Lee Youngjin closed his eyes. Squinted. The silk robes he wore felt foreign against his skin—too smooth, too expensive, too wrong.
He squeezed his eyelids tighter, hoping, praying for this dream to end. For him to wake up in a hospital bed with fluorescent lights buzzing overhead and the smell of antiseptic in the air.
'Come on, come on... wake up. Yeah, it must be a dream.'
He couldn't believe he'd just entered his favorite web novel. That was impossible.
That was insane. Any second now, he'd open his eyes and be back in his studio apartment, his manager yelling at him for missing the opportunity of a lifetime. That was the only logical explanation.
The only one his scrambled brain could hold onto.
'That's right. I must have read too many of those reincarnation web novels lately. Seriously. Me? Inside Song of the Court Sparrow?'
He kept his eyes shut, willing himself awake. But he could feel them watching him—the man in the topknot, the woman in servant robes.
Their presence pressed against his closed lids like a weight. He could hear the soft rustle of their clothes, the quiet shuffle of their feet. Waiting.
Finally, a voice. Small. Trembling.
"Your Highness… should I fetch the physician?"
The woman.
Youngjin's jaw tightened. Your Highness. The words grated against his ears.
"No. No, I'm fine. Just… give me a moment."
He said it, but he couldn't wake up. No matter how hard he tried, the darkness behind his eyes remained. No fluorescent lights. No beeping machines. Just the smell of sandalwood and the silence of a world that shouldn't exist.
Frustration coiled in his chest. Hot. Tight. Unbearable.
He stood abruptly—too fast. His legs nearly gave out. The room tilted. But he caught himself, anger burning through the weakness, and turned on the attendants before him.
His eyes landed on the woman. Young. Scared. Her hands were clasped in front of her, knuckles white.
"You," he said. "What's your name?"
"D-Doona, my lord." Her voice cracked. "Your attendant. And this is..." She gestured to the man beside her, who quickly bowed. "This is Attendant Park, my lord. And I am Lady Doona. We... we serve your chambers. Do you not remember us?"
Youngjin barely heard the names. His pulse was too loud in his ears.
"Ugh. Whatever. Doona. Come here. Pinch my arm."
The girl's face went pale. "I wouldn't dare, my lord. How can I, a lowly servant—"
"Come on. Do it. Fast."
She looked at Attendant Park, desperate for guidance. The older man's face was a mask of confusion and fear. Finding no help there, Doona stepped forward on trembling legs. She reached out one small hand, pinched the delicate skin of his inner arm between her fingers, and squeezed.
"Ouch!" Youngjin yelped.
The pain was sharp. Real. Undeniable.
Doona immediately dropped to her knees, forehead nearly touching the floor. "My lord! I'm so sorry! I deserve death!"
Attendant Park dropped beside her, his voice a panicked whisper. "My lord, please forgive her—"
But Youngjin wasn't listening. He was staring at his arm. At the red mark blooming on pale, unfamiliar skin. At the sting that wouldn't fade.
'It hurts,' he thought. 'So this... this isn't a dream?'
Below him, Doona was still prostrate, her small shoulders shaking. Waiting for a punishment that would never come.
But Youngjin was already moving.
He strode to the door, his legs still unsteady but fueled by something desperate. Something that he needed to see.
"My lord!" Attendant Park scrambled to his feet. "The physician said you shouldn't move too much—"
Youngjin pushed the door open.
The sunlight hit him first—bright, almost blinding after the dimness of his chambers. He threw up a hand to shield his eyes, squinting against the glare.
Then his vision cleared.
And the world expanded.
He was standing at the edge of a courtyard that seemed to stretch forever. Stone pathways wound through carefully manicured gardens, past ancient pine trees that had probably stood for centuries.
A pond glittered in the distance, its surface scattered with lotus blossoms. Beyond it, row after row of tiled roofs curved toward the sky like sleeping birds, each one more elegant than the last.
The mountains rose in the background, blue and hazy against the horizon, guarding this place like silent sentinels.
Servants moved through the courtyard in pairs, their grey robes a soft contrast against the green. They carried trays, scrolls, bundles of laundry. They walked with their eyes lowered, their steps quick and purposeful.
And then they saw him.
One by one, they stopped. Turned. Bowed.
"Good morning, my lord."
The words rippled through the courtyard like a wave. Another servant. Another bow. Another murmured greeting.
"Good morning, my lord."
"Good morning, my lord."
Youngjin stood frozen in the doorway, the sunlight warming his face, the scent of pine and earth filling his lungs. His hands—not his hands—hung at his sides. His silk robes—Prince Lee Hyun's robes—fell in perfect lines against his too-thin frame.
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
No sound came out.
Because there, in the middle of the mansion that shouldn't exist, surrounded by people who bowed to a face that wasn't his, Lee Youngjin finally understood.
'I'm really in the novel, aren't I?' he whispered. The words were swallowed by the wind, heard by no one but himself.
