Chapter 97 – Small Successes
Dawn — the hour of the Rabbit.
Spring had fully passed. Early summer filled the air. Ji‑ae‑su General Store had been open just over one month.
Jinhwa opened his eyes naturally. His body woke first. His mind followed after. It no longer felt forced. His body had adjusted to this hour. His eyelids rose on their own.
He sat up from the bed. The room air was slightly cool. That coolness cleared his groggy head. The sensation was not unpleasant.
He stepped outside. He dipped his hands into the water jar. Night's chill still lingered in the water. It wet the backs of his hands coldly. He scooped water and washed his face. He scooped again and poured it down his neck. Droplets ran along his spine. A quiet shiver trailed down his back.
"Now… I like these mornings."
He murmured softly. He dried his face with a towel. He recalled waking alone at the estate. Back then, he had hated rising. Even opening his eyes had been a burden. He had survived each day on one thought alone: endure today. But now things were different. He had work to do. He had work he could do. Neither too large nor too small — a day he could handle.
He opened the shop door slowly. Dawn had not fully broken. A bluish darkness still lingered outside. Morning air seeped in with the creak of the door. The same air as yesterday. The same smell as the day before. Yet it was not tedious.
He swept and wiped the shop. The floor was already clean. Still, he ran the broom across it. He pushed away invisible dust. He gathered crumbs around the counter and swept them out. The broom's whisper echoed softly through the quiet shop. He rubbed the display shelf edges with a rag. He wiped the wound salve bottles. He wiped the lamp oil bottles.
Cleaning an already clean floor — that was how Jinhwa told himself the morning had begun.
His body moved first. His mind watched quietly from behind.
"Completely used to it now."
He stood before the counter and surveyed the shop. The same scene as yesterday. The same as the day before. Yet it was not dull. The fact that today was the same as yesterday gave him a strange relief. An unchanging space of his own.
Through the window, the sky grew brighter. A rooster crowed in the distance. Faint footsteps of early‑rising farmers drifted in. He sat at the counter and opened the drawer. The ledger lay neatly inside. Beside it, the brush and ink waited in their places.
He took out the ledger and spread it on the counter. The rustle of turning pages stirred the quiet dawn air. Three weeks of records unfolded before his eyes. He traced the numbers slowly with his finger.
Week one. Daily average: eight jeon to one nyang. Customers had been few. Night visitors came only now and then. He had felt uneasy — but not rushed. He had chosen to go slowly.
Week two. Daily average: one nyang and three jeon or so. The caravan leader visited a second time. The traveler began coming regularly. The shape of regulars was forming.
Week three. Daily average: one nyang and seven or eight jeon. Word had spread among murim fighters. Night business was proving its worth. Inventory turned faster.
And yesterday — sales had reached two nyang and three jeon.
"Not explosive… but clearly rising."
Numbers did not lie. The climb was small but certain. The trend was stable. No sharp drops — only steady continuation.
He recalled the past. At the Hwasan Sect, he had always thought fast. His unresponsive inner energy had frustrated him. He had believed he must catch up — even one day sooner. At the clothing shop, he had dreamed big. One windfall could leap him up the staircase — so he had tried to jump rather than climb. At Pungnyu‑gak, he had craved high. Greater fame. Greater splendor. A grander existence. And he had wished himself at the center of it all.
Now was different.
"This time… not fast, not big, not high. Slowly. But… surely."
Morning — the sun fully risen.
Warm sunlight poured into the shop. Wound salve bottles glowed softly on the display shelf. Straw sandals and rope cast shadows from the double‑sided stand. He sat at the counter checking yesterday's leftover inventory when footsteps stopped before the shop.
He looked up. A farming couple in their mid‑forties. The husband wore a sickle at his waist. The wife carried a wicker basket. Both were soaked in sweat. They had clearly been working since dawn.
"Welcome."
He rose and bowed. The husband nodded and walked toward the double‑sided stand. He touched the rope. He glanced at his wife. She came closer. Together they examined it.
"How much… for this?"
"Five jeon per coil."
The husband frowned. The price seemed steep. The wife nudged his arm.
"Dear — try haggling."
"…Could you take four jeon?"
Jinhwa shook his head.
"I'm sorry. We use fixed pricing."
"Fixed pricing?"
"Yes. Every customer pays the same price. I do not lower it. I do not raise it."
The husband's brow creased. Jinhwa continued calmly.
"I keep the shop open at night, so lamp oil costs are higher. I must always keep stock on hand, including reserves. The price may be slightly above other shops. But in return, you can come at any hour — night or dawn — and the goods will always be here."
The wife looked at her husband. He thought for a moment. Then he nodded.
