The broken world

The year of the Wood and the Snake, under the sign of Yin, was a year of sorrow for the kingdom of Ryukoku. What the people of Ryukoku had both feared and anticipated for years finally came to pass: Emperor Yoshihito, now nearing his eightieth year, departed this life, leaving his only grandson, a sixteen-year-old boy, as his successor. The young heir, Yukinari, was crowned with great pomp and ceremony, but no one placed much hope in the boy emperor. Yoshihito was remembered for his gentle disposition and courteous dealings with his subjects, but his reign had been devoid of any great achievements. As for his grandson, rumors whispered that he was unfit to rule. Ryukoku was already in dire straits. The long, grueling war with Yuigui, the Kingdom of the Tortoise, had reduced it to near ruin. The conflict, which had dragged on for years, was less a war and more a prolonged subjugation punctuated by occasional uprisings. Meanwhile, to the west, a new threat was rising: Cheongju, the Land of the Tiger, was rapidly gaining strength. It was not only prospering but devouring its neighbors piece by piece, like a ravenous predator. "The age of the White Tiger of the West has come," people muttered — a reference to the legend that each kingdom was under the protection of one of the Four Great Divine Beasts. The success of Cheongju was widely attributed to a single man: a general whose name sent shivers down spines. His name was Gerel, and his origins were as strange as his reputation was fearsome. It was said he was one of the Strangers — the pale-skinned southerners of legend, with fair hair, narrow faces, and sharp noses. Some called them sorcerers, others immortals. How else could one explain the rise of a man like Gerel? By twenty, he was the supreme strategist of Cheongju and the emperor's closest advisor, not only in military matters but in statecraft as well. The tales about him grew more lurid with every telling. He was said to be a creature of unearthly appearance — pale-haired and ghostly, with eyes as cold and colorless as ice. They said he was merciless, a monster who killed children before their parents' eyes and forced fathers to defile their daughters. His victims, it was said, were strung up on posts or impaled, their bodies left as grim warnings to all who dared defy him. Much of what was whispered about Gerel the Cruel was true, though he prided himself on rarely resorting to such measures without reason. Yet in the Year of the Wood and the Snake, Gerel had little thought for distant Ryukoku or the changes stirring there. Two years earlier, he had launched a campaign against Yuigui. In hindsight, it had been overambitious, and he knew it. To outsiders, Cheongju's victories seemed decisive, but Gerel saw the truth: Yuigui was too wealthy, too vast. For every fortress or city he took, holding them strained his forces to the breaking point. It was like a small predator harassing a beast many times its size — a struggle both futile and self-destructive. Gerel realized that to truly defeat the Land of the Tortoise, Cheongju needed a decade to grow stronger. Its armies had to be rebuilt, its weapons refined, and its fleets expanded. Victory would come, he believed, but only if Cheongju bided its time. Yuigui's strength, paradoxically, was also its weakness. Its dominance over the world had left it complacent, bloated with self-confidence. Gerel had once debated this very point in his youth with his tutor Ling, a Yuigui scholar who had not yet realized he was educating a future enemy of his homeland. "In Yuigui," Gerel had said hotly, "even a soldier must be a poet and a scholar to advance in rank. Isn't that absurd?" "You love books yourself, Gerel," Ling had countered with amusement. "You've often said that knowledge cuts sharper than any blade." "Yes, but poetry?" Gerel scoffed. "Surely that's a sign of a kingdom in decline." To him, who had grown up under the harsh skies of the West, it seemed terribly absurd that a man should be judged not by his deeds, but by his ability to compose poetry and — gods! — by the beauty of his handwriting. Ling had chuckled at the young man's indignation. "If Yuigui is so foolishly governed, why does it control so much of the world?" Gerel had no answer to that. Even then, Ling had admitted that Gerel had a point. "A great kingdom, once it reaches its zenith, inevitably begins to decay. Yuigui is no exception," he had said thoughtfully. "Did you come up with this yourself?" "That a state, having reached