The broken world

The mask turned out to be an excellent way to slip out of the palace and explore the city. Gerel knew his appearance would inevitably draw attention. Even dressed in the inconspicuous garb of a commoner, his foreign features would stand out among the black-haired, almond-eyed citizens of Shinju like daylight against the night. He recalled a celebration of the Day of Equals he had once attended in Yuigui. Legend claimed the festival was the creation of Di Huan, a mythical ruler whom the Yuigui people believed to be the earthly incarnation of the Tortoise. The idea was simple yet profound: to erase — if only for a single day — all boundaries of status, wealth, age, appearance, and even gender. Under the cover of masks and costumes, people mingled freely, speaking and dancing with strangers, untethered from the weight of their identities. Masks in Yugui, by the way, were widely used beyond the festival. Faces were often hidden by both women and young men of easy virtue, as well as those seeking their services. Di Huan likely would have disapproved of such uses for her invention, but anyway, the Day of Equals remained beloved, fulfilling its intended purpose year after year. Yuigui citizens often cited it as proof of their nation's progressive spirit and broad-mindedness. Many years ago, when Gerel was a seventeen-year-old boy, the Day of Equals in the Yuigui capital had coincided with one of those moments when he felt suffocated by unwanted attention. At the time, he was not yet the famed general, the scourge of nomads, the monster of myth. And yet people always turned to stare — some with awe, others with unease. He was used to it by then. He had grown accustomed to his towering frame and striking appearance, to being rigid and impenetrable, like an iron rod. He was always ready to be struck — and to strike back. But in Yuigui, everything was too safe, too comfortable. He had grown soft. The interest people took in his appearance lacked the malice or disdain he was accustomed to, but there came a moment when he could bear it no longer. He longed — not to be ordinary; that was impossible — but to experience what it might be like to be invisible. Just another face in the crowd, a man without a name, free from the constant pressure of curious or wary eyes. The feeling of being unseen was oddly liberating. He had not worn a mask in years and had almost forgotten the sensation. But it was wonderful. Both then and now. People's gazes slid over him without pause. A cat mask? Likely an actor or another reveler — nothing unusual. Gerel wandered the city for hours, marveling at Shinju's stark yet graceful architecture, its delicate bridges arching over narrow canals. He spent much of his time near the docks and along the waterfront. The sight of departing sails, the smell of brine and fish, even the raucous cries of gulls fascinated him. Once, he caught sight of a heron standing beneath the shadow of a pier. He didn't forget his purpose, though. As he walked, he mentally mapped the city, marking strategic points in his mind. It soon became clear the city was in worse condition than he had first thought. Stray too far from the central canals and streets, and the number of crumbling, collapsing buildings increased exponentially. The narrow alleys reminded him of prison corridors, damp and oppressive, leading abruptly to the dark waters of the canals, as if inviting someone to leap in and drown. Supposedly, those spots were meant for boarding boats — Shinju's primary mode of transport — but the overall impression was stifling. Still, during the festival, the people of Shinju were cheerful, dressed in bright clothes adorned with flowers. Many wore masks or costumes. Nobles and officials were ferried through the canals in lavishly decorated boats or traveled in ridiculous carriages with oversized wheels, palanquins, or sedan chairs. Yet the farther Gerel ventured from the imperial palace, the fewer such sights he encountered. The contrast between the lives of the aristocracy and ordinary citizens was striking, and the nobles seemed determined to avoid the poorer districts altogether. After the dispiriting impression left by the palace's inhabitants, Gerel found himself drawn to the simplicity of the common folk. They were not so different from the people of Yuigui or Cheongju, and their unpretentiousness stirred a reluctant fondness in him. Walking through the marketplace, Gerel suddenly heard a familiar voice coming from a nearby stall. At first, he thought he must be mistaken — what would the emperor be doing so far from the palace, in the lower city? The voice called out: "Come closer! The finest hairpins and combs!" He turned toward the sound, and to his astonishment, there he was — Yukinari, the Emperor of Ryokoku. The young man stood behind the stall, unpainted, dressed in simple but clean clothes befitting a common merchant. His elaborate imperial hairstyle had been replaced with a single braid draped over his chest. But it was unmistakably him. How could Gerel fail to