#murim

Master Eun’s instructions were precise and tailored. She watched them with her calm, unreadable expression and noted their improvements. Ha-rim learned to anticipate changes in spiritual flow. Seon-yang gained surprising speed. Seong-wook’s form became fluid, less brute, more breath. Gyeong-jae found an eerie stillness in motion—quiet footwork, economical movement, a kind of sharp emptiness that looked like instinct. Hwa-jin refined a swift counter-maneuver she had once executed clumsily. Now it flowed sharp and clean. Soo-yeon discovered she excelled at evasive footwork, slipping around partners with ghost-like steps. Daon, who always struggled with self-confidence, landed a perfect form strike that made Master Eun nod approvingly.

During one match, Gyeong-jae almost overexerted. Seong-wook stepped in front of him without thinking, absorbing the impact.

“Why did you—?” Gyeong-jae asked later, brows furrowing.

Seong-wook shrugged, cheeks warm. “Reflex.”

Hwa-jin raised a brow.

Daon blinked knowingly.

Ha-rim smirked.

Soo-yeon whispered, “Oh.”

Even Yeon-rang didn’t miss that.

Gyeong-jae remained oblivious.

As the rigorous training schedule progressed, the mealtimes got louder. The siblings gathered around the same corner table each day. That table became theirs.

Meals became quicksand for conversation: Hwa-jin corrected everyone’s form… while eating rice. Daon tried (and failed) to tell jokes, but his failures became the joke. Soo-yeon quietly slid side dishes toward anyone who looked tired. Soo-yeon narrated Hwa-jin’s dramatics like a theater scholar. Gyeong-jae stole Seong-wook’s last dumpling again with surgical precision. Seong-wook pretended to be outraged but let him.

Evenings were filled with whispered retellings of training mistakes, small pranks (Daon kept losing her gloves to Seon-yang’s mischief), Soo-yeon teaching Hwa-jin how to braid hair, Seong-wook and Gyeong-jae walking just a little slower than the rest. No one mentioned it aloud, but everyone noticed Seong-wook’s behavior.

There were nights when the younger ones whispered before sleeping—about Master Eun’s lessons, about spirit flares, about Hwa-jin’s awful snoring (which she vigorously denied).

Sometimes Seong-wook and Gyeong-jae lingered outside longer than the others, shoulders brushing as they walked back slowly. Neither spoke of it. Yet, something shifted for Seong-wook, even though he still couldn’t put a name to it, and he hoped that Gyeong-jae felt it, too.

The children’s deepening bonds didn’t seem to affect their ability to focus. Even so, Master Eun increased the meditation sessions the following week. They practiced Resonant Stillness under willow trees, palms on the earth, letting spirit currents settle.

Spirit threads hummed. Wind brushed along the water. Gyeong-jae dozed off mid-session, his head falling onto Seong-wook’s shoulder. Seong-wook froze. His ears went crimson. Yet, he dared not move.

Daon spotted it, eyes sparkling, and nearly combusted from delight.

Ha-rim whispered, “Should we commemorate this?”

Hwa-jin shook her head, muttering, “Let the boy breathe.”

Yeon-rang grinned.

Soo-yeon simply smiled with calm warmth.

“Should I avenge you for this humiliation, Seong-wook?” Ha-rim jokingly whispered aloud.

“Absolutely not,” Seong-wook hissed, mortified.

Gyeong-jae woke groggily, utterly unaware he’d caused seismic emotional damage.

The laughter that followed echoed under branches heavy with summer-green leaves.

As their training advanced, Master Eun watched them from a distance. Their strides were confident. Their spirits brightened. Their breathing harmonized. The fear from the flare had softened into something manageable, if not completely out of mind. Hwa-jin’s precision transformed her into an anchor during group drills. Soo-yeon, once timid, now flowed with elegance and speed. Daon began trusting her instincts, and her strikes grew cleaner. Seon-yang’s spiritual sensitivity heightened. Ha-rim increased endurance, whining 20% less. Seong-wook refined both offense and protection—especially around Gyeong-jae. Gyeong-jae, without realizing it, began wielding quiet potential that unsettled even Master Eun.

Over the course of the next few weeks, these bonds deepened and their morning routines began earlier.

