that wall.
If he’d died with that energy still inside of him, maybe that was tied to their reincarnation. Cheongmyeong’s was still beyond reason— an act from the heavens, maybe it’s the reward Mount Hua deserved for killing Cheonma, one final act to save the sect— but Tang Bo could’ve been dragged along with him by the remains of his qi within Cheongmyeong.
It’s no more impossible than the situation he’s already in.
Promising to live, huh! What a stretch this was! He didn’t mean 100 years in the future! Aigo, his junior has no respect, no honor. As expected of a hidden weapon specialist.
And to think, he’d been hiding here this entire time. Cheongmyeong was out training disciples and what was Tang Bo doing? His family was still in disarray, and to top it all off, they were causing problems for Cheongmyeong!
He can’t even get his own family in order? Cheongmyeong is raising an entire generation of students, and Tang Bo can’t manage blood relatives? Aigo, his soul-bound has really been struggling in this lifetime.
He’s too much of an old soul now, he can’t even rein in the youth of today. Letting arrogant brats run around willy-nilly.
Hey, wait a second, he let one of his family members throw a dagger at Cheongmyeong during the duel! He didn’t even try to help! Yeah, he was unconscious for three days, but Cheongmyeong feels confident in saying that Tang Bo wasn’t there once!
“Yah! Where were you when I first came by, huh?”
It hadn’t been that long ago that Cheongmyeong had caused a bit of a fuss in the Tang family, stealing their head’s daughter and demolishing the council of elders. You’d think Tang Bo would’ve noticed and maybe shown his face. He turns to Tang Bo, expectant, and his friend takes a small step back.
He wouldn’t have just left Cheongmyeong to think he was dead, would he? Let him continue training his disciples, checking in on Bo-yah’s own family, and just let his continued survival go unmentioned? Surely his soul-bound wasn’t stupid enough to do that.
“Ah, Hyung-nim, I wasn’t here!” As if. If Cheongmyeong had shown up some years ago, there was no chance Tang Bo hadn’t been reincarnated at that point. It’s a poor excuse and he tells him as much.
Tang Bo laughs, just a little before settling down at Cheongmyeong’s glare. “Not like that, Hyung-nim, I just truly wasn’t here in the estate. I was traveling, searching for a few rare ingredients. There are some truly amazing plants that can be found with just a few days' journey!”
He grabs at Cheongmyeong’s arm to drag him forward, presumably to wherever he’d been heading before he was interrupted. Whenever he feels close enough, his rambling picks up again, tales of all the different plants he came across, the new poisons he could make, crosses he’s excited to try, and on and on.
His ears ache by the time they stop, in front of some large doorway. There’s nobody who talks quite as much as Tang Bo when he finds something he wants to share, so his ears really aren’t used to it yet.
Gosh, that guy can go on. Complaining about Cheongmyeong not taking care of his wounds, telling him stories of the trips he went on while they were apart… heck, he’d shared Tang secret techniques. He didn’t hide anything from Cheongmyeong.
But that was deliberate. It had been over a quiet moment of drinking, staring out into the space beyond that pavilion, and every word had been intentional. He wasn’t a snitch, he could keep a secret; he didn’t say things like that on accident. It was only for Cheongmyeong.
He looks at him, at the smile he wears, that he always has when he’s by Cheongmyeong, and it’s… well, it’s nice.
Having Bo-yah back is… good.
They may not be called the Twin Sovereigns anymore, but they can just forge a second legendary partnership. If the first one barely stuck around, this second one will just have to be more memorable.
“Ah, Hyung-nim knows he’s allowed to hug me, right?” Cheongmyeong shoves him away, giving him a dirty look and Tang Bo only bats his eyelashes, reaching back out to cling to the sleeve of Cheongmyeong’s uniform.
“Who would want to hug you?” He shouts, stomping forward, to finally cross the threshold of Tang Bo’s bedroom. “No good, pathetic, lying-!”
“Ah, I get it, I get it!” Tang Bo interrupts, he looks up at Cheongmyeong for a moment and then his expression twists into something dismayed, eyebrows squishing together with sudden discontent. The words fall out of his mouth like vomit, and Cheongmyeong processes the regret on his face sooner than the words themself.
“I’m shorter than Hyung-nim.”