recognize that face? The absurd thought of a double flashed through his mind but was dismissed just as quickly. There couldn't possibly be two people with that face, with that peculiar restless smile. It was good — so unexpectedly, overwhelmingly good — to see him without the veil again. Just the sight of his face and the sound of his voice brought an inexplicable joy, as though Gerel were on the verge of remembering something vital and beautiful, something long forgotten... Gerel approached the stall, curious and intent on understanding the scene before him. At that moment, Yukinari was enthusiastically showing a hairpin to a wealthy, middle-aged woman. "How much?" she asked, clearly considering the purchase. "Twenty dragons," Yukinari replied with an apologetic smile. "It's the work of a master craftsman, so the price is a little high. But I know you can afford it." Gerel listened, intrigued. Twenty dragons was a sum that could sustain a poor family for a month or more. The woman hesitated, doubt flickering across her face. Clearly, even for her, this was no trivial expense. The true value of the pin was perhaps a fraction of what Yukinari was asking. She set the hairpin back on the counter but lingered, reluctant to leave. "Would you like to try it on?" Yukinari asked, leaning forward to affix the pin to her hair with careful fingers. He handed her a mirror. "Ah, I must offer you a discount! Seventeen dragons, and it's yours. It suits you so well. Just look..." The woman beamed, flattered. "Really? With such a handsome young man selling them, I could buy hairpins every day..." Gerel noted how much bolder and more outspoken the city women were compared to the silent, decorous courtiers. It occurred to him that this class of merchants and artisans — wealthy yet stripped of rights and privileges that the aristocracy had — but most likely free of their prejudices too — might hold the key to changing Ryokoku's rigid system. Dissatisfied but educated and resourceful, they could be powerful allies for a ruler seeking reform. Yet for now, they seemed few in number. Yukinari glanced up and saw Gerel watching from the crowd. Though the cat mask concealed his face, the emperor recognized him instantly, perhaps by his height or the fair hair the townsfolk mistook for part of his costume. Yukinari's eyes widened in surprise before his lips curved into a conspiratorial smile. He glanced briefly at the woman before him, silently signaling, Wait a moment. Let me finish here, and then we'll talk. He carefully wrapped the hairpin, tucked the money beneath the counter, and bid the woman farewell with the most sincere and captivating smile: "I'll be delighted to see you again!" Only after the customer disappeared into the crowd did he turn to Gerel. "Good day. It is you, isn't it? I'm not used to seeing you out of uniform." "Are you out of your mind?" Gerel said, his voice low and sharp. "If anyone recognizes you, it'll be a scandal. It's bad enough that I'm here alone and none of my men saw this spectacle. Otherwise, the entire Middle Kingdoms would already be gossiping about how you're making a fool of yourself." "They say plenty about me already," Yukinari replied, and Gerel thought he caught a faint note of bitterness. It pricked at his own conscience, drawing to mind that foolish campfire conversation among the soldiers: "They're all 'cut sleeves' over there..." Not for the content, of course, but because it was then the idea of marrying Yukinari to a Cheonju princess had first crossed his mind. At the time, it had seemed like a reasonable alternative to war. He had seen no other ways. But surely they existed. They existed, but... But traveling to Ryukoku with the embassy, he'd severed those paths with his own hands. Yukinari, perhaps assuming Gerel was dwelling on those very rumors, met his gaze with calm, unruffled composure. Those dark eyes of his — like pebbles resting in the bed of a clear stream — showed no hint of concern. "I don't mind what people say," Yukinari remarked evenly. "If my actions can help my country, then let them talk. And your men didn't see my face during our first meeting. Neither did anyone else who shouldn't. They've only ever seen me veiled." He gestured around them. "And if you wanted to tell anyone what you saw today, no one would believe you anyway. You're a foreigner here, after all." "That's not what I was thinking." What I was thinking, Gerel amended silently, is that it's good most buildings in Shinju are made of stone. Anything wooden will burn in the fires, and they'll drag sacks of corpses down these streets... He looked away, his voice unusually subdued as he asked, "I still don't understand why you're here." "The owner of this shop is ill. His daughter, Momoko, is only seven, and she's struggling. She's looking after him while also trying to keep the business afloat. She asked me to watch the stall while she went to fetch medicine. How could I refuse? I think I'm doing a decent job of it." "Does she know who you are?" "Of course not. Do you know why I didn't