When Sahyeon had just entered under the tutelage of Chae Gong, those who had long stayed by her side but failed to gain the master’s favor said:
“Do you know why that picky master accepted a young, uneducated brat like you as a disciple? It’s all because of that white hair of yours.”
“A master who longs to become an immortal wouldn’t ignore a little boy who looks like a celestial child, now would she?”
Perhaps they were hoping the young apprentice would be so shocked that he’d run away crying.
It was a laughable notion.
Then again, how did they explain why Sahyeon, at just the right time Chae Gong passed through the mountain path, happened to be there playing the flute while leading an ox up a hill that wasn’t even pastureland?
The prematurely whitened hair that Sahyeon had from a young age felt like a gift from heaven, as if the heavens pitied him after taking everything else away.
In paintings of immortals, the children who served them always had hair as white as the feathers of a celestial crane and eyes as black as their tails.
Just by wearing a serene expression or gazing quietly at someone with bright eyes, he could appear wise.
“Body, speech, writing, and judgment”—the four traditional criteria for evaluating a person’s talent—began with appearance.
Thanks to his white hair, Sahyeon easily passed the first test.
Eloquence, writing skills, and discernment could be developed with time.
However, Sahyeon soon came to understand why the senior disciples—those who had studied enough under the master—uttered such foolish remarks.
What is wondrous at first becomes mundane once it’s familiar.
And the more impulsively one accepts something, the more quickly one regrets it.
Those born to noble families, the children of renowned scholars, or Chae Gong’s own relatives—people who were easily granted entry to the master’s side—never received such scrutiny.
Yet only Sahyeon was harshly judged for his abilities.
Why?
Because they hoped the fickle master would tire of him quickly.
They longed to hear the master say, “I must be getting old and foolish—I took that boy in as a disciple just because of his looks.”
To Sahyeon, who had fought hard to pass needle-eye–sized tests because he refused to be just a pretty ornament, they said:
“Heartless brat. Probably even that hair turned white from the poison in you.”
To Sahyeon, it was the highest praise he had ever received.
***
“Are you nervous?”
Sahyeon was jolted out of his thoughts at the words, as he looked up at the high walls of Jeonghangoong that cut across the clear blue sky.
The one who had spoken—Taejeonggong Dankyeong—smiled kindly at him as she personally accompanied him to the palace gates.
“It’s natural to be nervous. Even I, who was born and raised in this palace, feel suffocated every time I enter. Today…”
A court official hurried over and whispered something into her ear.
He then quickly retreated, covering his mouth with a black cloth attached to his official cap.
It seemed a familiar routine.
Dankyeong frowned briefly, then resumed speaking.
“Fortunately, His Majesty is in a decent mood.”
The King of Pasa was known for his unpredictability.
When in a good mood, he seemed ready to give away everything.
But in a foul mood, he would nitpick at trivialities and drive people into ruin.
Dankyeong herself was a prime example of someone who had suffered under such whims, so it was no surprise she always checked on the king’s mood before entering the palace.
“I had Lord Choi Woon recommend you in my place. If I were the one to present you, His Majesty would likely treat you harshly. So please, do not mention my name before him.”
While Sahyeon appreciated her consideration, he couldn’t help but wonder—if the king already disliked Dankyeong, wouldn’t he already suspect her involvement in sending him?
If she truly wanted to protect him, it might have been better to use the name of Dan Ijae of the Eighth Palace, the person Sahyeon had originally petitioned.
But perhaps it was also important to Dankyeong that she subtly show, “Chae Gong’s disciple is under my wing.”
For Sahyeon, the situation wasn’t ideal.
The king, still vigorous even near seventy, evidently still disapproved of Dankyeong.
Sahyeon had planned to quietly begin his service, gauge the king’s preferences, and find his place carefully.
But Dan Ijae had handed his information over to Dankyeong, and now everything was going awry from the start.
“Was Dan Ijae aligned with Dankyeong’s faction?”
If so, it was strange that Dankyeong had never mentioned Dan Ijae—not even once—despite her usual attachment to “her people.”
She had gone to such lengths to support someone like Sahyeon, who hadn’t even entered government service yet.
—Screeech!
A familiar cry echoed above Sahyeon’s head.
