The lingering scent of the banquet, a comforting mix of roasted meats and celebratory rice wine, still clung to the air, a testament to Jihoon's unexpected triumph. He'd done it. He, a man who once struggled to pick out matching socks, had orchestrated a massive military feast that had won over an entire army and their formidable general. The knowledge that he had inadvertently delayed Prince Jaemin's arrival, thus buying himself crucial time, was a thin, fragile shield against the ever-present shadow of his illness. He had defied the plot, at least for now. This new, exhilarating sense of agency was a far more potent tonic than any the physician had prescribed.
Barely three days after the banquet, just as Jihoon was basking in the quiet satisfaction of successful rebellion, the mansion buzzed with an entirely different kind of anticipation. It was a nervous, almost reverent hum. Servants scurried, flowers appeared in vases, and Madam Ahn, while still prim, exhibited a frantic energy Jihoon hadn't seen before. "Prince Jaemin is arriving today, Sir," she announced, her voice tight with importance. "He is to be housed in the West Wing, under the General's personal protection."
Jihoon's stomach plummeted. Today? After all that? His momentary relief from the banquet felt short-lived. He'd merely postponed the inevitable, it seemed. He mentally braced himself for the entry of the novel's pure, innocent, and catastrophically clumsy protagonist. He imagined a delicate flower, stumbling over his own feet, likely surrounded by an aura of tragic beauty. He had a mission now: to ensure Prince Jaemin met General Taeyoung, as per the original story, thereby ensuring his own continued, if tangential, existence. It was a desperate plan, but he had to try.
He positioned himself discreetly near the main entrance, feigning interest in a potted plant, as the King's royal carriage, far more opulent than any Jihoon had previously seen, finally rolled through the gates. The air immediately thickened with deference. Guards snapped to attention. A hushed silence fell over the servants. The carriage door swung open, and out stepped... Prince Jaemin.
Jihoon almost dropped the ceramic pot he was pretending to admire. He expected delicate. He expected ethereal. He did not expect such breathtaking beauty. Prince Jaemin was not merely pretty; he was incandescent. His skin glowed, pale and flawless, beneath a cascade of soft, raven hair. His eyes, large and sparkling, held an almost childlike innocence, framed by long, thick lashes. He was dressed in robes of shimmering jade green, intricately embroidered, that seemed to catch every glimmer of light. He moved with a graceful, almost dreamlike quality that made him seem utterly removed from the rough reality of soldiers and political intrigue. Jihoon swallowed hard. Okay, wow. The author really wasn't kidding. This guy is the real deal. He could instantly see why the General, even the hardened 'God of Death', would supposedly fall for him. His matchmaking instincts, fueled by self-preservation, ignited. This was going to be easier than he thought, or so he hoped.
Over the next week, Jihoon, armed with his newly adopted "master of the house" authority, made it his mission to ensure Prince Jaemin was comfortably settled. He offered to personally show Jaemin the library, the gardens, and even the stables. He arranged for tea ceremonies in the ancestral garden, subtly suggesting that General Taeyoung might also wish to join. He'd even, once, 'accidentally' arranged for Taeyoung and Jaemin to walk into the same corridor at the same time, hoping for a meet-cute straight out of a webtoon. The results were... less than ideal.
"Oh, General Taeyoung! What a coincidence!" Jihoon had chirped, beaming.
Taeyoung had merely grunted, his gaze sweeping over Jaemin with a perfunctory nod before turning to Jihoon. "Are the new provisions for the kitchens finalized, Jihoon-ah?"
Jaemin, meanwhile, had been distracted by a particularly fluffy cat scampering across the courtyard. "Oh, a kitten!" he'd exclaimed, completely ignoring the General. Jihoon had wanted to tear his hair out. This wasn't romantic tension; this was a complete lack of interest.
Despite the frustrating failures of his matchmaking, Jihoon found himself genuinely enjoying Prince Jaemin's company. Jaemin was indeed sweet, with an infectious, if sometimes naive, curiosity about everything. He'd giggle at Jihoon's dry humor, gasp in delight at simple tricks with a coin, and once, during a quiet stroll through the ancestral garden, he even stumbled over a rogue root, tumbling gracefully into a rose bush. Jihoon had stifled a laugh and helped him up, plucking thorns from his robes. "Are you alright, Your Highness?" he'd asked, trying to sound concerned. Jaemin had simply beamed.
