The Eternal Flower Beggar King Chapter 98 – The Hours of Patience

 The Eternal Flower Beggar King Chapter 98 – The Hours of Patience

Early summer's warmth had vanished entirely. Midsummer's heat scorched the earth. Three cloudbursts had come and gone. The dust before the shop turned to mud, then dried again. The sun rose earlier each day and set later. Nights grew shorter. Daytime heat stretched longer. Cicadas screamed through the trees. Even after dark the air refused to cool. Jinhwa often woke to a damp back.

He opened his eyes at the usual hour. His body did not feel refreshed. Overnight sweat had soaked his clothes. Moisture clung to the bedding. He rose and opened the window to let in air — but even the breeze was lukewarm. He walked to the water jar and dipped his hands. The water was no longer cold. Lukewarm water on the backs of his hands — it felt more sticky than crisp.

He washed his face. He recalled the water from only weeks ago. Back then, the cold had jolted him awake. Now, washing brought no relief — only a clinging film.

"Summer, then."

He murmured and dried his face with a towel. There was no mirror. He felt his face with his hand. His beard had grown long. His jawline felt firmer than before. Time was passing.

He opened the shop door and stepped outside. The eastern sky was faintly brightening. The sun had not yet fully risen. A strange hour between dawn and morning. He picked up the broom and began sweeping. The same dust as yesterday. The same floor as the day before. The same task repeated every day for three weeks.

Sweeping, wiping, tidying — his body moved first. His mind watched quietly from behind. The motions were familiar. The sequence continued without thought. By the time he finished, the shop was clean. His mind, too, felt slightly more ordered.

He went to the counter and sat. He opened the drawer and took out the ledger. The rustle of turning pages stirred the quiet dawn air. Three weeks of records unfolded before him. He traced the numbers slowly with his finger. A pattern began to emerge.

Three weeks ago — the best sales day. Two nyang and seven jeon. The farming couple had come for the first time. The caravan leader had brought a new colleague. Several murim fighters had visited. He remembered the joy he had felt balancing the ledger that evening.

Two weeks ago. Two nyang and three jeon. A slight drop — but acceptable. Customers still came. Inventory still moved. He had not worried much.

One week ago. Two nyang and one jeon. Still falling. Customer count had not decreased — but purchase amounts had shrunk. No large transactions. Sales slipped bit by bit.

And yesterday. One nyang and nine jeon.

"It's falling."

The words slipped out. Sales had neither surged nor crashed. But the trend was slow and unmistakable — downward. Unease crept in. Was this a plateau? Or the start of a decline? He could not tell. The ambiguity unsettled him further.

He closed the ledger and went to the back yard. Herbs he had hung three weeks ago dangled beneath the eaves. They had dried completely — brittle and fragrant. The drying had gone well. Hemostatic grass and detox root from the old herb gatherer. Dried by the method Elder Yakwang had taught at the Hwasan Sect. Three weeks of time had seeped into the herbs.

He took out the herb cutter and began slicing the hemostatic grass.

Shk. Shk. Shk.

The monotonous sound split the humid air. Each stroke cut the herbs to even size. The feel of force in his hands was not unpleasant. He kept slicing. Simple, repetitive work — yet necessary. Only through this process did the herbs reach their true worth. Time did not vanish. It dissolved into potency. It was not tedious.

After a long while, he stopped. He gathered the sliced herbs, wrapped them in cloth, placed them in a small jar, and sealed the lid. Stored this way, they would keep for a year. He could sell them whenever needed. Inventory management became easy.

"Waiting, too… is work."

He murmured as he washed his hands. Slicing the herbs had taught him something. Trade was the same. Rush the process and the potency falls short. Let it ripen slowly and it reaches its true worth. Waiting itself is the process that creates value.

The sun had fully risen. Warm light poured into the shop. Wound salve bottles glowed softly on the display shelf. Straw sandals and rope cast shadows from the double‑sided stand.

The hour of the Snake — late morning.

