The Eternal Flower Beggar King — Chapter 92: Planning the General Store

 The Eternal Flower Beggar King — Chapter 92: Planning the General Store

Days passed.

Jinhwa stayed at the estate. He cleaned. He read. Sometimes he walked the yard. That was how time went. Nothing demanded his attention. He did not want to rush. He only wanted to sort his thoughts. Slowly.

Morning came.

Jinhwa entered the study and sat at the desk. Sunlight came through the window. Dust drifted slowly through the light. A quiet morning. He opened the drawer and took out the silver pouch. He had counted it days ago. He wanted to confirm once more.

He began lining coins on the desk.

One, two, three. He pushed them with his fingers. He grouped them by tens and set each pile aside. Then counted again. Twenty, thirty, forty. The coins accumulated. Small piles formed on the desk. They caught the sunlight and gleamed silver.

Two hundred ninety-seven. Two hundred ninety-eight. Two hundred ninety-nine.

He gathered what remained and set it down.

"Just over three hundred nyang…"

He looked at the coins for a moment. Three hundred nyang. It was heavy. Not a small weight. The money Cheongpung had set aside for Jinhwa after distributing the rest among the members when Pungnyu-gak dissolved. This was everything.

He picked up a single coin and turned it in his fingers.

Cold. Hard. Real.

"Three hundred nyang…"

He murmured.

Knock-knock.

A rap at the door.

Jinhwa slipped the coins back into the pouch.

"Come in."

The door opened. The broker entered. The same man he had asked to sell the estate days before. An aged face. A kind smile. A ledger in his hands.

"Master Oh Jinhwa, I came to inspect the estate."

"Please, go ahead."

The broker surveyed the study slowly. He looked at the bookshelves. He looked at the desk. He checked the windows. He nodded and wrote something in his ledger. Then he went out to the corridor and toured the guest rooms. He crossed to the side hall and checked the practice room. He stepped into the yard and measured the estate's size.

He returned after some time.

"It's well maintained. Not a speck of dust."

"I spent nearly a month cleaning."

The broker nodded and asked.

"How much did you pay for it?"

"Two thousand eight hundred nyang."

The broker's eyes widened briefly. Then he looked back at his ledger. He seemed to be calculating. His fingers traced numbers as he thought. After a moment he looked up.

"The location isn't bad. Not a bustling district, but not far from the main road. The estate is large, sturdy, and excellently maintained."

"That's good to hear."

"It holds considerable value."

The broker continued.

"I'll list it at around three thousand nyang."

Jinhwa's eyes widened.

"Three thousand nyang? Is that possible?"

"Yes. A large property won't sell quickly, but there's no need for you to rush a bargain sale. I'll take my time and find a good buyer. A month at the earliest. Three months at the latest."

Jinhwa thought for a moment. Three thousand nyang. He had paid two thousand eight hundred. That was two hundred nyang more. Not bad. Better than expected. The broker's words sounded reasonable.

"Thank you. Then I'll leave it in your hands."

"Thank you. I'll bring good news."

The broker bowed and left.

The door closed. Footsteps faded. Silence returned.

Jinhwa went back to the study and sat at the desk.

He looked out the window. The yard was visible. The side-hall roof was visible. Beyond it the sky stretched wide. A large estate. Bought for two thousand eight hundred nyang at Pungnyu-gak's peak. Where the members had lived together. A symbol of the days when fame and fortune were both his.

Now he was alone.

Jinhwa spread a sheet of paper and picked up his brush. He ground the ink. He wet the brush. He began writing, slowly.

What I hold now is three hundred nyang. The estate may sell for three thousand, but that is still a number on paper. It may take one month. It may take three. So the money I can spend today is this three hundred nyang alone.

Jinhwa paused the brush and looked at the silver pouch. Its solid weight pressed against his hand.

I must start with these three hundred nyang. And this time it must be different.

Jinhwa rose and left the room.

He walked the corridor to the great hall. He stepped down into the yard. He stood in the center and looked up at the sky. Clouds drifted slowly. Wind brushed his collar. Spring was fully in the air.

