The Eternal Flower Beggar King Chapter 99 – The End of Twenty‑Eight

 The Eternal Flower Beggar King Chapter 99 – The End of Twenty‑Eight

Autumn — late in the year.

Three cloudbursts had passed. Four full moons had risen. Before he knew it, the cicadas had gone silent and crickets filled the void. The scorching wind turned cool. The sun tilted a little earlier each day. Nights lengthened. He lit the lantern sooner. Dust before the shop was washed away by rain, then gathered again. Swallows built a nest beneath the eaves, then left. The trees shed their green robes and began dressing in red.

Jinhwa gazed out the window and murmured.

"Another year… nearly gone."

He sat at the counter and opened the ledger. Three months of records unfolded in sequence. He traced the numbers slowly with his finger. A pattern emerged.

End of the seventh month: one nyang and five jeon. The lowest point.

Early eighth month: one nyang and eight jeon. A slight rise.

Mid eighth month: two nyang and one jeon. Still climbing.

Late eighth month: two nyang and three jeon. Stabilizing.

Early ninth month: two nyang and five jeon. Steady.

"It fell… then rose again."

He picked up the brush and wrote in the margin:

"Recovering — slowly but surely. No rushing. And no reason to rush."

Looking at the characters, he felt warmth in his chest. He had wavered at the lowest point — but held to his principles. He had rejected temptation. Results were improving little by little. This time was different — he was certain.

Afternoon.

Familiar footsteps.

He looked up. The farming couple. Their fourth visit. They came often enough now to be called regulars. Seeing their faces made him glad.

"Shopkeeper! We're back!"

The husband grinned and waved.

"Welcome."

Jinhwa rose to greet them. The wife set her basket down and spoke.

"That rope from last time — still holding strong! Rain and sun and it doesn't budge."

"I'm glad to hear it."

"So we came for lamp oil too. My wife keeps saying 'that shop is truly reliable' — so here we are again."

The couple bickered as they walked to the double‑sided stand. They examined lamp oil bottles. They felt the sandals. They checked the rations. Jinhwa watched quietly.

"These people never ask for a discount. They know the fixed pricing. They trust the quality. That is why they return."

The deal was done. As the couple walked toward the door, the husband turned back.

"Shopkeeper — we're proper regulars now. We'll be back next week. Take care of us!"

"Thank you."

The door closed. Silence. Jinhwa sat at the counter, placed the silver in the drawer, and smiled quietly.

"Small… but certain."

Night.

He lit the lantern. He struck the flint and touched the wick. He lifted the lantern and hung it. The light pushed back the darkness and brightened the shop. Visible from outside — satisfying. He sat at the counter and began balancing the ledger. Three months of night business had made this a familiar routine. His hands moved first.

About two hours passed.

Familiar footsteps. He did not need to look. The heavy gait of the caravan leader hauling cargo.

"Shopkeeper — another hard week for you."

"Welcome."

The caravan leader picked up lamp oil and rations as always. He brought them to the counter. He set down his silver. Jinhwa placed it in the drawer and returned the change.

"Thanks to you, the night road is easier. Every other place shuts its doors — but yours keeps the light on. You can't imagine how reassuring that is."

"You flatter me."

"No. It's the truth."

The caravan leader shouldered his load and added:

"I've spread the word to other merchants. 'If you need anything on the night road, go to Ji‑ae‑su at Sarojin.' You'll see more customers."

"Thank you."

After the caravan leader left, Jinhwa recorded the sale in the ledger.

"The word is spreading. Slowly… but surely."

Nearing the hour of the Dog — late evening.

The door banged open.

He looked up. A man in his mid‑forties was stepping inside. His clothes were respectable, but his face was oily. His walk was arrogant. A faint smell of liquor drifted from him. Not an ordinary customer.

"So this is the shop that stays open at night?"

His voice was loud.

"Yes, it is."

"Ha — remarkable. Doing business at night."

The man walked to the double‑sided stand and began scanning the goods. He picked up sandals. He touched the rope. He checked the lamp oil bottles. He examined each item closely.

