Lee Gon carries on with the tradition of benevolence in his rule. There is no sense in disrupting a certainty in the lives of his citizens.

Lee Gon carries on with the tradition of benevolence in his rule. There is no sense in disrupting a certainty in the lives of his citizens.

When one is used to living in golden glided cages and finest seeds in abundance, it is awfully easy to forget the taste of the freedom that never was.

The undercurrent fact is prosperous empire do not spring overnight from a pond of wishful thinking and magic pixie dust. Such empires are wrought out from unscrupulous manoeuvring, opportunistic deviancy and a bucket load of engineered luck by the dozens.

The nation’s constitution he revises repeatedly. One immaculate hand tentatively pressed flat against a written copy of another monarchy constitution and ink-stained fingers curling around a fountain pen, crosses out impractical sections until shifting powers rests in the hands of the king.

“Will they agree to this?” Yeong asks, thumbing the proposals with the barest of touch. He does not say, all this because of that woman—the promise of undisputed loyalty burns him in shame for the mere thought.

“They do not have a choice,” Gon says, his grin mildly crooked, nonetheless triumph shines in those lovely black-bolt eyes. “When it is time, I want you to circulate both versions in the interval of two weeks.”

“Am I to circulate which version first? The one worded with so much jargon that average reader would give up by the second page—”

“No, send out the version specifically written in flowery prose. Let them think it’s a fictional novel than the Kingdom of Corea’s constitution.”

“With words like yours, you ought to be a writer. Maybe you could pen fairy tales. Make lots of money,” Yeong deadpans. “Dark fairy tales are a specialised niche, I heard. You could do well in that market.”

“I’ve always liked the ones by the Grimm brothers,” Gon says, fondness makes his hard onyx eyes soft. “But then, I would be revealing too much, wouldn’t I?”

Yeong always likes serration on his king’s grin better than the fleeting gentleness.

“The literature world cries itself to sleep every night for those stories you will never write, Your Majesty,” Yeong says dryly, permitting himself a smile to match Gon’s.

On a rain-drizzled dreary Friday, he presents the proposal of the amended constitution to the floor and the half-sheathed Four Tiger Sword rests comfortably in front of the microphone.

“Any doubts, gentlemen?” Gon asks. “Do not be shy, I am open to suggestions.” His charmingly expectant smile turns glass-shards.  

Oppositions are curiously absent from the cabinet of chary eyes waiting in baited breath.

Gon fastens his beloved heirloom to his hip, opens large stride toward Prime Minister Sung. “Not even one revision needed?” Gon’s airy voice reverberates in the silent forum.

The cabinet is chosen from a pool of meek men with scrambling fingers for powers only to protect themselves. Democracy is a sham, he supposes, be fitting for a country meant for golden-blooded kings. Self-preservation is an admirable trait—a predictable one too. Gon appreciates the consistency in their reactions. It helps him tremendously to have their black-tar secrets and skeletons firmly within his grasp.

He raises an eyebrow, fiddling with the older man’s maroon silk tie, gives it a menacing playful tug. “What about you, Prime Minister?”

His head shakes with vigour that his moon-glasses flown off from his face. “None whatsoever, Your Majesty. We heartily accept,” he answers, stammering nearly render his words incoherent.

Gon taps his ringed finger against the old men’s tie twice, razor-edged fingertip poking at the mottled skin below his collarbone. He grins, wicked and silvery.

“Excellent. I want the new constitution to be ratified and executed as soon as possible.”

A nameless minister dares to insert a rubbish query. “Should we announce to the public, Your Majesty?”

Gon’s lips are pressed into a thin, flat line. “What’s your name?”

“Er, Kim Seung-tae, Your Highness,” he supplies, dipping his chin and eyes firmly set on his stylish European loafers.

“You have a son-in-law working for the Ministry of Finance, have I got that fact wrong?” Gon wonders, with feigned curiosity tinting his words.  

“N-no, Your Majesty. Min-song is the Director of Revenue Authority.”

“Ah, yes. Well, the front page will be his. So make sure the announcement is on page fifteen. That will be all.”

A week from today, the Corea Daily reports a scandal right out from the Ministry of Finance, one of its directors caught in a compromising state in a brothel owned by a notorious drug dealer. No one bothers about the king holds more power than before in a 200 word essay of the new constitution.

Kang Hyeon-min returns, from a two-year tour in a war-ravaged country, to a home of rotting flies, mounting debt and a door splashed red.

Overdue bills and bankruptcy notices make better suicide letters. He learns from the hushed voices haunting their graveyard apartment, his mother died wearing foam-lipstick and dried tears clumped on her eyelashes and his father died with a plastic bag taped over his head.

That is not a surprise. The Kang family has been simmering over the pot of destruction, shoved into ruin by a boy king out to purge every traces of possible dissent. His father gambled. His mother conned. There is no other endings but pathetic ones for his parents.

He does not touch anything inside the home, except for a dust-coated black classic umbrella.

When he leaves for his third tour, he is numb. One thought calls out to him, a beaming lighthouse in the foggiest night—the emperor is the root of their devastation—repeating like an echo perpetually bouncing off the walls of an abandoned cathedral.