"I decided to go into trade."

The words came out like a murmur.

"I decided on a general store. But this time it must be different."

Jinhwa walked the yard slowly, remembering.

The clothing shop — started in haste with eighty nyang. Pungnyu-gak — expanded with greed on thousands of nyang. One failed because there was no money. One failed because there were too many people.

"This time…"

He stopped and looked at the sky.

"I have money, but I start small. I am alone, but I stay open long."

He nodded.

"That is the way that suits me best."

He returned to the study.

Jinhwa spread fresh paper and took up the brush. He needed a plan. Not a complex chart or a column of figures. Just his thoughts, set down slowly and in order.

He wet the brush and began to write.

A general store. Twenty-eight years old. A new beginning.

First — where to place the shop.

A busy district in a large city costs too much rent. At least thirty nyang a month. Over six months, one hundred eighty nyang. That is too great. If half of three hundred nyang goes to rent, I cannot stock proper inventory.

Jinhwa stopped the brush and thought. His days as an inn worker came back. He had traveled to many places. Not all were large cities. Many were small villages.

I recall the inn days. There were small villages too. Villages along the main road. Not as busy as cities, but travelers were plentiful. Murim people passed through. Merchant caravans went by. Wanderers stopped to rest.

He wet the brush again.

A place like that will do. A small village, but beside the main road. Where people pass steadily but rent is cheap. I must find somewhere under ten nyang a month.

Jinhwa calculated. At the clothing shop, rent had been fifteen nyang a month. Now he aimed for ten or less. A difference of five nyang. Over a year, sixty nyang.

Ten nyang a month for six months is sixty nyang. Ten nyang a month for a year is one hundred twenty nyang. A busy city district at thirty nyang a month — six months is one hundred eighty nyang. A difference of one hundred twenty nyang. With that money I could nearly double my inventory.

He nodded and kept writing.

Location: a small village, beside the main road, near a corner or crossroads. Size can be small. I will run it alone. What matters is rent. It must not exceed ten nyang a month. With good bargaining I may get it down to eight.

Second — how to spend the three hundred nyang.

Jinhwa paused in thought, then wrote.

Rent: sixty nyang. Ten nyang a month, six months prepaid. If I bargain it to eight nyang, that drops to forty-eight. Twelve nyang saved.

Inventory: one hundred eighty nyang. Roughly ninety kinds of goods. Twenty items at one nyang each. Fifty items at two nyang each. Twenty items at five nyang each. Things that store easily and last long. Medicinal herbs, dried rations, lamp oil, ironware, sundries.

Operating reserve: sixty nyang. Food and miscellaneous costs. Emergency restocking. I build the simple furniture myself. I learned a bit of carpentry. Shelves and a display stand I can manage. Under ten nyang to cover it.

Jinhwa checked the figures again. Sixty plus one hundred eighty plus sixty. Three hundred nyang. Exactly right.

It is tight. But it can be done. If I secure the rent, the rest falls into place.

Jinhwa set the brush down and sank into thought. Rent was decided. The inventory plan was set. The reserve was accounted for. But something felt missing.

What will set me apart from every other shop?

Jinhwa rose and left the room. He walked the corridor to the practice room. He opened the door and looked inside. The instruments sat neatly in their places. Not a speck of dust. Moonlight came through the windows and cast long shadows on the floor.

He saw the geomungo. Heungnoe.

Jinhwa went inside and sat before it. He reached out and touched it. The surface was cold. It had been a long time.

"Geumsoo Eulsaeng…"

He murmured.

Once he had been called by that name. Geomungo master. Gakju of Pungnyu-gak. He had received applause on splendid stages. He had attended banquets at aristocrats' invitations. Fame and fortune had both been his.

But not anymore.

Jinhwa drew his hand back and looked behind Heungnoe. Master Nagyeong's inscription was there.

Geumsoo Eulsaeng.

Its meaning returned to him.

A sound that, despite possessing talent as brilliant and splendid as silk, lowers itself to reach the hearts of those in the lowest places.