Familiar footsteps stopped before the shop.

He looked up. The farming couple from three weeks ago. The husband still wore a sickle at his waist. The wife still carried a wicker basket. Both were soaked in sweat — they had clearly worked since dawn. But their faces were bright. Their steps were light. Something good must have happened.

"Shopkeeper! We're back!"

The husband grinned and waved. Jinhwa rose to greet them. The wife pinched her husband's arm and laughed.

"Dear — don't shout your greeting."

"What? I'm happy to see him!"

The couple bickered as they came inside. The husband walked to the double‑sided stand and felt the sandals. The wife examined the lamp oil bottles. Jinhwa watched quietly.

"That rope we bought last time — solid stuff."

The husband spoke with satisfaction.

"Twisted tight like straw cord. Doesn't unravel. Doesn't rot even when wet. We used it a full month and it held. So this time we came for sandals and lamp oil too."

The wife added.

"Truth is, he kept saying 'let's go back.' Calling it 'the honest shop.'"

"You liked it too. Yesterday you said 'let's go to that shop.'"

Watching them bicker, Jinhwa felt warmth in his chest. Three weeks ago, insisting on fixed pricing had been right. Refusing to discount had built trust instead. That trust had brought them back.

"Please tell me what you need."

"Two pairs of sandals and three bottles of lamp oil."

"Of course."

He picked up sandals and brought lamp oil bottles to the counter. The husband set down his silver. Jinhwa placed it in the drawer and returned the change.

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

"We'll come again. We're regulars now!"

"Thank you."

He bowed. The couple left with smiles. He watched them disappear beyond the doorway.

"One transaction becomes two. Two becomes trust. Slowly… but surely, it is building."

The unease in his heart eased a little. Sales were falling — but trust was growing. A small yet certain change was happening. There was no need to rush.

The hour of the Horse — midday.

Fierce heat pressed into the shop.

He opened the door wider to catch a breeze — but even the wind felt hot. Sweat ran down his back. He wiped it with a towel. He drank a mouthful of water. Even the water was lukewarm. His thirst would not fully ease. The heat would not break.

Then a lavish cart stopped before the shop.

Through the window, a middle‑aged man in silk robes fanned himself as he stepped down. Mid‑forties, perhaps. An oily sheen on his face. Sharp, clever eyes. Not an ordinary merchant. The cart was loaded with goods. Two cart hands followed him. Clearly a man of wealth.

The man entered the shop. He did not stop fanning. He frowned. He looked like someone who loathed the heat.

"I came because of a rumor."

His voice was smooth.

"They say there's a remarkable shop that stays open at night. Seeing it in person, indeed…"

He surveyed the shop. He inspected the display shelf. He checked the double‑sided stand. He scanned the area around the counter. His eyes grew brighter with each glance. When he noticed the herbs drying in the back yard, his eyebrows rose.

"Do you… handle herbs as well, shopkeeper?"

"Yes. A little."

"Ha — 'a little,' he says. Looking at those herbs, they've been properly processed and dried."

The man stepped closer and examined them. He touched them. He smelled them. He checked the color. Then he nodded.

"Top grade. Even an apothecary would price these high."

"Thank you."

The man folded his fan. He looked Jinhwa straight in the eye.

"My name is Wi Cheongsan. I broker deals in the Luoyang region."

"Oh Jinhwa."

"Shopkeeper Oh."

Wi Cheongsan placed his hand on the counter. He lowered his voice.

"I'll be direct. Why are you running this fine business alone — in a place like this?"

The atmosphere shifted suddenly. Wi Cheongsan's eyes flashed. Heat entered his voice. His fingers began tapping the counter.

"The night business — excellent. Herb‑processing skill — impressive. Building trust through fixed pricing — admirable. But on this small a scale, aren't you hitting a wall?"

"That may be so."

"Let me make a proposal."

Wi Cheongsan leaned forward.

"I will invest five hundred nyang!"

His voice rose.

