A Sly Chancellor and a Cold Emperor

“I have something that must be said, Your Majesty.”

“Did I not say I would not permit it? You must have tasks I entrusted to you—why are you standing here?”

“If it concerns the accusation document regarding Secret Inspector Yun Jung-suk, I have sent word to arrest all the implicated local officials.”

The Emperor gave no reaction, so Cha-ran continued.

“Furthermore, I ordered Assistant Commissioner Na Jeong-taek to secretly investigate the origin of silks imported from Gyeong among those supplied to the palace. All corrupt officials at Gwangheungchang have been severely punished, and additional investigations are ongoing. As for the Central Famine Relief Office matter you commanded a month ago, I have assigned eighteen officials to the provincial offices…”

Just as Cha-ran finished, the Emperor set down the memorial he had been reading—almost throwing it. It was the first time in two weeks that he had looked at Cha-ran, and his gaze was far from kind. Cha-ran remained composed and asked, “Shall I continue?” There was a hint of amusement in his voice.

“…Heukyeong.”

“…….”

“From now on, if that bastard Bi Cha-ran so much as utters another word, you may cut out his tongue and use it as your arrow target.”

“Your Majesty, your jest is too severe.”

“You seem to be urging me to do just that.”

It looked like he would be repaid in kind. Though knowing it was a joke, the threat was so chilling that it raised goosebumps. Moreover, when Heukyeong, who lacked even a drop of flexibility, actually appeared from the shadows along the wall with a soft swish, Cha-ran’s heart nearly stopped. But thanks to his years of acquaintance with the Emperor, it was only a moment’s fright; he soon regained his composure and sighed weakly, shaking his head.

“If you truly wish to cut out my three-inch tongue, do it yourself, Your Majesty. Then this lowly body might at least have an honorable journey to the afterlife.”

“Would pulling out a mere tongue send you to the afterlife?”

The Emperor’s indifference was palpable in his expression, tone, and voice. His mockery and threats, though seemingly mundane at first hearing, had a way of sending chills down the spine.

With a wave of the Emperor’s hand, Heukyeong retreated back into the corner. His eyes, visible through his black mask, met Cha-ran’s, but he looked away without any reaction. Such consistency was not surprising.

The Emperor began reading the memorials again. Then, he picked up a memorial he hadn’t even half-read and threw it to the floor. Whether intentional or not, it landed right at Cha-ran’s feet. Cha-ran looked down at it with an unperturbed expression and picked it up.

“Isn’t this the memorial from the Chu-am martial official stationed at the military border with Hoe?”

“How could that drivel be a memorial? If you ever bring such nonsense into my court again, prepare to see the afterlife yourself.”

It wasn’t even Cha-ran’s own memorial, nor did he personally review every petition from the twenty-seven provinces before presenting them to the Emperor, so why the wrath fell on him was incomprehensible—but he couldn’t speak his mind. A memorial from a military official exiled to the frontier border would surely be full of lamentations. Trying to gauge the Emperor’s mood, he simply bowed his head apologetically.

He hadn’t come to hear the Emperor vent his anger or threaten a purge. Counting the phoenix feathers carved on the distant pillar, Cha-ran lamented his own situation for a long while. Not daring to open his mouth again until the Emperor finished reading all the memorials, he quietly waited by the Emperor’s side. This wasn’t a one-day affair; he thought he had waited long enough.

“Your Majesty.”

“…Do you know what I regret most since my ascension?”

The Emperor suddenly asked an irrelevant question. Answering “no” would be disrespectful, but answering “yes” would be equally awkward, so Cha-ran remained silent. The Emperor had great patience, but Cha-ran was not within its scope. The Emperor answered himself without waiting.

“It is giving that bastard Bi Cha-ran the position of High Minister.”

An expected answer did not wound him. In fact, even when he first heard those words, Cha-ran was unfazed. Even before his ascension, when he was a prince or the crown prince, the Emperor often said similar things to Cha-ran—with a more beautiful and noble face, wearing a chilly smile.

Seeing Cha-ran bow his head calmly, apologetic despite the insult, the Emperor let out a hollow laugh, as if incredulous.

The Emperor knew that although Bi Cha-ran was accustomed to his mistreatment and insults, there was a reason he endured to this extent. He also knew that Cha-ran had waited several days to bring something up. That patience, honed to seek a proper pretext, was not commendable.

“But I, Bi Cha-ran, have words to say to Your Majesty even if I must descend from this seat today. Please hear me out.”

Whether he had greased his three-inch tongue or not, Cha-ran’s knack for choosing the right words was not surprising. The Emperor snorted and looked at him.