try to abolish that ridiculous law requiring the Son of Heaven to hide his face? No one in this city knows what I look like. Even in the palace, only a handful of people do. That means I can go wherever I like, see how the city really lives, how the people truly fare. I see with my own eyes who works, who deserves reward or punishment. A few trusted people do the same. And the ministers know it. That's why their reports and financial statements haven't contained a single lie for years." Gerel considered this. He had to admit, it made a certain sense. "And how exactly do you evaluate the work of doctors, farmers, craftsmen?" he asked, his tone carrying a faint edge of mockery. He didn't mean to sound harsh, but neither did he plan to retract the words. What could this boy, raised in a gilded cage, truly know of the lives of ordinary people? "I understand what you're getting at," Yukinari replied calmly. "I'll admit, there's much I don't know. But I'm not ashamed of that. I don't think it's beneath me to ask for advice from those who do. And sometimes, it's enough just to watch and listen. An honest merchant will be praised. A good doctor will lose fewer patients than a bad one." Gerel shrugged noncommittally. It was far from as simple as Yukinari made it sound, but there was no denying the emperor's genuine interest in improving his country. "And you don't find this humiliating?" "What's humiliating about honest work?" Yukinari asked, looking genuinely puzzled. Gerel doubted many rulers would agree with that sentiment. He tried to imagine Emperor Tokhung, back in Cheongju, dressed as a merchant, charming customers with flattering smiles. The thought was absurd. But Jin-ho? She might have managed it, though she'd surely tire of it quickly. "I'd like to claim this was my own idea," Yukinari continued, "but no — it's said the legendary Di Huan did the same. She'd disguise herself as a commoner and walk the land, listening to her people." "But isn't that dangerous?" "I have people to protect me. Look closely — you'll see." Indeed, Yukinari's bodyguards were nearby. They blended well, but Gerel's experienced eye picked them out easily: one pretending to browse sweets, another inspecting carnival masks, a third chatting with a sword-seller. They moved naturally, casually, but their focus never wavered from their emperor. "Would you like to try being a merchant yourself?" Yukinari asked cheerfully. "I..." Would he? Stand beside Yukinari in this tiny shop, calling out to passersby, fixing hairpins into the coiffures of wealthy women with a foolish grin? Did he want to shed the mask, to look like any other man in the crowd — dark-eyed, black-haired, leading an ordinary, human life? "No. I'm not much of a merchant," Gerel replied, his voice cool. "Let's leave," Yukinari said suddenly. "What?" "Leave for Yuigui. I'll sell trinkets. You could open a school and teach military strategy. We could live as ordinary people. The war wouldn't touch us." Had the emperor read his thoughts again? "Oh, you're joking," Gerel said, his voice stiff. Yukinari looked down at the floor. "Of course I'm joking. But you... You could leave, if you wanted. I can't." A scruffy little girl with a sharp, birdlike nose dashed into the shop. It had to be Momoko. "Thank you, Master Yuki, for watching the shop!" "It was nothing. How's your father?" "He seems a bit better. I gave him his medicine. I want to make him ginger soup, too — it always helped me get better when Mama made it..." "If you want, go ahead and make it now. I can tend the shop for a little longer." "That would be amazing! Thank you so much! Have sales been good?" Yukinari silently pulled a box of coins from under the counter and showed her the earnings. "Whoa!" The girl's eyes went wide, more with alarm than delight. "That's... Did you rob someone?" "I'd call it exactly that, Master Yuki," Gerel interjected with a sharp jab of sarcasm. "Just say nice things to customers, Momoko — that's the secret. And always offer a discount." "But if I give everyone a discount, I won't make any money..." "Then start by naming a higher price than the one you actually want to sell for. If you know a comb is worth twenty coins, say, 'It costs thirty, but for you, I can let it go for twenty-five.' And always look at the customer's clothes first. If they're dressed well, you can ask for ten times the original price." "Wow! I didn't know you could do that!" Momoko's face lit up with excitement. "Every trade has its little tricks. The important thing is that everyone ends up satisfied, right? A buyer always knows how much they're willing to spend without hurting their purse," the emperor said serenely. "Thank you, Master Yuki. I'll try to do what you said. But..." Momoko hesitated, her enthusiasm dimming with a sigh. "But I don't think I'll manage it anyway, because... well, you're you, and I'm just me. I mean, you're so handsome — it's no wonder people want to buy things from you. But I..." "You're a silly one, Momoko," Yukinari said with a gentle smile. "You're very pretty. In