The broken world

The feast held in the Pavilion of Joy in their honor was nothing short of magnificent. One dish after another was brought in by an endless procession of servants. Gerel, hardened by a childhood of hunger, had a deeply ingrained habit of finishing everything on his plate. At first, he tried to do just that, but it quickly became clear that such efforts were futile — and this realization irritated him. All the tableware was made of silver. At first, he was surprised by such luxury in a nation that had until recently languished in poverty. Then it struck him: this might be a gesture, meant to show them that the food was free of poison. Silver was said to tarnish in the presence of toxins. A ridiculous superstition — he knew of many poisons that left no trace on any kind of plate. Still, the choice of silver struck him as a poor omen. While meant as a peaceful gesture, the very act of demonstrating the food's safety hinted at an underlying tension in their relations. Translators were present at the feast, so everyone spoke their own language. Even so, conversations with the locals were brief and awkward. Gerel's companions quickly grew weary of feigned politeness, eventually ignoring the Ryukokans entirely and speaking mostly among themselves. The emperor himself was absent. Not long ago, Gerel would have taken this as an insult. Now he understood that the emperor here was regarded as something akin to a living god, rarely descending to mingle with mortals. His absence was no sign of disrespect; it was simply the way things were. Perhaps ordinary people weren't even allowed to see him eat. In a way, there was logic to it. At the lavish but far less restrained banquets of Tokhung, those few who managed to keep their wits about them often found themselves wondering how much longer the empire could endure. Overindulgence — gorging, drinking, and debauchery — left imperial hands too feeble to hold the scepter of power for long. And who would dare question a living god, especially one whose face wasn't even seen uncovered? Serving girls danced and played the erhu for the guests. They were painfully delicate, their faces thickly powdered white, with thin charcoal brows painted far above where they naturally belonged. Every detail of their appearance exuded artificiality. Gerel noted that he hadn't seen any court women at the banquet, confirming the rumors that they lived in their own part of the palace, secluded from the affairs of men. He tried to imagine Jin-ho in such a palace — Jin-ho, fiery and blunt, with her sharp tongue and fearless demeanor — and failed. The thought was as absurd as picturing a steel spear growing among delicate irises in a garden. One mustn't forget, Gerel reminded himself, that beneath the Yuigui-inspired veneer lay a culture entirely its own, one that was neither Yuigui nor Cheongju. It would not be easy to find common ground with them. After dinner, Gerel wandered the palace, observing its inhabitants. However, in the pavilion designated for guests, there was little of interest to see. To venture elsewhere without cause would have been impolite — and likely dangerous. Eventually, he ventured into the garden. Unlike the meticulously symmetrical Yuigui parks, this garden was arranged with a studied carelessness. Pavilions, paths, and bridges were placed in ways that seemed natural yet deliberate. As dusk fell, paper lanterns began to light up one by one, resembling giant fireflies scattered throughout the garden. After wandering for some time, Gerel unexpectedly came upon the emperor. The emperor sat in one of the gazebos, drinking tea. He wore a robe of twilight blue and purple — simple compared to his ceremonial attire, though still, in Gerel's opinion, far too ornate and impractical, with sleeves so long they nearly brushed the ground like wings. A few servants stood nearby, their silence and poise betraying their role as bodyguards, despite the absence of visible weapons. Yukinari's hair, free of braids and the multitude of pins that usually adorned it, was tied back with a simple silk ribbon. To drink his tea, the emperor had once again removed the ever-present veil from his face. In the solitude of the moment, his features seemed melancholy. Gerel suddenly realized that in his twenty-some years, this young ruler had likely known very little joy. He considered slipping away unnoticed, but his presence did not go undetected. "You haven't come to kill me, have you?" the emperor said in Yuiguian, a faint smile tugging at his lips. Gerel hurriedly bowed, feeling an odd twinge of guilt for the sword at his side. "In that case," Yukinari continued, "allow me to offer you tea, General. Please, sit and make yourself at ease." "It would be a great honor," Gerel replied, also in Yuigui's tongue. How strange, he thought, that this language, foreign to them both, had become a thread connecting them. And yet, was it truly foreign? Once again, Gerel marveled at how naturally the words flowed from Yukinari's lips. He bowed respectfully to Yukinari once more, unfastened his sword, and set it aside at a careful distance. A reckless gesture, perhaps, but he knew full well he had no right to keep it on him here. Then, he seated himself at the low tea table across from the emperor. One of the servants slipped into the shadows of the garden, silent as a phantom, and returned a few minutes later with a second