A year of unexpected tragedies affords the emperor a plausible explanation for the sudden reclusiveness befallen on Lee Gon’s public appearance.  

In the absence of a restraining rein shaped in blood-red stilettos and crimson lips contrasting porcelain skin, Lee Gon, his king, is a bundle of tightly wounded façade unscrambling, one knot, one less-than-stellar smile at a time. His sanity fissuring swifter than Yeong could patch, bolt and polish his king into the flawless being Gon is—was.

A year of unexpected tragedies affords the emperor a plausible explanation for the sudden reclusiveness befallen on Lee Gon’s public appearance.  

His correspondence is handled entirely by the Royal Public Affairs Office, headed by Secretary Jo Mi-do.

The king holds dinners, courteous as ever, and plays the charmingly smooth host. His many venerable guests dwindle to an audience of one. He does not mind—or notice.

Dinner is clockwork. Odd occurrences—here and there, but always on eight—building into a noxious habit. Royal chefs crafting delicacy in myriad ways, outdoing themselves with each meal.

Tonight, like the many nights blending into one blurred line, is a tactical operation unfolding in the shadows. Jo Young is its sole overseer as always, his watcher.

The polka-dotted dress, is clearly the hallmark of retro sixties fashion, could not overpower the austerely slick titanium fashioned into impervious ankle bracelets bound to faded purple skin.

Gon dabs the napkin on the corners of crimson-tinted mouth. “How would you rate this meal, Miss Jung?” His smile is an invitation.

“Luna,” she retorts, saw-toothed and unrefined.

Sterling cutleries is a countermeasure to a woman who is adept in improvising and yielding household items as weapons. She pokes her finger into the charcoal-broiled steak. Luna sighs, non-committal.

Gon’s apology rings civil hollow, but his smile is immaculately intact. “My apologies, Miss Luna.”

“Just Luna,” she says, without sparing Gon a gaze. “I prefer beer and fried chicken wings. This is all fancy, but not my kind of .”

She is the south of Koo Seo-ryeong’s north. All that is coarse savagery, and unbridled rage. The prime minister is a woman of refined finesse in spite of the modest origins, and her absence sparks chaos among the parliamentary meetings.

“Charming. Perhaps I could arrange that. Any specific fried chicken I should be looking for?”

In spite of the abject attempt to emulate normalcy, all lighted candles in the world, the handsomely prepared dishes curated by gastronomy connoisseur and gorgeous heirloom silverware cannot displace the palpable tension from an unblinking, calculating gaze of a love-starved prisoner.

“There’s this chicken shop, Hyeon-min’s favourite. He’d scarfed them down like glue,” she says, grinning. Unflinching. A woman with some sense would know not to bring her paramour up, but she weaves him, a phantom presence, into the conversation like air. A brazen reminder. A mocking jibe.

The king is gallant. More so than a dangerous criminal warrants. Gon lets her savour the moment with a triumphant smirk. There’s that crooked curl of his lips, the hints of an envious snarl in the wings.

“I see.” His words are clipped and forceful.

Yeong knows from experience, from the secret language only Gon speaks, the way his actions are. The pause in his fluid movements. The sudden white of knuckles gripping his steak knife. His king is livid.

“Hyeon-min. He knows all the best bars, the ones with not-that-dirty kind of restrooms. We’d be doing a quick one when I feel like it.”

Yeong understands this obsession of Gon’s, he thinks. The prisoner—in spite of myriad deadly deeds on her criminal records, sordid past, twisted childhood—is furiously devoted to a man with an equally chequered agenda. A dangerous woman so feral in every matter, but utterly obedient to one unremarkable man.

No amount of creative punishment, degradation of her dignity, could strip pure piety from her. It is almost like Yeong’s staring at a distorted circus mirror, gender-flipped.

Strange it may be, it is fascinating. When the king examines her image, Yeong wonders, whether she reflects Gon’s or his. Or does his eagle-eyed emperor ignores them all together, Yeong can’t tell.

The untimely death of Lady Noh Ok-nam halts any budding romance penned by fairies and cupids between the dashing emperor and princess-like actress.

Gon’s choice to embrace a hermit’s lifestyle is well-spread across the empire. The people are understanding, unrestrained in their compassion for their grieving emperor. History books and newspaper articles recorded the many blood shed by the Royal Family—each death is tragedy-stamped and speculation-approved.