Jinhwa stared at the inscription for a long while.

Those in the lowest places.

Not a splendid stage — but a remote inn.

Not high-born nobles — but wandering travelers.

Being there when they needed him.

"Yes…"

Jinhwa nodded.

"That's it."

A realization struck him. Art and trade shared the same essence. Not the pursuit of splendor — but being where you were needed. Lighting the low places.

"A remote place, beside the main road, a small village…"

He murmured.

And then a more important thought came.

"At night, too."

Jinhwa recalled his inn-worker days. Guests arrived even at midnight. A wounded murim fighter seeking medicine — but the apothecary was shut. A merchant caravan preparing to leave at dawn — needing dried rations — but the provisions shop was closed. A traveler needing lamp oil for the night road — but the sundry shop had already locked up. They had no choice but to wait until the next day. Or simply leave.

"Where did they buy what they needed?"

He asked himself.

"They probably couldn't. The shops were closed."

Then…

"What if I stayed open?"

Jinhwa stood.

"Geumsoo Eulsaeng did not end. Only its form changed."

From geomungo to general store.

From performance to trade.

But the essence — lighting the low places — remained the same.

"Keeping the door open at night. Being there when they need me."

A smile crossed Jinhwa's face.

"This is who I am."

He returned to the study.

Jinhwa spread fresh paper and took up the brush. The most important idea had come to him. He needed to organize it. He needed to write it clearly.

Third — what hours to keep.

Ordinary shops open around eight in the morning and close around six in the evening. Ten hours. Less than half a day. Those who cannot come during those hours cannot buy what they need.

Jinhwa recalled the scenes he had witnessed at the inn.

I think back to the inn days. A murim fighter arrived at midnight, wounded, searching for medicinal herbs — but the apothecary was closed. A merchant caravan meant to leave at dawn, needing dried rations — but the provisions shop was shut. A traveler moving at night, looking for lamp oil — but the sundry shop had already ended its business. They had no choice but to wait until the next day, or simply leave.

He wet the brush and continued.

Then what if I stay open. When every other shop has closed, I alone remain lit. Where does a murim fighter go when he needs herbs at night? Where does a merchant go when he needs rations before dawn? To my general store. Because it is the only place still open.

Jinhwa thought for a moment. He could not stay awake all night alone. He needed sleep. He needed rest. He needed a method.

I sleep in the back room of the shop. When there are no customers, I rest. When a customer comes, I rise and attend to them. That way I can keep the door open nearly all day.

Jinhwa thought through the specifics and wrote them down.

Rise at five in the morning. Wash and open the shop. From six in the morning to noon — business hours. Morning customers and travelers preparing to depart. Six hours.

Noon to two in the afternoon — rest. Eat lunch, visit wholesalers, purchase goods, nap for about thirty minutes. Two hours.

Two in the afternoon to eleven at night — business hours again. Afternoon customers arrive. By evening, murim travelers grow more frequent. As night deepens, the night customers come. Nine hours.

Eleven at night to two in the morning — half-open. I lie on a cot and wait. If a customer comes, I rise and serve them. If no one comes, I sleep. Three hours.

Two in the morning to five in the morning — the door is closed and I sleep. But if a customer knocks, I open.

Jinhwa calculated. Actual business hours: roughly eighteen. Hours spent serving customers: twelve to fifteen. Nearly double an ordinary shop.

An ordinary shop opens for ten hours. I open for eighteen. When every other shop has closed, I alone remain. The night is a monopoly market.

He paused the brush and thought.

This strategy is possible because I am alone. If I had employees, I would need shift rotations, wages, complications. But alone, I need only move myself. Rest when I want. Work when I want. Serve when a customer comes. Sleep when none do. Simple.

Jinhwa carried the thought further.

People who buy things at night are people in a hurry. A murim fighter wounded and needing herbs. A caravan that must leave at dawn. A traveler whose lamp oil has run out and who cannot walk the night road. They are urgent — so they seek a shop even at night. They are urgent — so they pay without haggling. They are urgent — so they are grateful. And they become regulars.