…
Cheongmyeong raises a hand to the top of his head, brings it to Tang Bo. Goes back and forth. A grin spreads across his lips, and Tang Bo’s distress only seems to grow. Those few centimeters he’d always been so proud of are gone now.
“I’m still growing!” Tang Bo insists, without Cheongmyeong saying a word. The belly aching laughter is a good remedy might be something though.
Tang Bo had held those stupid centimeters over his head for the few decades he’d had them, so he’s perfectly deserving of all the torment Cheongmyeong deems appropriate. He tolerates a few minutes of jeering before his face stretches in a worse grin than usual.
“It means I fit perfectly.” He says, wrapping his arms around Cheongmyeong’s center. Cheongmyeong sticks his tongue out above him, disgusting. His Bo-yah is truly disgusting.
“Sticky leech.” He complains, and he pokes at the hairstick in Tang Bo’s hair. It’s faded, no longer the bright pink it had been a hundred years ago, but it still shines with care.
“I can’t believe you still have this old thing.”
“Hyung-nim isn't actually suggesting I would get rid of a gift from him, is he?” Especially not this one. Tang Bo gives him a suspicious look, reaching up to tug at the ribbon in his hair. “Did Hyung-nim throw out his ribbon?”
His hand twitches with the urge to smack him and that face of his, it's like an instinct. He gently peels Tang Bo’s hand out of his hair, the green ribbon trailing after his fingers.
It isn't the same one; that'd be impossible. It had been 100 years, who knows what had happened to Cheongmyeong’s original body. How was he meant to find one ribbon if he couldn't even find himself, huh?
Bo-yah just smiles up at him easily, as if the words that had gone unspoken were as clear as day.
“I’ll get you a new one.”
“Aish, you yangban!" Tang Bo is toying with the ends of the ribbon again, and his face is smiling, but his eyes are pinched. He repeats himself, and Cheongmyeong doesn't bother to complain. What's one ribbon to a silver spoon like him anyway?
Besides, if Bo-yah wants him to go around wearing a gift from him, who would he be to stop him? It isn't just him who'd thought the other dead.
He jabs at the qi in his body insistently. Tang Bo was right here, his reserves ripe and ready for the taking. What more could they possibly need!
He narrows his eyes. It's not even that the space where Tang Bo’s qi used to be is empty, it's that Cheongmyeong's own energy is just circling back in itself as if Tang Bo had never been there in the first place. There has to be a way to fix it.
How on earth had the leech even managed that? And while dying too! The idiot hadn't even tried to tell him what he was doing.
No blood was going to his brain, Cheongmyeong was sure. Like a leech without a blood source. Aigo, it was a wonder Bo-yah could survive splitting them apart, considering how often he had stolen Cheongmyeong's inner qi just to get his attention.
“Bo-yah,” Aish, he curses himself for the eager way Tang Bo responds to the name, it was a slip of the tongue. “Why is our bond closed?”
“It worked?”
Worked? So it really was entirely intentional.
“What did you do to the bond?” He finally pushes Tang Bo away from him, not wavering even when Tang Bo frowns.
“Ah, Hyung-nim- that is…” He grins boldly, and that's how Cheongmyeong knows he's about to say the stupidest thing he's ever heard. He's right.
“Say that again?” His fist is in the air, murderous intent leaking between them.
Tang Bo looks excited, even as he blocks the hand that comes flying down at him. “I really don't know.”
“So many people were dying, you know, and losing two martial artists whenever a soul-bounded died just wasn’t practical-”
“Get to the point!” Cheongmyeong snarls, smacking him upside the head. Tang Bo only clicks his tongue, smile no less wide.
“Aigoo,” He drawls, and Cheongmyeong raises his arm. “So impatient, Hyung-nim.”
He pats the spot on the bed next to him, and Cheongmyeong wants him to start talking, so he sits. Tang Bo pushes at some wood, nudging things out of the way to pull out a jug. He pops off the cap and the sweet smell of alcohol hits Cheongmyeong's nostrils.
There are no cups— poorly prepared, Cheongmyeong is always set up for a drink— so Tang Bo takes a swig straight from the lip before passing it over.
“Hyung-nim knows there are poisons that interfere with qi circulation— especially circulation between soul-bound. I was just… doing some experimenting to see if someone could survive a little longer.”
