The chambers were silent, but for the ragged sound of Yunxi's own breathing, trembling against the pain and fear that gripped him. His face was pressed against the cold stone floor, his body bruised and torn, his clothes sticky with blood and sweat. Then came the voice—low, dangerous, impossibly calm, yet filled with a lethal promise.
"Yunxi," the king called, his voice a blade that cut sharper than any sword, "I can kill every last person in your life just to get you to talk."
Yunxi snapped upright, eyes wide, tears streaming freely down his pale cheeks. He shook his head violently, trying to shake off the terror clawing at him. His voice was hoarse, broken by fear, yet he forced it out.
"I—I said it already! It was me… me!! I did it!"
Han Ji—his King, his Emperor—smirked, a slow, deliberate movement that made Yunxi's stomach twist. He rose from his chair and walked past Yunxi, his steps echoing ominously in the chamber. He approached the sword rack, a line of gleaming blades arranged like deadly instruments of justice. His fingers brushed over the hilts, stopping at one particular sword. With meticulous care, he drew it from its sheath, then began to wipe it, removing the dust as if the act itself were a ritual. His face remained unreadable, a mask of composure hiding something infinitely darker.
Yunxi stayed where he was, his body shaking from fever, fear, or both. Every muscle screamed in protest, yet he could not move. He swallowed desperately, the sound wet and frantic in the cold chamber. He thought, What is he going to do?
"Yunxi," Han Ji began, his voice suddenly calm again, "do you remember that place?" He paused, tilting his head as though searching for something unseen. "At the fall…"
Yunxi could barely hear over the hammering of his heart.
"You definitely don't," Han Ji continued, polishing the blade slowly. "You must have abandoned everything when I left."
The king turned to face Yunxi fully now, eyes sharp and unrelenting.
"…right?"
"There was nothing left there for me to see, besides…" Yunxi's voice cracked into a whisper, almost too small to hear. But Han Ji heard it anyway.
The king's expression darkened instantly, a low sound scraping from his lips—neither a smirk nor a laugh, but something far more chilling.
"Hey… Minister Kim's son," Han Ji said, his voice smooth and cold. "Think about what I said. I won't hesitate to make you an orphan."
He paused and continued, "Don't worry… it's not that bad to be one. You won't have anyone to have your back." Yunxi's throat tightened.
Han Ji's eyes gleamed with a dangerous mix of amusement and cruelty. The statement hung in the air, a reminder to Yunxi of how utterly alone the king truly was.
"Take him back to his cell," Han Ji ordered.
.....
Yunxi was thrown into the cell like a ragdoll. Pain radiated through his body as he groaned, barely able to lift himself off the cold stone floor. Slowly, trembling, he crawled to the metallic bars separating him from his family. Their faces were bruised, bloody, barely recognizable. Humiliation and despair tore at him, and he sank to his knees, tears flowing freely.
"Father! I… I can't do this anymore. I need to know… please, father…" His voice broke as he whispered, surrendering to hopelessness.
From the cell beside him came frantic cries. "Quick! Call the doctor! Guards!! Guards!! Grandma… she's dying… grandma!"
The chaos swelled, echoing through the corridors. "Get a cold towel!" someone shouted. Yunxi's father tried to keep calm, but Yunxi could see the panic in his eyes. "Father… father…" he wept. "I don't want to lose her… so please…"
Yunxi knew nothing of who had planted the poison that had killed the queen— he only knew that it came from within their household. Who had brought it? How? When? The questions gnawed at him endlessly. But one certainty remained: his father must know. He had delivered the poisoned cakes to him, which Yunxi interpreted as proof of the murder case.
The cruel irony was that Han Ji, the king, already knew the truth. He knew the letter the queen had sent before her illness, and he knew the minister's obsessive love for her, the love so fierce he could never share it. But Yunxi didn't know any of this. He believed he understood more than anyone—especially the king, Yunxi wanted him to remain in the dark. It was better—and that hubris was exactly what infuriated Han Ji.
Weeks earlier, the king had summoned Yunxi personally, asking him to tell the truth. He had promised to punish only the guilty. But Yunxi had lied again. When Han Ji asked for proof that Yunxi's father had stolen military secrets, Yunxi had refused to go behind his father's back, convinced that the king was fabricating a trap to avenge the late queen.
Han Ji had been furious. Yunxi's stubborn, foolish loyalty to his father—his inability to see beyond immediate appearances—drove the king to fury. Han Ji could have gathered the proof himself. He could have spared Yunxi entirely, punishing only the father. But Yunxi had to learn, the hard way.
And so he suffered, his family's pain reflecting onto him, his own ignorance and lies compounding the torment. Yunxi didn't know the king's strategy, the depth of his control, or the cruel precision with which Han Ji could manipulate the situation. All he knew was fear, pain, and the desperate need for answers he could not yet obtain.
As the cries echoed into the stone corridors, Yunxi sank against the cold metal, powerless, bruised, and trembling. He didn't know what went wrong, if anything he needed to remember the Gods. Yunxi knew Han Ji could be...he knew as much how he could turn into a monster and could no longer do anything about it. Not after all of this. Outside, Han Ji's chamber remained silent, the sword gleaming under the candlelight, a silent promise that the story was far from over.
And in that silence, one thought burned in Yunxi's mind: Why did this have to happen to me? Why did he—why them—why everything? What did he need to do?