Thick black clouds of fear charged towards the residential estate like a raging sandstorm, enshrouding its residents in a suffocating blanket of terror. Danger seeped from the pores of the pine wood columns holding up five-generations-old Giwa, the deep-green tiles shaking slightly from the force of soldiers bursting through flimsy bamboo and paper doors and hard red-painted gates, soldiers who were determined to fulfil their orders and rid the estate of living beings.

They headed straight for the visiting room brandishing their swords, the silver glinting under the glaring sunlight. Servants wailed for their masters under sharp blades, their hemp Baji or Chima rubbing against the dry dirt as they kneeled for mercy. Dust clouds rose, looming over the occupants, bringing a sense of foreboding as the soldiers found the master of the house and held him at sword point. The ends of the blue Jeonboks of the soldiers began to flutter and still and time seemed to come to a stop. With the air infused with saturated tension, all attention trained on the small lone man, now seemingly weak and defeated.

So YiJeong watched, almost tremoring, as his elderly father gathered a simple sack of personal belongings and followed the royal forces to certain doom, to the harsh life outside the protective gates of HanSeong.

Solemnly, the entire So family proceeded out of the estate in twos, head bowed and resigned, periodically pushed into line by the commanding soldiers. As they passed, their loyal servants moaned in grief. In all her colourful silk HanBok, the mistress of the house marched steely-faced towards a rough wooden cart, her only sign of weakness hidden beneath her long sleeve as she gripped her husband’s hand tightly. So YiJeong looked towards his wife. She was ashen-faced and perspiring but with the same strong determination as her mother-in-law, she walked, a single hand placed protectively over her incredibly pregnant belly.

Silently, they loaded the cart with small cloth bags filled with only the barest of necessities under the watchful eye of the commanding soldier.

Lips pursed, a cheek muscle twitched and he slightly squinted his eye. Forcefully, he snatched an ornately carved wooden box peeking from a small opening of one of the bags. Carelessly, he threw it open.

“The exiled is not allowed luxuries,” he growled, even while his eyes glinted at the gold ornaments lying in the box.

So YiJeong tried to pull his wife back to no avail and he watched as she stepped forward, pleading the head soldier for a spot of mercy.

“I plead you, just this once; allow me to take these away, please. They are my mother’s and I wish no more than this,” the ashen-faced woman asked, politely and forcefully, tears b but never falling.

“BuIn,” YiJeong warned, anxious to have her return.

“Never,” the head soldier spat and pushed the pregnant woman to the ground.

All hell broke loose.

YiJeong’s wife broke from her stately demeanour and lunged forward towards the box of highly treasured heirlooms, clutching it in her death grip. Servants and personal guards ran forward to help their fallen mistress and YiJeong attempted to pull his emotional wife away. Swords that were once sheathed appeared once again as soldiers pulled the blades close to the necks of the offending party.

Flashes of dark blue mixed with brown formed a dizzy blur punctured by shiny silver. Cries were heard and amidst the pulling and pushing, YiJeong saw his father wield his sword in an attempt to protect the last of the So honour.

With a roar, the sword bore upon the head soldier and produced a disgusting clang as it met the blade of the other sword. Once again, the dust rose and the trees swayed. A crowd gathered in morbid curiosity, standing close enough to watch the action but far away from danger. The brick walls that had seen countless people pass by to and fro since So HyunJib commissioned the building of the estate remained solid and sturdy as they bore witness to the riot before them.

So YiJeong picked up a sword and began to fight.

Patrons of a nearby teahouse watched, amused but disturbed, as the scuffle continued, seeing servants in their brown cheap-wear throw rocks at men who waved their swords around. Screams were heard and blood was spilt. One by one, the So mistress’ protective guards fell, even as the two lone men of the estate fought.

So YiJeong blocked a blow, and then made an offensive, his steps measured and trained, clean and swift. Anger coursed through his bloodstream at the indignity and injustice as he brought a soldier to his knees. Beside him, his father defended, blocking blow after blow, each blow exerting stress to his already weakened frame.

Amongst the fight, the great gates stood, gates that were once the So clan’s but had since changed hands into the government, simply because the king ordered it to be.

Then, a bone-chilling shriek cut through the chaos and So YiJeong turned, just to see bright red blood splatter into the sky. The townspeople gaped and children were taken away. In the centre of it all, the So mistress fell, a deep gash cutting right through her pregnant belly.

For the first time in his life, without honorifics or using any other more socially respectable term, So YiJeong yelled the name of his wife.

“HYEJONG!”

Something cut the back of his left shoulder and he fell, his blood dripping.

“First, a drop of blood.”

GaEul watched with anticipation and nervousness at the red ball of liquid on her wrist, her heart pounding.

Having always walked along the palace walls, staring straight up at the deep green eaves of the palace walls while carrying a basket of straw shoes for sale on her back, GaEul had always wondered with fascination what laid beyond the palace walls.

Generals in their Jeonbok and protective armour and Beonggeoji or Jeonrip atop their heads with colourful beads hanging from the sides and meeting at the neck-level would stand before thousands of soldiers who would move and train in unison. Confucian scholars would don black bokgeon and wear white Jeogori or Po and walk around the grounds, hands behind their backs, muttering or reciting from some great literary book. And the palace ladies with their emerald green Dangui and blue Chima! They would serve the queen and do other stately orders. They would be regal-like and formal and proper. Oh, how GaEul wished to escape her life of poverty and live beyond the gate of the palace.

GaEul tried to temp down her excitement, succeeding well enough. Only her slightly glazed eyes betrayed her.

She complied when the SangGung in her gorgeous deep green turned her hand. The parrot blood fell into a bowl. The palace maid poured a little water on her wrist to wash away the remaining blood.

A pinkish spot remained on her wrist.

“She is a !” the SangGung announced.

GaEul erupted in joy as her parents sighed in relief, relief that was tinged with sadness.

“Chu GaEul, you have been chosen to become a trainee NaIn of the palace,” the SangGung announced again and GaEul recomposed herself, kneeling and bowing at the waist.

So YiJeong awoke, a stabbing pain from his left shoulder disturbed him. His throat was dry and his lips were parched.

Difficultly, he sat up and accessed his surroundings, pushing a straw mat away. He was in a small dingy hut, with simple wooden walls, straw roofs and a simple dusty floor.

He sat lamely, squinting from the sunlight spilling through a small window. Then he saw, three separate straw mats before him. Each seemed to cover something.

As the earlier events flooded into his mind, his heart palpitated and his bottom lip began to tremble. He pulled back one of the straw mats, a sense of dread overcoming him. He stared in horror and his breaths came shallow. He clamped his hand against his lips, willing himself not to give into as he saw a familiar but lifeless face stare back at him. His mother. He involuntarily let out a small yelp. Beside her was another straw mat. Carefully, he pulled it back and saw someone white as a sheet of marble, cold as ice. His father. Tears were spilling and silent sobs were wrecking his entire body. His hand trembled as he reached for the last straw mat. His hand hovered over it, unwilling to pull it back. He desperately hoped it wouldn’t be who he thought it would be. He grasped the edge of straw mat and closed his eyes, putting a fist before his mouth, his teeth painfully clamping on his fingers. Without looking, he threw the straw mat off. When he dared open his eyes, he totally broke down. His wife. As he looked down towards her open belly, he saw a small disfigured finger. His child. He howled.

“For as long as I shall live, I will serve his majesty faithfully!”

“The King, I will kill him!”