five years, boys won't leave you alone. Actually, even now... Just wash your face, will you? When you become someone important, living in a palace, are you going to walk around all dirty like this?" He tousled her hair affectionately. The girl laughed, closing her eyes and leaning into his hand like a kitten. Yukinari glanced briefly at Gerel and then quickly looked away, but not before Gerel caught a flicker of embarrassment in his eyes. Gerel felt a sudden pang of awkwardness himself. He recalled his earlier skepticism when Yukinari had spoken about preferring the life of a commoner over that of an emperor. Now he understood clearly: these trips to the city weren't a ridiculous spectacle to Yukinari. They were his sole escape. Even something as mundane as running a shop seemed to bring him genuine joy. In the palace, where every word and step was governed by rigid rules, the emperor couldn't afford the luxury of normal conversations with ordinary people. Gerel found an odd symmetry between the emperor's unmasked face and the cat mask he himself wore. Yukinari, too, likely understood the desire to become someone else, to melt into the crowd, to vanish. It was strange. At times, they seemed like the most different people imaginable. And at others, like twins. Another thought struck Gerel: he had seen the emperor's face more often than his courtiers likely had. In just a few meetings, he might have come to know Yukinari better than they had in years. Or perhaps Yukinari is simply trying very hard to convince me of that, Gerel thought, his mind darkening as he recalled his recent musings on the artificiality of everything in the Dragon Kingdom. When Momoko left, Gerel said with biting irony, "Isn't she a little young for your harem?" "What?" "'Living in the palace.'" "I wasn't talking about the harem," Yukinari replied coldly. "Then what? You know as well as I do that in your country, being a girl from a poor district means a life sentence..." Yukinari frowned. He raised a hand to his temple, as if collecting his thoughts, but said nothing and turned away. "You seem to enjoy being good, don't you?" Gerel knew his words were cruel nonsense, but he couldn't stop. He had only ever learned to turn discomfort into arrogance, bitterness, and anger — there had been no one to teach him otherwise. "I do enjoy being good," Yukinari replied finally. "What I don't understand is why some people enjoy being cruel so much... And no, it's not a life sentence." His voice softened, but his resolve was firm. "One day, I'll make that true. I'll make sure girls like Momoko can live with dignity. I promise you that." The habit of writing letters to Tokhung began for Gerel in the year he lived in Yuigui. He disciplined himself to sit down at his desk and record the unusual events he had witnessed, if not every evening, then at least once every few days. In both the Land of the Tortoise and the Land of the Dragon, letters and journals were a favored pastime among aristocrats. These writings were less about conveying interesting news and more about competing in the elegance of prose and the poetry of comparisons. Unlike them, Gerel didn't concern himself with how well he wrote. To him, these letters — like reading books — were a necessity rather than a leisure. He knew that if he stopped dedicating time to it, he would begin to forget the hieroglyphs. Of course, he could have restricted himself to copying philosophical treatises, as students did at the Ling-tzu school, but making notes about his surroundings was far more engaging. There was another reason as well: Gerel knew that when Tokhung received his letters, he would summon his family and courtiers and have them read aloud. Many would listen with genuine interest. Among the audience was often Jin-ho. He favored one of the tea houses in the garden as a place to write his reports — a small space where no one disturbed him, especially in the early mornings or late evenings. At times, he grew weary of both his own people and Yukinari's courtiers and felt a need to be alone. He settled on the veranda of the tea house, ground an inkstick on the inkstone, and began to write: Greetings, my lord, The negotiations are still far off, and it's impossible to predict their outcome. All that remains is to wait. I have accepted the Emperor's invitation to stay at his palace for a month. Nearly everything in Shinju, the capital of Ryukoku, strikes me as unusual — and so there is much I wish to write about. Prepare yourself for a lengthy tale. Unlike our country, which only recently gained access to the Inner Sea, Ryukoku has always been tied to the seas. It was fascinating to finally see seafaring vessels with my own eyes. The people of Ryukoku consume a great deal of fish and manage to make even the most unappetizing-looking seafood taste delicious. Meat and bread, however, are nearly absent from their diet. There is no tradition of raising large livestock here — perhaps due to the country's mountainous terrain. But they do have horses. Shinju boasts numerous