The broken world

The only man Gerel might have called a friend — or even wanted to — was now doing his best to ruin both Gerel's life and the future of his country. The war dragged on. Winter had passed, ushering in the year of the Mouse and Water, under the sign of Yang. For the second time, they managed to lure the Ryukoku forces into an open battle near the Setagawa River. And there, Gerel came face-to-face with Yukinari once more. It was destined to be a grueling, uninspired fight, one where neither cunning nor surprise could tip the scales in anyone's favor. Victory would rest entirely on brute force — on the sheer size of the armies and the quality of their weapons. As was his custom, Emperor Tokhung prepared to observe the unfolding battle from the safety of his tent atop a hill, ready to retreat at the first sign of trouble. Yukinari, however, did not hide. He rode out ahead of his army, seated confidently on a magnificent white steed. His composure in the saddle was remarkable, considering how much disdain his courtiers and officials held for such skills in his land. Before the clash began, the emperor — frustrated by Ryukoku’s mounting victories — gave Gerel a direct order: “Challenge him to single combat. And kill him.” Indeed, there was an ancient tradition: before armies clashed, a duel between two mighty warriors could be held. It was believed that the gods would favor the side whose champion emerged victorious. But generals had long since realized the peril of this custom. A champion’s defeat could demoralize an entire army, and so, as far as Gerel knew, the tradition had fallen out of practice long ago. Both armies readied themselves for battle. As usual, Cheongju’s forces consisted primarily of cavalry. Among the enemy ranks, Gerel noticed an unusual number of chariots — something rare these days. Chariots were cumbersome, unwieldy, and almost useless on rough terrain. Their presence was a testament to Ryukoku’s long-standing peace; it had been years since they’d fought a serious war. Still, the land here was flat and ideal for chariots — just as it was for Cheongju’s cavalry. Gerel had already positioned his forces to ensure that, once the battle began, the chariots would collide with his cavalry rather than his infantry, which would stand no chance against them. Both sides gleamed under the sun — spears and halberds flashing bright. It was a fine, clear day, the sort of day one might describe as "untroubled" — though that was far from true. Before the armies collided, Gerel rode out and greeted Yukinari. The emperor answered courteously. Yukinari was clad in armor and a dragon-headed helm, its metal jaws covering nearly his entire face. Gerel raised a brow, surprised. Until now, he hadn’t been able to picture Yukinari in anything but embroidered silks, perfumed with jasmine. “Before we begin this battle, I invoke an ancient tradition,” Gerel said with a wry smile. “They say, O Emperor, that none can rival you in swordsmanship. I’d like to see for myself whether this is true — or just idle talk.” Yukinari inclined his head, drew his sword, and held it aloft in a gesture of acceptance. Then, with practiced ease, he dismounted — tradition dictated that the duel be fought on foot. Removing his helm, Yukinari handed it to one of his men. Was it merely because the helm would obstruct his vision? Or was there meaning in the gesture? The face, shown only to a chosen few, was now laid bare for all to see. Behind Gerel, one of the women soldiers let out a long, awestruck sigh. It was understandable; there weren’t many beautiful young men to be seen on the battlefield. She wasn’t the only one affected. A collective gasp rippled through both armies. Something extraordinary was happening, and yet no one dared intervene. Tradition forbade interference in a duel. Gerel dismounted and prepared himself for the fight. He didn’t anticipate much difficulty. Gerel didn’t consider himself a master swordsman. He was competent — good enough to survive the army’s brutality and rise to command a hundred men. His rise in rank owed more to Tokhung than to his skill with a blade. Truthfully, he preferred the crossbow: silent, deadly, and effective at a distance. While Yuigui and Ryukoku armies sneered at bows and crossbows as dishonorable tools of bandits and mercenaries, Gerel thought honor and war were incompatible to begin with. “Good iron is not made into nails.” In short, Gerel wasn’t a swordmaster, but he didn’t expect much from Yukinari either. The emperor was an aristocrat, not a warrior. And yet Yukinari surprised him. Moments into the duel, Gerel regretted agreeing to this fight. The rumors of the young emperor’s skill were true. Yukinari never did things halfway; he’d been trained by the finest masters of the Middle Kingdoms and had absorbed everything they could teach. Gerel recognized the Eastern style of “Twelve Hands” in his opponent’s movements — quick pivots, swift dodges, and lightning-fast strikes. Yukinari lacked real-world experience, but his technique was impeccable. Gerel, meanwhile, favored the Western “White Cat” style, suited for taller, stronger fighters and relying on deliberate, precise movements and well-timed blows. He was getting tired of being impressed by this man. A philosopher might have claimed the entire history of humanity had been leading up to the creation of perfect beings like Yukinari. If only he weren’t such a dreamer — or a madman. A thrust. A dodge. Another thrust. The clash of steel… The duel resembled a dance, though not the stately, courtly kind where every motion of a sleeve is dictated by etiquette. It was more akin to a shaman’s wild ritual, the kind performed in