Go Hye-mi sees the sparkling stars of her recent films pave international legacy in the palm-treed beaches and prestigious Broadway stages. The high-rise skyscrapers makes an excellent residence for one aiming immortality among the Hollywood’s pages.

In the three weeks after her arrival to the Californian sun, the starlet is swept in a whirlwind romance that erases Lee Gon from her memories. The man is an art curator, hard-working, modest and embodies chivalric virtues. The Samaritan neighbour offering a basket of freshly baked goods.

They make an attractive pair of role-model materials and reputable standings. The pious, humble actress and the clean-cut altar boy. A wholesome and uninteresting couple.

Yeong’s first—and only—foray into matchmaking yields satisfactory results. Perhaps one day, when the couple exchange stories amidst of requisite champagne and a diamond-crusted ring adorning Hye-mi’s finger, find a common denominator in their pre-romantic entanglement, and send him a wedding invitation.

The matchmaker, Madam Myung Na-ri (a name he plucked from Seung-ah’s fan-fiction), disappeared without a trace. The invitation returns to the senders, unopened.

Luna makes her own almanac; a tally of assumed mornings, definite nights and the fuzzy estimations between afternoons and evenings. Not that she needed to. Simply to keep idle hands preoccupied.

Vandalism is a favourite pastime as a child warming herself through with lit dumpster and ragged shapeless clothes. Now, a reflex to keep her racing thoughts from circling around her wrist.

She carves numbers and alphabets deep into the wooden bedpost, with the blunt edges of her comb. She knows better than to fashion it into a shiv. Losing her toothbrush is lousy enough.

There are dinners, and they never fail to start at precisely eight. The dresses she wears are gifts, he told her, with a knowing smile. They smelt of mothballs and faint flowery fragrance worn by the people with gold in their veins and clouds beneath their feet.

This night, she is alone, devouring on the greasy pizza, guzzling down coke like it’s water. Luna smiles. It is a lot easier to imagine Hyeon-min, across from her, tentatively picking a pizza slice and dabbing a tissue at the corners of his mouth. Then he would lean closer, wiping her lips with his pinkie finger.

It is not the nights or the days Luna dreads. His physical presence is irregular on the normal working hours, Luna notes, but his technological one is ever looming, even omniscient.

Afterwards, he makes himself known. His breaths fogs the four-inch thick glass, Lee Gon taps a restless ringed index finger against the glass. Grinning, the twitch of his lips is sly, the wickedness beneath his eyes is twinkling.

He stares. Unmoving. Like he always does. His gazes are calculative. And predictable. Nonetheless, the men she plays for fools are self-indulgent, immature and far, far dim-witted. They see her face, thinks she is an angel needed saving.

This man sees her, and there are multiple thoughts, calculations running inside his head—he wants to crush her indomitable will. He is also so much deadlier than her Hyeon-min.

Luna recognises Gon for the man he really is. Not a lion, protective of his pride. But a raging barbarous wolf hiding underneath the knotted sheepskin.

The room temperature swelters to unbearable heat. The stale air has no working vents to escape, choking her one beady sweat one at a time. The fluorescent lights shining on her, as if they’re out to replace the sun.

Only happens when Gon takes the time to grace her with his royal tailored pyjamas.

“Isn’t it a little late for the visit? Visiting hours are over,” she says, keeping her face stoic of the building irritation. “But who am I to refuse, right.”

She loops her hair into a loose ponytail, wiping her forehand with the back of her hand and rolls her sleeves upwards.

This won’t break her. She is the daughter of Corean streets and a survivor of the Corean red districts. She outlasted her street friends—the only one. This is child’s play.

“It is a shame this is not a hospital, Miss Jung,” he replies, honeyed. “You don’t sleep. Not at this time.”

His politeness is a poor imitation of her lover’s affableness. Her lover lets his actions dictate his words, and he ever respectful despite the rage. This warden has silver-plated tongue and a serpentine smile, unflinchingly tramples all over anyone—and everyone he meets.

“So, what is it this time? Insomnia? Or some ancient riddle you haven’t crack?” Luna murmurs, fanning her neck with her hand.

“Nothing,” he answers, widening his faux-guiltless grin. “I thought you could use the company.”

Luna snorts. “You’re not what my ordered.” The scrapping of titanium chains against concrete echoes on the walls, fills the silent void. She pauses in her steps, relieving the chafing metal on her skin.

The vein on his forehead bulges. “Your loins do not have the authority to order anything.”  The ends of his mouth falter, frozen in a thin-lipped smile.