He looked up again at the blue sky.
A white peregrine falcon glided majestically, wings outstretched.
“I told them not to let it fly over Jeonghangoong,” Dankyeong muttered disapprovingly, clicking her tongue.
One of the officials walking behind her chuckled and added:
“That bird won’t learn until His Majesty clips its wings himself.”
For a moment, Sahyeon was struck by how absurd their words were—talking about clipping a bird’s wings as if that would teach it a lesson.
Then, a sudden chill prickled at his temple.
He slowly turned his head.
Dankyeong, who had been watching him with a slightly bitter expression, smiled the moment their eyes met.
The falcon’s owner… was probably Dan Ijae.
Sahyeon swallowed hard and looked down.
Fortunately, the official resumed chattering, and Dankyeong had no choice but to avert her gaze.
“That one should have been raised by Taejeonggong.”
“I wanted to, but he wouldn’t listen.”
The falcon, having made a wide circle over Jeonghangoong, turned eastward.
Watching the red tassel tied to its white tail feathers flutter in the wind, Dankyeong muttered again.
“Ungrateful beast. Runs away despite all the care.”
Sahyeon heard the crunch of sand underfoot.
The sound felt unnaturally loud and made him stop walking.
Dankyeong moved further ahead, step by step, until she reached the bridge leading to the King’s audience hall.
“What are you doing?”
She gestured for him to hurry, her wide sleeves fluttering like black flags.
Sahyeon quickly approached her side.
Crossing the Geumyang Bridge over a shallow stream and heading north along a straight path, they came to the corridor that encircled the King’s audience hall like a fortress.
Dankyeong stopped there and pointed to the main gate guarded by soldiers in black armor.
“From here, you go alone.”
She seemed unwilling to enter any place where the King’s eyes might reach.
“I’m grateful for your care, Taejeonggong.”
“Let me know how it went afterward. His Majesty won’t be unkind to Chae Gong’s disciple, so I’m hopeful for good news.”
Her hand lightly patted his shoulder.
For some reason, it felt like someone was tying a tassel to a hawk’s tail—a subtle mark of ownership.
Sahyeon cautiously stepped away from her touch.
He had too little to rely on, and his ambitions were too large to simply settle for safety.
Someday, he might have to wager everything in a bold gamble.
But not today.
It was too early to choose sides when he knew so little about the royal family of Pasa.
‘I need to find out what the king truly wants.’
Like asking a cockfight owner which rooster is likely to win, he’d need to read the signs.
***
“His Majesty summons you.”
A palace attendant approached soundlessly and whispered the words, though they were hardly a secret.
All the attendants here covered their mouths with black cloth, as if to warn not to disturb the King’s mood with careless words.
Even the officials Sahyeon had seen upon entering the palace kept their distance, whispering among themselves as if gauging a dangerous object.
It was clear how absolute the King’s authority was.
Of course—while Ha-hyeon had Grand Chancellor Yoon Gyu-hwa and Yugang had Prime Minister Yang Ju-gyeong, other nations had famous ministers more revered than their kings.
But in Pasa, all governance depended solely on the King.
There had been such a time.
It was likely an achievement of the current king, who from time to time pressured the weakened noble families that had lost their influence due to the purging by the former king, who had eliminated all potentially obstructive factions.
Of course, looking back now, not only did he torment his officials, but he also started weighing his own children on the scale.
So perhaps it’s less of an achievement and more a reflection of his true temperament.
He was certainly a difficult opponent to campaign against.
The audience hall was blocked by nine walls.
When the king held a private audience, all nine walls were taken down.
For meetings or banquets, the walls were raised or lowered in stages depending on the scale of the event.
It was said that the last time all nine walls, including the one leading to the courtyard, were opened was a year ago—when Lord Taejeong was officially appointed and a grand banquet was held.
Sahyeon cautiously stepped through the first door.
As soon as the hem of his robe crossed the threshold, the door behind him shut ominously.
A chilly gust of wind swept across the nape of his neck the moment the door closed.
Fighting the sudden urge to look back, Sahyeon forced himself to step over the next threshold.
Behind him, the nine doors closed one after another.
And the moment the innermost door shut, the surrounding landscape darkened in an instant.