He nodded.

This is the differentiation. This is my weapon.

Time passed.

Jinhwa kept writing his thoughts on paper. He organized the details. He checked for anything he might have missed.

At last he spread a fresh sheet for a final summary.

Keys to a successful general store.

One. The location must be a small village beside the main road. Rent must not exceed ten nyang a month. A place where people pass but prices are low. Find such a place.

Two. Business hours are the decisive edge. When other shops open for ten hours, I open for eighteen. Open at night. Open at dawn. Possible because I am alone. The night is a monopoly market.

Three. Invest only three hundred nyang. Sixty for rent. One hundred eighty for inventory. Sixty for the reserve. The three thousand from the estate — hold it in reserve. No rush.

Four. Run it alone. A hundred kinds of goods in small quantities. Thin margins, high volume. No haste. No greed.

Jinhwa set the brush down and looked at the paper.

It was clear. The plan was sharp. The direction was certain. He could see what needed to be done. He could see how to avoid the mistakes of the clothing shop and Pungnyu-gak. He felt certain he could do it differently this time. Slowly, but surely — the path forward was visible.

The strategy of staying open at night pleased him most.

It was what other shops could not do. It was possible because he was alone. And it aligned with the spirit of Geumsoo Eulsaeng — lighting the low places. Not a splendid stage but a remote roadside. Not only by day but also by night. Giving those who needed something what they needed, when they needed it.

"I'll start looking tomorrow."

He murmured.

"A small village. Beside the main road. High foot traffic. Under ten nyang a month. A back room. That kind of place."

Jinhwa looked out the window. Night had deepened. The moon hung at its peak. Stars glittered thickly. A quiet night.

He slipped the silver pouch into the drawer and murmured once more.

"In the past I had no money, so I rushed. I had money, so I grew greedy."

He closed the drawer.

"This time I have money, but I will not rush. I have money, but I will not be greedy."

He went to the bed. He lay down and looked at the ceiling. He retraced the plans he had made today. He thought about what he needed to do tomorrow.

"Go slowly. Start small. Save on rent. And stay open long."

He closed his eyes.

"If I secure the right location, the rest will follow."

Wind blew in. Branches swayed. Far off, a dog barked faintly. A spring night.

Tomorrow he would move in earnest. He would visit small villages. He would inspect shops along the main road. He would ask about rent. He would check locations. He would see whether there was a back room.

No haste. No greed. Slowly, but surely.

And he would keep the door open at night. When every other shop had closed, he alone would light the lamp. On a remote roadside, for passing travelers, for murim fighters in need, for merchant caravans leaving at dawn — he would provide what they required.

The spirit of Geumsoo Eulsaeng had not ended. Only its form had changed. From geomungo to general store. From performance to trade. But the essence — lighting the low places — remained the same.

Jinhwa steadied his breathing and began to drift into sleep.

Dawn broke.

Jinhwa rose from bed and opened the window. Cold air entered. The sky was clear. In the east the sun was rising. A new day.

He went to the study and looked again at the papers from last night. The investment plan. The location strategy. The business-hours strategy. The final summary. All clear. All executable. All grounded in reality.

Jinhwa picked up the sheet about business hours. The most important differentiator. Possible because he was alone. A continuation of the spirit of Geumsoo Eulsaeng.

Open nearly all day.

The night monopoly.

Jinhwa set the paper down and stepped out. He fastened his clothes. He put on his shoes. He opened the gate and walked outside. The sun had risen. Early risers moved along the streets. The energy of a new beginning was in the air.

"Let's begin."

He murmured.

"No haste. No greed. But stay open long."

He took a step.

To find a small village. To find a shop beside the main road. To find rent under ten nyang a month. To find a place with a back room. And to find a place where he could light his lamp through the night.

Jinhwa's steps were light. His heart was full of conviction. The road ahead was clear.

General-store owner, Oh Jinhwa.

Twenty-eight years old, spring. A new beginning.

[End of Chapter 92]