She doesn’t mean to do it. Not really. To peel her shirt off, to show that amount of skin. Luna knows he’d seen her in her birthday suit. The constantly recoding video surveillance confirms her hypothesis.

She coquettishly raises a brow. “Do you like what you see?”

“Nothing I haven’t seen before,” he says, unfazed.

But he only sees what she permits his hawk-like to see. Her fishbone spine. Her buxom . The finger she flips on a regular basis.

“On the many women you bedded?” she hedges.

He shrugs wiry shoulders. “My conquests are confidential. But I can assured you, you do not stand out. In fact you’d fit right in with them.”

“I am different.” She rolls her eyes, folding her arms across her chest. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t have kept me here alive.”

“If that thought aids in you sleeping well at nights, then it shall be a fact.”

“How could I sleep, when you come here like some creepy freak stalking the suburbs?” Luna fires back, narrowing her eyes at him.

She ponders two seconds on the sanity of her next action. She operates on pure instinct and computed risk. She could lose her head. Hyeon-min could follow suit. But then again, death is better than this.

“But maybe you should take a closer look.” She unhooks her bra—her last shield—to fall onto the floor.

“Why?”

Because she can. Because she is bored. Because it is fun to taunt a false predator. Because she still has some surprises left to parlay with.

“Examine me. You know you want to.”

She guides him, of course. To the R.O.K tattooed beneath her left . King Hyeon-min in between two identical hearts under her right one. “Ask me, what it stands for.”

“Must be something important.”

“It’s Republic of Korea,” she smirks, fully teeth. “Corea. K, instead of C. Long live the Republic.”

For once, his mask of gregarious emperor cracks, fracturing lines growing bigger and Luna can’t say, she did not enjoy the split-second of unalloyed hate twisting his good-looking features into a cruel countenance.

The execution order comes unexpectedly, in the dead of midnight. The notification on his personal smartphone shrieks for Yeong’s attention.

He waits for a confirmation. The once boy-king flagrantly abused this service in the heat of passionate dissatisfaction and steaming fury, only to later rescind his threats.

Three short beats, four long ones. The true verification.  

He has questions, so many that he loses track of one after the other. When he hears his king utters his command, “Yeong, I want him dead.” His raspy voice culls doubts from Yeong’s mind in one swift swipe.

Kang Hyeon-min proves himself to be a military man in heart and in his sinews. He endures the tortures Yeong inflicted wordlessly and clenched teeth—the prisoners before him breaks eventually.

Prisoner S0414B0712S expires forty-eight hours later, with a punctured skull and his ribcage shattered into splinters. Yeong is impeccably clean, in spite of all that has transpired. This is not his first, he doubts it will be his last.

The corpse’s horrific disfiguration is the handiwork of an enraged emperor who dipped his hands in warm, arterial blood for the first time.

Lee Gon does not return to his chambers, choosing to enter the cell of another prisoner, dressed in another prisoner’s acrid fluids. The consequences are foreseen, with one astute as Gon.

Yet, he unlocks the cell and allows himself to be alone. Logic is in the winds tonight.

Gon ceases to be a book Yeong—its sole reader—could read. In his pages, only his words are written with invisible ink.

The titanium shackles rattle in a violent frenzy storm of anguished heartache and lost sanity. Jung Moomyung lunges for the emperor, her neutered claws grazes a deep gash across Gon’s eyebrow.

Yeong slips into the cell silently, a lurking fiend out to appease the fuming wrath of a wronged paramour.

That Jung woman is free to express her reverence, without judgement, readily flaunts them, in its honest vulgarity—and it is she who is zealously enthralled by the boorish mate of hers. Not like . . . them. Buried underneath palace protocol, societal norms. Gon is the king. Yeong is his Unbreakable Sword. There is all to them, and nothing more.

Koo Seo-ryeong made the right decision; the female prisoner is a threat—unfortunate she chose to make it a transitory one. Yeong will make it a permanent one. And the Unbreakable Sword will have his sane, rational, mathematic-fanatic of a king again. All is well. All will be well.

His fists are bricks, pounding on malleable ashen flesh turning blue. Marrows crunch with wrecking stomps, dusts and dirt smear on flimsy cotton gown.

By the first tint of orange upon the Prussian blue skies, Prisoner N1404TF1207X inhales her last breath.

He makes the time to present himself in sleek black, stubborn ebony hair combed over and parted sideways, and swelling bruises expertly hidden with a make-up collection only a beautician would envy.

