Love 6

Faced with the Princess's question, which made it sound as if I absolutely had to do something, I clutched my bewildered head and thought hard about what on earth she could mean. One hypothesis rose to the surface.

What was it?

Was this, by any chance, civil-servant-style work?

Civil-servant-style work? It can't really be that, can it?

Whenever the word "official" attached itself to anything, you had to put on a show for the people above you. That was how the civil service worked—all ceremony and empty formality. A provincial governor was basically a high-ranking official of this era, so he probably needed something flashy to display to his superiors.

But with my previous life's mindset, the one thing I hated most was exactly that kind of bureaucratic performance. It was all about looking good, wasn't it?

Back in my old life, how much had I suffered when some law that had nothing to do with actual conditions suddenly passed and forced us to build completely impractical breeding facilities?

I steadied myself and asked the Princess again—leaving myself just enough room to retreat in case she decided I was being rude.

"Uh, it's something that would settle itself if we just leave it alone, isn't it? Do we really need to do something? Wouldn't it be better to reassure the people first and tell them everything will quiet down in a few days?

"It seems you need something to show someone… What sort of method would work?"

The Princess and the Governor both jerked their heads up and locked eyes, startled. They looked thoroughly caught out.

The Princess seemed to send a silent message; the two of them traded looks for a moment. When the exchange finished, the Governor and the Princess nodded one after the other, and something like an admission slipped from the Princess's lips.

"At first I took you for nothing more than a young hero, but you're a far more capable man than I expected. You're right. Just as you said, I need something to show. How do I even explain this… I wonder if Young Hero will understand…"

That was when it happened.

A hinge creaked without warning. The Princess had clearly ordered everyone away, yet the door eased open and the sound of the hinge grated through the reception hall.

Creeeak.

"Who's there!? I distinctly ordered that no one come near until our conversation was finished!"

The Princess's sharp cry shot toward the creaking hinge. I expected an apologetic voice from outside, but the heads that poked through the half-open door into the reception hall belonged to an unexpected pair—or rather, two poisonous creatures: Cho and Bin.

Tssrt?

Tssrrr?

They had turned their heads sideways and squeezed them through the narrow gap, staring at me with the clear questions "Dad, is there more talking left?" and "Do we have to wait longer? Why is that woman yelling?" Their antennae wriggled restlessly in the crack of the door.

Yo-hwa and the two of them were too large to come inside, so I had told them to wait at the entrance until the conversation ended. Apparently they couldn't stand it any longer and had stuck their heads in.

"My apologies, Your Highness. The children couldn't wait any longer."

"Ah… children?"

Afraid the kids would get scolded for interrupting the Princess, I quickly apologized and hurried to the door.

"Kids, Dad told you to wait. Just a little longer—the talk's almost finished, okay? Hang on a bit more, yeah?"

Tssrrr… "When's it gonna end? I'm booored!"

Tssrt. "Okay, Dad."

Bin whined while Cho nodded in agreement. True to form as the older sister, Cho coiled around Bin's body and pulled her back out through the gap.

Leaving Bin's continued grumbling ringing in my mind, I turned around—and found the Princess and the Governor staring in open shock. The Princess repeated the words in a voice that refused to believe them.

"Th-they understand speech!? And… d-daughters?"

"Ah…"

Earlier, trying to look professional, I had only shown Cho and Bin's outward appearance as if they were animals I simply dragged around. I had also told them to wait outside telepathically. Apparently the fact that the children understood words—and that I called them daughters—was astonishing.

Been a while since I showed them off. Well, they're royalty, so I'll be generous this once.

At the sight of their stunned faces I flung the reception hall door wide open and called Yo-hwa, Cho, and Bin waiting outside.

"Bin, Cho, Yo-hwa."

Tssrt?

Kishit?

The three gathered at the doorway. At the same time I called out the rest of the children who had been nestled against me and Hwa-eun.

"Yeondu, Hyangi, Seoli, Bingi. And Baby. These two are Moji and Soji. Forgive the late introduction. This is my family."

Seoli and Bingi burst from Hwa-eun's skirts with Baby balanced on their heads and scampered toward me. Moji and Soji, who had been resting like shoulder ornaments, stirred the moment their names were spoken. Then Hyangi and Yeondu popped out from my collar, and both the Governor's and the Princess's eyes flew wide open. When Hyangi nuzzled my cheek, their eyeballs nearly fell out of their sockets.

Surprising and fascinating, right? You can't see this without a VIP pass to the Poisonous Creature Garden…

I was just thinking the Princess ought to be grateful to me for the rest of her life for today's grand spectacle when her question reached me.

"F-family, you say?"

"Yes. As you can see, I'm a man who is completely crazy about poisonous creatures. So they are family."

That was the moment.

The instant the words left my mouth, the Princess shot to her feet. A broad smile bloomed across her face as she asked,

"Crazy about poisonous creatures? Is that truly so?"

"Yes, well—you could put it that way."

Her sudden delight left me slightly flustered.

Wh-what is this?

