Year 1400

  Today marks my first visitation to the town of Soryun—my country town. It’s been two years since I last walked its roads, and I’m certain many things have changed. My room, however, hasn’t changed a bit. The walls, the scent, the light that spills across the floor—it all feels the same. I have great memories in this chamber. It carried me through the silence.

  At dawn, Sohwa entered quietly, as she always does, and served me a healthy morning meal. Eunchae, ever serious about his duty, tasted the food before I touched a single grain of rice.

  Before heading out, I stretched, loosening the stiffness in my body with a series of morning exercises. All my servants joined in—an old routine we never lost. And from a short distance, my three soon-to-be wives watched us with radiant eyes, each of them glowing in their own way. Even in stillness, they steal breath.

  The palace was quiet. I didn’t want to disturb my parents from their rest, so I left without a word—stepping into the fresh morning light, toward Soryun.

  The wind greeted me before the people did.

  Cool, clean, and familiar—yet… sharper now. Like even the air had changed in my absence. I stepped beyond the palace gates, the stone path firm beneath my feet. Baekho said nothing. Eunchae walked a step behind me. For once, they gave me silence.

  I needed it.

  Soryun came into view like a memory half-rewritten. I stopped without meaning to.

  This… this wasn’t the same town.

  Where there had once been dirt and dust, there were paved roads. Lanterns hung above the market stalls like stars caught in ropes. Buildings stood taller, painted, proud. The children wore shoes. The vendors smiled without fear. Even the river—choked and brown before—now flowed clear, cutting through the heart of town like a lifeline.

  My chest tightened.

  Was this really Soryun?

  I walked further. A shop I remembered as broken now had a wooden sign painted with golden ink. A field where I once trained the boys was fenced off, turned into a small garden. There were benches. Flowers. Laughter.

  Then I saw it.

  In the town square, a post carved from old cedar. On it, my name.

  “To Prince Jinseo,

  Who fell with the stars,

  And gave us the will to rise.”

  The letters were faded. As if touched too often.

  My throat tightened.

  They didn’t just wait.

  They believed.

  Eunchae finally spoke behind me. “They held on to you, even when they feared you’d never return.”

  He didn’t need to say more.

  I looked around—really looked. Every change, every clean road, every rebuilt wall… was a promise. A silent vow they made to a sleeping boy. They built a better town while I was buried in silence.

  I didn’t save them.

  They saved themselves.

  And somehow… they’d saved a place for me too.

  I took a breath, steady and full.

  I was home.

  The sun had barely crested the hills when I reached the outer edge of Soryun. The road sloped gently, curving down into the open farmlands. I stopped at the ridge, taking it in.

  The fields stretched farther than I remembered.

  What once were patches of struggling crops and uneven soil were now clean, level rows of golden stalks swaying gently in the breeze. Irrigation canals, newly carved, cut through the earth like quiet veins. Farmers moved in rhythm, their motions swift and purposeful. Even the scarecrows stood taller—well-built and dressed in fresh cloth.

  It was quiet, but not the kind of silence I’d known in my chamber. This was the silence of work, of life.

  I stepped forward slowly, the wind brushing past my hair.

  I remembered this place.

  I remembered breaking ground here, barefoot in the dirt with Joon.

  I remembered Kim Dalsu’s crooked smile as we fixed the old water wheels.

  I remembered the boys hauling sacks of rice, laughing like they had all the time in the world.

  And now?

  The land had matured.

  The people had too.

  Baekho stood behind me, silent as always.

  “They didn’t wait for the prince to return,” I said quietly. “They learned to stand on their own.”

  He gave a slight nod. “Because you showed them how.”

  I didn’t answer.

  Instead, I watched a little boy run through the rows, chasing a wooden cart while an old farmer called after him, laughing. The boy tripped, fell, then stood right back up.

  Yes.

  Soryun had changed.

  But it still had its soul.

  I stepped off the road and onto the edge of the fields.

  The soil was firm beneath my feet—richer, darker than before. Every step carried the scent of grain and earth. Farmers glanced up as I passed, some pausing mid-swing with their tools, unsure of what they were seeing.

  And then I saw him.

  Bent over near the southern paddies, sleeves rolled to his elbows, straw hat low over his brow—Kim Dalsu.