One might argue he shouldn’t wear his best to a funeral. His precisely. But Lee Gon deserves nothing but the absolute finest there is that Yeong has to give.

He delivers the news in person. The responsibility as the bearer of terrible news to a foul-aired king is a heavy burden, afflicted by the curse of a premature end to one’s existence.

Yeong does not have any expectations.

There was a time Yeong knows the words Gon would utter, before the boy-king concludes his thoughts. He is miles ahead, already drumming up the logistical preparations in his head.

The emperor and his darkened eyes, with scratchy stubbles littering his jaw and less reddened, crooked slash cutting his left brow . . is not his emperor. His Gon.

He knows better than to anticipate forgiveness.

“Et tu, Brute?” is all Gon says.

The message is loud as the Sanctus bells on a Spanish Sunday morning; you betrayed me.

The accusation plunges furious talons into his already open ribcage, squeezing his beating heart harder, twisting his guilt harsher than any wounds Yeong acquired in his military service.

“I am not Brutus,” Yeong snarls, his vehemence tranes his pained tone into an outraged roar. “I will never be Brutus.”

Disobedience to Lee Gon is never a scenario Yeong would even incline himself to entertain. Twenty-six years passed since he bent his knee, to gaze upon the boy-king Gon for a destiny. Twenty-six years, there has been no one but Gon.

The king’s words are Yeong’s laws, the emperor’s desires are Yeong’s order.

The termination of Prisoner N1404TF1207X, the Nameless girl, is a decision Yeong does not make in barest contemplation. He is fully prepared to receive his retribution.

“Kill yourself,” Gon says.

Yeong stops himself from spluttering his confession; My life is yours. Only you can take my breath away. “I cannot.”

“Are you disobeying my direct command, Captain Jo?” Gon hisses, his cherry-lips curving his fangs into a growl.

Yeong shakes his head sideways. “But my hands have killed, kill, and will kill for you. But my death must be your right, your hands.”

The king arches a blemished brow. “Why?”

Lee Gon will not abide circumstances ripe for an encore. He does not gladly accept this tragic fate cursed upon a murdered king’s son.

His father trusted his brother—Lee Ho lies six feet under, perpetually thirty-six and no achievement resonating among his people, other than the fratricide nature of his death. Pathetic really.

Gon will not be just another insignificant footnote swallowed by the history archives. He annihilates the threats, venomous minds and poisonous tongues, in its wake—a price he pays to live. Gon has to—or he will fade into nothingness, like his weakling father.  

Now, his Unbreakable Sword is treading a steep and ill-defined path further from him. A betrayal, of this magnitude, wounds Gon, down to the core of his bones and being.

Yeong is one stubborn man. The fact is known, still tickles his funny bones, albeit his anger still rises at the thought. Another of Gon’s commands defied, negotiated.

Gon rarely questions the reasons behind deceits, for there is no true purpose to understand why. For him, Gon decides to issue the three-letters. Automatic. Without faltering.

“To save you, Your Majesty,” Yeong croons. His tone has always been deep, now it runs like magma flowing over pockmarked granite mountain. “That is what I’ve promised you as a boy, I’m fulfilling it again by any means necessary.”

Jo Yeong’s treachery is only redeemed by his demise. That is the law Gon had written years ago, at aged eight.

He bends a knee now. Dark eyes closed, the lips twitching into a serene curl. “Punish me for doing my duty, Your Majesty. I am willing,” he says, compliantly.

Gon could slice the blue-green vein on Yeong’s chalk-white neck. The Four Tiger sword glints under the streaking sunray slipping through the curtains, out of its sheath.

But he is not the boy with the fragile trust, and blind to the vipers nesting among the grasses. There are twenty-six years of proven dedication, of unsullied submission recorded in the various valour tales of closed-calls with death.

This is Jo Yeong. He deserves pardons for each year Gon survived death traps machined by their ever growing enemies.

His waywardness is in need of a reprimand.

“For now, you will answer to the new acting Captain of the Royal Guards, Seok Ho-pil. You’re dismissed, Captain Jo,” Gon decrees, palpable disappointment punctuating the rank and surname.

Gon does not even spare him a flickering gaze of concern.

Weeks later, Lee Gon assumes some control of the correspondences he delegated to Secretary Mo Mi-do.

Absence makes the heart go fonder—and his name soars to the trending news across various media platforms. A brief glimpse of the emperor rowing a solo canoe along the Nakdong River generates international buzz.