"These sandals — how much?"

"Twenty jeon."

"Twenty jeon? Steep."

The man scoffed.

"Other places charge fifteen."

"We use fixed pricing."

"Fixed pricing? What's the big deal? Trade means haggling — give and take. Isn't that so?"

Jinhwa answered calmly.

"Sir, our sandals are double‑twisted. They last far longer. The price is a little higher — but the quality is guaranteed."

"Quality? Sandals are sandals."

The man set them down. He picked up a coil of rope.

"This rope?"

"Thirty jeon."

"Thirty jeon? Also steep. Wouldn't twenty‑five do?"

"I'm sorry — fixed pricing."

"Tch. A stubborn fellow."

The man put down the rope. He picked up a lamp oil bottle. Then he began asking the price of everything — wound salve, rations, hemostatic grass — item after item. Each time: "Steep." "Other places are cheaper." "Isn't this a rip‑off?"

Jinhwa answered each with patience. He explained the reason for fixed pricing. He described the cost of night operations. He emphasized the quality guarantee. His voice did not waver. His expression did not change. He responded calmly.

Perhaps fifteen minutes passed.

The man finished inspecting every item and walked to the counter. But his hands were empty. He showed no intention of buying.

"Shopkeeper."

"Yes."

"Let me tell you — I've been to every shop and general store across the jianghu. This is not how you run a business."

The man shook his head.

"You have to cater to customers. You have to cut prices. That's how trade works. Being this rigid — who would come?"

Jinhwa was silent for a moment. Then he spoke — politely, but firmly.

"Sir, we use fixed pricing. I cannot offer discounts. But I guarantee the quality of every item. If you need something, please buy it. If not… you are welcome to try another shop."

The man scoffed.

"Ha… a stubborn fellow."

He turned and left. He slammed the door shut. His footsteps faded. Silence returned.

The empty shop was still.

Only the lantern flickered. Only the wind whispered. Jinhwa sat at the counter and chewed on the man's words.

"He says that's no way to run a business…"

He murmured.

"Then… how should I do it?"

The question lingered. He tried to answer — but could not easily. His thoughts deepened. The past surfaced.

"At the clothing shop… I catered to customers."

The memory unfolded. He had offered discounts. He had sold smiles. He had done whatever the customer wanted. "This is how trade works," he had believed. "The customer is king." He had given his all.

"And the result?"

He was swindled. Seduced by a big supplier's honeyed words. He lost everything. He drowned in debt. He became homeless. He had wanted to die. He lost it all.

"At Pungnyu‑gak… I sold glamour."

Another memory. He was drunk on applause. He gathered crowds. They called him Gakju. He lived in a grand estate. Silver piled up. "I've made it," he had believed.

"And the result?"

He fell into desire. He kept four women at his side. The troupe fractured. Members left. The women left. Everyone turned away. He was alone.

"Back then… I did what the caravan leaders, the wealthy patrons, and the troupe members wanted. I worked to keep everyone together. I hid my true feelings to hold the title of Gakju. I made everything lavish. So why did it collapse?"

He drank a mouthful of water. His throat was dry. His head was tangled. No answer in sight.

The next day — and the day after — the question did not fade.

He thought while serving customers. He wrestled with it while balancing the ledger. He searched for an answer beneath the lantern light.

"He says that's no way to run a business — then how? Do I give customers whatever they want? Cut prices and cater to every whim?"

He shook his head.

"No. That already failed. The clothing shop and Pungnyu‑gak both collapsed doing exactly that. Then… what is different?"

Several days later.

The farming couple came again.

"Shopkeeper! We're back!"

"Welcome."

The husband picked up two pairs of sandals. The wife chose lamp oil. They brought them to the counter as always. Silver set down. Jinhwa placed it in the drawer.

Then a question struck him.

"Why do these people… come?"

He had never offered a discount. He had never catered to their whims. He had never entertained them lavishly. He had simply charged the fixed price and sold the goods.

"Because it's cheap? No — other places are cheaper. Because it's fancy? No — this shop is humble. Then… why?"