Master Eun Seol-hwa woke them up even before the Dawn Invocation, calling them into the courtyard while the mist still clung to the earth in soft, swirling ribbons. They practiced Spirit Alignment Breaths, palms extended toward the paling sky, drawing in the hush of the world.

Yeon-rang wobbled every third inhale. Im Daon, earnest and methodical, held each breath too long and turned slightly pink. Hwa-jin, calm by habit, copied Master Eun’s movements with surprising precision. Soo-yeon, always quietly determined, tried to hide the tremble in her fingers. Ha-rim yawned so loudly Master Eun gently flicked his forehead with a leaf.

Seong-wook and Gyeong-jae stood side by side—one solid and steady, the other still bleary-eyed but trying to match the rhythm. Unconsciously, Seong-wook angled himself half an inch closer to Gyeong-jae, as if to shield him from the morning cold.

Gyeong-jae didn’t notice, but Master Eun did—and she said nothing. She took note of each child’s progress and structured the follow-up drills accordingly.

During the second week, their drills became harder. Sweeps, stances, transitional steps, each movement meant to strengthen their inner spirit currents as well as their physical forms.

Master Eun corrected their poses with a delicate touch—a shift of Yeon-rang’s weight, a lowered shoulder for Seong-wook, a softened elbow for Gyeong-jae. Hwa-jin needed to loosen her rigid shoulders—her discipline was near perfect, but too tight. Soo-yeon had a subtle imbalance in her left knee. Daon learned to stop overthinking his forms, discovering a rare fluidity when he finally let go.

Meanwhile, Ha-rim turned sweat into melodrama. “I perish… masterfully,” he declared each time he collapsed into the grass.

“Politely perish,” Gyeong-jae corrected dryly, helping him up with a hand that trembled from exertion.

Their private joke blossomed everywhere. The pavilion siblings smothered giggles between stances. Hwa-jin cracked the faintest smile. Soo-yeon’s shoulders shook with suppressed laughter.

Even Master Eun’s lips twitched once. Her lips twitched again the following week after she introduced Garden Circling, a practice unique to the Cheongji Order: walking a figure-eight path through the Spirit Garden, weaving calm intention into each step.

The children were walking barefoot over warm stones, listening to the rustle of silver-leafed plants. Seon-yang hummed under her breath. Daon whispered counts under his breath until Hwa-jin gently told him, “Just feel it.” He was surprisingly graceful and found the rhythm immediately. Soo-yeon, at first self-conscious, began moving more freely as the days passed. Ha-rim tried to walk the path with his eyes closed and promptly ran into a tree.

The entire group burst out laughing. Master Eun shook her head imperceptibly. Gyeong-jae snorted. Seong-wook laughed aloud for the first time in days—bright and unrestrained.

Yeon-rang pointed at them, delighted. “You sound like brothers.”

Seong-wook stiffened before he looked away and kept walking. Im Daon and Nam Soo-yeon noticed and looked at each other knowingly.

Meanwhile, Geong-jae smiled enthusiastically, and said, “Of course! I’m so lucky I can depend on each and every one of you. Thank you so much for looking after me!” He bowed in appreciation.

Master Eun smiled at the children’s progress and was especially delighted about the bonds they formed later one afternoon. Sunlight slanted across the training courtyard, dyeing the raked gravel bronze and turning the pavilion siblings’ shadows long and wobbly. Master Eun had just dismissed them after a strenuous series of spirit-resonance drills—her tone warm, her posture serene, but her eyes sharper than usual as she watched the children disperse.

They were exhausted, flushed, and hungry. Perfect conditions for mischief.

“Food,” Jang Ha-rim groaned, dragging herself forward with the heavy limp of theatrical death. “I need food. I deserve food. Someone carry me.”

“Carry yourself,” Seong-wook replied, though he was smiling despite himself. “You’re not actually dying.”

“I am spiritually fading,” Ha-rim insisted, swooning sideways into Seo Gyeong-jae, who barely reacted, too tired to even sway.

“Mm,” he murmured, staring blankly ahead. “I accept my fate.”

“You accept too many things,” Seong-wook snorted.

“But truly,” Ha-rim continued, gripping both boys’ sleeves dramatically, “if I die before I eat steamed buns, avenge me.”

At that, Yeon-rang—who had been quietly trailing behind them—piped up: “Master Eun says vengeance is an unnecessary attachment.”

