"Where," he asked, voice low and taut with restrained urgency, "did you get this tea?"
Sanghyun blinked, caught off guard.
He thought back.
A few days ago, Areum had handed him a bundle—wrapped in parchment paper and tied neatly with a thin twine.
"It's dried ginger I grew," she'd said. "Use it when you're tired or your joints ache."
He remembered laughing, ruffling her hair as he told her he wasn't that old—not enough to need ginger for joint pain. When he returned home, he'd handed the bundle to the butler without a second thought.
And then… he forgot.
Now, watching his father visibly rejuvenated, his eye twitched.
My daughter gave it to me—and he drank it first.
"It's Areum's," Sanghyun said flatly. "She planted and dried it herself."
Geongseok stared at him. Disbelief flickered—then narrowed into suspicion.
"Don't lie to me."
"I'm not."
For a moment, Geongseok said nothing. He looked down at the cup, now cradled in both hands as if it were sacred.
Then, slowly, he brought it back to his lips and took another sip.
By the time he finished the pot, his eyes were no longer cold.
"Bring the girl to me," he said. "Now."
"No."
Bang.
The teacup slammed against the table, nearly shattering.
"You don't understand how important this is!" he snapped, breath sharp with urgency and mounting frustration.
"How important?" Sanghyun asked, meeting his father's gaze with even calm.
Geongseok narrowed his eyes. The anger still burned low in his chest, but he forced himself to rein it in.
"You really don't understand how the game is played, do you?"
He leaned back, fingers drumming the armrest with thinly veiled impatience.
"You think the Four Pillars rose to power through business acumen alone? Think again. Behind every major decision, every acquisition, every political shift—we've had eyes in places the public doesn't even know exist."
Sanghyun didn't answer.
"All of us have shamans, monks, spiritual advisors. We don't flaunt them, but we rely on them. They help us find favorable land, time our moves, sense threats before they surface. Some families use them to sabotage competitors. The stronger their abilities, the greater the edge we have."
He tapped the rim of the teacup once.
"Whatever that girl infused into this ginger—it's beyond ordinary cultivation. I've tasted elixirs brewed by renowned masters, paid exorbitant sums for roots from temples and sacred sites around the world. But none of them possessed this kind of richness… this purity of life force. Not even close."
His breath caught slightly, excitement slipping through the cracks in his composure.
He leaned forward, voice tightening.
"There's no way she achieved this alone." He paused, eyes gleaming. "Someone powerful is guiding her. If we can find out who—if we can secure their loyalty—we'll have an advantage the other families haven't even begun to imagine."
Sanghyun stared at his father blankly, thoughts drifting to the past six years.
A part of him wanted to dismiss Geongseok's words—chalk them up to age, paranoia, or senility—but he couldn't.
Not entirely.
He thought of Areum.
The teas she brewed always seemed to have effects far beyond what was natural. The way she rearranged her crystals—in oddly precise patterns—shifted the entire atmosphere of the condo in ways he could physically feel.
There were moments she stared into empty space, murmuring to herself, sensing things he couldn't see.
And then there were times she would silently place her hand on his shoulder or back—right where it hurt—and the pain would fade without a trace.
Oddly enough, she could read his moods with uncanny accuracy. No matter how he tried, he could never lie when he said he was fine—she always saw right through him.
She never explained any of it. But it happened. Repeatedly.
Despite the silence, a quiet, unspoken understanding existed between them.
To Sanghyun, whether she ever voiced the truth or not made no difference. He had no intention of burdening her with any responsibility tied to the Han Group.
"Why didn't you tell me about any of this sooner?" Sanghyun asked, still calm and composed. "How long were you planning to keep it from me?"
Geongseok scoffed.
"Why would I hand you an advantage? You think I trust you with everything? Look at the mess you've made of your household—you can't control your wife, couldn't keep your affair and illegitimate child out of the tabloids, and now you're spoiling that girl senseless."
He leaned forward, eyes sharp. "But now that your daughter shows some promise… well, that changes things."
A smirk tugged at his lips. "Tell her to come. I'm giving her a chance to prove she's worthy of the Han name."
Sanghyun met his father's gaze, contempt flickering beneath his calm. "I'll speak to her first. If she agrees to meet you, then I'll allow it."
Geongseok's smile vanished. His eyes darkened, voice dropping to a slow, dangerous calm.
"You think you can negotiate with me?"
He leaned forward, resting both hands on the cane, the silver tip catching the light like a blade.
"Let me remind you—if I truly wanted to meet her, I wouldn't need your permission. One word, and she'd be standing in front of me by sundown."
Sanghyun felt his pulse quicken—not from panic, but from the weight of calculation.
He had the means and manpower to keep Areum safe, but he couldn't guarantee there wouldn't be casualties—lives lost on both sides.
Unlike his father, who treated such losses as inconsequential, Sanghyun valued restraint. He avoided unnecessary bloodshed whenever possible. But if a clash became inevitable, he wouldn't flinch. He would see it through to the end.
"Three days," Geongseok said as he rose from the couch, voice cold and final. "That's all I'm giving you."
Not sparing his son another glance, he turned to the butler without missing a beat.
"Bring me the rest of the dried ginger."
The butler moved quickly, hurrying back from the kitchen with the bundle in hand. As he approached, Geongseok scowled.
"Slow down. Do you plan to drop it?"
The butler flinched. Before he could respond, Geongseok snatched the bundle from his hands, cradling it with surprising care—like something sacred and impossibly fragile.
Geongseok stood, adjusting the cuff of his tailored coat with a steadier hand than before. His posture was straighter, his movements less strained. The cane still tapped against the marble, but it was no longer a crutch—more of a formality. Each step carried a quiet vigor, as if the weight of his years had slipped away. The doors shut behind him with a final thud.
Silence settled over the room.
Sanghyun remained seated, his back tiredly slumped against the leather couch. The fire crackled faintly in the distance, but it did little to thaw the cold sinking feeling in his chest.
Areum had been safe, untouched by the Han family's power plays. He had kept it that way, but now, things are out in the open.
He didn't want this for her.
But in the end, the choice would be hers.
And whatever she will decide—even if it meant going to war with his father—he would stand by her.