He watched the couple's retreating figures.

"That rope from last time — still holding strong!"

The wife's words echoed.

"Ah… they trust the quality. They trust the honesty. And so they return."

That night, the caravan leader came.

"Shopkeeper — always working hard."

He bought lamp oil and rations as always. He paid the fixed price. He did not complain. He came at the same hour every week. He bought the same goods. Unchanging.

Jinhwa thought again.

"Why does he come? There must be cheaper places. There must be fancier places. Yet he comes here."

The caravan leader spoke while shouldering his load.

"Your shop is trustworthy. The price never changes. The goods are consistent. Whenever I come, it's the same. Makes the math easy."

At the door, he added:

"Isn't that the foundation of trade?"

Alone in the shop, Jinhwa turned the words over.

"Trustworthy… The price never changes… Consistent…"

Several more days later.

The traveler came.

Without a word, he picked up one pair of sandals. He chose a little rations. He brought them to the counter. Silver set down. Change received. He left quietly.

But he came every week. Without fail.

Jinhwa watched the traveler's retreating figure — and understood.

"These people… do not come because the price is low. They do not come because I cater to them. Then what do they trust?"

He drew a deep breath.

"They trust… me. The me who does not change. The me who is honest. The me who has principles. That is what brings them back."

That night, he sat alone and gathered his thoughts.

Beneath the lantern, he murmured quietly.

"What is trade?"

He began answering himself.

"Giving customers whatever they want? Then where am I? Catering to their every whim? Then where are my principles?"

He shook his head.

"No."

His voice rose slightly.

"There may be many kinds of trade. But the trade I do now… is doing honestly what I can do — and waiting for those who believe in it to come."

His heart began to beat faster. Something was unlocking. The fog was lifting. An answer was forming.

"I cannot satisfy every customer. But I can protect the customers who trust me. I cannot cut prices. But I can guarantee quality. I cannot be glamorous. But I can be honest."

He drew a deep breath.

"Then how should I do it?"

He answered himself.

"My way. Not what the customer demands — but what I believe is right. That is trade. That is… my trade."

His heart settled. The anxiety vanished. Conviction arrived. Peace.

"Difficult customers will come again. There will be people who do not understand me. But that is all right."

He drank a mouthful of water.

"I do it my way. Honestly. With principle. Without wavering. And those who believe in that — they come. They are already here. That… is enough."

Deep autumn.

The foliage reached its peak. Leaves began to fall. The wind grew colder by the day. The sun tilted earlier. Nights stretched longer. Winter was approaching.

One evening, Jinhwa locked the shop door and went to the back yard.

He looked up. Stars crowded the sky. The moon was half full. Not a single cloud. A cold wind blew. Dry leaves rustled. Silence.

A thought crossed his mind.

"Around this time… wasn't it my birthday?"

He could not remember the exact date. At the Hwasan Sect, no one had celebrated it. After coming down the mountain, he had been too busy surviving day to day. At the clothing shop and Pungnyu‑gak, there had been no room for it.

"Have I… ever celebrated my birthday?"

Never. Not once.

His chest ached.

At five, he had entered the Hwasan Sect. Called a genius — but with no water meridians, he fell behind. At twelve, he came down the mountain and drifted. He ran errands at an inn to scrape by. He opened a clothing shop — and it collapsed. He became a musician and won fame — but Pungnyu‑gak crumbled.

He had lived a fairly long stretch of years that way.

"Birthday? There was never room."

He murmured.

"I was busy. I was hunted. I scrambled to survive. I thrashed about trying to achieve something. In all that time, a birthday was… just another passing day."

Gazing at the stars, he realized.

"I have… never once looked back at myself."

His chest stung.

"I was always chasing something. Chasing martial arts. Chasing success. Chasing recognition. Chasing fame. But I myself… I never once looked back."

He drew a deep breath.

"Let's say today… is my birthday. It doesn't have to be exact. It was around this time. And today… is the first time I celebrate it."

He went to the yard and stacked a little firewood.