Ha-rim’s eyes widened with exaggerated solemnity. “Then avenge me politely.”

That broke something in the entire group. Even Gyeong-jae—bleary-eyed, dead on his feet—let out a soft snort. Im Daon and Nam Soo-yeon, the older ones, just stayed out of it and didn’t bother to join their younger pavilion siblings.

“Politely…” Seong-wook repeated, shoulders shaking. “How does that even work? ‘Excuse me, Elder, sorry to trouble you, but my friend starved dramatically so now I must exact humble retribution’?”

Ha-rim clutched his stomach, laughing. “Exactly!”

Yeon-rang’s giggles came next—small but infectious. “Maybe with a bow?”

“Three bows,” Gyeong-jae added unexpectedly, still expressionless. “For proper courtesy.”

They all erupted again, louder this time. And that was how it began. By the time they reached the meal hall, they were flinging versions of the new joke at each other:

“Give me your rice—if not, I will be forced to… politely avenge myself.”

“Please pass the kimchi. If not, I must humbly seek retribution.”

“Spare me one bun, or I’ll avenge Ha-rim’s fake death with utmost courtesy.”

Yeon-rang nearly choked laughing when Seong-wook bowed stiffly before sitting down as if announcing a duel.

Gyeong-jae, weary but smiling faintly, murmured, “We are definitely getting scolded for this.”

But Master Eun simply watched them from across the hall—soft-eyed, unreadable—while they laughed over bowls of warm broth.

The joke became tradition. Whenever someone stumbled in training, they’d announce, breathless: “Please avenge me. Respectfully.”

When someone stole someone else’s mantou bun, the thief would bow deeply and say: “I am prepared for the consequences of my discourtesy.”

When Yeon-rang had trouble sleeping, Ha-rim whispered: “If a nightmare bothers you, wake me. I will avenge you… quietly.”

And when Seong-wook pulled Gyeong-jae back from a near-fall during a difficult stance drill, Gyeong-jae muttered under his breath, “You’ve saved yourself the trouble of polite vengeance later.”

Seong-wook didn’t know why that made his ears warm.

Master Eun assigned partners: Seong-wook with Gyeong-jae, Ha-rim with Daon, Soo-yeon with Hwa-jin, and Yeon-rang as floating support.

Gyeong-jae struggled with a pressure-redirect exercise until Seong-wook gently placed a hand on his back.

“Here,” Seong-wook said, voice soft. “Let it rise slower. Like… like the lanterns on First Passing Night.”

Gyeong-jae blinked, imagining it, and tried again. The spiritual pressure lifted smoothly this time.

“Good,” Seong-wook added, shy but proud.

Master Eun watched from a distance and nodded approvingly.

Ha-rim and Daon argued loudly over timing; Hwa-jin and Soo-yeon dissolved into giggles after Soo-yeon tripped over her own feet; Yeon-rang ran between them all, patching errors with earnest helpfulness.

The yard was alive with energy, with growth, and with the warmth that comes after fear had passed and left a reminder to hold each other closer.

When supper was served—steamed buns, hot broth with slices of soft-boiled egg, and sweet lotus root—the children gathered in their usual cluster around the long table. They ate with gusto, recounting the day’s bruises and triumphs.

“Daon nearly broke my wrist today,” Ha-rim complained between mouthfuls.

“You were slow,” Daon retorted.

“You’re too fast,” Gyeong-jae added helpfully.

Hwa-jin snorted tea through his nose, setting off a chain of laughter that made Soo-yeon wheeze.

Master Eun sat with them this time—rare but not unheard of lately. She listened, serene and silent, as they fulfilled the most sacred rule of Gyeolhak Pavilion:

No one eats alone. Ever.

After evening chores, they walked back to their sleeping quarters together, lanterns bobbing around them like fireflies.

“Do you think we’re getting better?” Gyeong-jae asked quietly.

Everyone’s steps softened.

Daon ruffled his hair. “Of course you are. Didn’t you see how well you held your pressure today?”

“Mmm,” Yeon-rang added, “Master Eun even smiled. That never happens.”

“I caught that!” Soo-yeon said dramatically.

Seong-wook didn’t say anything, but he nudged Gyeong-jae’s shoulder with quiet fondness.

Master Eun watched them from the porch, her silhouette framed by amber lanternlight.

