It felt like a faint memory, almost a dream.
But that dream was shattered by a bolt from the blue.
“Your Highness, please, you must rise!” a voice urged.
Just a bit longer.
“No, Your Highness!”
The voice waking me at dawn was, naturally, Hanseon’s. I couldn’t ignore it—he was practically pleading, trying to rouse me.
Why couldn’t I sleep in today?
Grumbling, I opened my eyes to see Hanseon, holding ceremonial robes, looking frantic. He held the robes carefully, one hand reaching out then retracting, as if afraid to touch my hair. It was oddly endearing.
The intricate embroidery on the robes caught my eye.
Those robes looked familiar—what were they?
What were they for?
Then it hit me.
They were prepared for King Bonhyeon’s birthday banquet.
And with that realization—
Oh.
Today was the day.
“Today, huh?”
King Bonhyeon’s birthday banquet.
It was today.
“Hurry and rise, Your Highness,” Hanseon pressed.
If that’s the case, I’d better get moving.
I wasn’t thrilled, but I dragged myself out of the suffocating binds of sleep.
I pulled my body up. The warmed silk bedding felt more oppressive than the ropes of the royal guard.
But I had to overcome it with sheer willpower.
“I’ll assist from here, Your Highness,” Hanseon said.
He opened the bedroom door, and palace maids entered with washbasins.
I lowered my head, unsure what to say.
Looking at the basin, I saw my reflection staring back.
For the first time in a while, I washed my face properly.
“Ugh, that’s cold.”
Even after washing, I didn’t feel awake.
Was the ringing in my head from not fully waking, or a side effect of my ability?
Probably both.
What a beggar’s life.
“Hanseon,” I called.
“Yes, Your Highness?”
I glanced at the maids who hadn’t left yet.
“Bring that tea. It’s earlier than usual, but I need a cup before heading out. Make it stronger than normal—I don’t want to mess up and end up a laughingstock like Shin Gwiryeong.”
What if I lost my temper in front of foreign envoys? That’d be the end of my chances at the throne. Not today.
I had to do this.
At my words, Hanseon’s face paled as he replied nervously, “Yes, I’ll prepare it at once, Your Highness.”
He left the bedroom, followed by the maids with the basins.
By the way—
I rubbed my chin, looking at the mirror on the table.
“Not bad, if I do say so.”
It felt a shame to be called a wastrel with a face like this. It was handsome enough to spark rumors, yet it was overshadowed by my wastrel reputation. There was a reason I felt so wronged. This face was more than just decent—it was striking.
A refined forehead, pale skin from late-night outings rather than sunlit days, almost like it was dusted with powder. Sleek, upturned eyes gave a mischievous air, lips always curved in a subtle smirk. My hair, darker than most, stood out.
But a handsome face wasn’t always a blessing. The slanted eyes looked cunning, the pallor made me seem sensitive. And I probably was—my temperament matched my appearance.
Was this what they called a villainous face?
No one would call it saintly, but it wasn’t the work of a painter laboring for days, either. It was no joke or arrogance—honestly, it was a face that held its own anywhere. Born in a pleasure house, I’d have been called a heartthrob.
The problem was, with this face, I was still a wastrel. That I couldn’t be seen favorably despite it was the frustrating part.
If I’d just sat still and breathed, I’d have been adored. But sitting still wasn’t the issue—the issue was being a wastrel.
If I’d been born this way as a beggar, would I have scraped by better?
If a pretty boy like me begged, people might toss a few extra coins.
It’s my fault, all my fault.
The banquet was here.
King Bonhyeon hadn’t arrived yet. As the host, he’d likely enter last.
Is that my seat?
I asked quietly, and Hanseon replied, “Yes, Your Highness.”
Today, his face was especially tense, as if I might cause an unexpected disaster.
If I messed up today, wouldn’t Hanseon die of shock?
For his sake, I decided to behave and just observe the banquet. I couldn’t send my loyal, hardworking Hanseon to the afterlife.
I approached my assigned seat.
Naturally, it was next to Yehwi’s.
As I neared, he shot me a strange look, as if asking why I was here.
If this wasn’t the place for me, the first prince, then who was it for? No matter how much of a wastrel I was, I didn’t need to forgo filial piety at my father’s birthday banquet, did I?
But Yehwi’s expression suggested he’d prefer if this bastard son disappeared from the scene.