"I worried for nothing, then. In that case, it seems our conversation will go smoothly."

"Pardon?"

Suddenly she was saying our talk would go smoothly. Next she turned to her father-in-law with a request.

"It appears Young Hero is the one who can help me, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠so may I speak with him alone?"

"Excuse me!?"

I had no idea which point had made her so happy, but her face was unmistakably radiant with joy. The Princess was suddenly demanding a private audience.

I have a bad feeling about this…

A private audience that left me thoroughly uneasy.

Everyone else had been sent out, leaving only the Princess and me. My uneasy instinct proved correct—she lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper and issued a warning.

"Everything I say from this moment must remain absolutely secret. If word of this leaks, lives could be in danger. Do you understand?"

Damn it, I knew this felt wrong…

Even from the dramas of my previous life I knew that the safest way to keep living was to stay ignorant of political secrets.

With a wilted expression I carefully asked,

"C-can't I just… not hear it?"

The Princess flashed a mischievous smile, winked, and answered,

"No. Heh. If I don't tell you this, I don't think you'll help me. And only then will you be able to understand me."

"I'll help you either way. Let's see—how can I help Your Highness?"

I even offered to assist no matter what, but she shook her head. With a lofty expression that barely hid her amusement, the Princess commanded,

"This is an imperial order. Listen carefully."

"…"

An imperial order left me no choice. Wearing a long face, I resigned myself to hearing her out.

My expression only seemed to delight her further as she began her story.

"It was when I was six years old. For the first time, the sword at a Golden Guard's waist caught my eye. A beautiful blade hung with golden tassels. That must have been where it started—when I first went mad for the sword…"

Princess Gwando, Yu Ji-ryeon.

Ji-ryeon's first memory of the sword arrived hand in hand with tears.

"Wh-what is the meaning of this!? Why is the Princess crying?"

The Empress's thunderous rebuke crashed down at the sound of her wailing. Ji-ryeon wiped her tears and pointed at one of the Golden Guards.

Ji-ryeon was the sole legitimate child born of the Empress—the woman the Emperor favored above all others. Though she was a princess, from the moment of her birth she monopolized the Emperor's affection just as her mother did. Making her cry was the sort of offense that could cost a man his head, but a six-year-old Ji-ryeon had no way of knowing that.

The Golden Guard dropped to his knees, face drained of color, and cried out,

"P-please take my life, Your Majesty the Empress! Her Highness asked for my sword, and I only feared she might be hurt…"

"The sword, you say?"

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"Is that true, Princess?"

Ji-ryeon nodded through her tears. She had simply wanted to hang that glittering, golden-tasseled sword at her own waist just once.

"Swords are dangerous. You may not, Princess."

The Empress scolded her that swords were too dangerous, and the desire to wear one seemed to wither on the spot. Yet a few days later, when Ji-ryeon accompanied the Emperor to watch the Golden Guard drill, the dazzling martial display stole her eyes completely. Right then and there she begged the Emperor to let her learn the sword.

"The sword? Very well. If my Princess wishes to learn, then learn she shall. I will assign you an excellent instructor."

At first even the Emperor seemed to treat it lightly. Perhaps he thought it a childish whim; he simply ordered the commander of the Golden Guard to teach Ji-ryeon whatever swordsmanship she desired.

Thus began her first training.

That first session was a bitter disappointment from the start. She had imagined herself flourishing a gleaming blade in magnificent forms, but the commander—her new teacher—brought only a small wooden sword. One that fit her hand perfectly, about a foot and a half long.

"A wooden sword… It's short…"

"Your Highness, everyone begins with a wooden sword. If you started with a real blade and were injured, the consequences would be grave. Once you grow accustomed to the wooden sword, I will petition His Majesty for a true one. For now, let us simply grow familiar with it."

"Really!?"

"Of course. Now then, we begin with cutting…"

The commander of the Golden Guard seemed intent on teaching something proper, but the moment Ji-ryeon gripped the wooden sword she closed her eyes and recalled the Golden Guard's ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠sword dance she had watched ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠days before. Ignoring whatever the commander said, she slowly began to unfold the image in her mind.

At first, unused to moving while swinging a sword, she nearly toppled over. Yet with every repetition the motion grew more natural. When she finally lowered the wooden sword in satisfaction, she found the commander's face staring back at her with eyes wide in shock.

"M-martial genius!"

"Martial genius?"

The discovery of Ji-ryeon's extraordinary talent was reported to the Emperor at once. He rejoiced greatly and bestowed a true sword upon her—overjoyed that, though a woman, she was a prodigy of the ages. Thanks to that, Ji-ryeon was free to master sword arts as much as she wished. Yet the more she trained, the stranger the feeling became.

The further she extended the blade, the more she felt that the imperial family's supreme swordsmanship was not truly hers.

At twelve, Ji-ryeon asked the commander of the Golden Guard,

"Why does the imperial martial art feel less and less like my own the more I practice it?"

"You mean it does not feel like Your Highness's own?"

"Yes."

The commander fell into grave thought, then spoke carefully.