It sounds a little suspicious, so Cheongmyeong takes a hearty gulp of their drink and thinks it through. Tang Bo had a foolish tendency to experiment on himself, of all people— it only ever made him stronger, so he’d never heeded Cheongmyeong’s complaints, and anyone weak enough to die to their own poison would be beyond reprehensible in Tang Bo’s eyes— and there were very few people who were willing to put their soul-bond on the line for experimentation. Most people treasured them quite a bit, imagine that.
He takes another swallow, but it’s little more than a taste. The flavor isn’t as sweet as he’d thought. “You were testing ways to break the bond on yourself?”
“Scared I might try to leave you?” He asks meanly, like Cheongmyeong can’t see the hurt crest of his eyes, and- Aish! Tang Bo massages the bruise that he just made, his hands are gentle, like he regrets what he had just done— insane, he’s actually crazy— and his next words are softer, but no less serious for it. “Never.”
He sticks out his tongue, and the solemn air immediately shatters. “Hyung-nim is stuck with me forever! Other people tested it.”
Cheongmyeong rubs at his shoulder idly, thumb running over the place where the Mount Hua logo covers their soul mark. Tang Bo watches him do it. It’s not an apology, and it’d be a poor one if it was— from either of them.
Whether those people were Magyo or part of the Righteous sects is left unmentioned. It was probably both. Cheongmyeong doesn’t particularly care one way or another, none of that matters to him. As long as it wasn’t Tang Bo.
The shoulder of his uniform is pulled to the side, baring his blossoming bruise to the air. Tang Bo runs a gentle finger over it, hissing at the imagined sting— he’s so dramatic, Cheongmyeong didn’t even make a noise and yet he’s whining like he was the one hit. They both died in a war, something like this is nothing.
“Why’d you let me hit you?” He complains, hand reaching behind to rummage through a bedside drawer. Objects clank together until Tang Bo makes a noise of satisfaction and pulls out a small vial of thick cream.
Huh. Why would he need that? Cheongmyeong is barely going to bruise, and Tang Bo wants to use medicine on it? What is he, a kid who hasn’t been taught how to hold a sword yet? “I don’t need medicine! You barely touched me.”
“Just take it, won’t you?” Tang Bo gripes, holding his shoulder still so he can swipe a dollop of cream onto his skin. Cheongmyeong hisses, goosebumps prickling across his skin. There isn’t even a wound to treat, yet he’s being treated like some yangban maiden!
He blows on the cream, and Cheongmyeong freezes. It’s not familiar to this body, and the sensation is cold and vulnerable, but even so, it’s not bad. Tang Bo drops his forehead to the junction between Cheongmyeong’s neck and shoulder. They sit like that for a moment, the hot air against his skin sends prickles down his spine, but he doesn’t push Tang Bo away. Not even when he mutters a stupid apology into the space between their bodies.
“Aish! Apologizing for nothing. Some Dark Saint you are.” He tugs at a strand of his hair, too lazy to muster up the smack to the head that his Bo-yah deserves. If a halfhearted punch was enough to cause a rift between them, then they’d never have been friends. Besides, Cheongmyeong is big enough to admit he deserved that one.
Tang Bo is stupid beyond belief, but he’s also a true leech. There’s no chance he would’ve risked their soul-bond.
The hand that had been rubbing at his shoulder creeps inwards, the tips of his fingers brush against the edge of Cheongmyeong’s pectorals and his wrist is slammed to the bed before the lech can go farther.
An unrepentant smile presses against his shoulder, and warmth radiates from the skin around it like a curse. He can feel the heat creep up his face, and he curses.
“Aish, disgusting pervert!”
The fingers on Tang Bo’s trapped hand wiggle, nudging backwards into Cheongmyeong’s palm, trying to flip his hand over, and— fine! Alright! Tang Bo can have it his way! Their fingers thread together, and someone needs to check on the rest of the family compound, because Cheongmyeong thinks it might be on fire somewhere. His hands aren’t as slender as they used to be is his second thought. They’re still growing, and isn’t it odd to meet him so much younger, to know that they will forge their paths together this time, from beginning to end.
Tang Bo makes a low hum, quiet and thoughtful. “I want to fix our bond.”
He jolts against Cheongmyeong’s shoulder, head jerking back to stare at him with wide green eyes. “Hyung-nim would want that, right? This way might be safer— I mean, if one of us dies-”
“Huh! Just fix the stupid bond! Neither of us are dying anytime soon!”
