The broken world

When Gerel returned home and informed Tokhung of the outcome of the negotiations, the emperor didn't rage or lament. On the contrary, he seemed pleased. "Excellent! I'll show that boy Yukinari where he belongs. We will show him," Tokhung corrected himself, slapping Gerel's shoulder with a camaraderie that felt almost paternal. As Gerel stood there, he found himself studying his king with a strange detachment, as though seeing him for the first time. He imagined, absurdly, that instead of Tokhung's heavy hand on his shoulder, it could have been the slender, graceful hand of Yukinari. He remembered the melodic voice of the Ryukoku emperor, the stray lock of hair that always escaped his carefully arranged coiffure, and the nervous smile that never quite reached his eyes. A wave of melancholy passed over him. He told himself that no other outcome had ever been possible. Briefly, Gerel mentioned Sun Xiaolian — her proposal to offer Princess Mayumi's hand in marriage — and asked Tokhung's permission to wed her. Better to hear it from him than from gossip. No one could accuse Gerel of scheming behind his emperor's back; he had always been forthright with Tokhung, even if the man often failed to grasp the implications of what was plainly in front of him. "So, you're bringing here some painted doll who can't dress herself without a dozen maids?" Tokhung laughed loudly, clearly amused by the idea. "I'd love to see that!" "I'll stay in Shinju with her, provided you appoint me your governor in Ryukoku. You'll need one, after all." "Well, I will need a governor, that's true..." Tokhung paused, his grin widening. "Is she at least pretty?" Gerel had no idea what Princess Mayumi looked like. Her appearance was the least of his concerns. All he cared about was whether she could bear him a son — an heir with the bloodline of the Heavenly Dragon. What more could he possibly ask for? "Yes, very," he replied evenly, confident he wasn't lying. After all, he had seen her brother and her mother. "And Yukinari? What's he like? They say he's the Dragon's chosen..." Tokhung scowled faintly, clearly irritated by the idea that another ruler could be spoken of with such reverence. "Is he clever? Tell me." "He's..." Mad, a voice in Gerel's mind offered. "...an idealist," Gerel said instead. Any lingering sorrow over his failed friendship with Yukinari didn't stop him from planning an attack on one of the southern tribes near the Ryukoku border. Tokhung was elated, strutting about like a rooster, his chest puffed with pride as though Gerel's successes were his own. But the emperor's cheer didn't last. Soon, several neighboring southern tribes defected to Ryukoku. Gerel didn't know how Yukinari had managed it but imagined an almost theatrical scene: Yukinari arriving among the nomads, radiant and sincere, promising peace and prosperity. They would lay their weapons at his feet, overcome with emotion. It seemed Yukinari could win hearts where Gerel had to rely on logic or brute force. And so the war began — not with grand declarations, but quietly, almost mundanely. Part of Gerel was relieved. He was at home in the chaos of military campaigns: the camaraderie of shared hardships, the chatter of men outside his tent, the challenge of strategizing. Peace, with its endless courtly obligations, had never suited him. Life in Tokhung's palace felt stifling, a theater of indulgence and excess. The rumors that everyone in Cheongju was a hopeless drunk weren't entirely true, but they hadn't sprung up from nowhere. While Gerel himself remained unimpressed by wine — he rarely drank enough to feel its effects — the court was awash in debauchery. Endless feasts and drunken revelries held little appeal for him, no more than the poetry contests of Ryukoku's moon-viewing festivals. Once, after telling Tokhung he found no joy in witnessing the emperor's drunken trysts, Tokhung had laughed heartily and called him a "twitchy faggot," advising him to return to his precious battlefields where solitude would surely suit him better. The army drank, too, of course — Gerel allowed it, believing that men who risked their lives daily deserved their small comforts. But his soldiers knew he disliked rowdy celebrations and kept their revelries restrained. The campfires, the rough camaraderie, even the bawdy songs sung by Mugyeon after a few drinks — these felt more like home than any palace. Over time, he even came to terms with the fact that Son Gyeo would tell the same soldier's tale almost every evening about how someone had crawled somewhere with his legs cut off in the winter... Every so often, a courier arrived from Sun Xiaolian with reports from Ryukoku. Gerel began cautiously. He cross-checked her intelligence with information gathered by his trusted spies. So far, everything Xiaolian's messenger reported about Ryukoku's plans and troop movements had been accurate. It turned out that Xiaolian was not lying. More than once, her information proved uniquely valuable, leading to decisive victories. Still, Ryukoku wasn't always on the losing side. The outcome of the war remained uncertain. Yukinari had proven himself a formidable adversary. The young emperor had made an unusual choice: he personally led his army. In Ryukoku, emperors traditionally stayed in the palace during wartime, seen as sacred figures above the chaos of battle. The emperor was a priest, a symbol of the country, but certainly not a warrior — and if Yukinari had remained in the capital, no one would have accused him of cowardice. But Yukinari, by contrast, was often on the front lines. This was no small scandal — his advisors had likely been outraged. An emperor who goes to war? Impossible, insulting. Yet among the soldiers, Yukinari was extolled. They saw the emperor, the living god, with their own eyes, he was right next to them. Rumor had it he even fought with a sword, holding his own in skirmishes. He became a living symbol of hope. Noble, Gerel thought. But that nobility will be your undoing. A man who does not hide can be wounded. He can be killed. It was said that Ryukoku hadn't produced a talented strategist in years, but Gerel suspected otherwise. After playing Mist and Clouds with Yukinari and witnessing his ability to anticipate every move, he had no trouble believing the emperor was orchestrating his own campaigns. For weeks, Gerel's forces tried to draw the Ryukoku army into open battle, but Yukinari eluded him. When the clash finally came, it happened in a valley flanked by mountains on three sides, known locally as the Valley of Cherries. At first, the battle seemed laughably one-sided. Gerel's forces quickly pushed the Ryukoku soldiers back toward the mountains, trapping them against the cliffs. It was almost too easy. Suspicious, Gerel considered the possibility of a trap. If reinforcements attacked from the south, his own men could find themselves cornered instead. Scouts reported no sign of enemy troops nearby, but Gerel, ever cautious, called for reinforcements. He was glad he did. At the crucial moment, additional Ryukoku forces descended from the eastern and western ridges, seemingly materializing from nowhere. There must have been hidden mountain passes known only to locals. Cheongju's army suffered losses that day, though Gerel's foresight had prevented a complete rout. When he received word that Ryukoku had recaptured two border fortresses, Gerel felt a flicker of strange satisfaction. So, Yukinari really does have a chance of winning this war, he mused — and was surprised to find himself almost pleased by the thought. Victory was proving elusive. Quick, bloodless conquest was no longer an option.