'I'm really Prince Lee Hyun.'
* * *
Near The Pavilion of Fleeting Clouds...
Four men carried the palanquin in perfect sync, their movements practiced, their eyes fixed on the ground.
Inside, a man sat in silence, his face hidden behind the draped curtains. The palanquin swayed gently as it moved through the streets of Han-Ju, the capital of the Noesoj Dynasty, past merchant stalls and crowded alleys, until finally, it slowed.
They had reached the Pavilion of Fleeting Clouds.
A swordsman walked beside the palanquin, his hand never leaving the hilt of his blade. Behind him, a small retinue of guards followed in formation. The palanquin lowered with a soft thud, and a servant rushed forward to draw back the curtain.
The man who stepped out was dressed in the deep green robes of a dangsanggwan—a high-ranking minister.
The silk was embroidered with cranes, symbols of his rank, and the wide sleeves fell just short of his wrists. Around his waist, a jade belt gleamed in the afternoon light.
His hat, black and stiff, sat perfectly atop his head, its winged sides marking him as someone who stood just below the throne itself.
Minister Kim. Left State Minister. Head of the House of Kim.
He stepped forward without waiting for assistance, his boots landing firm on the stone path. His face was unreadable—the practiced stillness of a man who had spent decades hiding his thoughts behind a mask of courtly composure.
The gate to the Pavilion opened before him.
Inside, the air smelled of incense and wine. The madam of the house, a woman in a silk dangui with hair pinned high, appeared immediately, her smile wide, her bow deep.
"Minister Kim," she said, her voice honey-sweet. "What an honor. Truly. The Pavilion is blessed by your presence today."
He did not acknowledge her. Not with words. Just a slight tilt of his head, a gesture that said lead the way.
She did.
Through the courtyard they walked, past paper screens painted with autumn chrysanthemums, past servants carrying trays of pear wine and jeonggwa. The murmur of voices grew louder as they approached the inner chamber.
The madam slid the door open.
Inside, several men sat on cushioned mats around a low table. Their robes marked them as officials of rank—second ministers, vice directors, the men who ran the court while pretending the king ran the country. They looked up as Minister Kim entered.
One by one, they rose.
A deep bow. A murmured greeting. The shuffling of silk against wooden floors.
"Minister Kim."
"Left State Minister."
"Please, take the seat of honor."
He did not smile. He did not thank them. He simply walked to the center of the room, where the largest cushion sat empty, waiting for him.
He lowered himself onto it with the grace of a man who had sat in this exact position a hundred times before. The others followed, settling back into their places, the easy talk of moments ago replaced by a careful silence.
Only when Minister Kim picked up his wine cup did the tension ease. Only when he drank did the others allow themselves to breathe.
The madam slid the door closed behind her, and the Pavilion of Fleeting Clouds swallowed their secrets once more.
As soon as the madam slid the door closed behind her, she hurried down the corridor, her silk skirts whispering against the wooden floor. She did not stop until she reached the room at the end of the hall—the one reserved for their finest.
She slid the door open.
Inside, a girl sat in silence before a gayageum. The instrument's silk strings caught the candlelight, waiting. The room smelled of incense and aged wood, of a hundred nights spent practicing until fingers bled.
The girl sat in front of the bronze mirror, her back straight, her face still. Her reflection stared back: young. Too young for the weight settled behind her eyes.
The madam stepped inside, her voice dropping to a low, hurried tone.
"Soojin. The minister and the others have arrived. It's time for you to perform."
Soojin did not turn. Her fingers found the strings again, plucking once, twice—searching for the right pitch. The note hung in the air, lonely and sharp.
The madam moved closer. "This is your chance. If you catch the eye of a noble, you could be brought inside. A gisaeng who serves the court is worth more than ten who serve merchants."
Soojin's reflection smiled.
It was a beautiful smile. Perfect. Rehearsed.
It did not reach her eyes.
"I know," she said.
The madam lingered for a moment, something flickering across her face—pity, perhaps, or recognition. Then she turned and left, sliding the door closed behind her.
The room fell silent.
Soojin's fingers stilled on the strings.
Slowly, she reached under her sleeve and pulled out a small piece of paper. Old. Folded so many times the creases had softened, the edges threatening to crumble. She unfolded it with the care of someone handling something sacred.
Names. A list of names.
She touched each one with the tip of her finger, tracing the ink like a prayer.
"It's time..." she whispered.
She folded the paper again. Slid it back into her sleeve. Picked up the gayageum and settled it across her lap.
Her fingers found the strings.
When she played, the notes rose like smoke—beautiful, drifting, dissolving before they could be caught. It was the sound of a woman who had buried her heart long ago and never intended to dig it up.
Outside, the ministers were waiting.
Soojin rose. Adjusted her sleeve. Let the mask settle over her face—the smile, the grace, the empty eyes.
She was ready.