“Hyung-nim is so romantic.” He sounds like he means it too. Stupid.
“Do you remember what it felt like when I died?” Tang Bo asks. He only scoffs. As if he could ever forget.
Cold. Empty. Like losing a limb— but it was worse than that, and trust him, he knows. At least when he lost his arm he knew he was dying soon after. At least when he wept then, there was an end in sight.
It was being the strongest swordsman alive, leading the charge to defend the lives of tens of thousands of people, and still being too slow. It was knowing that if he’d been there— they were meant to watch each others’ backs; they were the only ones strong enough to do it— he would’ve survived. It was feeling the energy that had once been so strong, so vibrant and lively, fade away, even long before he died. It was unnatural. He wasn’t meant to survive without his Bo-yah.
All he had left was the remains of his qi, circling his heart in a never ending loop. He’d died with it, the last shreds of Tang Bo’s lifeforce sitting safe and protected inside his gaping chest.
“Weird.” He eventually answers. “It was like you slammed a door between us.”
“It didn’t leak through?”
Cheongmyeong grimaces, “I don’t know. I had bigger things to worry about.”
He doesn’t remember much of the month between their deaths. But he does know dying hadn’t been a huge worry, really. All he had to do was cut off the head of that Cheonma and protect Mount Hua. As long as he survived that long, it was alright.
Tang Bo looks thoughtful, if a tad regretful. The idiot really hadn’t realized what he was asking. It was a miracle he had ended up with someone like Cheongmyeong, nobody else would be benevolent enough to ignore a question like that.
“If it’s just closed- no, but it wouldn’t still be there.” Tang Bo’s mutterings fill the silence, a passive noise for Cheongmyeong to listen to as he cards a thoughtless hand through soft strands of brown hair. It reminds him of when they’d first met, before this pretty boy and his weak cultivation started going gray.
“Dosa Hyung-nim still has his mark, right?”
“How dumb is this Dark Saint! Dark because there’s no light in his head, huh! What are you looking at if not my mark!”
Tang Bo pauses to glimpse down as if he’d forgotten. Aigo, he really is too dumb. His smile is sheepish, and he should be glad Cheongmyeong is too wrapped up to smack him.
“Ah, that’s true, Hyung-nim. Sorry…”
The hand that isn’t intertwined with Cheongmyeong’s reaches up to push at the collar of his uniform. He isn’t so occupied that he’ll ignore this pervert trying to take advantage! “Wait-! Wait, Hyung-nim, it’s not like that!”
His hand stills in the air, fist poised to strike the second Tang Bo’s debauched ways reveal themselves. He only wants to touch the mark, he swears, he has an idea. Begrudgingly, with very vocalized threats, he allows it.
The rest of his uniform is pushed to the side, leaving half his chest bare. The other side is barely hanging on, and it somehow feels more indecent than the times he goes without a shirt outright. It’s Tang Bo, he decides. There’s just something inappropriate about him.
His fingers are gentle as they brush against his clavicle, tracing down the bone towards the hollow of his throat. Cheongmyeong keeps his eyes trained on the ceiling, and his hand clenches against the palm of Tang Bo’s. The edge of a fingernail catches on a scar, and Cheongmyeong’s breath hitches.
Tang Bo is leaning in, he can see it from the bottom of his eyes, thoroughly entranced. Disgusting deviant! He’s taking advantage of this!
His face is hot, and he can’t look down. If Tang Bo doesn’t hurry up, Cheongmyeong will hold him down and do it himself! Ah, wait- “Get a move on!”
“Dosa Hyung-nim is a taoist, after all.” He teases, pressing a kiss against the meat of his shoulder. He’s about ready to bust Tang Bo’s head when he finally lays a hand on the mark— his heart rate is erratic, and he wonders if it’s noticeable; he’ll kill Tang Bo if he ever mentions it.
At first, it’s just the warmth of any touch. Then his Bo-yah sends a spark of qi into his chest, and it might as well stop everything else in its tracks. It’s almost taunting, the feeling of Tang Bo’s qi in his meridians— he craves it, feels like being given a steamed bun after months of inedia. It isn’t enough; it calls the urge back to life more than it suppresses it.
It’s not the same as it was. Both of their dantians have stronger foundations than in their previous lives, and while Cheongmyeong’s qi is exceptionally pure, Tang Bo’s energy is so thick with poison that it’s corrosive.
