Chapter 53 — Minwha's Past ( Before Everything Broke 1)
The woman who held the girl's hand as though she were handling porcelain was none other than the Empress—Huanghou of the Great Liang.
She led Minwha toward the waiting carriage, its lacquered wood gleaming beneath lantern light, silk curtains whispering in the wind.
Before she could enter, a maid stepped forward and carefully cleaned her—wiping dust from her cheeks, rinsing blood from her wrists, drying her feet with soft cloth scented faintly of plum blossom.
Only when she was presentable was she allowed inside.
The Empress took the central seat. The girl was placed at the far end.
A deliberate distance.
She did not mind.
The carriage began to move.
And with it— Her memories returned.
In Minwha's past life, the Empress had also purchased her.
The exact same events—she had bought her, killed the men, then taken her to Hansheng Ge, the most refined gisaeng house in the capital.
"Take special care of her," the Empress had instructed the person in charge whom everyone knew as Madam.
Madam had bowed deeply.
And from that day forward, she was shaped into something exquisite.
She learned the guqin until her fingers bled. She danced until her ankles swelled.
She was taught how to smile without warmth. How to look at a man without inviting him closer. How to stir longing without surrendering anything at all.
By fourteen, she was no longer simply a girl.
She was an obsession.
Officials, scholars, merchants—men of status and power—filled the hall each night just to watch her dance.
She offered nothing beyond performance.
Yet she was the most sought-after gisaeng in the entire capital.
Untouchable.
And still— Owned.
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One night, after her performance, applause echoing in her ears, she slipped outside for breath.
She never saw a man following her.
Rough hands seized her waist from behind.
The stench of wine filled her lungs.
She froze.
She knew rhythm. She knew seduction. She knew how to control a room with a single glance.
She did not know how to fight.
When his hand slid higher— She screamed.
The next moment, the man was ripped away from her.
A body crashed against stone.
The Crown Prince stood over him, eyes blazing with something she had never seen before.
The first time she saw him, it had only been a glance.
On her second day at Hansheng Ge, she had stepped into the courtyard and seen a young boy dressed in dark royal robes standing beneath a blossoming tree.
Then he was eleven.
Tall. Gentle.
Unapproachable. The Crown Prince.
She had stared too long.
Madam had pulled her away immediately.
"Know your place," she had warned coldly.
But Minwha's heart had not listened.
But tonight he stood before her.
Seventeen.
In his eyes there was rage.
Pure, unrestrained rage.
His fists struck without mercy.
"How dare you," he growled, each word punctuated with another blow, "touch what is mine."
Her breath caught.
Mine.
"I have not even had the chance to speak to her properly," he continued coldly, "and you think you can lay hands on her?"
Blood splattered across his sleeve.
He did not stop.
She should have been afraid.
Instead— Her cheeks burned. Her heart thumped violently.
When he finally rose, the man lay unconscious and broken.
The Crown Prince turned toward her. The fury in his eyes softened instantly.
He stepped closer. Too close.
"Are you hurt?" he asked quietly.
His hand reached for her wrist.
His fingers were warm. Firm.
Somewhat Possessive.
"I… I am unharmed, Your Highness," she managed, her voice barely steady.
She pulled her hand back quickly and curtsied.
But her pulse betrayed her.
He noticed. He tilted his head slightly.
"Are you going to run away again?"
Her breath hitched.
"I do not run—"
"You do," he said, stepping closer until the distance between them vanished.
"I do not, " she denied again
But inside she knew whenever she saw him, she fled.
Because when he looked at her by mistake—
Even for a bit — She forgot she was only a gisaeng.
Flustered, she turned away and pouted, pretending indignation.
But he moved in front of her again.
Blocking her path.
"You do, you avoid me," he murmured. His voice was lower now.
Intimate.
Her heart pounded painfully in her chest.
"You are mistaken, Your Highness."
"Am I?"
He leaned down slightly, his face inches from hers. She could feel his breath against her cheek.