"…That's fair enough. All right."
He picked up two coils of rope. Jinhwa received one nyang in silver and placed it in the drawer. As the couple left, the wife's voice carried back.
"An honest shop. Let's come again."
Jinhwa stood in the doorway and watched them go. The word "honest" — it warmed his chest.
Late morning — the sun climbing higher.
The shop grew warmer. He opened the door wider to let in a breeze. Cool air seeped inside.
Hurried footsteps. A young murim fighter burst into the shop. A sword at his hip. Sweat on his face. He was panting.
"Wound salve… do you have it?"
"Yes. How much do you need?"
"Two bottles!"
Jinhwa took two bottles from the display shelf and set them on the counter. The fighter tossed silver down. He tucked the bottles into his coat. He paused and looked at Jinhwa.
"…I heard you stay open at night."
"Yes. We are open at night as well."
"Good. A shop like this — murim fighters need it."
The fighter cupped his fist and rushed out. Blood stained his shoulder from behind. A comrade must have been hurt.
"The word is spreading."
Jinhwa sat at the counter and thought.
"Among murim fighters. Among merchants. Among villagers. Little by little — but surely — I am taking root. No. I am already taking root."
The hour of the Horse — midday.
A stranger stopped before the shop. An old man, mid‑sixties perhaps. His back was hunched. He carried a wicker basket nearly as large as himself. His clothes were patched in many places. His straw sandals were nearly worn through — toes poking out. Deep lines of age and hardship were carved into his face.
The old man lingered outside. He hesitated. He stepped toward the door. One step — then he stopped. Another step — then stopped again. Finally, he pushed the door open and entered.
"Welcome."
Jinhwa rose and bowed. The old man nodded and walked slowly toward the double‑sided stand. His gait looked painful. He winced with every step. His feet clearly hurt.
Jinhwa observed quietly. Through the torn sandals, he saw battered toes. From the basket on the old man's back, a strong herbal scent drifted. That scent — it was the same one from Elder Yakwang's medicine room at the Hwasan Sect. The fragrance of herbs that grew only deep in the mountains.
The old man touched a pair of sandals. He sighed softly. Jinhwa understood that sigh. "I want to buy, but I have no money." "I need them, but I must endure."
"…How much for these?"
He pointed at a pair of sandals.
"Three jeon per pair."
A shadow crossed the old man's face. He fingered his pocket but did not reach inside. He stared at the sandals for a moment. He shook his head and turned away.
"…Too dear."
He muttered and began walking toward the door.
"Elder."
Jinhwa called out. The old man flinched and turned.
"Your feet… have suffered a great deal."
His gaze fell to the old man's feet. Toes jutted through the ruined sandals. The skin on his heels was cracked. Dried blood clung to the cracks. Small scars crisscrossed his ankles. Old calluses rose rough and thick.
"…Anyone who climbs mountains ends up like this. It's nothing."
"To say it's nothing… they are badly worn."
Jinhwa walked to the double‑sided stand. He picked up the best‑made pair of sandals. He brought a small chair from beside the counter and set it before the old man.
"Would you sit here for a moment?"
"If I sit… must I buy?"
"We should see if they fit first. If they don't, you need not buy."
The old man sat as if drawn. Jinhwa knelt and removed the old sandals. Dirt and dust spilled from inside them. He fetched a clean towel and gently brushed the soil from the old man's feet. He slipped on the new sandals.
The cushioned sandals embraced his feet. The old man's expression softened visibly.
"…Comfortable. A perfect fit."
That single remark held everything.
"Is that a basket of herbs on your back?"
Jinhwa pointed at the old man's basket. The old man's eyes shifted.
"…Yes. Gathered from the southern forest."
"Would you consider selling them?"
The old man smiled bitterly.
"The apothecaries beat the price down so low… I worked hard gathering them. Handing them over for nothing…"
Jinhwa nodded. He understood. Apothecary owners were middlemen. They bought as cheaply as possible and sold dear. Herb gatherers always lost.
"I will buy them."
"…What?"
"I will pay more than the apothecaries. And I would like to trade regularly going forward."
His gaze grew earnest.
"I intend to run this shop for a long time. Wound salve alone is not enough. Poor murim fighters and caravan hands in a hurry — they need affordable herbs too. If you bring good herbs steadily, I will pay a fair price."
This was not simple charity. It was a deal. A sustainable relationship of mutual benefit.
The old man studied Jinhwa for a long time. His eyes were clear. No deception. No greed. The old man lowered the basket slowly. He lifted the lid. He showed the herbs inside.
"Hemostatic grass, detox root, pain‑relief herb… I have them all."