"Oh, quite! The roses are so fragrant, aren't they, Sir Jihoon?" It was difficult to feel anything but fondness for such an earnest soul. Jihoon found himself feeling a pang of genuine empathy, remembering the brutal future that awaited Jaemin in the novel - the war, the capture, and the sadistic treatment from Min Youngjin, the true antagonist and Jaemin's obsessive lover, not General Taeyoung. Jihoon grimaced. No wonder he suffers so much. He's too pure for this messed-up story, especially with someone like Youngjin in his future.
He also quickly realized that Jaemin still held a torch for "Min Youngjin," the Prince of Joseon from the original novel. Jaemin would often sigh dreamily, tracing patterns on the tea table, and once murmured, "I do miss the plum blossoms of home. Lord Min loved them so."
Jihoon immediately abandoned his matchmaking attempts between Jaemin and Taeyoung. There was no spark here, not for the General, not on Jaemin's side anyway. It was a relief, in a way, to let go of that impossible task.
As Jihoon diverted his energies from matchmaking to simply enjoying Jaemin's innocent company, a different kind of tension began to simmer in the mansion, entirely unrelated to Joseon princes. It was a subtle, almost imperceptible shift in General Taeyoung's behavior towards him. The General's eyes lingered a fraction longer when Jihoon spoke. His voice, when addressing Jihoon, held that softer, almost possessive, "Jihoon-ah" more frequently. He'd find excuses to be in the same vicinity, casually appearing in the library when Jihoon was there, or observing his management of the household staff with a quiet, approving nod.
Jihoon often caught Taeyoung watching him from across the courtyard, a stillness in the General's powerful frame that spoke volumes. One afternoon, caught in a particularly racking coughing fit in a secluded corner of the ancestral garden, Jihoon felt a large, warm hand settle gently on his back, rubbing slow, steady circles until the spasm subsided. He looked up, gasping for breath, to see Taeyoung's stoic face, his dark eyes filled with an unusual, uncharacteristic concern. "Easy, Jihoon-ah," the General murmured, his voice a low rumble, surprisingly tender. He simply stayed there, his hand a comforting weight, until Jihoon's breathing evened out. He didn't question, didn't comment on the lingering taste of blood in Jihoon's mouth, just offered a silent, solid presence. It was a small act, but it chipped away at the wall Jihoon had built around his heart.
Another time, after a particularly exhausting day reviewing inventories, Jihoon slumped against a pillar, utterly drained, the familiar ache in his chest flaring. Taeyoung, walking past, paused. Without a word, he simply removed his own heavy outer robe - a garment that reeked of battle and authority - and draped it gently over Jihoon's shoulders. The warmth was immediate, comforting, carrying a scent of woodsmoke and a faint, personal musk that was distinctly Taeyoung. "The night air grows cold," Taeyoung stated, his voice gruff, before continuing on his way, leaving Jihoon clutching the warm fabric, a blush creeping up his neck. It was these small, unexpected gestures of care, these quiet acknowledgments of his fragility without pity, that began to chip away at Jihoon's careful defenses. This wasn't the obsessive General of the novel; this was a man who saw him, truly saw him, and offered warmth when he was cold, comfort when he was suffering. Jihoon started to find himself looking forward to these fleeting, unbidden moments. His heart, which had only known the dull rhythm of illness and the frantic beat of self-preservation, began to flutter with a strange, unfamiliar emotion.
He found himself thinking about Taeyoung more often than was healthy, remembering the intensity of his gaze, the surprising tenderness of his touch. He'd blush unexpectedly when their hands brushed accidentally while reviewing documents. He started to see the General, the formidable soldiers, Madam Ahn, even the clumsy Prince Jaemin, not as mere characters in a pre-written story, but as real, complex people with their own lives, their own joys and sorrows. He was falling, slowly but irrevocably, for this powerful, silently caring General. This world, once a prison, now held a terrifying, exhilarating promise. His heart, which had only known the dull rhythm of illness, now beat with a thrilling, terrifying love for Taeyoung.
But even as the warmth of Taeyoung's presence seeped into his bones, a chilling thought pricked at the edges of his euphoria. Prince Jaemin was here. The story, however twisted by Jihoon's actions, was still unfolding. He had bought himself time, but for how long? The looming threat of the novel's tragic climax, and the relentless march of his own illness, remained. The delicate balance he'd struck felt more precarious than ever.
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