"You knowingly look at me during your performances," he said softly. "You think I do not notice?"
Her mind went blank.
He had noticed?
"Then when I look back," he continued, "you pretend I do not exist."
Her fingers trembled inside her sleeves. Silence stretched between them.
The night air felt thick.
Suddenly, his expression shifted.
Serious.
"I do not like seeing you helpless."
"I've decided. I will teach you swordsmanship," he said.
She blinked. "Sword… dance?"
He smiled faintly and flicked her forehead.
"Not a performance. Real swordsmanship."
"Why?"
"Because I cannot always be there."
He glanced at the unconscious man.
"What if I had not been here?"
The teasing tone was gone. Only something raw remained.
She swallowed.
He stepped closer again, lowering his voice.
"If anyone touches you like that again, I will kill them."
It was not a boast. It was a promise.
Her heart thudded violently.
Why?
Why would he care so much?
His words felt heavier than they should have.
From tomorrow onward, he ordered her to meet him after every performance.
"Do not refuse."
It was spoken like a command.
But beneath it— Was concern.
"…Yes, Your Highness," she whispered.
She hated the way hope rose in her chest.
A foolish part of her wished he wanted her company simply because—
He desired it.
"Return inside," he said finally.
She turned to go.
"Tomorrow," he called after her.
She paused.
"Do not run when you see me." His voice softened at the end.
Almost… vulnerable.
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The moment she slipped back into Hansheng Ge, breath still uneven from running, she knew she was too late.
Madam was waiting.
Lantern light flickered behind her, casting long shadows across the corridor. Her expression was calm — far too calm.
"Where were you?" Madam asked softly.
The girl lowered her gaze immediately.
"I went to get air," she lied.
Silence. The sound of a slap came before she felt it.
Madam's grip tightened on her chin, forcing her to look up.
"Do not insult my intelligence," she said quietly. "You were with the prince."
The girl said nothing. Madam's eyes hardened.
"You were bought for a reason. Do not forget who you are."
The first strike of the whip cut through the air.
She did not scream.
By the third lash, her knees weakened.
By the fifth, blood soaked through her thin under-robe.
"Do not see him again," Madam warned. "If the Empress learns of this, you will not survive it."
Another strike.
"Go to bed."
She bowed weakly and returned to her room.
Her back burned.
But her heart did not waver.
The next night, she went again.
And the next. And the next.
Every night, after her performance, she slipped into the courtyard where he waited.
At first, the lessons were distant.
Formal.
He corrected her stance with the tip of his sword.
Adjusted her grip carefully.
But as weeks passed— Distance dissolved.
"Your wrist is too loose," he murmured one night, stepping behind her.
His hand wrapped around hers on the sword hilt. His other hand rested lightly at her waist.
Guiding. Directing.
Her breath faltered.
"Focus," he said quietly.
But his voice was no steadier than hers.
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Night after night, he stood behind her.
One hand steady at her waist. The other guiding the blade.
Their movements began to sync.
Her back against his chest. His breath warm against her ear.
The sword no longer trembled in her grasp.
But her heart did.
And she never stepped away.
She could have. She knew she could.
But she did not want to.
One evening, beneath a silver crescent moon, something shifted.
He stepped behind her as usual.
But this time— Both of his hands settled at her waist.
The sword slipped from her fingers, point resting harmlessly against the ground.
"Again," he murmured.
She moved through the sequence slowly.
His hands remained.
Firm. Steady.
His face lowered unconsciously, brushing the curve where her neck met her shoulder.
Her breath hitched.
He stilled.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
If she stepped forward, the distance would return. If she turned, the illusion would break.
She did neither. She let him remain.
She let herself feel the warmth of him behind her.
And when he resumed guiding her movements— His voice was quieter.
Rougher.
"Do not lose balance."
She wondered which of them was he speaking to.
Every night she returned with new bruises across her back. Every night Madam's whip reminded her of her place.
Every night she endured it without protest.
Because every night— He was waiting.
