As the dance concluded, a low hum of awe rippled across the square. People were applauding, and a sense of profound reverence hung in the air. The Prince stood motionless, his chest heaving as he caught his breath. Servants rushed to his side: one draped a cloak of exquisite fabric over his shoulders, while another took the fans.
Yeo-jun straightened, and the predatory grace of the dancer was instantly replaced by a soft, dazzling smile. He was no longer a warrior or a cold statue; he was an idol.
With a casual flick of his wrist, the Prince adjusted the collar of his cloak and waved to the crowd like a star on a red carpet. He moved toward the stage exit, smiling at everyone he passed. The crowd adored him, and he accepted their devotion as his birthright. There was a refined breeding in him—an aristocratic air—that Ji-won had never once noticed in his secretary.
Ji-won watched this performance, his mind beginning to boil.
"Make way for His Highness!" a guard officer barked.
The guards began to push the crowd back, forming a human corridor. A wave of resolve and fury washed over Ji-won. He couldn't let him get away.
"Let me through!" Ji-won lunged forward, roughly shouldering his way through the masses. He didn't give a damn about the indignant cries. "Yeo-jun! Lee Yeo-jun!"
The Prince slowed for a heartbeat. His head turned slightly toward the sound, and for a split second, Ji-won thought he saw a spark of recognition beneath the veil of his lashes. But it vanished in an instant.
Ji-won burst out toward the cordon. The guards reacted immediately, blocking his path with the shafts of their spears.
"Get back!" one of them roared.
"Yeo-jun!" Ji-won's voice cracked. "It's me, Kim Ji-won! Stop playing the fool, Secretary Lee!"
The surrounding crowd went deathly silent. To call the Prince by his name was more than a breach of etiquette—it was a madness punishable by death. People began to recoil from Ji-won in terror.
The Prince continued walking, eyes fixed straight ahead. He had almost passed the spot where Ji-won stood when his step faltered, nearly imperceptibly.
He stopped.
Slowly, with immense dignity, the Prince turned his head toward the troublemaker. The guards had already seized Ji-won by the shoulders, twisting his arms and forcing him into the dirt.
"How dare you shout the Prince's name?!" The captain of the guard raised his hand to strike Ji-won, but Yeo-jun held up a hand.
A vacuum of silence filled the air.
The Prince stood barely five meters away, surrounded by a ring of loyal subjects. With lethal elegance, he turned his head and looked directly at Ji-won.
There was no warmth in that gaze, no office-trained loyalty. There was only an infinite, icy distance. He looked at Ji-won as if he were a strange insect that had dared to disturb the silence of a garden.
"His Highness does not wish to listen to the ravings of a madman," an advisor said coldly, stepping up to the Prince. "Take him away."
"No! Wait!" Ji-won thrashed, trying to break free, but two guards bore down on him, pinning his arms behind his back. "Lee Yeo-jun, you wouldn't dare! I'm your boss!"
The Prince offered no reply. He held Ji-won's gaze for a heartbeat longer—a cold, calculating look—then spun around and strode away. His cloak flared behind him, and a second later, he disappeared behind the gates of the inner courtyard, enveloped by a forest of spears.
Ji-won, pressed to the ground, filthy and disheveled, stared back—not with a plea, but with a challenge. In his eyes, the CEO of a major corporation still lived, demanding an explanation from a subordinate.
Something flickered in Yeo-jun's eyes. For a fleeting moment, his royal mask cracked. He looked at Ji-won as if he were seeing a ghost he had never wished to encounter. His fingers tightened ever so slightly on the edge of his cloak.
"Your Highness, this lunatic—" the officer began.
"Do not touch him," the Prince said, his voice quiet but distinct. It was cold, yet it carried a strange vibration. "Let him live."
Yeo-jun looked away.
Obeying the command, the guards threw Ji-won aside with disgust and followed their master.
Ji-won remained on the ground, watching the procession depart. The inner gates slammed shut with a heavy thud.
He recognized me. Ji-won was a hundred percent sure of it. That split second of a look had said more than any words could.
"You recognized me," Ji-won whispered, wiping his face. "And you left me here."
This was no longer just an attempt to get home. This was a personal war.
Ji-won walked back to the service quarters, every step a struggle—not from physical pain, but from a suffocating sense of powerlessness. He was literally shaking. In that "real" life, he could ruin a career or shut down an entire branch with a single phone call. Here, he had been tossed aside like obstructing trash.
He was used to being at the top of the food chain; now he was at the very bottom, where even the right to speak had to be earned.
By the time he reached the familiar courtyard, the sun had begun to sink, painting the grey stone walls in crimson hues. He found Yun-seok at the well; the boy was lugging a heavy bucket, but nearly dropped it when he saw Ji-won.
"Ji-won! Where the hell have you been?!" Yun-seok ran over, scanning him from head to toe. "Look at you! You're covered in dust. What happened? The head cook was looking for you—I barely managed to make excuses for you."
Ji-won ignored the boy's frantic questions. He approached the well, scooped up some ice-cold water, and splashed it onto his face, washing away the grit and the humiliation.
"Yun-seok," he said quietly, straightening up. Water dripped from his chin, and his gaze had turned frighteningly cold. "Tell me. Who is this 'Younger Prince' Yeo-jun?"
Yun-seok froze, his face instantly turning grave. He grabbed Ji-won by the elbow and dragged him into the shadows behind a stack of firewood.
"Have you lost your mind? Don't say his name," he hissed, pressing a finger to his lips. "Why on earth are you asking about him?"
"I saw him in the square. He was dancing," Ji-won said, pinning Yun-seok with a stare. "Tell me everything. What was that performance? And what kind of man is he… this Prince?"
Yun-seok sighed heavily, wiping his hands on his apron.
"That is the Younger Prince, or the 'Prince of Spring,' as they call him. What you saw in the square was his mercy; he occasionally holds performances for his subjects. They say his dance brings luck and heaven's blessing. But in truth… people whisper that he simply craves the attention."
"Craves attention?" Ji-won gave a wry smirk.
Doesn't sound like Secretary Lee at all. Is this who he really is?
"And that's it? Just a dancer in silk?"
"If only!" Yun-seok chuckled nervously. "He's the darling of the King and the people alike. Benevolent, merciful, talented… He's a pure angel. He'll stop to speak with a beggar or give money to a sick child. The whole palace is obsessed with him. And since he's the younger son and has no claim to the throne, he amuses himself with dancing and the like. But rumors also fly that behind that smile are nerves of steel, and that he doesn't just dance—he's the finest warrior in the guard, and those fans of his are more dangerous in a fight than swords."
Ji-won listened, and in his mind, a new image of Secretary Lee began to take shape.
"So, he's a perfect leader with a flawless image," Ji-won summarized in his typical fashion. "A folk hero who keeps everyone hooked with his kindness."
"You could say that," Yun-seok nodded. "But you stay far away from him. For people like us, he is the sun. If you get too close, you'll burn up before you even realize it. He's only kind as long as you don't disturb his peace."
Ji-won looked at his scraped palms.
"The sun, is he? Well then, Your Highness Secretary Lee. We'll just have to see which one of us burns".