teacup, which he placed before Gerel before filling it. A delicate, creamy aroma of dark, well-roasted oolong wafted up to him. It had been years since he'd last tasted good tea. The porcelain was so fine that the golden liquid shone faintly through it. A beautiful cup. Such craftsmanship did not exist in Cheongju. In Yuigui, of course, they made cups of extraordinary quality, but their style tended toward the ornate — bright colors, intricate patterns, gilded edges. This cup, by contrast, was simple: solid dark blue porcelain with an understated relief of leaves and grasses. An autumnal cup, paired with an autumnal tea. Master Ling had always said: in winter, one drinks black tea; in spring, floral infusions; for summer, there are bright, cooling green teas; but for autumn — aromatic, smoky oolong, meant for contemplation... Gerel drank in silence, savoring the tea. The emperor sat just as quietly, resting his chin on his interlaced fingers, watching him with the same intense, earnest curiosity he had shown at their first meeting. Somehow, the shared silence felt natural, unburdened by awkwardness. Yet, propriety dictated that such silence could not be allowed to stretch too long. Gerel began searching for an appropriate topic for small talk. At the very least, he ought to apologize for intruding on Yukinari's evening solitude, and so he did. "I appreciate your attempt at decorum, General. Shall we discuss the weather?" Yukinari responded with a wry smile. "The weather is so pleasant there's hardly anything worth saying about it," Gerel replied coolly, unsure whether to take offense at the emperor's humor. The weather truly was remarkable: the oppressive heat had finally lifted (or perhaps summers here in Shinju were mild to begin with). Aside from the deepening blue of the sky and the coolness of the nights, there were few signs of autumn's arrival. Gerel loved autumn. In a month, the cold northern winds would blow, rains would come, and the spider lilies — flowers of the dead — would bloom along the fields. The bright pink berries of the spindle trees would hang heavy on their branches. A couple of weeks later, the maples would turn red, and the imperial palace would look like something out of a painted porcelain scene. But to speak of such things aloud seemed foolish — an inevitable descent into sentimentality. Worse still would be saying such things to a man who surely thought him a barbarian. So instead, he voiced the thought that had been turning in his mind since their first meeting, though he wasn't sure if it was an appropriate topic. "I noticed that you speak the High Speech very fluently," he said. "Yuigui is my second native tongue," Yukinari replied, "or perhaps even my first. I lived in Yuigui from the day I was born until I turned eleven. My mother was from there." Of course. Gerel recalled the start of that story from his history lessons, though it hadn't occurred to him to connect it to the young man before him. A quarter-century ago, the long war between Yuigui and Ryukoku had ended. Yukihito, Yukinari's father-to-be, had been the crown prince of Ryukoku. After his nation's defeat, he had been sent to the Land of Tortoise as a political hostage. They had found him a wife from one of Yuigui's noble families, but that had not made him any less of a prisoner. His son, born on foreign soil, must have been just as much a captive. Poor child. To spend one's childhood among strangers who despised you — that was no enviable fate. "I know about your parents," Gerel said awkwardly, aware that he was failing to steer the conversation with any grace. He saw that Yukinari understood the thoughts behind his words, but the emperor's serene, elegant face betrayed no hint of offense or anger. "I was surprised to hear that you know this language," Yukinari said, his tone warm and free of mockery. "I spent some time living and studying in Baijing," Gerel explained. "I had to learn to understand the High Speech well. My esteemed Emperor Tokhung wanted me to study military science there." Strictly speaking, it had been less of an imperial order and more of Gerel's own ambition. And in truth, he hadn't learned much about military science at Ling-tsu Academy. Yet he had never regretted those years spent in Yuigui. When sixteen-year-old Gerel first saw the capital of Yuigui, its people, its culture, and its ways, he was awestruck. The Land of Tortoise... It felt as though he had stepped into a dream or into one of the peaceful, happy lands from his mother's bedtime stories. Everything seemed strange and endlessly foreign when he first arrived at Ling-tsu Academy. The kindness of Master Ling and the other students filled him with fear and suspicion — or, worse, with shame. He felt exactly as a boy who had known nothing in life but violence, poverty, and war should feel when suddenly thrust among well-fed, beautifully dressed, educated people who spoke earnestly about such impractical and useless matters as the movement of celestial bodies, the fate of humanity, history, and philosophy. In time, he adapted, grew used to it, even learned to talk about lofty subjects himself. He never truly became one of them, of course. But the iron grip that had clenched his heart since his mother's death seemed to loosen, if only slightly. For the first time, he wondered if perhaps there was something in life worth living for beyond survival and revenge... That