"Move into Luoyang proper. Open five shops. Hire ten clerks — you manage everything. I'll handle the inventory. I'll keep the books. You oversee the whole operation. I guarantee ten — no, twenty times the profit within a year!"

His hand struck the counter hard.

"Well? Isn't this a fine opportunity?"

Jinhwa considered briefly — then settled his mind.

His worry was not about money. It was about the stagnant sales — the fear that his own way might not work, the restless impatience. He still had three thousand nyang from the estate sale. There was no financial reason to rush.

"Ten times in a year… I have about three thousand nyang, so that would be thirty thousand. Thirty thousand nyang would mean…"

Pungnyu‑gak's golden age surfaced. The grand estate. The troupe members calling him Gakju. The name Geumsoo Eulsaeng spreading through the jianghu. The cheers. The applause after performances. The strongbox filling with silver… Those dazzling days flickered before his eyes. They had certainly been good times…

"But…"

The clothing shop surfaced at the same time.

When the big supplier had made an offer, it had been just like this. "Invest everything and you'll strike it rich." He had been seduced. Greed had led. The result was ruin. He had lost every coin. He had fallen into debt. He had ended up homeless.

"A tree grown on someone else's money…"

Wi Cheongsan was waiting. His eyes urged an answer. But Jinhwa had already reached his conclusion. Wi Cheongsan's intentions did not matter.

"The fact that I even hesitated over a reckless proposal like this… I still have far to go."

He drew a deep breath. He considered how to frame his words.

He gathered his thoughts.

He opened his mouth.

"I am grateful for the offer… but I must decline."

Wi Cheongsan's eyes widened.

"What?"

"I must decline."

"An opportunity like this may never come again—"

"I know."

He spoke calmly — yet firmly.

"But if a tree stretches its branches before its roots take hold, a single storm will topple it."

Wi Cheongsan frowned.

"Shopkeeper — trade is a race against the clock. If you don't act now—"

"I am putting down roots that fit my vessel."

His voice did not waver.

"Even if it means going slowly, I want to go under my own power. Without leaning on another's capital. I want to stack bricks with my own sweat."

Wi Cheongsan scoffed.

"Ha… a stubborn man. You will regret this!"

He snapped his fan open and hid his face.

"I will return in one year. If you are still in this roadside shop, you will know I was right."

He turned and left. The lavish cart raised dust as it shrank into the distance. The cart hands' footsteps faded. Silence returned.

Jinhwa sat at the counter and looked down at his hands. They would not stop trembling. His heart pounded. His mouth was bone dry.

"Refusal is never easy."

He drank a mouthful of water.

"But there will be many more moments like this. That is why I must start refusing now."

"A tower built on someone else's money… is not mine."

He went to the back yard and picked up the herb cutter again. He began slicing herbs. The blade struck the board — and this time the sound rang harder. Strength filled his hands.

Shk. Shk. Shk.

"This time is different. Slowly. But surely."

The hour of the Goat — early afternoon.

The sun hung at its peak. Heat reached its zenith. The shop was stifling. He left the door wide open, but no breeze came. Sweat kept running. He wiped it away.

No customers came.

At this hour, three or four usually passed through. Today — no one. He looked outside. The road was empty. People seemed to have fled into the shade. Stillness.

He sat at the counter and waited.

Two hours passed. Still no one.

"Coincidence… or…"

Unease raised its head.

"Was Wi Cheongsan right? Out here on the outskirts, maybe there is a limit…"

He shook his head. He tried to stop the thought — but could not. The unease grew. Old fears resurfaced.

The dread of falling behind at the Hwasan Sect. The despair when the clothing shop collapsed. The emptiness when Pungnyu‑gak disbanded. The loneliness of being left alone.

"Am I… failing again?"

He stood and paced the shop. He checked the display shelf. He tidied the double‑sided stand. He swept the floor once more. But the unease would not lift. His heart felt heavy. His breath felt tight.