  He hadn’t changed much. A few more lines in his face, a broader back, stronger hands. But the way he moved… steady, patient. Just like before.

  I stopped a few paces away. “That field looks straighter than the one we carved two years ago.”

  He froze.

  Slowly, he rose, wiped his hands on his trousers, and turned toward me. His eyes narrowed, as if not quite believing what he saw.

  “…Prince Jinseo?”

  I gave a small nod.

  For a moment, he said nothing. His hands trembled. His mouth opened—then closed again. And then he stepped forward with hesitant steps, like a man approaching a dream he feared might vanish if touched.

  When he reached me, he dropped to one knee, head bowed low.

  “My prince… You’re awake.”

  His voice cracked.

  I placed a hand on his shoulder.

  “You kept your promise,” I said softly. “Soryun’s blooming.”

  He looked up, eyes glassy. “We tried… every day. For you, for this town. But we never stopped hoping.” His voice steadied. “The boys—they kept coming back to the fields, even when it rained. Said you’d want them strong when you returned.”

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  I smiled faintly. “They weren’t wrong.”

  Behind me, Baekho kept his distance, letting us have this moment.

  “I missed this place,” I said, scanning the field once more. “I missed you, old man.”

  Kim Dalsu let out a laugh through his tears. “You still call me old—some things really don’t change.”

  “No,” I said, eyes steady on the horizon. “But many things did. And I’m ready to see them all.”

  After parting with Kim Dalsu, I followed the stone path east, where the old barn used to be.

  It was no longer a barn.

  A new building stood in its place—simple but clean, with wide windows and white curtains that fluttered in the breeze. The sign above the entrance was carved neatly in wood:

  Soryun Clinic – For All Who Hurt, All Who Heal.

  I pushed the door open gently.

  The scent of herbs and warm wood filled the air. Beds lined the walls, most of them empty. A few elderly patients rested quietly under soft blankets, and a child sat near the corner drinking medicine with a sour face.

  Then I heard him.

  “Don’t squint like that. If the medicine tastes bad, it means it’s doing its job.”

  That voice.

  I stepped further in—and there he was.

  Joon.

  Now taller, sharper around the jaw. He wore a simple healer’s robe, sleeves rolled, holding a clay cup in one hand. His eyes flicked toward the door.

  And widened.

  He dropped the cup.

  “Hyung?!”

  I barely had time to react before he rushed forward and crashed into me with a hug that nearly knocked the wind from my chest.

  “You’re alive—you’re actually alive!” His voice cracked, too loud for a hospital, but no one stopped him. “We prayed, we waited, I—I almost lost hope!”

  I rested a hand on his back, steadying him. “You’ve gotten stronger,” I said quietly.

  He laughed, still clinging. “So did you.”

  A new voice cut in—calm, composed.

  “So he you finally show up, and the first thing he does is interrupt my clinic with noise.”

  I looked up.

  Seo Haneul stood in the doorway of the back room, arms crossed. His robes were tidier than Joon’s, hair tied back, eyes calm as always.

  “I see your sense of timing hasn’t changed, Jinseo.”

  I gave him a half-smile. “Neither has your sarcasm.”

  He approached slowly, then stopped before me. For a second, the mask slipped—just a little. I saw the warmth in his eyes.

  “You came back,” he said softly. “Good. This town needs its heart.”

  “I’m no heart,” I replied.

  “Not anymore,” he agreed. “You’ve become something bigger.”

  For a long moment, none of us spoke.

  Joon wiped his face, grinning again. “Come on, you have to see the rest! We’ve got rooms, shelves, real bandages—we even got a real bed for childbirth thanks to Kim Dalsu’s donations.”

  “Still using your hands like a fool?” I asked.

  “Every day.”

  I looked around at the hospital—the herbs, the people, the light. And I realized: this place had grown too.

  Not just the land.

  Not just the people.

  Their dreams.

  The sun was high by the time I left the clinic, warmth pressing gently on my back as I made my way to the training yard near the edge of town—the same one we had once carved out with nothing but worn shovels and youthful stubbornness.

  Laughter echoed before I even turned the corner.

  I stopped beneath the shade of an old tree, eyes narrowing slightly. Five figures moved across the open field—sparring, shouting, challenging each other with playful insults and mock attacks. No guards. No instructors. Just boys who had grown into their own strength.

  No… not boys.