Tang Bo’s gasp is lighter, a little punched out giggle, as if he’s drunk. Cheongmyeong will bite him if he doesn’t hurry up and do it again.
The sudden flood of inner energy is almost overwhelming, the sweetness of the acid running through his veins is like returning to Mount Hua. It’s like being allowed to breathe again. He can feel Tang Bo, can tell exactly how much his reserves have shrunk, how he tugs at Cheongmyeong’s energy like he can’t resist the urge to gorge himself on what he’s been deprived of for so long now. It’s a trade, in perfect harmony, until Cheongmyeong is almost sure he consists more of the Tang’s qi than his own, and vice versa.
It’s as natural as the feeling of a sword in his hands, of a poison for Tang Bo. It’s plum blossoms in spring, covering the ground in a layer of petals that would fade into summer, into the soft covering of snow over their mountain.
It’s home.
…
It’s like coming home.
“Hyung-nim, want to have a baby?”
For a moment, Cheongmyeong thinks he heard him wrong. Tang Bo says a lot of nonsense, but this is especially unintelligible.
“What-?” He’s beyond baffled. He can feel the twist of his face, and even then it doesn’t feel like enough judgement. “What-! How did you come up with this absurd idea?“ The disciples around them are practically deaf to the world around them, too focused on keeping their bodies moving through the repetitions to comprehend the conversation going on at their heads.
“Well, just look at all of your little disciples. Wouldn’t it be cute to have one of our own?” Tang Bo croons, as if the disrespectful brats spread across the training grounds make the prospect of having children more appealing. These kids? Really? He’d questioned Tang Bo’s judgement before, but this really seals the deal.
Besides that! “Where are you getting a baby, huh? Our child, what nonsense!”
And any child from them would be a prodigy beyond all others. A little dark haired taoist. Would swordsmanship or hidden weapons work better for them? Why not both? Mount Hua didn’t forbid the use of other techniques, and if they could instill poison throughout their blossoms, Tang Bo would probably keel over from pride.
It would obviously be better if it was his genes, as they’re just obviously superior, but the thought is a little disappointing somehow. The thought of Bo-yah gushing over the child’s plum-colored eyes is a decent enough consolation prize. Yah, he might be losing his mind.
But then, who would be the mother?
Hmm, there were a lot of beggars. Surely it wouldn’t be that hard to just… find an orphan.
“It would be our baby.” Tang Bo says, as if Cheongmyeong is the stupid one. His grin is too happy for the garbage that’s coming out of his mouth. “We would have it together.”
Wait a second- why is he even bothering to entertain this! “Hey, idiot, we’re both men!”
Tang Bo’s smile doesn’t dim, if anything, it only gets brighter; he grabs the sleeve of Cheongmyeong’s uniform, leaning over to drape his body over his arm like the leech he is. For once, lecherous thoughts don’t even seem to be in his mind, just excitement.
“That’s the thing! I’ve been doing a little bit of experimenting, and I think I’ve worked something out! It’s not perfect yet, and it’s incredibly taxing on qi reserves, but-!”
His spiel doesn’t end there. In fact, it seems Tang Bo has put an incredible amount of effort into this absurd proposal. What about him, huh? How is he meant to react to this absurdity!
“We’re not even married?!” He blurts out, the shout echoing across the training fields. All of his so-called cute disciples turn to him with wide eyes, a few of them murmur the words to themselves in disbelief, and aish-!
“Is today’s training too easy for you?” He shouts, feeling the heat from the sun beating against his cheeks. “If you’re able to listen in on other peoples’ conversations, maybe this isn’t hard enough for you!”
Their cries of distress are an immediate reply, as they go back to their exercise. Even so, the second he turns his back he knows exactly what they’ll be talking about. Aigo, Bo-yah, look at the mess you’ve brought in!
Jangmun Sahyung, what do I do? My soul-bound is insane! He’s not even part of Mount Hua, and he already wants to have a baby. They haven’t even finished off the Demon sect, or raised Mount Hua back to its rightful place as a top three sect in Murim.
Ah, his sect leader would have a fit.
A child, huh. They’d be a nightmare to behold, if they were truly related to both Tang Bo and Cheongmyeong. A peerless talent— and if they have eyes that are as green as their father’s, well.
Wouldn’t that be interesting.
He takes a drink from his cup, and his lips curl up around the glass.