Not until the hour of the Rooster did a single customer appear.

Neither a traveler nor a murim fighter — just a passing peddler. He bought one bottle of lamp oil and left at once. The transaction was brief. The sale was small. Silence returned.

He opened the ledger.

He tallied today's sales so far. Less than one nyang. Eight jeon. The lowest figure yet. Less than a third of the record from three weeks ago. Seeing the number made his heart heavier still.

"If it keeps falling like this… I…"

His hands trembled.

But he did not close the ledger. He turned the pages back. He spread the full month open. He read through it slowly.

Week one average: one nyang.

Week two average: one nyang and five jeon.

Week three average: two nyang.

Week four average: two nyang and two jeon.

"It had been rising. Slowly… but surely."

And today. Eight jeon.

"One day. It is only one day's record."

He picked up the brush. In the ledger's margin he wrote small:

"Sales drop on some days. But look at the flow. Not one day — one month. Not one month — one year. Go slowly."

The characters were crooked. That did not matter. The words were for himself — a spell to steady his heart. Writing them helped a little.

"Do not rush. This time… I said I would do it differently. And the weather must be a factor too."

Late afternoon — the sun beginning to tilt.

Familiar footsteps.

Through the window — the old herb gatherer. The great basket on his back. Walking slowly. Drenched in sweat. He had clearly walked a long way.

Jinhwa went out to greet him.

"Elder — welcome."

"I'm back."

The old man set down his basket and caught his breath. His face was flushed. Sweat dripped steadily. He looked parched. Jinhwa fetched water.

"Thank you."

The old man drained it in one gulp, then sighed.

"You must have suffered in this heat, coming so far."

"A man in trade should endure this much."

The old man smiled and opened the basket lid. Herbs filled it — the same hemostatic grass and detox root as before. The quality looked good. Jinhwa was satisfied.

"Elder — I've processed the herbs you brought last time. Would you like to see?"

"Oh — have you?"

Jinhwa led him to the back yard. He took out the herbs that had been drying for three weeks. The old man's eyes went wide. His mouth fell open. For a long moment he could not speak.

"Is this… truly the same grass I brought?"

He touched them. He smelled them. He checked the color. The rough herbs had become top‑grade medicine. Even color. Deep fragrance. They looked like an entirely different product.

"Shopkeeper… how did you…"

"I learned a little at the Hwasan Sect."

"'A little'? Even apothecary owners cannot do this."

The old man set the herbs down carefully.

"Shopkeeper — what price will you sell these for?"

"A fair price, I think."

"A fair price?"

"Yes. I plan to divide them into small portions and sell at a reasonable price to poor murim fighters — at a level where I take no loss. Many people cannot afford the apothecary."

The old man studied Jinhwa for a long while. His gaze was warm. A smile spread. He nodded.

"Shopkeeper… you are walking the right path."

His voice trembled.

"A tree that grows fast is hollow inside. A tree that grows slowly is solid to the core. You are growing slowly."

Jinhwa's chest grew warm.

"The hours you spent gathering, the hours I spent processing… all that time lives inside these herbs."

"Just so. Time does not vanish… it seeps into value."

The old man handed over the new herbs. Jinhwa handed over five nyang. The deal was done. Before leaving, the old man bowed once more.

"I'll come again next week. Trading with a man like you… is a joy."

"The gratitude is mine."

The old man walked out in his new sandals. His step was light. Gladness showed in his retreating figure. Jinhwa watched until the old man vanished into the sunset.

"Time… seeps into value."

The old man's words lingered.

"Yes. The hours I spend here — waiting for customers, processing herbs — none of it disappears. It is all time that creates value."

Night — the sun fully set.

He took down the lantern. He struck the flint. He lit the wick. He hung the lantern again. Night business began. He stepped outside to check. Clearly visible from the main road. The only light burning in the darkness.

He returned inside and sat at the counter.

About two hours passed. Familiar footsteps.

Steady and slow. He did not need to look. The same traveler. The same day each week. The same hour.

