The letter slipped from Minister Jang's trembling hands and fluttered to the floor like a dying bird. The lamp's flame flickered against the walls, casting his shadow long and bent, as if he were already halfway into another world.
He sat back heavily on the low stool, staring at nothing. His lips moved, but the sound of his
voice was only a hoarse whisper to the empty room.
"I'm sorry…" he murmured. "Saha, my daughter… I'm sorry for not being a good father to protect you. I'm sorry for always putting the court above you. I'm sorry for not realizing you
were hurting. I'm sorry for not being the father you deserved. I'm sorry… for denying the
child you swore to protect. I am so sorry Saha, you must have been enduring so much pain, how can I call myself a father when I can't even protect my family. I'm so sorry my daughter.
His tears fell, darkening the wooden floor. "And now… I'm sorry for the decision I'm going to
make tonight."
He rose unsteadily, his hands shaking as they reached for the rope he had hidden earlier.
His body felt like lead, but his heart felt even heavier. He tied the knot slowly, each pull of the
rope echoing in the silence like a drumbeat of doom.
"I can't live without my daughter…" His voice broke. "Taehyung… my grandchild… forgive
me for leaving you in this world. Forgive me for this cowardice."
He paused, looking up at the ceiling as if searching for a crack in the heavens.
"If truly the heavens exist," he whispered, tears streaking down his cheeks, "please… bring
my grandchild to people who will love him unconditionally. As I was unable to love him,
please… give him what I could not."
He placed the rope around his neck, his tears soaking into the fibers. "May my pain become
his shield. May my death lighten his suffering."
His last breath trembled out of him as he stepped forward. The stool clattered to the ground.
The rope tightened. His body convulsed once, then went still, tears still slipping down his
lifeless face.
The lamp flickered violently and then dimmed, casting the room into a deep, cold silence.
Outside, the night wind sighed through the eaves like a mourning song.
The news of Minister Jang's death fell upon the court like a thunderclap. A man of his
stature, with one of the strongest factions under his command, was no mere official. He was a pillar. And now that pillar had crumbled.
Whispers and cries of disbelief spread through the ministers' ranks. Some openly wept,
others cursed the heavens, but most trembled with fear. The court had always been fragile,
balanced delicately between rival factions, and Minister Jang's influence had kept that
balance intact. His death was not just the fall of a man—it was the cracking of the palace's
foundation.
Yet when the ministers expected the king to mourn, to rise and speak with grief for his
father-in-law, King Younghae sat still upon his throne, cold and distant. His expression never
shifted, his voice never wavered.
"Continue," he said flatly when the news reached his ears. "We will resume the meeting."
Gasps filled the room. Many of the older ministers clenched their fists in outrage, their eyes
burning with unspoken fury. How could he? they thought. How could he sit there, unmoved, when his own wife is dead and her father has hanged himself in despair?
But no one dared to speak. The shadow of the king's cruelty loomed over them, his
reputation sharpened by grief and guilt, making him all the more dangerous. To oppose him openly was to invite death. Even though he's a puppet but he's still the king.
Still, Minister Jang's loyalists would not let his name vanish quietly. They regrouped in
secret, swearing to uphold his legacy. Within days, they began to plan the election of a new
leader to carry their banner against the throne.
But the palace walls had ears, and the opposition faction—those long suppressed under Jang's dominance…moved swiftly. On the night of their meeting, while Jang's loyalists gathered to speak of succession, the doors were thrown open. Blades gleamed. Screams split the air.
By dawn, none of Jang's men remained. His entire faction had been cut down in a single
night. The court was no longer balanced. It was fractured, bleeding, and enraged. One
assassination led to another, one betrayal answered with yet another. The palace corridors, once filled with ritual and politics, now reeked of blood and ambition.
Thus began the war of factions—a silent, merciless struggle that would shake the very roots of the throne.