its peak, dies? Oh no. This is a very popular theory among our young intellectuals... But your land, Cheongju — it's young, hungry, and fierce. Its time may yet come." Gerel had pondered those words for years. Ling was prone to exaggeration, of course — Yuigui was far from its deathbed. Only a nation that had ruled unchallenged for a century could afford such idle self-criticism. Residents of any other country didn't have such luxury — on the contrary, everyone tried as best they could to extol the virtues of their own homeland. Still, there was truth in the old man's theory. Cheongju's time would come. The Land of the Tiger had long since outgrown its origins as a realm of nomadic tribes, like the southerners. Now, it was almost a real empire. The lands of the Tiger were considered to be among the most inhospitable. Its winters were harsh and snowbound; its summers, blisteringly hot and prone to droughts. But its people had endured and thrived. They built ships, castles, and irrigation canals. They established an administrative system, simpler than Yuigui's but effective nonetheless. Recently, they had even developed their own writing system — a source of great national pride, though most still clung to the Yuigui hieroglyphs, and literacy remained a rare skill. As for the emperors of the two lands, neither was particularly remarkable. Yuigui's current emperor was weak (and this was the country's second weakness). The emperor of Cheongju, Tokhung, to whom Gerel had sworn allegiance as a boy, was also hardly an outstanding ruler. But Gerel did not fight for Tokhung. He fought for Cheongju's future. When the Land of the Tiger finally gained the strength to crush Yuigui, the people of the Land of the Tortoise would be more willing to accept not a Western barbarian, but an educated ruler who spoke their language and understood their ways. And that, Gerel believed, could only be him. The years that followed were far from easy. As Gerel had foreseen, the Kingdom of the Tiger grew immensely powerful. Yet the nomads of the southern steppes remained defiant, forcing him to redirect his forces time and again to subdue their rebellions. Gerel wielded not only the sword but also mercy when it suited his purposes. He promised — and kept his promise — that any nomads willing to settle on the land and live under Cheongju's rule would be spared. But most refused to bow to him, continuing their raids and lawless ways. The nomads were a constant, vexing thorn in Cheongju's side. For centuries, the kingdom had clashed with these wandering tribes, yet no king or general had managed to fully eradicate the threat. The nomads had no cities, no countries, no centralized authority — only scattered uluses, clans and tribes that roamed endlessly. Defeat one, and another would emerge from the endless expanse of the steppes. With great difficulty, Gerel began to establish fortified cities and strongholds along the coast of the Inner Sea. Yet the nomads repeatedly descended upon these settlements like wolves upon sheep. Still, those cities that survived became the foundation for Cheongju's expansion. Slowly but steadily, the Tiger extended its claw eastward along the sea, toward Ryukoku — the Land of the Dragon. For a time, Gerel gave Ryukoku little thought. To him, it was merely a potential trading partner, a weakened kingdom that posed no immediate threat. But the balance of power in the Middle Kingdoms was beginning to shift. When the young ruler Yukinari ascended the throne of Ryukoku, he adopted a surprisingly modest regnal motto: "The Pursuit of Order." It was a far cry from the grandiose slogans of his predecessors, who had proclaimed lofty goals of prosperity, wealth, or even heavenly bliss — and had achieved none of them. At first, neighboring states watched with bemused curiosity as the boy-emperor struggled to shoulder the immense burdens of state. But gradually, they began to notice something remarkable: under Yukinari's rule, Ryukoku was beginning to recover. His quiet but unyielding authority began to reform even the most corrupt and self-serving officials. Agricultural and economic reforms bore fruit, and successful trade and political alliances were forged with northern cities and southern tribes. For the first time in years, the people of Ryukoku dared to hope. Within a few years, the Land of the Dragon had transformed into a strong and, by the standards of the time, prosperous kingdom. It soon became clear that Yukinari had a bold vision: to reconcile with Yuigui