He struck the flint. A spark caught the dry grass. Soon the logs began to burn. Firelight pushed back the darkness. Warmth spread. The crackle of flames broke the silence.

He sat before the fire.

He was alone. No one to celebrate with. No gifts. No rice cakes. No wine. But that was all right. This alone was enough. For the first time, this was time given to himself. It held meaning.

He opened his mouth slowly.

"You've… worked hard. Oh Jinhwa."

His voice trembled.

"It was… so hard."

His eyes burned.

"But you held on. You fell — and stood up. You failed — and started again. You never gave up. That is why… you are here now."

He watched the flames and thought quietly.

"I really have done so many things…"

Elder Cheongheo. Elder Yakwang. Bangdal. Hakun. Manager Jang Ikho. Brother Yu Gapyeong. And the Pungnyu‑gak troupe members…

So many people had held me up. Looking back now, I feel even more grateful…

And now he had put down roots in this small shop. Slowly but surely. Small but solid. And today, for the first time, he had celebrated his own birthday.

"This, too… is growth."

The fire burned on. Red light lit his face. The heat warmed his chest. The crackling sound was comfort itself.

"Everything until now… may have been preparation."

He murmured.

"I fell and rose and learned. I failed and stood again and grew stronger. I wavered and steadied and found my center. That is why I can now protect this small, unwavering shop."

He drew a deep breath.

"Next year… let's celebrate again. And the year after that. Even if I'm busy and pressed — one day a year… let me look back at myself. That… is the gift I can give."

The flames grew smaller. The logs burned through. The heat faded. Only ash remained.

He stood and poured water over the fire. A hissing sound. Smoke rose. Darkness returned.

He went back to the room.

He lay down and thought.

"Winter is almost here… Another year nearly done…"

He closed his eyes.

"For the first time, I put down roots. For the first time, I did not waver. For the first time… I celebrated my birthday. Small successes — but to me, they hold great meaning."

He steadied his breathing and murmured.

"Now… I'm all right."

The next morning.

He rose as always.

He washed his face. He changed his clothes. He opened the shop door. He picked up the broom and began sweeping. His body moved first. The motions were familiar. They continued without thought.

He finished cleaning and headed for the counter — then noticed an unfamiliar bundle beside it.

"When did this… get here?"

A stack of books wrapped in cloth. They looked old. A thick layer of dust covered them. Someone must have left them behind.

He touched the bundle. The cloth was coarse. The weight was considerable. Several volumes seemed to be inside.

"Did the last customer last night… leave this?"

He searched his memory but could not be sure. Several customers had come during the night. He had been busy. He could not tell who had left it.

"I should find the owner…"

He decided to wait a few days. The owner might come looking. If no one came, he could sort it out then.

He set the bundle carefully in a corner.

Through the window, the sun was rising. Red light stained the sky. Clouds glowed gold. A new day was beginning.

He sat at the counter and opened the ledger.

Today, too, he would wait for customers. Slowly — but surely. Honestly — and without wavering.

[End of Chapter 99]

Winter was near. Another year drawing to its close.

He had walked slowly — but never stopped.

Now, the conviction stood firm: I am all right.

At the heart of the Central Plains — upon a vast stretch of earth where golden waves rippled across the land.

A woman in elegant brown silk robes caressed the soft soil and closed her eyes.

The Earth Consort — Tobi.

Her consciousness rode the veins of the earth — reaching eastward to the far end, to a humble general store. A dusty corner. A worn bundle of books the owner had set aside without a second thought.

Inside that weathered shell, a seed of great fire — enough to burn the world — lay sleeping.

"At last… the seed has touched the soil."

She did not know who the man there was, nor what kind of person he might be. She only weighed whether that barren‑looking ground — Jinhwa — could bear a blaze so immense.

"May the earth be firm."

Tobi smiled as if soothing the land itself. Water, Wood, and Fire had finished preparing to awaken. Now it was Earth's turn — to endure, and to cradle.

"I will wait. Until you break through that worn shell — and awaken as the true king."