Chapter 3
Kwon Ha stepped out of the car and took a slow look around the village.
The fields stretched endlessly, green with young barley swaying in the wind like ripples on water.
Beyond them lay the vast paddies, busy with farmers preparing for rice planting.
Between the dikes, small slate-roofed houses jutted up at even intervals.
And further out — an orchard blanketed in white blossoms.
Pear flowers. In full bloom.
Tranquil. Quiet. Almost unnervingly so.
“What a goddamn countryside.”
He muttered it under his breath, though no one asked for his opinion.
Everything here stood in stark contrast to the rush of the city where he’d come from — no traffic, no neon, no noise.
To someone like him, who thrived on motion and control, this was dead air.
<Welcome to Yehwari>
The wooden sign stood proudly beside a towering statue of General Jihae, guardian of the village.
Kwon Ha’s brows tightened.
Yehwari.
That damned Yehwari.
“Ihwado-ga is eight hundred meters ahead, sir,”
said Secretary Shin, approaching like a human navigation system that didn’t know when to stop.
Kwon Ha turned his head.
Shin, clearly enamored by the rustic landscape, stretched his arms and breathed in the fresh country air like a man on vacation.
A faint smile even touched his lips — a mistake he realized too late.
Because when his gaze finally met the cold, razor-edged eyes of his boss, his face went pale.
He straightened instantly, bowing stiffly.
“M-my apologies, sir.”
“No need. Why apologize?”
Kwon Ha smiled — that calm, pleasant smile of his.
But Shin knew that smile. Everyone who worked under Kwon Ha did.
That was the storm warning.
“If I’m miserable,” Kwon Ha said lightly,
“then someone else ought to enjoy themselves, don’t you think?”
He pulled out a long cigarette, placed it between his lips.
Shin rushed to light it, retreating the moment the flame caught.
Now his posture was rigid again, shoulders drawn tight.
Kwon Ha gave his shoulder a few casual pats — not comfort, just control — and exhaled smoke through half-lidded eyes.
“Where are my aunt and uncle?”
“They’ve already visited, sir.”
Of course they had.
It was the perfect opportunity to bite off a chunk of Daesung while the Chairman wasn’t looking.
He inhaled deeply. The tip of the cigarette glowed red, his cheek hollowing with the pull.
Those two never knew moderation anyway.
“I heard they tried to pressure the Ihwado people,” Shin continued carefully.
“Threats, bribes, everything. Three days straight. The Chairman found out and… reprimanded them harshly. Said they’re not to step foot here again.”
Kwon Ha chuckled, low and sharp.
“How precise of them. Almost admirable, really.”
The irony was enough to make him laugh.
And to think people like that ran a business at all. Oh, right — they didn’t. They just consumed it.
He pressed a finger to his temple, rubbing slowly.
“So the locals are on edge.”
“Very much so, sir. Especially since they’re brewing the Celestial Pear Blossom Wine this season.”
“Hmm…”
He fell silent, the crease between his brows deepening.
Even on the road here, through the shock and the bitterness, his mind had kept working — calculating, arranging, adapting.
Plan B had been set the moment he heard the old man’s conditions.
Plan C he’d refined on the drive up.
He’d always told his staff — In despair, find structure.
He wasn’t just anyone.
He was Kang Kwon Ha, Marketing Director of Daesung Judo — Korea’s pride in traditional liquor.
No obstacle could possibly break him.
His gaze sharpened.
If you want to catch a tiger…
“Let’s take a walk around the village first.”
…you start by circling its den.
The Inner Garden
When Eun-ja emerged from the Inner Garden, she looked utterly spent.
She had locked herself inside for several days, crafting five hundred bottles’ worth of Cheondo Ihwaju.
What had once been effortless was now a struggle.
Without her cane, even walking had become difficult.
How much longer can I hide it?
Her sigh carried both fatigue and the sour scent of fermented grain.
“Grandmother, are you all right?”
Do-ah came running, the hem of her reform hanbok fluttering behind her.
Eun-ja looked at her — at the girl she had raised from a crying infant found at the village gate into the poised young woman before her.
The years had left their marks on Eun-ja’s hands — lines of labor, veins like riverbeds.
But her heart ached most when she thought of her granddaughter’s beginnings.
Twice abandoned — first by her parents, then by Eun-ja’s own daughter.
At first, that daughter and her husband had taken the child in, claiming they would raise her as their own, driven by the despair of infertility.
For two years, it seemed to work. The baby smiled. The house felt full.
Until the miracle pregnancy.
When the “real” daughter was born, everything changed.
“You’re not my child.”
“You were adopted. Go away!”
“Don’t even dream of being heir. That’s for my daughter.”
Eun-ja’s jaw tightened at the memory.
In the end, she had forced them out — kept Do-ah, and cut ties.
Now that same girl stood before her, steady and solemn.
“Grandmother, you don’t look well.”
Yes, even the girl’s tone had become hers — measured, restrained, cold.
A mirror image molded by circumstance.
It’s time, Eun-ja thought. Time to pass it down.
She had never once considered her vain daughter or her younger granddaughter for succession.
They wouldn’t understand the weight of it — the craft, the legacy.
They came from Seoul talking about “turning Ihwado into a winery.” Nonsense.
“Do-ah, go to the jar storage. Bring me twenty mid-sized bottles for the Ihwaju. Can you handle it alone?”
“Yes, grandmother.”
“And stop by the Bangs’ place. They should have the item I asked for.”
The Bang family had made earthen jars for Ihwado for twenty-one generations — true artisans of clay.
Do-ah nodded, though she didn’t move to leave.
“Well? What are you waiting for?”
“Just… I’ll walk you to the veranda.”
“Go on.”
Her pale hand waved her off — firm, final.
Do-ah hesitated, lips pressed tight, eyes uncertain.
The old woman’s cane struck the floor softly as she turned away.
“When you’re done, come straight to the Inner Garden,” Eun-ja said without looking back.
“We’ll start steaming the gumu-tteok tomorrow. Be ready.”
Do-ah froze.
Gumu-tteok.
Rice cakes used as the base ingredient for Cheondo Ihwaju.
It was the foundation of the liquor — something only the master of Ihwado ever prepared.
By mentioning it, Eun-ja was saying:
You will be my successor.
“Grandmother…”
Tears welled up in Do-ah’s wide eyes — unrefined, unhidden emotion trembling on the edge of spilling.
Even though people whispered it for years, she had never dared to believe it.
That she, an adopted child, would be chosen over the bloodline.
She wiped her tears quickly, forcing her expression back to stillness.
“I’ll do my best. I promise.”
She hurried out, wheeling out her old bicycle from the shed.
Clack, clack. The pedals turned, faster and faster, as she sped through the pear-blossom road.
The air was sweet, heavy with pollen.
Her heart pounded.
She had to finish her errand before dusk.
Then —
A shadow darted between the pear trees.
“Ah—! Watch out!”
The front wheel swerved.
Crash.
She hit the ground, pain shooting up her leg as her palms scraped the dirt.
Her thin hanbok couldn’t protect her.
Her bicycle clattered to the side, and someone’s smartphone skidded across the ground beside her.
Who was that?
She blinked hard, vision blurred by dust and sunlight.
A beam of gold slipped between the clouds, catching on falling petals.
The pear blossoms shimmered — blindingly bright.
When her eyes adjusted, she finally saw him.
A man —
A man whose sharply defined features seemed foreign to this village.
His suit was immaculate, his posture commanding.
Something in his presence — polished, distant, out of place — made her heart stumble in a different way than the fall had.
And thus began the first meeting of Do-ah and Kwon Ha.
