The first sensation to reach Ji-won was a sharp, throbbing pain at the base of his skull; the second was the vile crunch of grit between his teeth.
He was lying face down in the dust, exactly where he had been knocked out the night before.
Ji-won propped himself up on his elbows, spitting out dirt. His head spun, and the world swam before his eyes for a moment. He touched the back of his head and hissed; a substantial lump had already formed.
"Bastard…" he croaked.
Memories of the previous night crashed down on him: the familiar figure in dark clothes, the wall, the black eyes.
It was Lee Yeo-jun. There was no other option. Ji-won might forget the name of his first teacher or his Swiss bank account number, but that gaze—loyal, calm, and eternally attentive—he would recognize among thousands.
But this time, the gaze had been different: cold and startled.
"How is this possible?" Ji-won sat up in the dirt, ignoring the passersby who skirted around him, eyeing him with disdain.
"Back at the hospital, the doctors said he was in critical condition. Blood, ventilators, the ICU… Yet here he is, scaling walls at night like a spy and knocking out his boss?"
Indignation rose within him like a hot wave.
"He struck me. My own secretary… bashed me over the head!" Ji-won clenched his fists until his fingernails bit into his palms. "Lee Yeo-jun, if you are truly here, I won't merely fire you. I'll have you transcribing annual reports by hand for the rest of your miserable life!"
However, anger could not silence the growling of his stomach. He hadn't eaten in twenty-four hours. Ji-won stood up, dusting off his rags. He looked atrocious: covered in filth, hair disheveled, with a manic glint in his eyes.
He needed to return to that shed. Right now, Yun-seok's "home" seemed like the only safe harbor in this ocean of absurdity. And more importantly, Yun-seok was there—the only person he knew, and who knew him.
The trek back through the service courtyard felt like an eternity. His head was splitting, every step sent a dull throb through his temples, and his empty stomach cramped in protest. Ji-won walked with gritted teeth, trying to salvage some shred of dignity, though he looked like a vagrant fresh from a brawl. He ignored the side-eyes of the crowd, focusing on a single goal—reaching Yun-seok's hovel.
Morning chaos reigned all around: dozens of people scurrying with buckets, firewood, and massive baskets. Ji-won had to literally fight his way through this human current.
He raised his eyes above the heads of the crowd and froze, nearly stumbling on flat ground.
In the throng, by a cart loaded with hay, stood a man.
A stooped back, a wrinkled face etched with eternal submissiveness. Ji-won recognized him instantly. This was no random peasant. This was the very same old janitor who had dared to ruin his Italian shoes with dirty water mere hours before the accident.
A flame flared in Ji-won's chest, hotter than his anger at Yeo-jun.
"Hey, you! Old man!" he barked, forgetting his pain. His voice carried the same imperious intonation that usually made middle managers turn pale.
The old man looked at him. Their gazes met across the ten meters of crowd separating them.
There was no surprise in the old man's eyes, none of the confusion a simple Joseon servant should have upon seeing a strange, shouting man. He was unnervingly calm, and Ji-won even caught the hint of a smirk on his lips. Then, the man pulled his wide straw hat low over his eyes, hiding his face, and nimbly darted behind a passing porter laden with bales.
"Stop! I said, stop!" Ji-won bolted forward. Adrenaline drowned out the headache.
He threw himself into the crowd, shoving people aside with his shoulders, not caring whom he hit or what they thought. Someone yelped, someone cursed after him, but Ji-won saw only the retreating straw hat.
"Where did you go, you damn…" He squeezed between two carts, bursting out into a clearer space, but it was too late.
The crowd had thickened. The mass of people closed in, swallowing the figure of the old man. Ji-won spun in place, greedily scanning the backs, trying to snatch the familiar silhouette from the throng, but it was in vain. The old man had dissolved like a ghost.
"Dammit!" Ji-won kicked the air violently and cursed aloud, breathing heavily. His fists were clenched white.
First Yoon-seok, who looked like a carbon copy of Yoon Mi, then Secretary Lee, and now this janitor. This couldn't be a coincidence. Too many familiar faces in this cursed place, and their behavior was all too strange. The puzzle pieces in his mind began to click into a sinister picture.
"It's you…" the thought flashed through his mind, cold and clear. "This is all because of you, you old geezer. I don't know how, I don't know why, but you're involved. You orchestrated this."