"Not every sword is the same; each person has a blade that suits them. The sword that fits Your Highness is not the imperial killing sword, but rather the sword of the Daoist or Buddhist path—or so I have come to believe."

Given the imperial family's focus on practical results, most imperial sword arts were killing swords—techniques devoted to ending lives. According to the general, Ji-ryeon possessed the temperament of one who attained enlightenment by swinging the blade alone, in the style of Daoists or Buddhists.

Hearing that, Ji-ryeon resolved to learn the martial arts of the Daoist or Buddhist schools. She first tried several Daoist and Buddhist techniques kept in the imperial secret archives, and found the Buddhist arts suited her better. That discovery pleased her.

Daoist sects of the murim would surely refuse her under the pretext of non-interference with worldly power, but the Buddhist gate would accept her the moment she took vows—or so she believed. Thus Ji-ryeon traveled the temples of the Central Plains, pretending to offer devout prayers in order to feign sincere faith. Her true destination, of course, was the Emei Sect.

But when she arrived, the Emei Sect rejected her. Accepting a princess who wished to become a nun risked the imperial family's wrath. When they asked whether the Emperor had permitted her to take the tonsure and she hesitated, they refused her on the spot.

Disheartened, Ji-ryeon had no choice but to turn her steps back toward the palace. And it was then that fate led her to her master.

Along the journey home she stopped at a small hermitage. Restless, she slipped away from her palace maids in the dead of night and climbed the mountain behind the hermitage to swing her sword—only to hear a familiar sound.

Shiiing. Sing.

The whistle of a blade. Her feet carried her of their own accord until she arrived at the source. There she found a woman who wore a nun's robes yet kept her hair long. The trajectory her sword wove was impossible to look away from.

It was the very image Ji-ryeon had longed for in her heart.

The swinging blade sheared the moonlight; darkness scattered against the cold edge. Leaves torn free by the sword wind drifted gently around the woman before floating down one by one.

While Ji-ryeon stood dazed, the woman sensed her presence and rebuked her in a cutting voice.

"One does not spy upon another's training! Who is your master that they failed to teach you even that!?"

Startled, Ji-ryeon hurriedly bowed her head. She had never learned such etiquette, but she wanted more than anything to learn the sword she had just witnessed.

"I-I have no master, so I never learned such things. Forgive me."

"Hmm? No master?"

"I-I was captivated by the sword and committed a rudeness. I beg you—please teach me!"

She clasped her fists and bowed in the murim salute she had learned from the Golden Guard commander in hopes of entering Emei. The woman studied her for a long moment, then smiled.

"You ask for instruction without even knowing who I am? Very well. Draw your blade and come at me. Imparting lessons to a junior is no bad thing, is it?"

What followed was a dreamlike stretch of time.

In the imperial palace she had never been able to exchange blades with anyone, and even wooden-sword spars were dull because no one dared counterattack. But here—cloth sheared away, a blade grazing her cheek until blood welled—she could only tremble with exhilaration.

Training with one's life on the line.

Yes. That was one of the things Ji-ryeon had wanted all along.

Clang! Clash-clang!

"You blocked that? Then take this as well—the Great Compassion Thousand-Hand Sword!"

Clang-crash.

After dozens of exchanges the sword the Emperor had bestowed upon Ji-ryeon snapped in half. She clutched the remaining hilt with hands still trembling from the shock of the impact when the woman's voice reached her.

"Will you give me your wrist?"

As if entranced, Ji-ryeon extended her arm. The woman took her wrist, examined something, and nodded.

"Just as I thought! You possess outstanding talent! And pure internal energy as well. There is a touch of killing intent in your sword, but that seems the fault of the techniques you learned. You said you have no master—is that true?"

Ji-ryeon nodded blankly. The voice continued.

"Is that so? Then would you consider becoming my disciple? I am Yeonhwa, the eleventh-generation Sword Empress of the Sword Pavilion of Putuo Temple in the South Sea."

"S-Sword Empress!?"

Of course Ji-ryeon had heard of Putuo Temple, but she had aimed for Emei precisely because Putuo was said to be even more closed-off. She had given up after hearing how difficult it was to become a disciple—yet the Sword Pavilion was the finest place in the world to learn the sword. Ji-ryeon dropped to her knees at once.

Moreover, a Sword Empress was the sect master of Putuo Temple. At last she could learn the supreme Buddhist sword arts she had so desperately wanted.

"Th-thank you! Thank you!"

"Then you must offer the ninefold bow to your master, yes?"

"Yes, of course! Master, please accept my deep bows."

Only after she had performed the full ceremonial prostrations did the next words come.

"Good. Then at first light we shall go to your parents and inform them that you have become my disciple. Where is your home?"

Ji-ryeon rolled her eyes this way and that before answering.

"Th-the imperial palace."

"?"

At the words "imperial palace," her master blinked. When she recovered she ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠asked again,

"Ah—do your parents serve in the palace, then? What official posts do they hold?"

"Th-the Emperor…"

Her master's eyes flew wide in disbelief.