3

The sweet taste of the red bean bun lingered on Jihoon's tongue, a stark, delicious contrast to the grim reality that awaited him back at the General's estate. The brief escapade into the bustling market had been a desperate grab for normalcy, a fleeting moment of forgetting the relentless beep-beep-beep of a life support machine he'd once been tethered to. As he navigated his way back through the winding streets, the vibrant chaos slowly faded, replaced by the growing dread of his impending return. The sun began its descent, painting the sky in fiery hues that mirrored the turmoil in his gut.

He reached the less-used servant's gate just as twilight began to set in, slipping back into the mansion with the practiced ease of someone who'd spent a lifetime avoiding detection. The thought was absurd, of course, a fleeting moment of self-amusement. He was a modern man, thrust into a historical drama, playing a character whose primary role was to die. Yet, this small act of rebellion, this taste of forbidden freedom, sparked a surprising resilience within him. He wouldn't just sit and wait for the curtain call.

Back in his chambers, the grandeur of the room felt suffocating once more. He poured himself a cup of lukewarm tea, his mind racing. He was still processing the sheer shock of his transmigration, and the implications of being the doomed fiancé in that novel. He was in a world without modern medicine, no advanced diagnostics, no clinical trials for the sickness that had slowly been consuming his body. This wasn't just a fantasy; it was a desperate race against time.

His first priority upon arrival had been to map out his immediate surroundings, to understand the rhythms and flow of the fortress-like mansion. He began his exploration cautiously, first venturing into the main grounds. The estate was vast, a testament to the General's power and wealth. Manicured gardens, though sparse of flowers in this season, stretched out, dotted with ancient, gnarled trees and serene ponds. Beyond the formal areas lay practical spaces: expansive training grounds where the rhythmic thud of wooden weapons echoed, stables filled with the scent of hay and horse, and a series of lesser buildings he assumed housed the many servants and soldiers.

He spent hours in the library, a grand room filled floor-to-ceiling with scrolls and bound texts. The air was thick with the scent of aged paper and ink. He devoured whatever he could get his hands on, from local histories to military treatises, trying to piece together the political climate of Goryeo (Kingdom X) and Joseon (Kingdom Y), and more importantly, the specific timeline of "The Tale of Two Kingdoms." He needed to pinpoint when the illegitimate prince would arrive, when the war would begin, and most crucially, when the original Jihoon met his untimely end. The language, an elegant script, proved surprisingly easy to grasp, as if his mind had been pre-programmed with the local tongue. Still, the more he read, the more a familiar weariness would creep in, a subtle ache behind his eyes and a dull throb in his chest – the faint echoes of the illness he knew he carried. He'd quickly close the book, take deep, measured breaths, and remind himself to conserve his strength.

Madam Ahn, the head housekeeper, maintained a formidable, unyielding presence, ensuring his needs were met with efficiency but no warmth. Jihoon, acutely aware of his precarious position – both as a potential murder victim in the novel's plot and a man living with a severe illness – knew he couldn't afford to waste a single moment. He found himself drawn into the day-to-day management of the estate, guided by Madam Ahn's strict tutelage. "As the future master of this house, you must understand its workings," she'd stated, her tone leaving no room for argument. He learned about managing provisions, overseeing the kitchens, understanding the subtle hierarchy of the servants, and the intricate customs of the noble class. He listened intently, absorbed every detail, finding a perverse sense of satisfaction in mastering these new, complex skills. It was a distraction, a way to anchor himself in this bizarre reality, and a desperate attempt to prove his worth, to make himself indispensable, to anyone who might wish him harm. He also discovered an ancestral garden, a secluded, overgrown area behind the main formal gardens, where Madam Ahn, surprisingly, showed a rare spark of warmth as she spoke of the rare herbs and ancient trees it housed. It became his preferred sanctuary, a place where he could sit in relative peace, away from prying eyes.

One afternoon, drawn by the clang of metal and shouted commands, he found himself near the training grounds. A small group of soldiers were sparring, their movements fluid and powerful. One particular soldier caught his eye. He was taller than the rest, broad-shouldered, with a quiet intensity that set him apart. His dark hair was pulled back simply, and his plain training tunic couldn't hide the lean strength beneath. Jihoon observed for a while, a strange calm settling over him as he watched the focused movements.

Then, during a break, he noticed the tall soldier struggling with a particularly stubborn knot in his practice bowstring. The soldier's brow was furrowed in frustration, his powerful fingers fumbling.

Without thinking, Jihoon approached. "May I... offer some assistance?" he asked, his voice a little softer than he intended. The soldier looked up, startled, his eyes, dark and sharp, widening imperceptibly. He nodded slowly, handing over the bow. Jihoon, recalling a similar knot-tying technique his grandfather had taught him for fishing lines, quickly worked at it, his slender fingers surprisingly deft. A few precise tugs, a twist, and the knot came undone with a satisfying pop.