“Is the matter of Lady Ru so important that it must be staked on your position as High Minister?”

The Emperor had known what Cha-ran ultimately wanted to say, and Cha-ran had expected the Emperor to know his intentions—neither was surprised or flustered. As Cha-ran paused to think, the Emperor looked up at him with a sidelong glance. That sly fellow. He could almost hear the gears turning in Cha-ran’s head.

“I misspoke. I apologize. I, Bi Cha-ran, will serve Your Majesty until the heavens and earth split, unless you command me to withdraw.”

Having finally made the Emperor bring up Lady Ru—Yi-seol—first as intended, Bi Cha-ran bowed with a more relaxed smile. The Emperor was not angry at being caught in Cha-ran’s scheme; Cha-ran didn’t think so either. The Emperor was simply playing along with Cha-ran’s rhythm—even Heukyeong, hiding his presence behind the far wall, knew that.

As the Emperor brushed back his long, flowing hair, his sleeve revealed his wrist. The red silk wrapped around it was tied to conceal something beneath. No more than three or four people in the palace had seen it; one of them was Bi Cha-ran.

One dawn, early in the summer, the Emperor had secretly summoned Cha-ran to his bedchamber. Though unaware of the reason, Cha-ran showed no sign of confusion. But the moment the Emperor rolled up his sleeve and revealed his wrist, Cha-ran had instinctively grabbed the Emperor’s hand and brought it closer to his eyes.

On the inside of the Emperor’s wrist, as if embroidered with silver thread, three characters were carved in Heavenly Script: a name.

The reason he was certain it was silver thread, and not just a murky ash color, was that the name shimmered faintly silver in the dim dawn light. People often metaphorically said that the appearance of a destined name—the Jinggeumsu—was like “embroidery with binding stitches.” Wasn’t this truly someone placing binding stitches on the Emperor? “Binding stitches” was just a metaphorical expression; ordinary names were usually carved in red or a shade slightly darker than the skin tone.

Cha-ran did not know why the Emperor kept that name hidden. He did not think it was because he disliked Yi-seol. Even before meeting Yi-seol, the Emperor had already bound his wrist tightly with silk. Everyone assumed it was because he treasured the name’s owner too much to show it carelessly, but Cha-ran thought otherwise. The Emperor could not possess such personal feelings.

“How much longer must I play along with your tune before you leave me alone?”

“It is my duty to attend Your Majesty at three paces’ distance.”

“I never gave you such a duty. Do not come within five paces of me from now on.”

If the Emperor changed the subject further or dismissed Cha-ran, the opportunity would slip away again. Could he bring this up again to the Emperor, whose mood had soured increasingly of late? Cha-ran steeled himself. The Emperor disliked long-windedness. The main point should always come first.

“Your Majesty, please elevate Lady Ru’s rank to First Rank Noble Consort.”

The Emperor was neither surprised nor angered. His face unreadable, he merely toyed with the silk ribbon around his wrist—a new habit of his.

“With the Second Rank Consort’s seal, he cannot completely suppress Grand Tutor Son Jo-ik’s influence. Moreover, wasn’t the Empress position what you initially intended? Yet you suddenly gave him a mere Consort position—you should have seen Son Jo-ik’s face in the main hall that day.”

“I saw it. Didn’t you tell me that day?”

“But you didn’t listen to a word I said.”

“I heard everything, and I saw everything.”

He could not forget the scene of awarding Yi-seol his rank. Son Jo-ik’s expression was the most striking. When the Emperor canceled the planned wedding with a single word, Son must have sensed that things would not go his way. Still, he probably never expected the Emperor to break the agreed-upon matter in front of all the court officials—so that expression was understandable.

“Son Jo-ik has begun to move. I hear he has been frequenting the thresholds of the Minister of War and the Minister of Education day and night.”

“So, are you saying now that I should hand over the Empress position to him as that old man demands?”

“I am letting you know that Your Majesty’s strongest card is when Lady Ru—Prince Yi-seol—is Empress.”

He did not think the Emperor was unaware. The entire plan had originated with the Emperor in the first place. Yet this decision now was utterly incomprehensible.

“So you too wish for me to die without seeing a royal grandson.”

The Emperor, who had been listening quietly, spoke in his usual tone. Cha-ran flinched and denied the Emperor’s words in a stiff voice.

“Your Majesty, that is not what I meant.”

“Then why else would you urge me to take a mere man as Empress?”

“I only worry for Your Majesty’s safety. Above all, the thing you wish to protect…”

“It was a jest. Do not drag this out. I do not wish to hear it.”

Who would jest with such an expression? Speechless, Cha-ran pressed a hand to his forehead.