Goi sat atop a gentle hill overlooking Paromi County, the agricultural heart of western Golpo Gaya. The landscape stretched endlessly in every direction, a vast ocean of golden grain, with the village of Paromi resting like a tranquil isle in its center. Finishing his rice ball, Goi dusted his hands and stood. A breeze stirred the hem of his robe, setting the bronze bells at his waist to a soft, melodic chime.
When their ringing faded, he murmured into the breeze, "I know. I saw it."
Far below, a boy—no older than fifteen, dressed in elegant silk—broke through the stalks, his breath ragged, his strides uneven. Behind him, a cluster of armed soldiers surged forward in relentless pursuit.
Goi watched, unmoving, as the scene unfolded below.
Ansang stumbled to a halt and glanced over his shoulder at the men gaining on him. "Grandfather was right," he muttered bitterly, clutching at his aching calves. "Exercise matters more than books... A weak body breeds a weak spirit. The clever who lack strength become hypocrites."
He'd always thought of it as the ramblings of an old man. Now, gasping for air in the middle of a sunlit field, those words rang truer than any lesson ever taught in the study hall. He rubbed his knees, legs heavy with fatigue.
The top of the hill was just beyond reach. Grandfather had said it plainly: If something ever goes terribly wrong, go to the thatched house beyond the hill. Seek the man there. He will help you.
But how had Lord Beomyeon known?
Ansang glanced toward the hilltop one last time, then resumed his sprint, legs burning.
From the moment he could remember, he had been raised in the house of his mother's family—the great Beomyeon clan, once stalwart allies of Prince Sowon before growing wary of the prince's overreach. Lord Beomyeon, his grandfather, had held the rank of Chief Chancellor, the highest civil position in the capital. Though the old man rarely spoke ill of others, Ansang had always sensed it: the loathing he harbored for Hachu, Ansang's father.
Whenever the name came up, Grandfather would fall silent, his brow furrowing into hard, bitter lines. The courtiers of the Beomyeon estate never spoke of Hachu in front of the boy, but servants and maids whispered freely. Hachu was a low-born opportunist, they said—ambitious, shameless, and hungry for power. He had climbed by marrying into nobility, bribing the sister of Princess Aikjin, and selling out allies when it suited him.
As a child, Ansang had loved those rare visits from his father—every three months like clockwork. But over time, that affection had cooled. He saw what others saw: the sycophancy, the cruelty, the cowardice dressed up as strength. And yet, he hadn't minded much. His true family was here, among the uncles who praised his cleverness and the grandfather who guided his mind like a seasoned gardener tending a sapling.
Then, one spring, all the uncles came home.
For three days and nights, the house stirred with murmurs and messengers, hemp oil lamps casting wavering shadows across lacquered tables. At last, Ansang was summoned.
"A grave matter is unfolding in Paromi," his grandfather said. "You will go. Watch carefully. Guard your mother. If you sense danger, bring her home. I trust your judgment."
The weight of that trust pressed heavily on him—but beneath it stirred a quiet pride.
Within a fortnight of arriving in Paromi, he had gathered more than enough to understand what the whole county whispered behind closed doors. In less than a year, Hachu had become a tyrant. Every position of power had been handed to his kin. Taxes soared. Commoners were flogged. Worse still, his father had executed his own subordinates—men once hailed as war heroes—branding them traitors, and putting their families to death.
Ansang had considered fleeing with his mother more than once.
And then, just a month ago, everything changed.
Hachu, laid low by a minor illness, vanished from public view for three days. When he returned, he was… different. Cold, silent, and relentless. Without warning, he summoned the guards and had every one of his siblings arrested. Trials were held in public squares. One by one, the family that had supported his rule were convicted of corruption, their pleas ignored. Even the youngest—his beloved baby brother—was executed by Hachu's own hand.
The people cheered. The soldiers hesitated. And Ansang, overwhelmed, wept tears of relief in his mother's arms. At last, he thought. Perhaps he has changed.
But today—this very morning—his mother had been seized.
And now he was running for his life, branded a traitor.
His legs trembled. He risked another glance behind him.
"Damn it," he gasped. "I should've listened to Grandfather…"
The boy, breathless and soaked in sweat, paused atop the dry-packed earth. His lungs burned. His legs trembled. Yet his eyes—sharp with purpose—flicked toward the hill one last time.
"If I'd only made it over that ridge…" he muttered under his breath, frustration and despair mingling.
Behind him, armored footsteps pounded through the golden grain, drawing nearer. He turned to face them.
Five soldiers broke through the tall barley, forming a semicircle. Their captain, older and hardened by routine rather than war, stepped forward with deliberate calm.
"By order of the Governor, we are to escort you back, young master," he said—not unkindly, but with the certainty of someone obeying power, not conscience.
"I told you already!" the boy snapped, his voice cracking with anger. "I have a promise to keep with a friend beyond that hill. I'll be home before sunset!""
The soldiers hesitated. Their orders had been clear. Yet this boy—this slight, noble-voiced youth—stood with a defiance that momentarily unsettled them.
The captain gave a slow shake of his head. "Seize the traitor."
The soldiers moved to act.
But before a hand could reach the boy, a soft chime rang out—not loud, but impossibly clear.