thought, however, didn't linger long. Master Ling — a gentle, infinitely patient man with a soft, even voice and a deep scar across his throat — never managed to erase Gerel's deeply ingrained cruelty, a trait entirely unbecoming of a true intellectual, a man of Yuigui. Gerel only knew how to wage war. Soon enough, he returned to Cheongju, and within a few years, he stood at the head of an army, waging war against the very country he had come to love. He never quite knew what to call his homeland. He was born in the South, came of age in the West, and yet his heart belonged most of all to the North — a place he wanted to despise for its decadence and pride but simply couldn't. He saw too clearly how good life was for its people. As for the East, it remained a mystery to him for a long time. He prayed he wouldn't grow to love it too; soon enough, Ryukoku would have to be his enemy as well, though that war would no longer be his choice to make. "Why did you choose to study the art of war?" Yukinari asked him. "I was a soldier. I doubt I could have become anything else." "That sounds... sad." "'Good iron is not made into nails,'" Gerel replied with a faint, bitter smile, quoting the opening of a well-known Yuiguian proverb: Good iron is not made into nails, nor worthy men into soldiers. "But in your country, the military is held in higher regard, isn't it?" Yukinari said, conciliatory. Gerel remained silent. Sad? Yes, perhaps. Rarely does a man join the army because life is good, no matter how honorable the service might be. "You speak well," the emperor noted, seemingly unbothered by Gerel's furrowed brow. "Sometimes, though, you pronounce words a little too precisely — like you're trying too hard. Still, I haven't spoken Yuiguian with anyone in ages. It's a pleasure to hear it again." "It's strange to hear you speak so warmly about the Land of the Tortoise, given how long your nations were at war. You ought to hate it." Yukinari frowned slightly, raising a hand to his temple as if searching for the right words, before answering with unexpected candor: "I find it difficult to hate Yuigui — it surpasses Ryukoku in so many ways. I grew up there, almost as a prisoner, and I remember yearning as a child for Ryukoku, for an imagined homeland I'd never seen. But when I finally came here, I didn't like what I found. By then, Yuigui had made me one of its own... I sometimes wonder: if Yuigui were to seek to conquer my country again and war broke out, what would I do? My heart is Yuiguian, but by fate, my country is Ryukoku. I can never feel whole again. I often envy those who are truly devoted to their homeland. People need to feel part of something greater than themselves." It was as though he had read Gerel's mind, for the general had been thinking much the same thing just moments ago. "Such devotion is just self-delusion," Gerel replied bluntly. "Most people who shout loudest about their love for their homeland have seen nothing beyond their own village — and they don't want to see anything else. The fact that someone was born in the same country as you means nothing. What matters is what's in a person's head and heart." "But how many people can claim they truly have something there?" Yukinari countered. "And even if they do, how many have the audacity to place themselves above others, above the land where they were born?" Gerel shifted uncomfortably, slightly unsettled. "Forgive me," he said. "I didn't mean to offend..." The emperor smiled. "It's nothing. You're very forthright, and I've missed having someone like you to talk to. Here at court, bluntness is far from welcome." Perhaps it was politeness, but Gerel thought there was some truth in the emperor's words. The imperial court of Ryukoku was the pinnacle of decorum, where breaking the rules of etiquette was unthinkable, and every word and gesture had to be carefully measured. Given Ryukoku's long near-isolation from the outside world — Yuigui aside — Yukinari likely had few opportunities to converse so openly with a "barbarian" who spoke his mind and asked uncomfortable questions. "Does this conversation amuse you?" "It delights me," Yukinari said sincerely. "To be honest, few dare to speak to me without a reason. I've been trying to change that, but... change takes time. Reforming the economy or the military is simple compared to altering people's habits." "It seems most of the palace residents are afraid to even look you in the face." "They are," Yukinari said. "And the rest dream of killing me." He smiled his uncertain smile — that winter sunlight smile — but Gerel thought there was little humor in his words. "A joke ought to be funny. That wasn't," Gerel remarked dryly. The emperor shrugged. "I hoped you might appreciate it. Those in power know better than anyone that court life only looks beautiful from the outside." His tone was light, but it was clear he wasn't pleased with the turn the conversation had taken. True enough, court life in Cheongju was much the same — a viper's nest of intrigue and hatred. That was only natural; power was never won without struggle, and only the strong could hold it. Surely Yukinari wasn't complaining about his lot? And so, Gerel said sharply, "That's the nature of power. Loneliness is the price you pay for it. Or are you trying to tell me you didn't want to be emperor?" "I was the eldest — and now the only — son of my father. The throne