The door opened.

"I'm back."

"Welcome."

The traveler walked to the double‑sided stand as always. He picked up one pair of sandals. He chose his rations. He brought them to the counter. He set down his silver. Jinhwa placed it in the drawer and returned the change.

Normally, this was where it ended. The traveler was a man of few words. He bought what he needed. He gave a brief farewell and left.

But today was different.

The traveler paused while shouldering his bundle. He looked at Jinhwa. A moment of silence. Then he spoke.

"Shopkeeper."

"Yes."

"During the day… a fancy cart came."

Jinhwa looked up in surprise. How had the traveler known? Then he understood. The village was small. Rumors traveled fast. A lavish cart would catch every eye.

"Yes… I received a business proposal."

"You refused it."

"How did you know?"

The traveler smiled.

"You're still here."

A simple answer — but it carried weight.

"Well done."

He continued as he shouldered his bundle.

"To gain something great… you must first protect the small. You are protecting the small right now."

"The small…"

"This shop. These principles. This trust."

The traveler walked toward the door and added:

"It looks small… but that is everything. Protect it, and the great will follow on its own."

He opened the door and left. His footsteps faded. He vanished into the darkness. Silence returned.

Jinhwa stood in the doorway for a long time.

"Protect the small…"

He looked around the shop. The modest counter. The simple display shelf. The double‑sided stand. The back room. Everything was small. Everything looked humble. Nothing was glamorous.

But all of it was his. Built not with another's money but with his own sweat. Guarded not by another's expectations but by his own conviction. Growing slowly — but surely.

"Patience… is not simply waiting. It is protecting. Protecting the small. The precious. What is mine."

Nearing the hour of the Rat.

He closed the door.

He sat at the counter and opened the drawer. He took out the day's silver and began counting. He opened the ledger and recorded.

Today's sales: one nyang and five jeon.

Still low. About half the record from three weeks ago. Below the average. Objectively, not a good day.

But Jinhwa did not waver.

He picked up the brush and wrote in the ledger:

"Sales: one nyang, five jeon. But what I gained today: trust, conviction, wisdom."

The trust of the farming couple becoming regulars.

The conviction of overcoming temptation.

The wisdom that time creates value.

"Small in numbers… but large in meaning."

He closed the ledger and stood. Through the window, stars crowded the night sky. The moon glowed faintly. Silence.

He looked at the lantern. Not a large flame — but it had not gone out. It kept burning. It lit the darkness. Small — but certain.

"I am… like that lantern."

He murmured.

"Not large, but never extinguished. Not glamorous, but still burning."

He went to the back room and lay down. He closed his eyes and recalled the day.

He had confirmed the plateau. He had refused the temptation. He had experienced the lowest sales day. But he had also gained returning customers. He had heard the herb gatherer's wisdom. He had taken the traveler's counsel to heart.

"This time is different."

He repeated it inside.

"Not fast — but lasting. Not big — but solid. Not high — but deep."

He was tired, but his mind was at ease. He had been anxious, but conviction remained. It had been hard, but he had no regret.

"These small successes, piled one upon another, will someday grow into great roots… that hold me firm."

Night deepened.

Jinhwa fell quietly asleep — inside an unwavering patience.

[End of Chapter 98]

At the southern edge of the world — before a vast furnace where iron‑melting heat shook the air.

A woman in crimson robes set down her hammer and glared northward, brow furrowed.

The Fire Consort — Hwabi.

She sensed a faint energy carried on the wind — and clicked her tongue.

"Hm… quiet, isn't he?"

The prophecy had called the man a great blaze that would burn the world. But she was curious.

Whether the prophecy was true.

"I want to see for myself."

Her gaze sharpened. Waiting did not suit her temperament.

"This won't do. Is he growing properly — or is he a disappointment…"

Hwabi twisted her red lips into a smile.

"I'll go and check in person. If he's a lost cause — I'll just burn him down myself…"