Jin Mugwang's Anguish (1)
That night, the entire Baekryong Unit was moved into the manor.
After long-distance travel through mountains and wilderness, they were finally provided with proper food, rest, clothing, and sleeping quarters.
All of them were accommodated in the western annex and its attached buildings.
For the first time in a long while, they were able to lean back and lie down in warm rooms.
How the situation had been resolved no longer mattered.
For now, the simple fact that they could rest was enough.
Yet the General's anguish was not a simple matter of choice.
It was not about his personal path, but about the direction of an entire era.
If even a single line were to leak into the world—that he had met Princess Sohye, who vanished after the coup—only one word would be placed before his name.
Traitor.
No matter what he said, no matter the reason he had knelt, interpretation would already be in the hands of those who held power.
Explanations would not be heard.
Loyalty would not be proven.
Silence would become confession.
His ancestral home in Henan would not escape annihilation either.
Blood relatives, distant kin who lived quietly farming their land, even obscure branches whose names he barely knew—all would be implicated.
Power feeds on suspicion.
Suspicion does not rest until it is uprooted entirely.
If he stepped wrongly even once, the blade would not fall only on his neck—it would fall upon his entire clan.
He understood this better than anyone.
He had seen much blood on the battlefield.
But that had been the blood of enemies.
The blood he now faced would be his own.
Princess Sohye had asked for his loyalty.
It was not courtesy.
It was the language of compulsion.
To stand with her was not merely to aid a woman.
It was to deny imperial authority.
It meant another coup.
The current emperor was cruel.
The Chancellor was calculating.
The Black Blades wielded steel from the shadows.
Yet the three moved as one.
They restrained one another, yet conspired absolutely when it came to preserving imperial power.
Their triangular balance was corrupt, yet firm.
To force one's way into its cracks required blood.
And the one who would stand at the front of that bloodshed would be him.
If Princess Sohye gained Jin Mugwang, it would be no different from gaining an army of thousands.
A general without stain, who had fought only foreign enemies.
A man who formed no faction, held no private ambition, and built his name solely through merit.
If such a man stood with the exiled princess, ministers would waver.
Hidden power-brokers would recalculate.
The people would whisper:
"General Jin stands with her."
That single sentence would become a banner.
A justification.
A claim to legitimacy.
With his strength, even scattered rabble could become an army.
With his name, discontent could become force.
Those who dreamed of reclaiming the capital might begin to move.
The dream might not even be impossible.
And that was what made it dangerous.
The moment he moved, the political order would convulse in blood once more.
The sword that once struck foreign enemies would turn upon those beneath the same sky.
And above all, one question tormented him.
Toward whom should loyalty be directed?
He had upheld loyalty all his life.
He had been taught that loyalty meant serving the emperor, serving the court, protecting the people.
But when the emperor changed, when the court changed, when legitimacy itself inverted—where should that loyalty land?
They say imperial authority comes from the people, and that the people's will is Heaven's will.
Then where does the people's will now point?
Do war-weary citizens desire restoration?
Or do they simply desire rice for tonight?
Is loyalty service to established power?
Is it doing one's utmost for the present regime?
Or is it devotion to the last remnant of a once-righteous authority?
They say when Heaven's Mandate changes, revolution is justified.
But who has ever seen where Heaven's Mandate rests?
Heaven does not speak.
They say he who gains the people gains Heaven.
But the people change when hungry, and fall silent when afraid.
By what standard, then, should he raise his sword?
He fought for the emperor.
He fought for the court.
He fought for the nation.
But now—what should he fight for?
Learning that Princess Sohye was the mistress of the manor, Jin Mugwang walked the western garden and could not sleep.
Moonlight fell pale, and each step crushed dry earth with a hollow sound.
He had faced encirclement on the battlefield dozens of times without fear.
Yet now he could not draw his sword.
This was not a battle that steel could resolve.
It was a choice that divided eras.
One step could save hundreds of lives.
Or cast thousands into ruin.
In battle, his decisions had always been swift.
Now he could not take even a single step.
Under the moonlight, his shadow stretched long.
It resembled a man standing at a forked road.
Advance—and there would be blood.
Stand still—and there would be blood.
In that space between,
Jin Mugwang faced something heavier than his sword for the first time.
Moonlight washed the courtyard in pale white.
Beneath the eaves and along the curved railings, he sensed the presence of hidden guards.
They held their breath, yet did not trust completely.
A large manor.
Many warriors.
The formation that had confined Soyun.
The fact that they had summoned him knowing exactly who he was.
All this made one thing clear.
Princess Sohye was not merely seeking quiet refuge.
She dreamed of restoration.
It would function as rebellion against the current imperial authority.
To her, it was less ambition than vengeance for parents who had fallen unjustly.
Yet righteousness does not guarantee outcome.
The Chancellor was capable.
The Black Blades were ruthless and efficient.
The Emperor, though immoral, would sacrifice anything to preserve power.
The three could not exist without one another, yet together they could crush any attempt at restoration.
Force, intelligence, experience, and boundless hunger for power formed a delicate equilibrium.
Corrupt—yet durable.
To disturb it would mean blood.
And that blood would fall first upon the common people.
Princess Sohye sought him because she needed force.
His name traveled faster than steel.
Where he stood became justification.
He knew he was both sword and banner.
That was why he feared it.
Banners gather men.
Men bring blood.
And the banner bears the burden of that blood.
The battlefield is clear.
The enemy stands before you; allies stand behind.
Politics is not clear.
Yesterday's enemy becomes today's ally.
Today's loyalty becomes tomorrow's treason.
Drawing that boundary was not the domain of a warrior.
Yet he was being forced to do so.
Even when he did not draw his blade, the blade was already in his hand.
Was the loyalty he gave the late emperor already finished?
Does loyalty change simply because the throne changes?
Is serving the present emperor loyalty?
Or is standing with righteousness loyalty?
How is righteousness measured?
By blood?
By legitimacy?
By the welfare of the people?
There is justification in supporting Princess Sohye.
But at the end of that path lies another war.
War is familiar to him.
And that is precisely why he fears it.