Months passed.
One. Two.
Three.
By the fifth month, her sword no longer wavered.
Her movements were sharp. Precise.
Deadly.
She was no longer defenseless. And he no longer needed to stand so close to guide her.
But he still did.
And she still did not move away.
She did not answer.
But as his quiet laughter followed her back into the hall—
She realized something dangerous. She no longer wanted to run.
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By the sixth month, he knew the rhythm of her breathing.
He knew when she was focused. He knew when she was distracted.
And he knew— When she was in pain.
That night, as she raised the sword above her head, her arm trembled.
Not from weakness. From restraint.
"Again," he said quietly.
She moved.
Halfway through the turn, her breath caught.
A sharp, involuntary sound.
His eyes narrowed.
"Stop."
She immediately lowered the blade. "I am fine, Your Highness."
He stepped closer. Too close.
His hand reached for her waist out of habit—but she flinched.
It was small.
Barely noticeable. But he felt it.
His expression changed.
"Turn around."
She hesitated.
"That is an order."
Slowly, she obeyed.
Moonlight filtered into the courtyard.
That was when he saw it.
A dark stain seeping faintly through the back of her pale robe.
His jaw tightened.
"What is that?"
"It is nothing."
He stepped forward and grabbed her wrist before she could retreat.
His voice dropped, losing all warmth.
"Who did this?"
Silence.
She lowered her gaze.
He could see the answer in the way her fingers trembled.
"Answer me."
"It is not important," she whispered.
His grip tightened.
"Was it a guest?"
Her head snapped up quickly. "No!"
That reaction alone told him enough.
He inhaled sharply.
"The Madam."
She did not speak. He did not need her to.
For the first time since she had known him— She saw something terrifying in his eyes.
Not youthful anger. Not jealousy.
Authority.
He did not wait until morning.
He summoned the Madam that very night.
When she entered the private chamber, she bowed deeply.
"Your Highness."
His voice was ice.
"You flogged her."
It was not a question.
The Madam kept her head lowered. "Your Highness, discipline is necessary. She was—"
"She was with me."
The room fell silent.
The Madam's fingers tightened slightly against the floor.
"With you… Your Highness?"
"Yes."
He stepped closer.
"She trains with me. Under my instruction."
His gaze sharpened.
"Any marks you leave on her body are marks you leave on mine."
The threat was unmistakable.
"If I see another bruise," he continued softly, "Hansheng Ge will answer for it."
Madam bowed lower.
"This servant understands."
He turned to leave. But paused.
"And if anyone asks where she goes at night," he added, "you will say she is summoned by the Crown Prince."
There would be no more lies. No more hiding.
He had claimed her openly. The beatings stopped.
That very night, when she returned, Madam did not raise the whip.
She simply stared.
Long. Calculating.
"You have grown bold," Madam said quietly.
The girl said nothing.
For the first time— She no longer needed to endure in silence.
But Madam was not a fool.
The next morning, she wrote a letter.
The brush moved steadily across rice paper.
She detailed everything. The nightly meetings.
The private training. The Prince's interference.
The tone was respectful.
Concerned. Obedient.
The letter was sealed with wax and sent directly to the palace.
To the Empress.
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Three days later, a reply arrived.
Madam dismissed the servants and opened it alone. Her eyes scanned the neat, elegant handwriting.
Her expression did not change.
But her grip on the paper tightened.
The message was short.
Cold. Detached.
It read: Leave them. Let him have his fun.
Madam read it twice.
Then a third time. Her lips curved faintly.
So that was it.
The Empress did not disapprove.
She did not interfere. She did not protect.
She permitted.
Which meant— The girl was not being cherished.
She was being allowed.
And allowances could be revoked.
That night, when the girl went to the courtyard again, the Crown Prince stood waiting.
He did not know. He did not see the invisible threads tightening around them.
He only saw her.
And when he stepped behind her— When his hands found her waist again—
He did not realize that somewhere in the palace, his mother had already decided how this story would end.