and unite the Middle Kingdoms against a new common enemy — the West. His efforts seemed destined for success. The boy-emperor had grown into a wise and charismatic ruler, whose magnetism drew allies to his side with remarkable ease. Of course, Yukinari's rise did not go unnoticed by his rivals. Emperor Tokhung of Cheongju, emboldened by his victories over the southern nomads, began to dream of expanding his empire further east. Beyond the mountains lay Ryukoku, a land shrouded in mystery. Little was known about the Land of the Dragon, and Tokhung's advisors debated whether a campaign against it would yield any true rewards. Yet what stung Tokhung most was the growing prominence of Ryukoku's name. Across the Middle Kingdoms, the Land of the Dragon and its young emperor were becoming topics of frequent conversation — and praise. For Tokhung, this was an affront that could not be ignored. They spoke of him even in Gerel's army as they made their way back home to Pyeongwon, the capital of Cheongju, after yet another campaign in the south. It was the Year of the Boar and Metal under the sign of Yin, and summer was at its peak. That evening, the soldiers set up camp and lit their fires. The topic of conversation turned to Ryukoku's new southern province — a land southwest of the mountain range that separated the Dragon's domain from that of the Phoenix. For centuries, this territory had been held by one of the nomadic clans, but the young emperor Yukinari of Ryukoku had somehow managed to purchase it. No one knew whether the deal had truly benefited the nomads, but Cheongju's soldiers were amazed that anyone could negotiate peacefully with the wild southerners. "At first, it wasn't even about selling land — just some minor trade proposal. The khan wouldn't bother to attend the talks himself; said it wasn't worthy of a ruler. Sent his brother instead," recounted Son Gyeo, commander of a thousand men. "So the brother goes to Ryukoku, meets emperor Yukinari, and comes back empty-handed. But what's strange is, he didn't seem insulted at all by the refusal. In fact, it was like something good happened to him there. Next thing you know, he convinces the khan to go there himself and sell the land!" Jin-ho let out a laugh — sharp and suggestive. "I think I have an idea of what might have happened to that brother in Ryukoku." "What do you mean?" asked Son Gyeo, genuinely perplexed. One of Jin-ho's admirers decided to elaborate on her hint. "They say Emperor Yukinari is more beautiful than any woman. I've heard he even hides his face because anyone who sees it loses their sanity." Encouraged, Jin-ho gave him an approving glance and eagerly added, "Or maybe you haven't heard the rumors about Ryukoku men?" Son Gyeo's expression remained blank. "They're all 'cut sleeves' over there," her admirer explained, his face reddening as he hesitated to discuss such matters in the presence of a noble lady. "Well, that's what they call them in Yuigui." "Oh, you mean that their men all sleep with each other?" Son Gyeo asked bluntly, in the soldier's fashion. "Apparently, that's what people say," Jin-ho replied with a sugary smile that suggested she was vividly imagining such scenes and thoroughly enjoying the mental image. Gerel thought Jin-ho's behavior was becoming increasingly inappropriate — a result, no doubt, of spending too much time among soldiers. But, of course, it wasn't his place to judge. "I think it's all nonsense," Son Gyeo said thoughtfully. "But since he serves the Dragon of the East, people like to associate the emperor with his god. And if he is truly beautiful, well, beauty shouldn't be despised just because fools and scoundrels often abuse it. As for the 'cut sleeves'— Princess, you'll see soon enough that rivals always spread slander about each other. We mock the southerners as savages, Yuiguians for being too prosperous and arrogant... and this 'cut sleeves' nonsense — well, the same thing is said about Yuigui as well, not just Ryukoku." "Still, every envoy we get from Yuigui looks so polished and well-dressed. Makes you wonder..." another soldier chimed in. "In Yuigui, at least, they have women — and beautiful ones at that. But in Ryukoku, as I've heard, there are no women at all," said Captain Mugyeon. "My grandmother used to say the Dragon created them all as men." "My brother's a merchant," someone countered hesitantly. "He's been to Nishiyama and says he saw women there." "Of course there are women, you fool," Jin-ho scoffed. "But I've heard their nobles