The fresh imperfection on the emperor’s handsome features and its source are under countless supposition. The official press release points to a biking excursion mishap. It is quickly forgotten, with a narrative highlighting the roguish ruggedness impression that the scar affords the king’s visage, earning revived adoration.

His public appearances are still rare. These sightings were reported by the selected few press establishments, vetted by Ho-pil under Gon’s approval.

Lee Gon beckons Jo Yeong into his private study with his cursive—midnight—written on a linen-finished paper. Gon is certain as he douses the card in sandalwood, enchanting black rose, almond and white musk. The message is subtle, but unmistakeable.

Surely enough, Yeong arrives on time. He is swathed in rich navy blue pyjama identical to his own, the one made of silk and satin and stark red pipping on its collars, cuffs and pockets.

“So, have you consider if you would continue to be the Captain of My Royal Guards or would you like to resign and open a beauty parlour?” Gon says, breezily. He scrapes a guileless smirk, chipping the frosted formality he imposed on them both.

“A beautician’s wage isn’t profitable, Your Majesty,” Yeong answers, sardonically.

Even now, with all that has happened and their last conversation left glossed like fingers fretting over worn stones, Yeong is Yeong. He submits in complete adherence to stoicism, exuding its principles in every action he takes, every expression he makes.

“Ah, and here I thought you stayed on for the personal satisfaction,” Gon says, beaming a Cheshire grin. “Didn’t know you are a closeted gold-digger.”

There is not a lot Yeong can hide behind expressionless fortitude. Not when Gon is in his sight. The corners of his beryl-lined mouth twitching half a moon smile for the briefest of a second.

“I kept that hidden well, Your Majesty,” Yeong says dryly, his eyes are unblinking, honed on Gon’s face. “Why scare my prospects with unattainable salary figures, I’m only setting up myself for failure.”

Gon takes a step forward, closer now that he could discern a whiff of Yeong’s after Old Spice shave. “Pity, there is no employee that could match my wealth.” He his thumb, brushing his fingerpad against Yeong’s blemished cheek.

The signal is initiated, metaphorically flared into the sky. Yeong s his shirt, one button at a breath, revealing milky-white skin of strapping broad chest.

Gon sighs. “Worse still, your successor has resigned to return back to Canada.”

His shirt falls unceremoniously onto the floor. “Miss Myung is not with us?” Yeong’s eyebrows furrow questioningly.

“It seemed an unanticipated emergency beset her family. She is needed to handle the conglomerate’s affairs for indefinite period. She requested her resignation to be a discreet matter,” Gon says, solemn.

Silence creeps, a long-time friend, around them not unkindly. Yeong is transfixed by the pink line across Gon’s raven-winged brow, a horrendous reminder of his failure to protect his king. His gaze is intangible caress, tender and soft, on Gon’s face.

“Worry not, I made sure she had glowing references, knowing your predilection towards her,” Gon adds, knuckles whitened over the hilt of his letter opener. He raises the aper knife, as though he wields a sabre and its tip hovers above Yeong’s chest.

Yeong boldly steps froward, letting the razor-sharp blade rest on his skin. “I’d say you are fond of her too, Your Majesty.”

“Perhaps,” Gon trails off, exerting the knife deeper, breaking the ivory-hued skin to draw precious sangria. “But I fear, Yeong, there will not be a pledge of the hearts for another again.”

“You will still need to marry,” Yeong grunts. Beryl blood trickling down his chest in slackened drips.

Gon clucks his tongue, impish. “The world is unkind to those they do not understand.”

Yeong is one for practicality. Yet he is fervent in his pursuit to adhere to palace protocol and preserve empire’s prosperity. “The line of succession demands a heir, Your Majesty,” he tries.

Gon slashes another beneath his left clavicle. Never near the vital arteries and veins—he spent months memorising the anatomy books strictly to prevent novice mistakes and fatal corollaries.  

“We will cross the bridge when we come to it,” he whispers to the shell of Yeong’s ear, and means it wholeheartedly. He slices another line near the navel, and cuts a parallel one on top it, making an X.

Gon cleans the wounds, wordlessly dabbing anti-septic on each cut with affectionate touches.

“I am yours, if you’ll have me,” Yeong murmurs.

This declaration. His boldest yet.

“I always have you.”

Yeong’s body is a brilliant artwork of healed crisscrossed lines. Pale jagged scars are phantom kisses made flesh. Fingerprinted bruises may heal. Scars never fade.