Standing in the middle of a foreign courtyard in filthy rags, he made a promise to himself: he would find that old man. And this time, he wouldn't get away with pathetic apologies for ruined shoes. He would answer for everything—for the accident, for this stinking shed, for the blow to the head, and for every hour of humiliation Ji-won had endured here.
Suddenly, a shoulder slammed into Ji-won. He was about to berate the insolent fool when he looked around and noticed that everyone was running. Everyone, from servants to minor officials, was streaming in one direction. Their faces shone with excitement, their voices merging into a joyful hum.
"Hurry! They say His Highness, the Younger Prince, has come out!" someone shouted.
"Is he really going to dance again? Ah, what joy!" two maids chirped, running past and nearly knocking Ji-won off his feet. "He is the pure embodiment of spring! The most beautiful man in Joseon, after the Crown Prince!"
"The Younger Prince?" Ji-won straightened, wiping sweat from his brow. "Dancing for his subjects? What absolute nonsense."
Curiosity—or rather, a desire to understand the logic of this insane world—overpowered his fatigue. Ji-won followed the crowd. He pushed his way toward the center of the plaza, closer to the spectacle.
Ahead, on a raised platform, an improvised stage had been erected, decorated with colorful ribbons. A dense ring of women stood around it, covering their faces with the sleeves of their hanboks and whispering shrilly. The air was electric with anticipation.
"Hush! It's starting!"
Suddenly, musicians seated to the side struck their drums. The dull, rhythmic thrum silenced the crowd instantly. A piercing flute joined in, and a melody poured forth—languid, mystical, but with a rising, pulsating tempo.
On the stage, with his back to the audience, stood a tall figure.
A young man. His posture was impeccable—spine straight, shoulders broad, head held high with pride. He wore a hanbok of deep black and noble red, embroidered with golden cranes. The fabric seemed light, the long hems of the garment slit in a way clearly designed for movement.
The music shifted rhythm, becoming faster, sharper.
The figure stirred. The man slowly raised his arms, and Ji-won saw large black folding fans in his hands.
A sharp snap—and the fans unfurled with a loud, cracking sound.
The man turned smoothly.
Ji-won felt his heart skip a beat, then hammer somewhere in his throat. Time stopped.
The dancer's face was calm, almost detached, but his eyes burned with a dark, focused fire. Delicate, refined features, flawless skin, lips slightly moist from exertion.
It was him.
Lee Yeo-jun. His secretary.
The man who had blended into office furniture for years, who had uncomplainingly fetched coffee and endured Ji-won's caprices, now stood on a stage, and it was impossible to look away from him.
The Prince began his dance.
It was pure art. He moved softly, flowing from one pose to another like water rounding stones. But within that softness lay a core of steel strength. Every movement was honed to perfection.
Yeo-jun lunged, crouching low to the floor, and the hems of his hanbok flared in a red vortex, tracing a circle. He looked like a bird of prey in flight. The fans in his hands were not mere accessories—they became extensions of his body. He twirled them, creating a shield around himself, slicing the air with them as if they were blades.
Ji-won watched, mesmerized. It resembled a blend of traditional dance and martial arts. In the Prince's movements, he could trace elements of something akin to Capoeira—low, creeping steps, incredible flexibility, graceful evasions. But all of it was executed with such dignity and elegance that it took one's breath away.
Yeo-jun spun, and the world around him seemed to turn in his wake.
Ji-won's gaze slid over the dancer's figure: the tensed line of his neck, the strong hands gripping the fans, the way the fabric clung to his body in motion. Never before had Ji-won imagined his secretary could be this.
"Incredible…" a woman next to Ji-won exhaled, pressing her palms to her chest.
At the climax of the dance, the music reached its peak. Yeo-jun launched himself into the air, suspended in an impossible rotation, and landed on one knee. A sharp snap of his wrists—and he froze, the lower half of his face hidden behind a spread fan.
Over the rim of the fan, only black eyes looked out at the crowd. And for a split second, that gaze—playful, piercing, confident—swept over the front rows.
Ji-won stood there, in the dirty clothes of a servant, his hair a mess. He forgot who he was and where he was. He saw only those eyes.
Secretary Lee.
The Man in Black.
The Younger Prince.
All three images merged into one, creating someone entirely new. Someone who held power not only over this palace but over the attention of every soul present.
The crowd erupted in applause, but Ji-won remained motionless, deafened not by the noise, but by his own revelation.
"Lee Yeo-jun…" he whispered, still unable to believe what he had seen.
This world was getting more interesting by the second.