SAFBIAN Ch 119

Chapter 119

Would an emperor ever need a reason for what he wished to do?

The high minister, struck speechless, felt the strength drain from his knees and collapsed where he knelt. His whole body began to tremble violently.

He had believed that, since the empire had only just barely regained stability, even the emperor himself would not be able to slaughter them so easily.

No… I was wrong. The emperor intends to kill us all!

Only then did the minister realize the depth of his own delusion.

If not for that wretch—!

The sight of Geumhu, who had long been a thorn in his side, stirred up bitter resentment and fury. The minister ground his teeth.

The twenty‑third emperor, Haban, had carried out a massive purge the moment he ascended the throne. Merely in that wave of executions, dozens had died—men who had occupied key posts not only in the capital but throughout the provinces.

The sudden vacancies had thrown every bureau into chaos for some time. It was not a problem that could be solved simply by appointing new officials.

It was in such a time that the emperor had seated the young and untested Geumhu in the position of Chancellor. Naturally, those who opposed him submitted memorials of protest, yet every one was dismissed in a single stroke.

After that first storm of blood, the ministers—who at first had cowered in terror—grew steadily resentful of the emperor. Day after day he abandoned affairs of state to go hunting in the mountains, while that child of a chancellor dared to talk back at every audience and even had the audacity to criticize him outright. Their outrage was boundless.

And so they joined hands. They justified themselves by claiming that they sought to right the empire—betrayed by the sovereign for whom they had given their lives—by overthrowing an incompetent ruler who would not govern properly.

But in the end, it was nothing more than an excuse.

It was greed that blinded them.

Haban’s cold gaze swept over the bound rebels kneeling before him.

From the moment you plotted treason, extermination of your nine clans was assured. ¹

Those who had lost their nations in conquest had watched their homelands trampled and their kin slaughtered; it was only natural that they dreamed of revenge.

But these before him were different.

They had been born of the empire, raised and fed by it. They bore the responsibility to protect it. And yet, for the mere sake of grasping greater power, they had allied themselves with rebels.

Part of him almost wished not to kill them swiftly. He would have liked to assemble their entire households before them, force them to witness each loved one die because of their betrayal, and only then, in the end, let them suffer the most agonizing death imaginable.

Thud.

Haban flung a rolled‑up scroll before the ministers. The loosened ties unraveled as the scroll bounced once on the ground and unfurled across the floor.

Upon it was written a list of names, each signed by the traitors themselves and stamped with their personal seals. Seeing it, the ministers clenched their eyes shut. They had not imagined even that damning evidence had fallen into Haban’s hands.

“So aggrieved you are? Then I will give you a choice: will you be torn to pieces alive, or will you meekly bare your necks?”

From ancient times, it was believed in the empire that those torn apart alive would have even their souls ripped asunder and suffer torment beyond death. In short, it was the most horrific death imaginable.

Their own deaths they could accept; but if it was Haban, he would surely inflict the same fate on their entire families.

Doomed regardless, better to choose a swift beheading than to die wretchedly before a crowd and have their souls wander resentfully through the afterlife.

Resigned at last, the ministers bowed their heads in despair.

“Strike.”

Everything happened in an instant.

The soldiers surrounding the traitors raised their blades as one and brought them down.

In a single stroke the bodies toppled to the ground, crimson blood pooling beneath them. Amid the chorus of dying screams, Haban did not so much as blink.

Soon, the last scream faded, and the hall fell silent as the grave.

Geumhu scanned the list with a pale face. Though they were criminals, it was unpleasant to stand before corpses with eyes still frozen wide in death.

This was not the end. Next would be their families—every last one who shared their blood, adult or child. Even women who had married into those houses would not be spared; if any were pregnant, the child would be allowed to be born only to be killed immediately thereafter, regardless of gender. Such was the terror of treason.

The following day, others would see the scene with their own eyes. The bodies would be left where they fell.

Leaving behind the stench of blood, Geumhu finally drew a long breath. The unfamiliar sight had left him nauseated and dizzy.

But for now, the emperor mattered more than his own unease.

“Leave the rest to me, Your Majesty. Might you take some rest?”

“Prepare the horse.”

“…Pardon?”

Pressing his fingers hard against his temples, Geumhu furrowed his brows, startled by the order.

Even though all those tied to the rebellion had been seized, there was still no telling what might happen. But Haban’s demeanor was oddly restless—unsurprising, given the white fox had yet to be found.

“Be back before sunrise.”

Accompanying him as far as the city gates, Geumhu repeated the warning anxiously. At the moment the horse turned its head, Haban spurred it forward and galloped off.