"There you go," Jihoon said, handing it back with a small, polite smile. The soldier took the bow, his gaze lingering on Jihoon for a beat too long, a flicker of something unreadable in his dark eyes before he gave a curt nod. "My thanks, Sir," he rumbled, his voice deeper than Jihoon expected, before turning back to his training. Jihoon retreated, feeling a small, uncharacteristic thrill at having been helpful, unaware that the 'soldier' he'd just assisted was none other than General Taeyoung, who, despite his initial annoyance at the interruption, now found himself oddly amused by this peculiar, delicate fiancé who knew how to untie knots. Taeyoung, who despised the idea of this arranged marriage, suddenly saw something intriguing in this fiancé that he hadn't expected.

Later that crisp afternoon, while sitting in his room reviewing household accounts, a sudden, violent cough seized him. It racked his body, bringing tears to his eyes, and when he finally managed to catch his breath, he saw it – a bright, shocking crimson stain on the back of his hand. Blood. His stomach lurched. He scrambled to wipe it away, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. It wasn't a cough from dusty scrolls; it was the familiar, terrifying symptom he knew all too well from his past life. His illness was still very much present, gnawing at him from within. He stood abruptly, feeling lightheaded, and stumbled towards the window, gasping for air. He pressed his forehead against the cool glass, trying to steady himself, hoping no one had seen.

He was wrong. A little further away, discreetly observing the movements of his own house, General Taeyoung, still in his plain training clothes, had seen the sudden tremor in Jihoon's frame, the frantic hand brought to his mouth. Though the distance prevented a clear view, the General's sharp eyes registered the tell-tale motion, the haste with which Jihoon had turned away from the window. A flicker of concern, almost imperceptible, crossed Taeyoung's stern face. He didn't understand the sudden distress, but his military mind, trained to assess and react, saw a potential weakness, a vulnerability that needed to be understood in someone who would soon be his husband. Without a word, he turned to a nearby aide, his voice low and commanding, "Send the estate physician to Sir Jihoon's chambers. Tell him it is a routine check, but to be thorough."

The physician, a kindly old man with spectacles perched on his nose, arrived within the hour. Jihoon, mortified but trying to appear nonchalant, allowed the examination. The physician's brow furrowed deeper with each pulse check, each gentle probe. Finally, he straightened, his expression grave. "Sir Jihoon," he began, his voice soft but firm, "your humors are severely imbalanced. Your lungs… they show signs of great distress. This condition, if left unattended, can be fatal. I will prescribe tonics, but you must rest, avoid strenuous activity, and eat nourishing foods."

Jihoon's blood ran cold. Fatal. This was it. The confirmation he'd dreaded but expected. His original death sentence had indeed followed him across worlds. He was still dying. But he forced a serene smile. "Thank you, Physician. I shall follow your instructions diligently." He was blissfully unaware that a report of his severe condition, albeit lacking the modern diagnosis of 'terminal cancer', would soon reach the General.

When Taeyoung received the physician's report, detailing Jihoon's profound internal imbalance and the grave prognosis, a shadow passed over his face. He hadn't expected such fragility. The image of the slender hand deftly untying the knot, the quiet intensity in Jihoon's eyes, flashed in his mind. Fatal, the physician had written. A flicker of worry, a genuine pang of concern, stirred within him. He wasn't interested in the marriage, a political convenience at best, but this was different. He didn't want a dead fiancé on his hands. It would be… inconvenient. And yet, beneath the pragmatism, something else stirred, a faint, almost imperceptible softening towards the peculiar young man. He still wouldn't admit it, not even to himself, but the sudden knowledge that his future groom was so gravely ill pricked at something he thought long dormant.

Jihoon, meanwhile, had had enough of confinement. The physician's words, while terrifying, had also sparked a desperate urge for normalcy, for a taste of freedom before it was all gone. He remembered his sister's constant complaints about hospital food. "Screw boring tonics and bland meals!" he declared to himself, eyes gleaming with a newfound determination. He slipped out of the estate through a less-used servants' gate, using the excuse of wanting to see the local market, something Madam Ahn had reluctantly agreed to earlier. He mingled with the bustling crowds, the vibrant chaos a balm to his frazzled nerves. The smells of roasting meat, sweet pastries, and exotic spices filled the air. He found a stall selling crispy skewers of seasoned meat, then a cart laden with freshly steamed buns filled with sweet red bean paste. He ate, truly ate, for the first time in what felt like forever, the simple, delicious flavors a stark contrast to the sterile, tasteless food he'd endured for months. He felt, for a fleeting moment, genuinely happy, utterly free.

General Taeyoung, conducting a covert patrol of the city's outskirts, saw him. His delicate fiancé, usually so prim and proper, now navigating the boisterous market with a bun pressed to his lips, a look of pure, unadulterated joy on his face as he laughed at something a street performer did. The sight was so incongruous with the grave report he'd just received, so utterly unexpected, that it caught him off guard. The soft light of the setting sun caught Jihoon's hair, making him seem almost ethereal amidst the gritty reality of the market. Taeyoung, who rarely felt anything beyond duty and strategy, felt his heart give a strange, unfamiliar tug. A little soft, indeed.