The Weight of an Unseen Chain

Even more critical than those trivialities was the fact that—perhaps due to the shock of death—the reason Sohwa had tried to take his own life remained lost to him, along with several other memories. Stuck in a situation where he possessed a fair amount of the Prince’s recollection yet lacked the most vital piece, Jin-mok felt as though he were sitting on a bed of needles every day.

Even when the brothers and parents asked in desperate anxiety, Jin-mok, not knowing the truth himself, could only flounder, unable to satisfy their curiosity.

Yul made a point of visiting once a day to try and pry open Sohwa’s heart in this manner. Even the second brother, Yeon-gyeong, despite being unable to visit often due to his duties, sent a letter at least every other day to inquire after Sohwa’s well-being. They acted without realizing that their devotion only caused Jin-mok to shrink further into himself.

“I am fine.”

Yul nodded slowly as he watched Sohwa reply with downcast eyes.

“I see. If that is so, I am relieved.”

It was likely difficult for them as well to badger a person who had tried to kill himself, demanding to know why. Thus, they would circle around the subject with vague questions, and when Jin-mok shook his head, they would retreat for the time being. The same conversation would surely repeat tomorrow, but for now, he was glad for the reprieve.

Inside, Jin-mok let out a breath of relief, his heart settling. Another day passed safely.

But how long could he go on like this? Worry continued to pile up. What kind of lingering resentment was so great that he could not let go of life even as a ghost, borrowing another’s body just to remain in this world?

Was it such a great sorrow that he hadn’t seen the face of the Emperor he adored? Or was it the regret of not hearing his voice one last time? Though it was his own heart, he could not understand it. Was my affection truly that deep? He wasn’t even sure of that.

To be honest, it was an emotion that Jin-mok himself found difficult to define. It was only natural. How could a lowly painter such as he dare to harbor ambitions for the Emperor?

Jin-mok had never even dared to fully explore the feelings he had raised in solitude; he had simply buried them deep within his chest. Fearful that he might find regrets clinging to every fiber of his heart, he had simply tucked them away.

Was that the problem? Had burying them so deeply turned them into a curse of lingering resentment?

He worried that even if Sohwa were to return, he might not be able to pass on to the afterlife. They said that spirits bound by resentment must resolve their grudges before they can ascend to the heavens, but how could he resolve such a thing when he was thousands of miles away? Such worries kept him awake at night.

Jin-mok wanted to stay only until the owner of this body appeared. He hoped that whenever Sohwa returned, he could pass on without a single lingering attachment.

However, as the days went by, doubts began to creep in: Will he ever actually return? What if Sohwa was satisfied with his death and had passed on to the afterlife before him? Then would Jin-mok have to live out this life to the end, draped in this ill-fitting skin?

Wouldn’t that be too cruel to the Prince’s family? For another soul to sit inside their beloved son and cherished brother, pretending to be him—was that not the ultimate deception?

Being of humble origin, Jin-mok knew his place well and was timid to a fault; as such, his current life was profoundly uncomfortable. A life of luxury surrounded by fine silk, exquisite food, and a swarm of servants did not suit him. He needed to call back the original owner, but no good method came to mind, leaving him to fret in silence.

Perhaps because he had spent two months entangled in these thoughts, his head throbbed, and he could no longer paint as he wished. The days when he felt pure happiness simply painting with good pigments on soft, fine paper felt like a distant dream.

Then again, there was one other thing that was different from before: he no longer had the man who looked upon his paintings with such tenderness. The mere thought drew a long, heavy sigh from his lips.

Since he hadn’t disappeared yet, he wanted to see the Emperor’s face just one more time before he passed on. If he were still a commoner who could move without restriction, he would have walked and walked until he found him. But now that he was trapped in a body that could not leave the palace, what was he to do?

Sohwa’s face, clouded with sorrow, grew deathly pale.

The mere thought of wanting to see him filled Jin-mok with such overwhelming longing that he felt he might burst into tears. To the Emperor, the loss of one lowly painter was likely nothing more than a minor inconvenience, but Jin-mok was consumed by a desperate ache to see him.

If only I could see him just once, even from a great distance. Trapped in an impossible wish, Jin-mok let out another deep, quiet sigh and lowered his long eyelashes—unaware that Yul, sitting across from him, was watching him with a piercing, unwavering stare.