Jinhwa peered in. Knowledge from Elder Yakwang at the Hwasan Sect surfaced. Hemostatic grass for stopping blood. Detox root for neutralizing poison. Pain‑relief herb for easing aches. He checked their condition. The quality was good.
"What price were you hoping for?"
"The apothecary offered… three nyang for this much."
Jinhwa calculated silently. He knew the apothecaries' methods. Three nyang meant the true value was at least five. An apothecary would sell them for close to ten. The herb gatherer received less than half.
"I will pay five nyang."
The old man's eyes widened.
"…Five nyang?"
"Yes. And if the quality stays this good, I will pay the same each time. Can you come once a week?"
The old man could not speak for a moment. His throat seemed to tighten. His eyes seemed to redden. He answered in a trembling voice.
"…I pass this road once a week. I'll stop by each time."
"Will you promise?"
"At my age, there's no reason to lie."
Jinhwa smiled. He went to the back room and returned with five nyang in silver. He handed them to the old man. He received the basket.
"Thank you. Truly… thank you."
The old man bowed deeply. His voice carried something beyond simple gratitude — the joy of being respected, the relief of being recognized.
The old man walked out in new sandals. His step looked lighter. Gladness showed in his retreating figure.
Jinhwa stood in the doorway and watched until the old man vanished down the main road. He carried the basket back inside.
"A good deal. I will dry these herbs to make storage easier, increase their potency, and sell them at a better price."
Midday — the sun at its peak.
Heat pressed into the shop. He opened the door wider. A breeze slipped in. He began sorting the herbs.
He took them from the basket one by one. Hemostatic grass with hemostatic grass. Detox root with detox root. Pain‑relief herb with pain‑relief herb. He separated them into small piles. He checked their condition once more.
Elder Yakwang's teaching returned. "The timing of harvest matters. Too early — the potency is weak. Too late — the potency scatters. Look at the color. Smell the fragrance. Feel with your hands. And most herbs — once dried — improve in potency and storage alike."
He picked up hemostatic grass. The leaves were deep green. The scent was strong. Harvested at the right time. He touched them. The leaves were firm yet supple.
"Good herbs."
He checked the detox root. The root was thick. The scent was powerful. It was aged. The older, the better the detoxifying effect. This grade could neutralize common poisons easily.
The pain‑relief herb had sturdy stems and even color. It had grown in good sunlight. Such herbs excelled at easing pain.
While he sorted, several customers came and went. A merchant buying rope. A farmer buying sandals. A traveler buying lamp oil. Each time he paused his work to greet them. After each sale, he returned to the herbs.
When sorting was done, he divided them further — herbs requiring suchi processing and herbs for raw drying. He blanched the suchi herbs briefly in water. He hung all of them in a shaded, well‑ventilated spot to dry. In about half a month, the potency would strengthen and storage life would extend.
This effort would raise their value, Jinhwa thought.
The hour of the Goat — afternoon.
His stomach growled. He had eaten nothing since morning.
He went to the back room. He took out a small box. Inside were four hardtack and a few strips of jerky. Whenever the wholesaler delivered goods, Jinhwa set a little aside for himself.
He took one hardtack. He scooped water from the jar and dampened it. The hard biscuit softened slightly. He tore off small pieces and ate. It had no flavor — but it filled him.
He did not eat the jerky. He would save it for evening. Two meals a day were enough.
He drank another mouthful of water. The cold water slid down his throat and cooled his insides.
"Food costs — three jeon a day is enough. One jeon for hardtack. Two jeon for a bit of jerky. Less than one nyang a month."
He calculated. Rent was eight nyang. Food under one nyang. Monthly expenses came to about nine nyang. Recent daily sales averaged around two nyang. That meant about sixty nyang a month. After expenses, over fifty nyang remained.
"No need for lavish meals. Filling the belly is enough. No need for wine like the Pungnyu‑gak days. No need for luxury like the estate days. Frugally — only as much as needed."
He finished the hardtack and rinsed his mouth with water. He washed his hands. He wiped his face. There was no mirror — but his reflection in the water looked thin yet healthy.
"This much… is enough."
In his spare moments, Jinhwa did not neglect basic exercises like the horse stance — the kind murim fighters used for conditioning. Part of him wished to stay close to the murim world. But the truest reason was simpler: at a general store, Jinhwa's own stamina was the most important asset.
He did not neglect simbeop cultivation either. It did not truly advance his training — but the calming effect alone satisfied him.
He stepped back out and sat at the counter. His stomach was settled. He was ready for the afternoon.
Nearing the hour of the Monkey — late afternoon.