the untamed southern tribes, full of power, passion, and magic. At times, Gerel could almost believe that unseen divine hands guided their swords. At one point, Gerel thought Yukinari was sparing him. Twice, he left himself open — once unintentionally, and once deliberately, to test his theory. Yukinari, skilled enough to exploit such openings, chose not to. Yukinari was faster and more agile; Gerel was stronger and taller, with a longer reach. To an observer, they might have seemed evenly matched. Yukinari’s swordsmanship was superior, but his insistence on playing the noble hero meant Gerel would inevitably win. This was no place for idealism. And Yukinari didn’t seem particularly enduring — eventually, fatigue would overtake him. Most importantly, Gerel had experience. Hard-won in dozens of real battles, it was an advantage no amount of training could match. Gerel’s blade glanced off Yukinari’s shoulder, the angle too shallow to do any damage. Soon after, Yukinari managed to land a strike, his blade finding the gap above Gerel’s knee armor. Blood immediately welled up. At last, he understands this isn’t a story about noble heroes, Gerel thought almost approvingly, hardly noticing that the wound immediately filled with blood. Yukinari must have aimed for the artery but had missed. Few tried such strikes; targeting the legs left one dangerously exposed to counterattacks. Gerel wasted no time exploiting this, his sword finding a gap in Yukinari’s chest armor. The emperor barely deflected the blow meant for his heart, but a dark stain blossomed on his turquoise, the color of the scales of the Heavenly Dragon, robes. Thrust-dodge-thrust… Yukinari was tiring, his breaths heavy and uneven. He discarded his shield — it had grown too heavy — staggered, fell to one knee, and still managed to parry a strike before rising again. And again. Watching him, Gerel saw a reflection of his younger self — stubbornly rising each time he fell, refusing to give in until his body betrayed him or his tormentors relented. The bloodstain on Yukinari’s chest spread, seeping beneath his armor. Someone, stop this, Gerel thought with something close to despair. They didn’t get to finish the duel. The emperor of Cheongju, impatient or doubtful of Gerel’s victory, signaled his troops to attack. Gerel was almost grateful. Yukinari’s soldiers charged in response, and within moments, both combatants were surrounded by cavalry. Several Ryukoku warriors pulled Yukinari away. Gerel was relieved. He realized he couldn’t have killed Yukinari. Despite his eccentricities, the emperor commanded his respect and admiration — and, if he was honest, a certain affection. Yukinari’s nobility infuriated him, his confidence in his own infallibility maddened him… but Gerel had caught the same foolish belief in honor. If the duel had continued, he doubted he could have struck the final blow. By evening, the clashes between the warriors on both sides had lost the ferocity they’d shown at the start. Everyone was weary. As darkness descended, even the last skirmishes subsided. A quiet night settled over the battlefield. Gerel and Tokhung sat in the general’s tent, discussing the day’s events. Gerel was irritated; the wound Yukinari had inflicted on him throbbed persistently. The injury was minor, of course, but that didn’t make it any less unpleasant. Still, the wound had one advantage: it had compelled Tokhung to visit the general’s tent rather than summon him elsewhere. Tokhung, however, was in an even fouler mood than Gerel. He seethed over Gerel’s failure to swiftly defeat Yukinari in single combat. Gerel countered that victory would have been inevitable if the emperor hadn’t hastened to signal an advance. “He wounded you,” the emperor repeated, pacing the tent. “If you can be wounded, you can be killed.” “Yukinari’s wounds are far worse than mine.” “Even so. I could have lost you…” His voice held no trace of guilt or regret — only the fear of losing his prized military talisman. “I’ve told you before: I’m only human,” Gerel said dryly. “I’m sorry if that disappoints you.” “Could what they say about him be true? Does that boy really have the favor of the Celestial Dragon?” It was remarkable how much hatred filled Tokhung’s gaze every time Yukinari’s name was mentioned — whether by himself or by Gerel. Once, the young Ryukoku emperor had seemed little more than an annoying obstacle, unworthy of serious concern. Now, it seemed, Yukinari had become the man Tokhung despised most in the world. The next day, no one saw the Ryukoku emperor on the battlefield. That wasn’t surprising, given his condition; he was in no state to lead his troops. The Ryukoku army was demoralized — a perfect opportunity to devise a tactical strike. Yet Gerel’s thoughts were elsewhere. He’s gravely wounded but not dying. He’ll need doctors, and he wouldn’t have been allowed to stay here, no matter how stubborn he is. Where could they have taken him? Not to Shinju — that’s too far… But there are no cities nearby… “Where could they have taken him?” Tokhung echoed, revealing that his thoughts had followed a similar path. “If we could find him, kill him… He’s like a living god to the Ryukoku people. If he falls, their entire nation will collapse overnight. Perhaps his mother knows something. Send a messenger to Ryukoku with a letter.” Gerel carried out the order, though it left him with an unpleasant sense of impending betrayal — an unease that gnawed at him far worse than the wound on his leg. Betrayal. That word lodged in his thoughts, unshakable. Days of excruciating waiting followed. Slowly, their army pressed the Ryukoku forces eastward, though their enemies fought with the desperate