  Young men.

  Daeyoung stood at the center, holding a wooden staff like a general with a war banner. His shoulders had broadened, his presence steady and firm.

  Minjae leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, analyzing every movement with sharp, unreadable eyes.

  Sungho lunged wildly at Daeyoung, laughing as he nearly tripped over his own feet—still fearless, still fire.

  Jisoo stood by the equipment rack, handing out weapons with calm efficiency, saying little but watching everything.

  And Harin… Harin sat perched on a fence post, legs swinging, sharp eyes tracking every move, a small smirk tugging at his mouth.

  My chest tightened.

  They grew.

  I stepped forward without a word.

  Daeyoung caught sight of me first. He froze. The staff in his hand slowly lowered.

  “…No way,” he whispered.

  Sungho turned. Then Harin. Then the others. One by one, they dropped what they were doing.

  Jisoo’s voice was the first to break the silence.

  “…Hyung?”

  I nodded.

  For a long second, no one moved.

  And then they all did—rushing toward me like a wave. I barely had time to brace myself.

  “Hyung!”

  Daeyoung pulled me into a crushing hug. Sungho shouted something incoherent and tackled my side. Harin grabbed my arm, shaking it like he didn’t believe it was real. Jisoo placed a hand on my shoulder, steady and warm. Minjae, ever quiet, just stood there—eyes shining, jaw tight—before finally stepping forward and bowing deeply.

  “You came back to us,” Minjae said, his voice low.

  “You promised you would,” Harin added.

  “You kept it,” Daeyoung said, clutching my sleeve.

  “I had to,” I said softly. “You all kept yours.”

  They surrounded me now—not as children needing protection, but as brothers. As warriors in the making.

  Sungho laughed, wiping at his eyes. “I was ready to punch the sky if you didn’t wake up.”

  “You’ve all gotten stronger,” I said, eyes drifting across each of them.

  “So have you,” Jisoo replied, smiling. “We can feel it.”

  Minjae met my gaze. “What happens now?”

  I looked at them—their faces, their fire, their growth.

  “Now?” I said, the wind brushing past us.

  “Now, we rise together.”

  After meeting with my brothers I travel to meet carpenter Seo.

  The scent of fresh wood drifted through the alley behind the market. I followed it, letting memory guide my steps.

  The carpenter’s workshop hadn’t changed.

  Planks of cedar and pine were stacked neatly against the walls. Wooden stools, unfinished toys, and parts of a dismantled cart lay scattered across the open space. Sunlight streamed in through the high windows, illuminating dust that danced gently in the air.

  I stepped inside.

  At first, he didn’t notice me.

  Han Seokjin stood at his workbench, head bowed, running a plane over a long slab of oak. His motions were slow, focused—patient, like always. A thin line of sawdust curled away from the blade, falling to the floor in a perfect spiral.

  I cleared my throat lightly.

  He paused, turned halfway—and froze.

  His eyes locked on mine.

  For a moment, he didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just stared, as if I were a ghost come walking out of his past.

  “…Jinseo?”

  I gave a small bow. “It’s good to see you again, Seokjin ajusshi.”

  He blinked. “You… you’re awake.”

  “I am.”

  He set the tool down slowly, hands trembling just slightly. “They said you were alive, but… I didn’t think you’d come here.”

  “Why wouldn’t I?” I asked softly.

  He let out a breath—part relief, part disbelief—and leaned back against his bench. “You’re a prince. You’ve returned from a coma, stronger than ever, with the whole kingdom holding its breath… and you come to see an old carpenter in a dusty shop.”

  I stepped further into the room, fingers grazing the surface of a half-built cradle. “You’re not just any carpenter.”

  He scoffed, trying to hide the shine in his eyes. “Still silver-tongued, I see.”

  “You taught me how to work with my hands when no one else would,” I said. “You treated me like a student, not a prince.”

  He crossed his arms, finally smiling. “And you were terrible at sanding. Don’t think I forgot.”

  I laughed. “Only at first.”

  He stepped closer, studied my face. “You’ve changed.”

  “We all have.”

  Seokjin nodded slowly. “Still… I didn’t think I’d ever hear your footsteps in this workshop again.”

  I looked around the room—the tools, the light, the quiet.

  “I owed you that sound.”

  After meeting carpenter Seo I went to meet blacksmith JANG.