The familiar sound of cart wheels. He looked through the window. The caravan leader's carts. But this time there was one more cart. An unfamiliar merchant had come along. The caravan leader brought him inside.
"Shopkeeper — I'm back!"
"Welcome."
Jinhwa rose and bowed. The caravan leader pointed to the merchant beside him.
"My colleague. We travel the same route. I told him about your shop — he insisted on stopping by."
"Welcome."
The new merchant looked around the shop. He nodded.
"Just as I heard. Variety and cleanliness. But do you carry herbs for horses, by chance?"
Jinhwa's eyes lit up. That very morning, while sorting herbs, he had found something — hwanggi (astragalus root). An herb excellent for restoring stamina in horses.
"I do."
He brought out several thick roots from behind the counter.
"This is hwanggi. Slice it thin, mix it into the feed, and it restores the horses' energy. It relieves fatigue in their leg muscles. It works best after long‑distance travel."
The merchant took the hwanggi and sniffed. He looked impressed.
"Oh — this is good. Strong fragrance. How much?"
"Three jeon per root."
"Then give me ten."
The deal closed instantly. The caravan leader bought his usual lamp oil and rations. The new merchant bought several more items. Both left with satisfied faces.
At the door, the caravan leader spoke.
"Next time I'll bring more colleagues. A shop like this is rare. Word is spreading among merchants lately — that there's a general store open at night."
Jinhwa stood in the doorway and watched the carts shrink into the distance. One satisfied customer had brought two new ones. Those two would bring others still.
"Stock good goods and maintain them well — discerning customers appear at once. A business that keeps people. This is what real trade looks like."
Late afternoon — the sun beginning to tilt.
The wholesaler arrived. His cart was fully loaded. Two helpers accompanied him. His expression looked brighter than usual.
"Shopkeeper — here's your order."
He spread the ledger open. Twenty bottles of wound salve. Thirty bottles of lamp oil. Ten coils of rope. Twenty pairs of straw sandals. Rations — twenty geun of jerky and one hundred hardtack. Jinhwa checked each item and nodded.
"Perfect."
"Business must be booming? Your reorders come faster every time."
"Thanks to you, it's going well."
"About that…"
The wholesaler lowered his voice.
"From now on, I can offer you credit. Pay half at month's end — how about that? A man like you is worth trusting."
Credit. It was convenient. No need to pay all the silver upfront. Cash flow would become flexible. He could stock more goods. But it was also dangerous. The clothing shop flashed in his memory. Large credit had become large debt.
He thought for a moment. Then he shook his head.
"Thank you. But… I must decline credit."
The wholesaler looked surprised.
"You're turning down credit? Why?"
"Comfort breeds complacency."
Jinhwa explained calmly.
"When credit grows, the sense of debt dulls. You spend money that is not yours as though it were. In the end, you chase desires you cannot afford. I… do not wish to make that mistake again."
The clothing shop had been exactly that. Selling garments meant for delivery to chase reckless contracts. Trapped by greed.
"I will stay within my means. Only what I can handle. Cash is better for both of us. The ledger stays clean."
The wholesaler studied Jinhwa for a long while. Then he chuckled.
"Ha… a young man talking like an old sage. Fine. We'll do it your way. A merchant who refuses greed puts my mind at ease. A trader like you lasts."
Jinhwa went to the back room and returned with silver. He paid the full twenty nyang for goods in cash. He added five nyang for transport — twenty‑five nyang in all. The wholesaler counted it, nodded with satisfaction, and tucked it away.
"Until next time."
The wholesaler left. Jinhwa began organizing the new stock. Wound salve to the display shelf. Lamp oil beneath the double‑sided stand. Rope and sandals hung up. Rations placed in baskets by the counter. Everything found its place.
"I refused. The old me would have taken the credit without hesitation. I would have stocked more, expanded further — and ended up with debts I could not bear. But this time is different. Only my own money. Only within my means. Slowly."
Night — the sun fully set.
Darkness fell. Stars appeared one by one. Jinhwa rose and walked to the entrance. He took down the lantern. He struck the flint. He lit the wick. He hung the lantern back. He stepped outside and checked. Clearly visible from the main road. The only light burning in the darkness.
He returned inside and sat at the counter. Night business began.
About two hours passed. Familiar footsteps.
Steady and slow. He did not need to look outside. He knew. The same traveler. The same day each week. The same hour. The door opened. A middle‑aged man stepped in. Jinhwa rose and bowed.
"Welcome."
"I'm back."
The traveler answered briefly. A man of few words. He had been this way on his first visit. His second. And now again. He said only what was necessary. He paid the exact amount. He offered a word of thanks and left.
"Straw sandals and rations, please."
"Of course."