temples — I've heard there are over a hundred. The people of Ryukoku, like those of other Middle Kingdoms, believe in the Four Gods. But whereas in Yuigui this idea has long ceased to be a religion in the usual sense and is better described as a philosophy, and our people in general have never been particularly religious, the residents of Ryukoku are devout to the point of naivety, resembling the tribes of the southern states — except that the latter also believe in a multitude of other deities and supernatural phenomena. The Great Dragon is not merely a symbol to the people of Ryukoku but a very real — and all-powerful — being that governs human lives at its whim. The Emperor, along with all noble families, is regarded as a divine envoy, and even the educated classes are unwilling to abandon this belief. Gerel paused after writing that the people of the Land of the Tiger were not religious. In truth, while most Cheongjuans relied more on their swords and bows than on divine guardians, Emperor Tokhung was exceptionally superstitious. He spared no effort or expense on expeditions to capture legendary creatures — all of which, naturally, returned empty-handed — and welcomed charlatans to his court, who spent years attempting to concoct an elixir of immortality from crane marrow, ground deer antlers, and similarly unappetizing ingredients. These elixirs were no more effective than kombucha — Tokhung aged slowly but inevitably. Gerel's brilliant military career in Cheongju was partly owed to the fact that the mysticism-obsessed emperor was among those who believed in Gerel's supernatural origins and deemed him an exceptional being... But criticizing Tokhung in a letter meant for his eyes would have been at the very least unwise. The architecture of Ryukoku resembles that of Yuigui but is more refined and simultaneously more subdued. They elevate the patina of time and a certain delicate simplicity to an aesthetic principle, disdaining brilliance, novelty, and opulence. I dare to suggest that these principles arose because the country was impoverished for centuries. I find myself constantly comparing Ryukoku to Yuigui, but it's difficult not to, as nearly everything here — from clothing to governance — has been borrowed from the Land of the Tortoise. However, I must admit that all the best aspects of our country were borrowed from there as well. Despite these visible borrowings, the people of Ryukoku take immense pride in their culture and strive to emphasize its uniqueness. And it truly is unique, graceful, and melancholic — a beauty of silence, shadow, and autumn, of decay and dying. Here, they have a tradition of not discarding broken cups but mending the cracks with gold or silver lacquer, and the entire culture of the Land of the Dragon is like that crack adorned with gold. My soldiers doubt that this nation of poets could pose a threat in the coming war, but their warriors are unlike the courtiers — the culture of the warrior class is far harsher. Yet even there, as among the courtiers, suffering, fragility, and the fleeting nature of life, as well as a beautiful death, are romanticized. These people would sooner slit their own throats than act against their sense of dignity and honor. They follow orders without question, even in minor matters, and their dog-like loyalty to their commanders could make them formidable opponents... Above, I called Ryukoku a nation of poets, but in some respects, they are absolute barbarians — though they call us by this word. I already mentioned the religiosity of the Dragonfolk; in practice, this means that only hereditary aristocrats — the offspring of the Celestial Dragon — have any say in the affairs of the country, while a commoner has no chance to rise, whether through courage and martial skill, as in our country, or through intellect, as in Yuigui. Moreover, Ryukoku is the last place I would recommend for a woman to visit. The life of an aristocratic woman unfolds in a gilded cage, which she leaves only to move from her father's family to her husband's. If you told any of the men here that a woman could ride a horse, shoot a bow or crossbow, or lead a unit into battle as well as a man, they would laugh, thinking it a joke. In the eyes of a nobleman of Ryukoku, a woman is a weak, foolish creature — a flower meant only to delight men with its beauty, and which, of course, withers quickly under such treatment. However, the lives of ordinary townspeople, both men and women, are more akin to what we're accustomed to, as their daily lives are more closely tied to the natural order... He lifted his brush from the paper and listened. Voices and footsteps — someone was approaching the tea house. Who among the courtiers was awake at this early hour? Leaving his writing behind, he stood and stepped outside. Three figures were drawing near. At first, Gerel recognized the voice of the emperor. When they came closer, he identified the other two as the Head of the Tax Bureau and the Right Minister. The Right Minister, as far as Gerel had understood the governance