Yul sank into deep thought inside his departing palanquin. Ever since his beloved brother had opened his eyes after hovering between life and death, Sohwa had felt impossibly distant.

It was hard enough to believe that a child who was always beaming and cheerful had tried to hang himself; for him to become so cold and distant the moment he woke up was truly heartbreaking.

His youngest brother, whom he had raised as the most precious treasure, was now rolling his deer-like eyes as if looking at a stranger. Where could Yul even begin to vent such frustration? Yul let out a heavy sigh, much like the one Sohwa had released earlier, and headed toward the Queen’s quarters. If he didn’t report today’s events, his mother would surely rush to see Sohwa in a fit of tears.

“Eunuch An.”

Yul called out to the eunuch following the palanquin.

“Yes, Your Highness. You called?”

Hearing the response from outside, Yul gave a listless command.

“Send word to Yeon-gyeong to check on Sohwa sometime today. Tell him to stop saying he’s worried only in words and to actually show his expensive face. Tell him to share the evening meal with him, and then to stop by my quarters afterward.”

Since Sohwa followed Yeon-gyeong more than him, Yul intended for the second brother to coax him into eating at least a few bites of dinner. He had heard several times recently that Sohwa’s appetite had diminished significantly.

It was a shame to yield the opportunity to Yeon-gyeong, who always acted like he was the only busy one in the world, but it couldn’t be helped. Every time Yul tried to encourage Sohwa to eat, the boy reacted as if he were suffering from indigestion before even taking a bite.

Within Yul, the petty desire for Sohwa to act that way with Yeon-gyeong as well conflicted with the sincere wish for his brother to eat even one more mouthful. It pained him that his brother was drifting so far away, unaware of how much Yul cherished him. Yul sighed deeply, leaning his cold, weary face against his hand.

Late at night, Yeon-gyeong visited Yul’s quarters. He sat across from Yul, his usually stoic face twisted into a deep scowl. Yul filled the wine cup set before his brother and asked,

“How was Sohwa?”

Yeon-gyeong replied with a sigh as he lifted his cup.

“I’ve just finished coaxing him to eat and seeing him to bed.”

“Is that so? You must have gone through a lot of trouble.”

Yul nodded slowly and tilted his own cup. The sweet aroma and taste of the Seondo liquor, an annual summer tribute, felt strangely bitter tonight.

Ultimately, Yul set his cup down before even finishing one drink. Watching him, Yeon-gyeong lowered his voice and asked,

“Is the rumor true? That the envoys from the Great Empire have departed?”

Yul looked at him with calm eyes and nodded.

“Yes.”

Yeon-gyeong’s eyes widened in shock.

“Surely…”

“Your guess is correct. It is Gyeong’s turn this year. They are coming to collect a hostage.”

For several generations, the Emperors of the Great Empire had been martial men of aggressive character. They had turned the surrounding nations into vassal states one by one, and Gyeong had become one after being defeated by the previous Emperor.

Every five years, the Great Empire, which had seized control of all neighboring lands, would select several nations and take a member of the royalty—excluding the heir—as a hostage.

Until the next generation’s hostage arrived, the men would stay in the Imperial Palace to study, while the women often became concubines to the Emperor. The men could only return to their homelands once the hostage for the next term arrived from their country.

However, the number of people who actually returned home was very small. With two or three people taken from fifteen different nations every five years, even if one was lucky enough to return quickly, over thirty years would have passed.

Many died of old age without ever returning, or perished from the rigors of the journey home. Many also died at a young age, unable to adjust to the climate of the Great Empire. There was no way to verify if these stories were true, but one couldn’t exactly call the Great Empire a liar to its face, so people simply accepted it.

Gyeong’s previous hostage had been the King’s younger sister. Taken as a hostage at a very young age immediately after the country became a vassal, she became a concubine to the late Emperor upon reaching adulthood. It was reported a few years ago that she had died in childbirth along with her infant. No one knew if that was the truth.

As she had become a person of the Great Empire, her remains were buried there, leaving no way to confirm anything. They could only suffer in silence, unable to utter a single word of protest to the Empire. On the contrary, they had to live in fear that the Empire might demand a new hostage immediately. Her story remained a wound that the King did not care to reopen.

They had thought they were safe for a while since things had been quiet, but a messenger pigeon had arrived recently announcing that the envoys had departed. Yul had already finished a round of discussions with the King on the day the message arrived.