Dawn seeped softly across the tiled roofs of Gyeolhak Pavilion, the light catching in the dew that clung to the stone practice yard. The pavilion siblings filed out one by one—hair hastily tied, robes straightened, boots half-laced but feet quick—because Master Eun had rung the bell earlier than usual.

Seo Gyeong-jae rubbed his eyes with the back of his sleeve, still not entirely awake. Behind him, Han Seong-wook quietly shifted to Gyeong-jae’s left side again, a habit he’d picked up since the night of the flare. He didn’t even notice he was doing it.

Master Eun Seol-hwa stood in the center of the yard, sleeves tucked, a plume of warm breath curling into the crisp air.

“Good. You’re here promptly,” she said, voice gentle but firm. “Let us begin with stillness. Graveyards do not rush. Spirits do not rush. And neither shall we.”

The children knelt. Only the soft creak of wood and fabric moved with them. The meditation was longer today. It had been longer every day since the flare. Yet, the children bore it with increasing grace.

Gyeong-jae struggled at first—his thoughts prone to dipping back to the sparrow skull, especially from the unsettling dream—but today he found a steadier rhythm. Beside him, Seo Yeon-rang, who was the same age, gave him a tiny encouraging nudge with her elbow. He breathed easier.

When the meditation ended, Master Eun guided them through resonance-breath drills, their exhalations forming faint white pulses in the cold morning air.

“Again,” Master Eun said with a softened smile, “together.”

They synced their breathing without needing to look at one another.

By noon, they gathered inside the pavilion’s warm scroll room. The floor was covered with woven mats; the long table was already laid with bowls of warmed millet porridge topped with candied jujubes—Master Eun’s subtle way of rewarding hard work without calling it a reward.

Even Im Daon, the oldest at 13, who pretended to be aloof, smiled at the sight of the jujubes.

“Master Eun must have known Soo-yeon would beg for sweets again,” Daon said, smirking.

“Tch! I did not beg,” Nam Soo-yeon protested, cheeks coloring. “I only suggested.”

“It was begging,” muttered Yoo Hwa-jin, who was always honest in the worst and most direct ways.

The table shook with laughter, even Master Eun’s quiet chuckle from where she prepared paper talismans.

Gyeong-jae grinned. These moments soothed him almost as much as meditation did.

After eating, they practiced ink-stroke discipline, forming controlled spiritual currents through brushes dipped in faintly glowing ink. Master Eun walked among them, correcting postures with her usual serene certainty.

“Jang Ha-rim,” she said, leaning over the 11-year-old’s shoulder, “slow your hand. Ink must never surge ahead of intention.”

“Yes, Master Eun,” Ha-rim murmured, adjusting carefully.

Seong-wook noticed Gyeong-jae’s brush tremble, reached over, and silently repositioned the younger boy’s inkstone to steady his angle.

Gyeong-jae mouthed a small, “Thanks.”

Seong-wook pretended he was just making space.

Weeks later, when night had fallen thick and heavy over the Cheongji Compound and the moon was veiled behind a thin sheet of cloud, one master was awake far into the night. In the stillness of her study, Master Eun Seol-hwa sat alone before a low lacquered table, her brush hovering over an open scroll. Despite the ready ink and the available surface, she did not write. A tiny bowl of spirit-ink sat at her elbow, untouched. The faint silver sheen rising from it glimmered like frost on water.

She exhaled, slow and steady. After weeks of investigation into the flare, she had only silence to show for it. There was no lingering residue from malevolent arts, no tear in the spiritual lattice, and no sign of tampering with the sparrow skull or the pavilion’s wards. Just that one flare—a sudden, sharp pulse, brilliant and brief as lightning across a midnight sky.

“Spirits do not lie…” she murmured to herself. “Yet, they do not always explain.”

She reached for the small, sealed jar at her side. Inside was the scrap of residual essence she had gathered the night of the flare—less a fragment than a ghost of a scent, a faint impression.

She unsealed the jar, lifted it toward her spiritual sight.

A faint shimmer curled up like smoke, pale blue, wavering.

It was gentle, inoffensive, almost apologetic. Only trespassing energy, ever so slight, would have the energy to seek pardon. Underneath the softness, there had been—just at the edges—something that resisted her senses. A subtle dissonance, a tension like the string of a qin pulled just a hair too tight.