of Ryukoku, was also primarily responsible for finances, so it was no surprise that their conversation revolved around that subject. "Why do you think the Merchant Guild will agree to help?" the minister asked. "We have nothing to pay them for their assistance, Your Majesty," replied the head of the Tax Bureau in a mournful tone. "I had an idea," the emperor said. "We may not need money. I spoke to Kaneiro, and he mentioned that his library holds some rare scholarly treatises. Perhaps those might interest the Merchant Guild..." His voice, though steady, betrayed weariness. From behind the veil that obscured Yukinari's face, Gerel couldn't see his expression, but the fatigue was unmistakable. "Yes, that could work. We could invite a representative from the Guild to examine the texts. If we manage to convince them to fund the project, we'll have a chance..." They weren't heading toward the tea house and would have walked past, but the emperor noticed Gerel sitting on the veranda. While the minister and the Tax Bureau head visibly stiffened, clearly preferring not to acknowledge his presence, Yukinari turned toward him with an assured smile. "Your Majesty," Gerel greeted, bowing. "General," Yukinari replied with a slight nod. After their meeting in the city and the conversation that followed, there had been a subtle chill between them. Yet Gerel found himself glad to see the emperor. Yukinari's charm was disarming, almost impossible to resist. Despite the sleepless nights evident in his voice, the emperor had dressed meticulously, as always. Today, he wore something in shades of violet and crimson — ten shades of violet, to be precise. He'd heard this particular color combination referred to as "the reverse side of a maple leaf." Not that Gerel seriously aimed to master the intricacies of Ryukoku court etiquette, but his sharp memory, honed by years of necessity, absorbed such details. And knowledge of Ryukoku's courtly ways would undoubtedly prove useful soon, regardless of how the negotiations concluded. "May I ask what brings you here so early?" Gerel inquired. "It's simple — I prefer to discuss matters in the garden rather than within four walls," the emperor said lightly, deftly evading the heart of the question. (Indeed, it was unlikely he would openly admit that sleepless nights poring over documents filled with the word "loss" had driven him outdoors. Gerel thought of this with a touch of wry humor.) "Might I ask the same of you?" "I'm writing a letter. I'm used to rising early from my time on campaigns. And perhaps you'll find this amusing, but I have a habit of recording what I see and occasionally sending letters to my emperor. Tokhung, of course, is keen to hear about the progress of our negotiations. Besides, much of what I observe in Shinju strikes me as fascinating and worth noting." "Ah, then we've interrupted you. My apologies," said the emperor, though his tone held more curiosity than regret. His gaze lingered on the scattered papers, though he politely kept his distance, refraining from reading them. The head of the Tax Bureau decided to interject: "Remarkable! It's unusual to hear of you writing letters." "Surprised that a barbarian from the West can write?" Gerel asked, smirking. "It's simply unexpected for a soldier to have such inclinations. Recently, a merchant named Choi visited Nishiyama... It was said he couldn't even read the terms of his own contract and had to ask one of his companions for help." "Though it's no secret that some of us harbor complicated feelings toward your people," the Minister of the Right added smoothly, "so one might question the reliability of such rumors. Malicious tongues often claim that strength and courage suffice where intellect is lacking. But of course, that's an unfair assessment." His mild smile belied the sting of his words. Such remarks might have offended Gerel if he had felt any loyalty to Cheongju — but he didn't. If the rumors concerned Choi Minsu, a member of one of Cheongju's noble families, Gerel was certain they were true. That man was as dull as an ox and barely literate. "I must admit, my countrymen rarely trouble themselves with the pursuit of knowledge," Gerel replied dryly. "But that's their choice to make." "You must be an exceptionally gifted individual, for learning to come so easily to you," said the minister, his words courteous but laced with venom. Gerel found himself perversely enjoying the palace's conversational style. Words here always seemed to mean something other than their surface. How much duller things were in Cheongju, where insults — and hatred — were blunt and direct. Here, every exchange felt like a dance, a delicate assessment of one's opponent. Garel knew how to control himself when he heard offensive attacks; he could also joke in such a way that his interlocutor turned pale and fell silent. Most often, all that was required was a fixed gaze; his appearance did the rest for him. So, he paused for a moment, examining the minister with his unnatural, ice-blue eyes as sharp as