isn't something you can refuse," Yukinari replied evasively. "All I can do is strive to be a worthy ruler so my reign isn't in vain." "And if you had been given a choice?" "I believe each person occupies the place the gods have assigned them," Yukinari said softly. Then, even quieter: "Though, in moments of weakness, I sometimes think I'd have preferred to be born a simple townsman." Gerel couldn't suppress a laugh. "I doubt you even remotely understand the life of ordinary people." Yukinari fell silent for a moment, then, as if out of nowhere, asked: "Have you ever had to carry heavy loads?" "Sometimes," Gerel replied, puzzled. What was he trying to say? "Imagine you have to move ten crates from one place to another. The first feels nearly impossible to lift. But after that first one, the second feels lighter — even though it weighs the same. You might even feel a strange satisfaction, as if the burden is becoming easier... But does that mean life should be an endless series of heavy burdens? Just because your life is less hard than someone else's, does that mean you should be content with it? I sometimes think people — all people — are meant for a different kind of life. A better life than they can even imagine..." Gerel thought of his mother. She could have said something like that. No, not just could — she had. Often. Vividly, he remembered one of those moments: her pale blue eyes, so piercingly bright they almost seemed wholly azure, gazing not at him but through him, into a distant world only she could see. "You know, Gerel," she had once said, "if people dream of things that don't exist in this world, maybe they were made for another one..." He blinked, and the memory vanished. "All right, fine," he admitted, "I suppose being an emperor isn't always fun." The conversation left him feeling slightly unsettled. It was an odd exchange for two people who, just yesterday, hadn't even met. Gerel wasn't used to talking with anyone, let alone like this — with such candor. Yukinari, too, seemed uneasy, silence stretching between them as though he regretted his brief lapse into sincerity. At last, he broke it, though not gracefully: "General Gerel, do you play Mist and Clouds?" "I do. I learned in Yuigui." "Wonderful. There are few at court who enjoy the game. If you'd be willing to indulge me, we could continue the evening with a match — it's not yet too late. And the servants can bring us more tea..." Naturally, Gerel agreed. A servant brought the game box, and for a time, they played in silence. Gerel waited for the emperor to speak, but Yukinari seemed lost in thought. At length, Gerel decided to break the quiet. "You know, this feels like one of those moments in old tales, where rulers discuss the fate of nations over a game of Mist and Clouds. At least, that's what always happens in novels." Yukinari's voice, when he responded, lacked its usual warmth. "There's nothing for us to discuss, as you well know." "For instance," Gerel ventured cautiously, "I'm very curious about the upcoming negotiations." The emperor shook his head. "Come now. I agreed to receive your delegation for one reason only: to meet you face-to-face. To see what kind of man you are, General Gerel." "Are you saying there's no hope for an alliance between our nations? It could bring great benefit to both." "In your country, the word 'alliance' seems to mean something different than it does in mine," Yukinari replied with grim irony. "Shall I tell you how this will go? You'll open negotiations with a speech about peace and cooperation. I'll agree that peace is preferable to war, but I'll insist on terms equally beneficial to both sides. You'll refuse, because your emperor demands Ryukoku's total subjugation. I won't accept an alliance on those terms. Even if I were to yield — and I won't — the marriage proposal with your emperor's daughter is doomed. They say in Cheongju that your women are like eagles, their grip on a sword as firm as any man's. But my palace would be a cage for her. She would wither here — perhaps literally — and there would be nothing I could do to save her. Sooner or later, war would come regardless." Yes, Gerel thought. He was right. It was only a matter of time. Even if the marriage succeeded, it would hardly stop Tokhung from going to war. The only question was whether it would happen now or years down the line. Yukinari's voice remained calm, as though he spoke of something far removed from himself. "When the appointed day comes, we'll discuss it all — at length, in more elegant terms, before countless ministers of both our courts. It will take all day, perhaps. But the result will not change. You and I both know this." "And yet," Gerel pressed, "I sincerely hoped you might set aside your pride and accept peace on Tokhung's terms. Even a temporary peace." Seeing anger flash in Yukinari's eyes, Gerel quickly added, "Forgive me, Your Majesty. That was poorly phrased. But I want to avoid war. Surely you see it would be senseless slaughter. Your country has already endured a great war and is just beginning to recover. Your people are meant for peace, not conflict. When we met, I said your capital was beautiful, and I meant it. Shinju is a strange, melancholy, yet beautiful city. It would be a tragedy to see it reduced to rubble." "Thank you for your honesty, General. It's refreshing when people speak their minds, even if their words are harsh. I