It wasn’t just my negative bias misreading his face—it was genuinely so.
I stared at Yehwi, then gave a bright smile and sat down.
The more it annoyed him, the bolder I’d smile.
His face soured further.
Watching that rotting expression in real-time, I felt today might be quite enjoyable.
Starting the morning with my handsome face, it’d surely be a better day than for my ugly little brother.
Ignoring Yehwi’s venomous glare, I surveyed the surroundings, thinking:
The duel with his escorts is set for soon.
What face will he make when I win, claiming the Deposed Queen’s swords?
I’ll keep up this wastrel act perfectly.
He must be certain I’d never beat his escorts.
People don’t change overnight, so if I’m the wastrel Grand Prince Ikwon, I shouldn’t even defeat his escorts.
Quite amusing.
Another reason piled up to take those swords from him.
I wanted to see that smug face crumble into embarrassment.
Laughter burst out—mine or his?
“Your Highness?” Hanseon called worriedly.
My stifled laughter must have seemed odd.
“It’s nothing,” I said, waving him off.
Glancing at Yehwi, I turned away, lest others think I loved my brother too much.
Looking around the banquet hall, many had already taken their seats. Only designated people could sit in designated spots, so empty seats for latecomers stood out. The royal family, including me, sat on a raised platform, making it more noticeable.
Everyone wore formal attire, their ranks clear at a glance. High officials donned lavish robes, while lower officials wore simpler ones.
Warriors. Warrior attire.
Shin Gwiryeong’s words came to mind.
There’s clothing that suits each person, Your Highness.
Suitable clothing?
Muttering to myself, Hanseon, still unable to hide his unease, glanced at me.
What clothing suits me best? Hanseon’s attire didn’t look bad, though.
By the way, if this is the king’s birthday banquet, did my lord come?
Invitations likely went to most lords. Wouldn’t Hyeolyunseong have received one? Though it’s a remote fortress, its history and importance rival any city.
But I couldn’t recall Lord Hyeolyunseong ever leaving Seopyeong. If an invitation reached them now, it would’ve after I entered the palace. Yet he never came to the capital, so he probably didn’t come here either.
I asked Hanseon, standing nearby.
“Hanseon.”
“Yes, Your Highness?”
“Which lords were invited, usually?”
“It’s not my responsibility, so I don’t know details, but it’s customary to invite the lords of the eight major cities and those near the borders. Unless His Majesty specifies otherwise—”
Then Hyeolyunseong must have received an invitation.
Did he come or not?
It’d be nice to see him, even from afar.
I hoped he was safe, but I wanted to confirm.
From my seat, I couldn’t see the faces of the gathered lords clearly. Even squinting, I couldn’t spot anyone resembling Lord Hyeolyunseong.
No choice if he’s not here.
Sighing, I glanced at Yehwi with a sidelong look.
The noble families, risen by the pen, firmly backed him. The maternal clan, who drove the first queen to her death to take her place, would be his sword and shield on his path to the throne.
But he was mistaken. A pen is a pen, a sword is a sword. A pen can’t become a sword, nor a sword a pen. Even if he navigated the current crisis, a pen would eventually break.
To withstand great storms, you need a weapon. That weapon could never be a pen. Yehwi’s suitable clothing wasn’t that of a warrior—it was certain.
The pen-driven attire of scholars shines in peaceful times.
To endure the world’s tempests, you must don iron armor.
Suddenly, the surroundings grew noisy.
Thinking King Bonhyeon had arrived, I straightened up quickly, but it was Queen Wu, Yehwi’s mother, entering.
Her lavish robes and ornate accessories marked her as the queen from a hundred paces. Naturally, all eyes turned to her.
The perfect arrival for Yehwi’s mother brightened his sullen face.
No one’s even glancing this way.
Who’s sulking now?
As the queen entered, seated guests began rising, exchanging glances. The banquet hadn’t started, so moving wasn’t an issue.
They flocked to her and Yehwi. It didn’t take long for sycophants to fill the space around her.
What a sight.
Was this what they called wounded pride?
The scene was so embarrassing, even Hanseon started sniffling.
I let out a scoff and asked, “Hanseon, what’s wrong with you now?”
“Your Highness,” he said, looking around, probably worried others were watching me.
Don’t worry, Hanseon. No one cares about me.
But soon, the crowd around the queen returned to their seats. Shortly after, a grand horn sounded.
King Bonhyeon had arrived.