knives, before curling his lips into a nearly friendly grin. "Perhaps." That single word was enough to make the minister recoil slightly, silenced. "Knowledge comes easily to no one," Yukinari said, his calm, commanding tone restoring order. "You strike me as someone who absorbs things quickly," Gerel retorted, still slightly sharp. Indeed, was there anything the young emperor of Ryukoku wasn't good at? Handsome, intelligent, a skilled ruler... even a master of Mist and Clouds... "Hardly," Yukinari said with a soft chuckle. "It would be wonderful if things came effortlessly — I'd get more sleep. But that's far from the truth." He hesitated, as if debating whether to share more, then confessed: "At the Festival of the Seven Autumn Grasses, you complimented my poetry. But I didn't deserve that praise. I'm no poet. I lack the talent to craft verses on the spur of the moment. I prepare them in advance, keeping poems ready on various themes. They aren't even entirely mine. Take Ashikage — you saw him at the festival, he works in the archives — he's truly talented. Me? I simply read extensively and piece together fragments from others' works. Perhaps the courtiers have noticed and continue to praise my poems out of pity." "Do you plan your outfits and hairstyles in advance as well?" Gerel teased. The veil over Yukinari's face trembled slightly, as if he'd been about to reply but thought better of it. Gerel pictured the emperor sketching costume designs with a furrowed brow and found himself less amused than he'd expected. He saw Yukinari from a new perspective, only now realizing that his perfection was the result of relentless effort. Gerel realized that he had been wrong to condemn the Ryukoku people for their elaborate outfits, their impeccable grooming, and their careful choice of behavior and words. There was a certain artificiality in it, yes; but it also meant enormous hard work... "I think diligence is undervalued. It deserves more respect than talent — and certainly no shame." Seeing that Gerel spoke sincerely, Yukinari responded with a grateful nod. "I agree. When — and why — did you decide to learn to read?" The question caught Gerel off guard. When unsure how to respond, he tended to close himself off, speaking coldly or bluntly. "Knowledge didn't come easily to me either — especially literacy. I began learning characters late, around the age of eight, so I devoted hours to it every day," he admitted reluctantly. "That's why I still make time for it now. Forgive me, but there's nothing more to tell." He hadn't meant to be rude, but he wasn't one for small talk, especially about his childhood — certainly not in the presence of the minister and the Tax Bureau head. ...Knowledge had come to him at a steep cost. Without it, he wouldn't have survived. He recalled himself at seven: a scrawny, half-starved servant boy with yellow hair and an odd face, struggling to learn the language of Cheongju. Every day brought fresh bruises from bullies. He'd swallow his tears, fight back — clumsily at first — and learn. His master had allowed him to attend lessons with his children, thanks to his mother's pleading. Though forbidden to speak or draw attention, Gerel had been grateful for the opportunity. If at first he had fought with his offenders desperately, but without rules, scratching and biting like a street cat, then he came up with the idea of ​​watching the training of the master's children — he watched with all his eyes the movements that the wrestling tutor showed, and then tried to use these techniques in fights. And when he wasn't absorbing every move of the master's wrestling tutor, he spent hours in the library, deciphering the strange symbols of the Land of the Tortoise. By the time the bullying stopped, he spoke Cheongjuan better than most locals and could wield both his fists and his wit with deadly precision. Over time, he even won the respect of other city children: it turned out that it was enough to come up with a good plan for theft a couple of times and outwit the city guards... If he had a choice, he'd have gladly spent sleepless nights crafting poetry, studying finances, and planning outfits — anything but reliving those battles. However, he certainly wasn't going to argue with Yukinari about whose life was harder. (He remembered the emperor's metaphor of the crates. What if life doesn't have to be an endless series of heavy burdens?). The emperor looked at him and seemed to be trying to guess what he was thinking. He seemed to understand that Gerel's overly dry answer was not dictated by anger or resentment. "I enjoyed playing Mist and Clouds with you," he said at last. "You're a worthy opponent. If you'd like to play again, join me tonight at the same time and place as before." Surprised, Gerel raised an eyebrow. Hadn't they already debated the only problem worth solving during their last match, to no conclusion? Still, he agreed. Perhaps Yukinari truly just wanted to play Mist and Clouds, without any political tricks in mind. The emperor gave an elegant nod and departed.