don't want war with your country — or with anyone. My dreams lie elsewhere; destruction builds nothing worthwhile. But I cannot submit to your emperor, not out of pride but because such an alliance would bring nothing good to my people. Temporary peace, you say? Time is my enemy. A few years of such 'peace' would weaken my nation while yours grows stronger. But if war must come now..." Yukinari's lashes lowered, his smile faintly mocking. "What makes you so sure I will lose? I fully intend to win." Beautiful, foolish, arrogant boy, Gerel thought irritably. Did he think he knew anything of war, sitting in this garden of red maples and golden carp, sipping tea from a delicate cup? Yet, to Gerel's grudging acknowledgment, the emperor's reasoning was sound and sharp. Yukinari moved a piece on the board. Until that moment, the game had seemed a stalemate, but with the sacrifice of a few pieces, he opened the upper field and suddenly gained a commanding position. But Gerel was no novice. He knew and loved Mist and Clouds — a game where every piece had a clear purpose, where outcomes could be calculated with far greater certainty than in life. It was said that ancient generals used it to plan battle strategies before it became mere entertainment. In his youth, Gerel had spent countless hours studying the game, trying to grasp the minds of legendary commanders. "If you've calculated everything, why haven't you tried to kill me?" Gerel asked quietly, half-wondering if the tea had been poisoned. But he felt perfectly fine. "I could try," Yukinari replied just as softly, "but before my guards could act, you might shatter your cup and cut my throat with a shard." He read my thoughts, Gerel realized. Yukinari had only three bodyguards, and two of them were too far away. A leap to the left, a strike to the nearest guard, the shattering of the cup — Gerel might even reach the sword lying nearby before they cut him down. "Then you shouldn't have offered me tea," Gerel said with a faint smile. Yukinari smiled back, a genuine, warm expression despite the tension. "I hope I'm still free to serve tea in my own palace without fearing the consequences." Perhaps he was offering a temporary truce. "Why haven't you considered the third force that might sway the war's outcome?" Gerel asked, meaning Yuigui. An audacious question — but after discussing murder-by-cup, what did it matter? Besides, Yukinari clearly understood the balance of power in the Middle Kingdoms. "I'd be surprised if Yuigui interfered. They have no reason to help either side. War will weaken both Cheongju and Ryukoku, which suits Yuigui perfectly." Gerel was taken aback by his adversary's clear-eyed pragmatism, but he returned his focus to the game. A few moves later, he spotted a tiny flaw in Yukinari's strategy — something only a master would notice. Gerel reached for a piece to exploit it but hesitated. Would it be appropriate to defeat an emperor? And if this match was a test of their strategic abilities (which it clearly was), it might be wiser to let his opponent underestimate him. In real battle, such an advantage could prove decisive. Instead, he made a different move, leading to an exchange of pieces that left the board nearly barren. Neither player could achieve victory. A draw. Yukinari smiled, and something in his expression told Gerel he had noticed the hesitation — and that the earlier flaw had been deliberate, a test. "You let me win." "And you refrained from exploiting your own advantage," Gerel countered. "I'd like to play again, on the condition that you play honestly." "I could promise that," Yukinari said, "but would you believe me?" (Days, weeks, months later, Gerel would replay this conversation in his mind, realizing it wasn't only about Mist and Clouds. But neither of them could have known that then.) "I'll try to believe you." Within a few moves, Yukinari remarked, "You'll lose in twelve moves — or twenty, if you sacrifice several pieces." It sounded like empty boasting, but to Gerel's surprise, the prediction held true. Eight moves later, he realized victory was out of reach; the count was exact. "You see? I was honest." Yukinari smiled. "Am I really that poor a player?" Gerel asked, annoyed. "You're the best I've ever faced," Yukinari replied. "But I've seen this scenario before. I'm no genius — just someone with a good memory and far too much practice as a child. More than was healthy, perhaps..." His words trailed into ambiguity. They played again. This time, Gerel focused intensely and won, hoping the victory was genuine. In the following match, Yukinari triumphed — or simply stopped holding back. With such an enigmatic opponent, certainty was impossible. His skill was dazzling, as though he envisioned countless outcomes from the very first move. Gerel hadn't enjoyed a game this much in years. Perhaps ever. After their fourth match, Gerel realized they'd been playing for hours. Surely the emperor had more pressing matters but was too polite to dismiss him outright. "I've lost track of time, and I must be keeping you from your duties. I've greatly enjoyed this, Your Majesty, but I think we should stop here." Yukinari nodded. "You're right, General Gerel. Forgive me; I do need to attend to other matters..." The regret in his voice was genuine. He clearly lacked worthy opponents, and Gerel found himself pleased to have provided him with some measure of enjoyment.