"Who's the king, who’s the boss? Everybody knows my name."

Agust D, Daechwita

THWACK!

The sound of the wooden staffs bouncing off each other was satisfying to watch, and everyone seemed to watch the two men in the ring circle each other like predators fighting over a prey.

Only the aged men in their dirty brown hanboks seemed unperturbed as they went around the onlookers of the fight.

“Choose your fighter!” they crowed, holding out a rattan basket as people emptied their pockets for coins to throw in, “Who will emerge victory in tonight’s fight, the God of Destruction, or…the Golden Seagull? Place your bets now! Sir, yes you there, with the handsome face, will you place your bets tonight?”

The rattan basket was in the face of an onlooker, a young man seated calmly in the front row, his gaze formerly observing the fight before his view was obstructed by the intrusive basket.

He regarded the thing held out in front of him, then at the man, then back at the basket. “Sorry, no.”

“Aigoo, young man, surely you can spare a few gold coins,” egged the old man, staring at the satchel hanging loosely from the latter’s arm, “You look like you have a few up your sleeve, hmm?”

The young man’s face was devoid of emotion; he simply looked back at the fight. “I said no,” he said, wrinkling his nose slightly.

So that was where the smell was coming from, he thought, I’m surprised I didn’t get a whiff of it on the journey here.

He felt the old man – probably a beggar using the guise of taking bets to make a run with the money – pull his sleeve. “Aigoo, young man, it won’t be much trouble for you to check in your little pouch right there, hmm?”

He’s really trying his luck, isn’t he?

He tugged his hand out of the man’s grasp. “Leave me alone.”

Just then there was a commotion as spectators cheered for the winner.

“God of Destruction wins!”

Right at that moment when he was momentarily distracted, in a sudden swoop, the old man’s hand shot out, grabbing the satchel and snatching it out of his arm before making a break through the crowd.

Slightly stunned, the young man simply sat there, not even bothering to think of chasing down the bag thief.

I knew he was going to do that from the start.

He stood up, looking into the ring at the two sweaty men who were bowing to each other, and pressed his lips together as he regarded the loud chaos around him as people chanted and cheered for the victor.

He sighed to himself.

Such primitive creatures, we are. No matter how prideful we are in our superiority as humans, nothing brings more excitement than behaving like animals.

With that, he got up, brushed the fabric of his hanbok, and wove through the circle of spectators who were now looking for the old man who had promised them earnings for the bets.

Pfft. He’s long gone now.

He looked down and uncovered another satchel – this one was made from real leather – from under the layers of his deep green hanbok, and smirked to himself as he swung the strap over his shoulder.

Joke’s on you, you old fool. That bag was filled with stones.

Walking along the dirt path, he passed by a group of concubines in their colourful dresses, and looked down, making sure his gat headdress covered his face - or more specifically, the gash across his eye - from them.

It didn’t stop them from calling his name anyway.

“Min Yoongi-nim,” one of them said melodiously, “Will you not visit us?”

He didn’t look up. “I believe we’re not acquainted enough for that.”

They giggled. “And how would we be acquainted if you do not see us?” another voice trilled, “So many young men come by, but we’ve always hoped you did.”

“Aigoo, Se-mi, your brazenness continues to astound me,” another voice said, deeper and not as young, “Forgive my girls, my kind sir. I hope you understand.”

He glanced up as the buxom woman shooed the young girls aside as she gave a bow. “I do not take offense, Mistress Song,” he replied, “It isn’t the first time.”

“Well, you are handsome,” the matronly woman continued, “Also, it isn’t every day that the grandson of the King comes to visit. You live so far from the villages. Perhaps you might want to visit us from time to time. I am sure there is someone whose company you will enjoy.”

His eyes peered from under his headdress, narrowing at the three young women behind Mistress Song. “Nothing you say will convince me to pay a visit to your establishment,” he replied, “There is no one who tempts me enough to make me part with my family fortune.”

They drew in a collective gasp. Mistress Song’s collected expression cracked slightly.

He tipped his headdress. “If you will excuse me, I will go now.”

“But-”

He didn’t stay to hear her; he kept on walking, jaw set and eyes downcast as he walked swiftly along the closely packed shops, reaching the stables at the far end of the village where he mounted his horse and rode all the way back home.

The common man is driven by desires, particularly desires of the flesh.

Perhaps, if I was a lesser man, with no foresight and ambition, I, too, would end up like all the stupid young men searching for validation from beautiful women.

Not me.

Not today.

While people did question where he came from, Min Yoongi felt himself to be deserving of his royal heritage as the distant grandson of the King.

He was healthy, intelligent, and he had inherited his father's regal face and his peasant mother's pale milky skin. He had dark, black hair that fell over his eyes. His gaze was sharp and full of hidden questions, of which he wasn’t afraid of shooting whenever he wanted.

Fiercely attached to his parents as a boy, he was his father’s hunting companion, spending his afternoons riding in the wild forests that surrounded their palace or visiting the villages, before returning home and proceeding to pester his mother while she tended to the gardens behind the palace. Oftentimes he was in the library, curling up in one of the large armchairs with Bomi, his only friend and companion, a red fox that his father had stumbled upon near the waterfalls of Gariwangsan, the mountainous terrain where they lived.

Min Yoongi lost his parents to a sickness, not long after the first tendrils of adolescence descended upon him, and in that dark period, something inside of him shifted. His heart was locked away, his smiles turning into sneers, and his eyes – the one thing that was filled with so much childlike innocence and tenderness – became hard and cold and calculative.

The more he grew, the colder he became. Like his father before him, he would journey to the distant towns whenever he cared enough to leave his fortress of emptiness, if only to remind the people of his presence in the forest. He gained a reputation for being charming, talented and handsome, but also for being arrogant and heartless to a fault.

His presence was an enigma; few dared to find out what it was, and not one succeeded. Min Yoongi was simply a mystery that was unsolvable; a young man with enough riches to live off comfortably, and yet, did not seem to have any friends or lovers.

As he guided his horse up the rocky path towards his abode, lost in thought, he was greeted by a drizzle, which quickly turned into a downpour that sent his horse galloping towards the main gates for shelter.

Although it was a few minutes, he was soaked as he got down from his horse. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a flash of blue running towards him.

He passed the reins to his stable boy, preparing his ears for the auditory assault.

“Your Highness!”

And that is Kim Seok Jin for you; always fussing over every little thing.

He rolled his eyes. “I’m fine, Viscount Kim,” he said, brushing off the droplets of water as he walked under the sheltered perimeter of the palace, “You get excited over every little thing.”

The viscount let out a sigh. “You always say that, but then you get sick the next day!”

Yoongi gave him a pointed look. “And I recover the day after, so there’s no harm done,” he said, holding out his leather satchel. “Ask me what I’ve been up to today.”

“What did you- oh!” Viscount Kim made a face, probably looking at the barely wrapped duck Yoongi had stuffed into his satchel, “Did you challenge another person again, Your Highness?”

“I got the blacksmith’s son to consent to an arm-wrestling match.”

The viscount didn’t look impressed. “And here you are, dripping over the palace. I hope you used your authority as Prince to get him to let you win.”

Yoongi shook his head, digging into his pockets. “I ordered him to give his all. And I still won.”

The answer was flat. “Congratulations.”

He pocketed the coins with a satisfied smirk. “Was there anything from the Court?”

Viscount Kim shook his head. “No, sir.”

Again.

Yoongi tried to mask the twinge of disappointment stirring in his heart, turning away so his servant wouldn’t see his face. “And how are the flowers?”

“They’re blooming well, Your Highness.”

He nodded. “I want the duck for dinner,” he said, by way of dismiss