treat women like property." "And they dare call us barbarians!" Mugyeon fumed. Gerel stayed silent, letting the conversation run its course. Son Gyeo, for all his simplicity, was far from stupid and offered a reasonable perspective on prejudice. Yet Gerel knew all too well that dispelling such notions wasn't always beneficial. The worse soldiers thought of foreigners, the easier it was to wage war. It's hard to kill your enemies when you see them as people — perhaps even better people than yourself. Far simpler to dismiss Ryukokans as deceptive schemers, Yuiguians as haughty layabouts, and southern nomads as mere savages. Still, even Gerel admitted to himself that far too little was known about Ryukoku. He himself knew almost nothing — only scraps of rumors and legends. Cheongju shared its northern border with Yuigui and the southeastern steppes with the nomads, but the sea had always separated it from Ryukoku, the Land of the Rising Sun. For as long as anyone could remember, there had been no wars, no diplomacy, and barely even trade between the two nations. Sitting apart from the firelight, Gerel tried to read. The noise and chatter distracted him, and his presence would only dampen the soldiers' spirits. Jin-ho, unnoticed, crept up and sat beside him, dropping a pot of herbs onto her lap to chop for soup. "What do you think of the Ryukokan emperor?" she asked slyly. Clearly, she intended to repeat all the gossip and lewd remarks from the campfire, despite knowing he had heard every word. He had grown used to her, and her antics no longer irritated him. "The one who drives people mad just by looking at him? Sounds less than ideal," he said absently, eyes still on his book. "I'd like to see him for myself." "You talk as though you're already planning to marry him. Maybe you should suggest it to your father." "Don't be ridiculous!" Jin-ho snapped, lifting her chin. "I'd never let myself be sold to some foreign land like a slave. Besides, I want a man, not some silk-clad beauty!" She was parroting something she'd read or overheard, Gerel guessed. "Don't be foolish," he said, waving her off. "You like them pretty and dumb. All your little friends are just like that." Not that Cheongju's army had many "pretty and dumb" types — most were grizzled, bearded drunks — but Jin-ho had somehow managed to gather a small circle of the youngest, most cheerful recruits who hadn't yet grown cynical about life. Except, of course, for Gerel himself. "They're not dumb," Jin-ho pouted. "Well, they say Emperor Yukinari isn't dumb either. So what's the problem?" Jin-ho was Emperor Tokhung's youngest daughter, barely sixteen. Jin-ho's mother was from the lands of the Fire Phoenix, one of those southerners who seemed to be born on horseback with a bow and quiver in their hands. Having become one of Tokhung's concubines, she, having lost her dusty steppes and freedom, did not live long, and withered away. She, like many southerners, had some white blood in her — they said she had beautiful curly hair with a tint of copper. Jin-ho, however, had taken after her father, with her broad brow, thick eyebrows, and dark complexion. Though no beauty even by modest Cheongju standards, she was still a princess and never lacked admirers. Many even loved her sincerely; she radiated a charm and joy that drew people to her. Of all Tokhung's children, Jin-ho caused him the most trouble. Deprived of her mother early, she had somehow inherited the woman's defiant spirit, her love of horses, archery, and the wind in her hair. Fortunately, as one of many daughters, no one forced her to stay confined to the palace. At thirteen, she had started winning horseback races and archery contests during festivals. Eventually, Tokhung gave in to her demands and granted her command of a hundred soldiers. Gerel doubted this was out of affection — if Tokhung truly cared for her, he wouldn't have allowed her so much freedom. But he was undeniably proud of her military achievements, as one might admire a clever dog or a prized horse. "I don't want to marry anyone," Jin-ho said stubbornly. "I want to rule as empress after my father dies — or after my father and all my siblings die." "You'll be waiting a long time," Garel smirked. "No one would marry me anyway," she muttered, clearly struggling to argue her case. "I'm not... pure anymore," she declared, her wide eyes dramatizing the confession. Her expression carried a trace of pride as well. Great — she had learned to boast about her conquests. At the same time, the