  The forge was louder than I remembered.

  Sparks flew from within, lighting the air with brief flashes of orange. The rhythm of hammer against steel echoed through the alley like a heartbeat—strong, steady, unchanging.

  I stepped into the warm glow of the blacksmith’s workshop. The heat hit first, then the scent of metal and smoke.

  And there he was.

  Jang Hyukseon.

  He didn’t look up.

  He stood with his back to me, hammer in hand, striking a glowing blade with the same power and focus I remembered. His muscles moved like cords beneath his shirt, every motion precise. A man carved from discipline.

  “You’re late,” he said, without turning.

  I blinked.

  “You knew I was coming?”

  He grunted. “Didn’t need a letter. Didn’t need a guard to announce it. My bones told me yesterday. Felt it in the steel.”

  He struck the blade one last time, then plunged it into the trough beside him with a hiss. Steam rose around him like smoke off a battlefield.

  Then he turned.

  His face was older. Hair a little more grey. But his eyes—sharp and steady—were the same as they’d always been.

  He looked at me for a long moment.

  “Still short,” he muttered.

  I couldn’t help but smile. “And you still talk too much.”

  He snorted. “You used to come in here with bruises on your hands and calluses too soft to grip a hammer. Now look at you.”

  I held up my hand—scarred, stronger, steadier.

  “You helped shape these,” I said.

  He stepped forward and studied my face. “There’s more behind your eyes now.”

  “There had to be.”

  He nodded once. “You’re not just a prince anymore.”

  “I never was, not really.”

  That made him smile—just slightly. “You came back here to remember.”

  “And to thank you.”

  He turned, walked over to a cloth-covered table, and lifted the sheet.

  Beneath it rested a sheathed sword—sleek, dark steel, the hilt bound in black and silver thread. He picked it up with both hands and held it out to me.

  “Didn’t make this for a king,” he said. “Didn’t make it for a soldier.”

  “Then who?”

  He met my gaze. “For the boy who stood in my forge and asked how to shape fire.”

  I reached out and took the sword. It felt familiar the moment my fingers closed around the grip. Balanced. Clean. Alive.

  I bowed deeply. “Thank you, Hyukseon ajusshi.”

  He gave a low hum, then turned back toward the anvil.

  “Next time,” he said, lifting his hammer again, “don’t wait two years.”

  Night was drawing near.

  The sky dimmed into hues of violet and amber as the final light of the sun sank behind the hills. It was time to return.

  Me and my three attendants—Baekho, Eunchae, and Sohwa—quietly made our way back to the palace. We said little along the path, each step a soft echo of a full day lived. I carried the scent of wood, metal, and rice fields on my clothes. Soryun still clung to me.

  When I arrived, the palace felt calmer than usual. Lanterns were being lit. Servants moved gently through the halls. I walked alone to my chamber, expecting silence.

  But there were voices.

  Soft, familiar—discussing something behind the door.

  I entered.

  My Eomeoni sat near the window, a warm cup of tea in her hands. My Abeonim stood beside the table, his arms crossed but his posture relaxed. They both turned toward me.

  “Sit down, adeura,” my father said.

  I obeyed quietly, folding my legs beneath me.

  He looked at me for a moment—stern as always, but something gentler resting in his eyes.

  “It’s time for you to begin attending the royal academy,” he said. “Starting tomorrow.”

  My chest rose slowly with breath.

  The Royal School.

  I looked at both of them. My mother gave a small, knowing smile. My father nodded once, proud and firm.

  They believed in me.

  They always had.

  “You’ve already walked farther than most ever dream to,” my mother said. “This is just another step.”

  I bowed my head, heart steady.

  “Yes, Abeonim. Yes, Eomeoni,” I answered. “I’ll make you proud.”

  They didn’t say another word—just looked at me with quiet smiles that carried the weight of love, trust, and something deeper.

  They knew.

  I would do more than fine.

  Both my parent gives me a good night kiss as they leave to retire for the day.

  Tomorrow would begin a new chapter. Not one of blades or battlefields—but of books, politics, rivals, and the unknown.

  I stood at the window for a while, watching the wind ripple through the palace gardens.

  It’s time for me to rest.

  Time to sleep… and prepare.

  Because by dawn, I would be on the road—

  to the Royal School.