courage of the doomed. At last, what Gerel had both dreaded and anticipated came to pass. One of the soldiers guarding the tent lifted the flap and announced: “General… Forgive me for disturbing you, but your messenger has returned…” Gerel rose, trying not to limp too obviously on his injured leg, and ushered the messenger into the tent. She unwrapped the cloth covering her face, revealing a young woman. He recognized her — she was one of Sun Xiaolian’s attendants and had carried messages to him from her mistress before. Spotting the emperor, she hastily prostrated herself. “Glory to you, Radiant One!” Tokhung nodded graciously. “I hope you bring good news.” Silently, she extended a scroll. “What does she write, Gerel?” the emperor asked eagerly. The scroll was made of beautiful greenish paper, the handwriting light and flowing. Gerel read aloud: "By one of the tributaries of the Setagawa River, about thirty li from the site of your recent battle, there is a villa called Willow Stream, built by his grandfather. It is now abandoned, but it may be the place you seek. Here is a map to find it." “Excellent!” Tokhung exclaimed, rubbing his hands together in satisfaction. “Send scouts there at once.” The scouts returned hours later with confirmation. Yes, there was an abandoned imperial villa at the location described in Sun Xiaolian’s letter. The gates were broken, the grounds overgrown with tall weeds, the walls crumbling. But now, the scouts reported, several people were inside — and one of them was injured. The injured man could only be Yukinari. Everything aligned with the curt, dispassionate lines of Sun Xiaolian’s note. “This plan poses no real risk to us, does it, General?” Tokhung asked. “Even if something goes wrong and the soldiers occupying the villa overpower our men, losing a small detachment is of no consequence.” “Of no consequence,” Gerel replied evenly. Tokhung intended to send a unit to the villa to capture Yukinari. What would happen after? In Gerel’s hands, the situation would be straightforward: use Yukinari’s life as leverage to force Ryukoku’s surrender. But Tokhung? He might not be content to leave Yukinari alive. If the Emperor just killed Yukinari, that would also give them a quick victory — not such a bad scenario. But Tokhung hated him. He might order torture or a theatrical public execution. Could Gerel prevent such a fate? Was he seriously contemplating saving his enemy from his own emperor? Gerel dismissed the unwelcome thoughts, assuring himself that Tokhung wasn’t a fool. No matter how much Tokhung hated Yukinari, he should listen to reason. Capturing Yukinari was the quickest way to end the war, which threatened to drag on for months otherwise. You’re an idiot, General, someone said in his mind, the voice eerily resembling Yukinari’s. Gerel selected the soldiers for the mission, oversaw their preparations, and worked with Tokhung to draft a plan for approaching the villa undetected. He showed no outward signs of hesitation, but inside, for perhaps the first time in his life, he felt deeply uncertain. He thought of Yukinari — of his restless smile, his flawless pronunciation of Yuigui words, his slender hands, often folded neatly like those of a diligent little girl. His sharp mind. His talent for seeing through people and manipulating them like game pieces. His strange dreams, which were either grand lies or the musings of a madman — Gerel couldn’t decide which was worse. The dragon from the black pond. If Yukinari wasn’t insane, then his talk of miracles was a dangerously skilled attempt to win Gerel over. How many others had he smiled at so knowingly, spoken to of his vision for a unified land? Gerel tried to hate Yukinari, but he couldn’t. The man was better than him in every way, and his intentions were noble. Despite his talent for manipulation — or perhaps because of it — Yukinari deserved to rule the empire far more than Gerel or Tokhung ever would. Gerel imagined an inverted world where he served Yukinari instead of Tokhung. Of course, there would be no “ruling hand in hand”; in Ryukoku, he’d remain a mere soldier, a despised foreigner with no chance to rise. Yet when he tried calling Yukinari emperor in his mind, the word felt natural. Yukinari possessed true greatness, while Tokhung’s crown was mere theater. Gerel had never thought of Tokhung as emperor. The word seemed absurd applied to him. He wanted to sleep but couldn’t. The pain in his wounded leg kept him awake, a relentless reminder of that duel. As soon as he turned around awkwardly, the edges of the cut would come apart and the wound would begin to bleed. Yet tonight, the ache in his chest felt far worse than the injury. The water dripped loudly and unbearably slowly in the hourglass, and it seemed like every minute dragged on for an eternity. In the darkest, the most painful hour, between Ox and Tiger, he dressed, saddled his horse, and rode out to await the return of his men. When they appeared, he realized he’d made a mistake. Even if there had been no alternative, he should have chosen another path — at any cost. He watched the riders emerge from the mist. It was clear the operation had succeeded. Near the middle of the group, a familiar slender figure swayed on horseback, struggling to stay upright with his hands bound behind him. Whenever he lost balance, he would right himself again with fragile, stubborn dignity. What have I done…? “He’s wounded. Fetch a physician,” Gerel ordered. He turned his horse away, unwilling to watch. It hurt too much — and this time, he knew with certainty, the pain had nothing to do with his leg. For the first time in years, he remembered that some wounds cut deeper than flesh.