traditional values drilled into her by her nannies still lingered, leaving her caught between rebellion and convention. So far, Jin-ho's world was a mishmash of attitudes whose meaning she didn't truly understand, and beliefs she didn't share but repeated after others. A mere child. "I think you're lying," Gerel replied flatly. "But I'll be sure to tell your father. He'll be thrilled to hear it." Jin-ho, of course, knew he would never report her to Tokhung. Still, she glared at him in mock threat. "Fine. I've changed my mind," she said with mock venom. "If you, say, die, I'll take your place as supreme strategist. It's easier to kill you alone than twelve brothers and ten sisters." They often argued like this, half-joking, half-serious. Jin-ho was the only one who wasn't afraid of him. She wasn't afraid of anything — not gods, nor demons. The soldiers had long since forgotten she was a princess, or even a girl — though Cheongju's army wasn't short on women. At first, they had kept their distance, just as they did from Gerel. But lately, he often saw her playing mahjong with them, chatting, or drinking strong burnt wine in friendly competition. He knew they would never stop keeping their distance from him. He could only wrap himself in his alienness, like armor, and take solace in the knowledge that people feared him for good reason. Jin-ho suddenly grew serious and edged closer to him. (Gerel flinched at the brush of her shoulder — he detested casual touches — but Jin-ho, as usual, paid no mind to such trivialities as personal space.) "There's going to be a war, isn't there?" she asked softly. "Aren't we already at war?" "No, a real war. With Ryukoku. My father keeps talking about it..." She didn't finish, but Gerel didn't need her to. He already knew what Emperor Tokhung had been saying. Cheongju's string of military successes had gone to his head, and he was now hungry for more victories — not to defend or strengthen the nation as before, but for the sake of war itself. "Your father isn't entirely wrong," Gerel admitted. "In earlier times, I would've been the first to advocate for an alliance with Ryukoku. Like us, they were under threat from the Land of Tortoise to the north, and back then, Ryukoku was in ruins — no threat to anyone. But now? Now they're dangerous. Ever since that boy ascended the throne. A man who can raise his shattered country from the ashes so quickly can just as easily reduce another to rubble." "When you explain it, it almost makes sense," the girl said sadly. "But when my father talks about it... it feels so senseless, like he's just lost his mind over war. It's so stupid..." "You know," Gerel said, "I wasn't joking about marriage." Jin-ho bristled immediately. "Oh, stop that," he added. "You have plenty of sisters. A diplomatic envoy could propose a marriage between the Emperor of Ryukoku and one of Cheongju's princesses — with terms for an alliance that favor us." "I don't get it," she said, her tone skeptical. "Why do you think Emperor Yukinari would agree? It'd benefit my father, sure, but Yukinari? Not so much. Even if he isn't a 'cut sleeve,' do you really think he'd be so thrilled to marry one of my sisters — who, let's face it, aren't exactly beauties — that he'd hand over half his kingdom to my father?" "This is politics, Jin-ho. If he wants to survive — let alone rule — it doesn't matter what he'd be thrilled about. If he's not blind — and from what they say, he's far from it — he should understand that our country is stronger and would win in an open conflict. But if he marries one of your father's daughters, he can save face while sharing wealth and territory with his father-in-law. It wouldn't look like a defeat in war, you see? Better an unequal peace than a pointless slaughter." Gerel could only hope the emperor of Ryukoku saw it the same way. If Yukinari was as clever as people claimed, he would have the wisdom to recognize Cheongju's superiority and avoid a war he couldn't win. And Gerel had no doubt that a war between Ryukoku and Cheongju would be one-sided — a bloody massacre. Jin-ho soon forgot her worries and rejoined the other soldiers, drinking and laughing as the night wore on. Gerel retired to his tent, lying awake with thoughts of Emperor Yukinari — the "silk-clad beauty," as Jin-ho had called him. Gerel wondered what the young emperor was really like. A mere boy, wasn't he? Twenty, twenty-one at most? The image of a kind, soft-hearted youth didn't fit with Gerel's idea of a cunning and powerful ruler.