She lifted her brush, dipped it into the ink, and wrote onto her private scroll:

“Essence irregularity:

— Transient, mild.

— No external interference detected.

— Possible precursor to spirit’s departure.

— Source uncertain.”

She paused. The brush trembled for the slightest moment before continuing.

“Further investigation recommended—

but results remain inconclusive.”

The last word weighed heavier than she wished. She leaned back, pressing fingertips to her temple. Memories of her young disciples flickered: Gyeong-jae’s weary eyes, Seong-wook’s trembling hand still clenched long after the danger had passed, the siblings standing in protective formation around the youngest one.

Their fear had been real, their bond precious, and she—who had sworn to safeguard both living and dead—felt the shame of not having an answer.

“Am I growing cautious,” she whispered, “or simply… old?”

After a long moment, she sealed the scroll and placed it into the deeper compartment of her desk—one accessible only by senior elders. Her hand lingered on the lid.

What should she do?

Alert the Council? Possibly. Without conclusive evidence, though, they would dismiss her concern as overreaction. Worse, they might worry their apprentices unnecessarily.

Strengthen the wards? She already had, quietly and thoroughly. Even that had yielded no new ripples, no disturbances.

Confront the unknown? She had tried, yet come away empty-handed.

In the end, she extinguished the lantern and stood, her shadow long across the wooden floor.

“Very well,” she murmured. “If the heavens will not reveal the cause, then I shall trust in what remains steadfast.”

Instead of letting her attention waste away on uncertainty, she determined to focus on her charges: her disciples, their discipline, their innocence, and their resilience. She would watch them more closely, teach them more carefully, and prepare them, quietly, for any eventuality—even one she could not yet name. She would not frighten them further without cause.

During a qi-breath circulation drill, a faint crackle of spiritual static flickered from Gyeong-jae’s talisman—nothing dangerous, just a leftover tickle from the flare’s echo.

Seong-wook reacted before Gyeong-jae even noticed. He stepped in front of the younger boy, palm raised as if to shield him.

Gyeong-jae blinked up at him. “What are you doing?”

Seong-wook froze. His hand lowered. “I thought… I just—” He scowled at himself. “Nothing.”

Master Eun, watching from across the courtyard, hid her small smile.

Good, she thought. Let them form instinct before they form theory.

The children sprawled on the sun-warmed steps outside the pavilion after lunch. Jang Ha-rim recited lines from their spirit-rest scripture with theatrical flair; Yoo Hwa-jin corrected his pronunciation; Nam Soo-yeon shared dried plums out of her sleeve.

Seong-wook and Gyeong-jae sat side by side, shoulders almost touching. “You’re tired again,” Seong-wook said with a faint frown.

“Just a dream.” Gyeong-jae swung his legs. It had been awhile since the first time he dreamt it. “It’s the sparrow skull again.”

Seong-wook turned fully toward him now. “You should tell Master Eun.”

“She’ll think I’m worrying for nothing,” Gyeong-jae replied. “She said the flare was harmless.”

Seong-wook’s jaw tightened—just a little. The mood of the whole pavilion had been shaped by Master Eun’s interpretation, after all; the adults trusted the quiet, and so the children followed. Still, Seong-wook looked at the sparrow skull tied to Gyeong-jae’s sash and murmured: “If something happens again… I’ll be there first.”

Gyeong-jae didn’t understand why Seong-wook said it with such quiet force. He didn’t feel the warning nor the tenderness beneath it. He only smiled. “You always are.”

That night, as they walked the perimeter to check minor wards, the children spoke softly, laughing at Ha-rim’s exaggerated stories about “spirits who snore like thunder.” Their footsteps were light, their hearts easy. The safety they felt—earnest and unchallenged—was exactly what Master Eun hoped for.

Far from them, hidden in the world’s quiet cracks, Baek Mu-yeom’s careful adjustments kept the air still and the spiritual threads placid.

Only the elders’ private logs held traces of unease. The children, trusting and brave, grew into a sense of peace that shaped how they trained, how they protected one another, and how their bonds knit tighter day after day.

synopsis: yi zaha’s latest medical emergency involves a severe midday slump and a refusal for respecting personal boundaries. why bother dealing with sect paperwork when he can shamelessly rest his head on his favorite doctor's lap in broad daylight?

yi zaha x female!reader (oneshot) for my lovely reader @bloomfaery ♥︎

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