Jinhwa walked to the double‑sided stand and picked up a fresh pair of sandals. He brought them to the counter. He weighed one geun of jerky on the scale. He chose five hardtack, wrapped them in cloth, and handed them over. The traveler produced his silver. Jinhwa placed it in the drawer and returned the change.
"Always the same."
He thought.
"One pair of sandals. One geun of jerky. Five hardtack. Enough for one week. Enough for one person. He must have no family."
The traveler tucked the goods into his bundle. The movements were practiced. Natural. The ease of long repetition. Jinhwa looked at the man's face. Early forties, perhaps. Weathered. Deep lines carved into the skin. But his eyes were not clouded. Clear. Peaceful. He did not look lonely.
"He seems solitary, but…"
Jinhwa thought.
"There is peace in his face. He is alone, yet not lonely. How is that possible? I was always anxious when alone. Afraid when no one was near. I needed someone beside me to feel safe. But that traveler — he is at peace even by himself."
The traveler shouldered his bundle and stood.
"Another good week to you."
"Safe travels."
"Next week, then."
He opened the door and left. His footsteps faded into the darkness. Jinhwa stood in the doorway and watched him for a long time.
Just before the hour of the Rat.
Urgent footsteps.
A wounded murim fighter. A sword cut on his arm. Blood flowing. His face was pale.
"Wound salve… do you have it?"
"Yes. Please sit."
Jinhwa offered a chair and brought out the wound salve. He opened the bottle and applied it to the cut. He wrapped it with clean cloth.
"I received fresh herbs this morning. Hemostatic grass — used with wound salve, the effect doubles."
He took a bundle of hemostatic grass from the display shelf and handed it over.
"Steep this in water and drink. It speeds the clotting."
The fighter nodded gratefully.
"How much?"
"One bottle of wound salve — five jeon. One bundle of hemostatic grass — two jeon."
"Seven jeon together. Here."
Jinhwa placed the silver in the drawer. The fighter stood and spoke.
"Thank you. Keeping the door open at night — you may have saved my life."
"Please take care."
The fighter cupped his fist and left. His gait looked steadier than before.
"Bringing in the herbs was the right choice. Once the drying is complete, they'll be even better. Wound salve alone is not enough for many. Affordable herbs can help just as well."
The hour of the Ox.
He closed the door. The day's business was done.
He sat at the counter and opened the drawer. Silver coins filled it. He took them out one by one and counted. He opened the ledger and recorded.
Today's sales: two nyang and seven jeon.
The best day yet.
"Rising little by little. Not explosive — but certain. Not glamorous — but stable. This time, the goal is not speed. The goal is endurance."
"I feel the joy — but I will not be swept away. Being acknowledged is good, but it is not the purpose. The wish to belong to the murim remains — but I will not lose myself for it."
He looked out the window. The moon had risen. Bright moonlight spilled into the shop.
"What is success?"
He asked himself.
"At the Hwasan Sect, I believed success meant becoming a genius. At the clothing shop, I believed it meant earning a fortune. At Pungnyu‑gak, I believed it meant winning fame. But looking back — those were all someone else's standards. My master's standards. A swindler's standards. The patrons' standards."
He lowered his gaze to his own hands.
"What are my standards? Going slowly. Building little by little. Never rushing. Those are my standards. This time… I go my own way."
He rose. He went to the back room and lay down on the bed. He closed his eyes and recalled the day.
The herb gatherer's gratitude. The new customer the caravan leader brought. Refusing the wholesaler's credit offer. And the slowly rising sales.
"Small successes. Not glamorous — but certain. No grand applause — but steady trust. No towering fame — but a solid foundation. This… was what I wanted."
He was tired, but his mind was at ease. Tomorrow, customers would come again. The day after. And the day after that. Slowly. Little by little. Without haste.
"This time… it will truly be different. Not fast — but lasting. Not big — but solid. Not high — but deep. These small successes, piled one upon another, will someday grow into great roots that hold me firm."
Sales had risen. Reputation had improved.
For the first time, Jinhwa was tasting success without haste.
Steadily.
[End of Chapter 97]
A deep, lush forest in the east.
Perched at the tip of an ancient tree's branch, a barefoot girl swung her feet idly.
The Wood Consort — Mokbi.
She smelled something carried on the wind. It was not a simple scent of grass. It was the fragrance of stubborn life — forcing its way through parched earth.
"Found you. My little ember."
Mokbi grinned and leaped lightly from the tree. Where her toes touched the ground, green energy rippled outward.
"Without wood, fire cannot grow."
Her clear eyes sparkled toward the west.
"Wait for me. I will come and raise you like a forest."
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