There was time before Yungak returned. If he could, he had to find Dori in the meantime.

He said to take the fox alive without a scratch—so it shouldn’t be hurt.

Though enraged at Yungak, part of him was relieved. The situation had diverged from what he remembered, but waiting idly in the palace was no longer an option.

“Hyah!”

Haban urged his steed faster. His ragged breaths mingled with the thunder of hooves pounding against the earth.

Without rest, he soon arrived at the place where he had met Dori in his previous life. Though night had fallen, the area blazed with torches, soldiers patrolling about and guarding the house.

As Haban dismounted, Jippyeong rushed toward him.

“Your Majesty? H‑How are you here…?”

Judging from the ropes and nets meant for catching wild beasts in his hands, he must have been planning to ascend the mountain at night.

“Were you about to begin the search?”

“Yes. But… did you come here alone?”

Jippyeong, as captain of the royal guard, was responsible for the emperor’s safety. Only upon spotting the hidden shadow‑assassin lurking in the darkness did he manage to calm his pounding heart.

Haban brushed past Jippyeong and pushed open the wooden gate. A warm, quaint courtyard greeted him.

On one side stood a sturdy chicken coop; on the other, a modest table and chairs. A canopy provided shade, fit for sipping tea beneath when it rained.

Once, Haban had asked Dori—half‑asleep and grumbling as he was tucked into Haban’s chest—what he wanted to do once he left the palace, since he had packed away not only bundles of belongings but also treasure.

Dori had whined at being bothered while dozing, then murmured after a long pause:

He wished to live comfortably in a small, cozy house. To raise chickens in the front yard and have a vegetable patch and earthen jars for condiments in the back. In spring, he would sow seeds; in summer, boil corn; in autumn, dry persimmons; in winter, roast sweet potatoes and chestnuts stored in the shed, living a quiet life.

As the story went on, it became more and more about food, yet that humble dream was endearing. To think that, though he had gathered enough jewels to live in luxury for a lifetime, what he truly desired was something so simple.

When he had heard those words, Haban had thought of this house. It was the very place Dori had once stayed in during his past life—something he had nearly forgotten until now.

Haban had ordered the house repaired for that reason. Once collapsing, it had been entirely transformed: pillars and walls mended, whitewash freshly applied, the roof newly thatched so no rain would leak through.

“…”

Inside was even tidier than the exterior.

Though smaller than the fox’s palace chamber, the bed carved with delicate reliefs, the cabinets, and the dining table were identical to those once used there. If not for the curtains being drawn back, one might almost believe Dori lay sleeping upon the bed even now.

While confined to the palace, Haban had ordered the place furnished in anticipation—whenever and however Dori might appear, he wanted him to rest in comfort.

“Phew…”

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Haban steadied his breath. Perhaps it was because he had left the palace, but the constant ache in his chest since Dori’s disappearance felt a little lighter.

Has he been eating properly?

Yungak did not know that Dori could take human form. He would, of course, have tossed him bloody hunks of meat and ordered him to eat them. Haban worried the fox might be starving himself out of stubbornness.

He ran his palm over the blanket. Though not as soft as fox fur, it was pleasantly smooth.

Clueless and careless Jippyeong could never have arranged such details; it must have been on Geumhu’s advice. The pale‑blue fabric seemed as though it would suit Dori’s snowy white fur perfectly.

Haban stroked the blanket a few more times in reluctant longing, then rose and stepped outside. Jippyeong stood waiting before the torch‑bearing soldiers.

At that same hour, Yungak was riding toward the palace. The wind sliced past his face, brisk and liberating after being trapped in the stifling carriage.

Unwilling to wait for the sluggish carriage to arrive, Yungak had spurred his horse ahead—only to be startled when someone suddenly blocked his path, forcing him to yank the reins.

“…Yeok‑ah?” ²

Iyeok’s clothing was tattered, his body marred with wounds. Alarmed, Yungak gestured him closer.

As expected, Iyeok staggered forward, looking utterly ragged.

“Why are you here? Where’s the fox?”

He had spent days watching the emperor lose his mind over the missing fox and had been eager to finally gloat, to inspect the captive creature himself.

Thus, the absence of the fox angered him more than Iyeok’s pitiful state.

Then Iyeok, panting for breath, uttered words Yungak could not comprehend:

“This is no time for that. You must flee—immediately.”

Footnotes:

1. Extermination of nine clans (구족 멸문) – A traditional form of capital punishment in which not only the offender but nine generations of their family were executed, meant to eradicate an entire bloodline.