236
The Political Shockwaves of Gichul's Death, and the Empress's Fury
The sky over Dadu was veiled in pale dust.
When the wind rose, the five-colored banners atop the golden roofs lashed violently.
Even the soldiers guarding the northern gate of the court sensed that the air of that day was not ordinary.
At noon, the court bulletin (朝報) was placed into the Great Khan's hands.
When the seal was broken, a red stamp emerged between the ashen folds of the document.
Gichul, who had gone to Liaodong, raised arms in defiance and lost his life at dawn on Ipchun, at the moment when heaven stood still.
That was all.
It did not say who killed him, nor how.
Yet everyone understood.
This was a purge recorded as "the will of heaven."
The Great Khan gazed down at the bulletin for a moment, then spoke quietly.
" Heaven has taken a man."
His voice was calm.
But as the words fell, the air of the hall froze.
At that instant, the palace doors were flung open.
A wave of crimson silk surged in.
It was the Empress.
She advanced one step, then another, until she stood before the Great Khan.
"Your Majesty, I dare to ask—
who killed my elder brother?"
Her voice was low, yet edged like a blade.
Without lifting his head, the Great Khan replied,
"He raised troops in the name of the Empire.
He joined hands with shamans in Liaodong and even employed forbidden rites to summon the souls of the dead."
"Then—"
The Empress's gaze trembled, just slightly.
"Are you saying that heaven itself took him?"
"Yes."
The Great Khan's voice was heavy, restrained.
"He used the arts of heaven, and thus met a death delivered by heaven.
They say he died at the hour when heaven stands still.
Ask no more than that."
For the briefest instant, the Empress's lips quivered.
Then—laughter escaped her.
"Heaven… you say heaven."
She slowly lifted her head.
"Your Majesty knows as well as I do.
It was not heaven.
It was a human hand."
The Great Khan did not answer.
He silently took up his brush and began to write an edict.
The disturbances in Liaodong follow the will of heaven.
Conduct Gichul's funeral with full honors,
in rites equivalent to those of a provincial governor.
A red seal was pressed down.
Thud.
The sound was like a drop of blood striking the floor.
The Empress's eyes wavered.
Yet her anger did not erupt.
Instead, it sank deeper.
As she turned away, she spoke.
"You said it was the will of heaven."
Her silk robes brushed the stone floor of the hall.
"Then I, too, shall deceive heaven.
If one erases those chosen by heaven,
perhaps heaven itself will forget me."
With those words, the Empress departed.
The Great Khan remained unmoving for a long while.
He already knew what she would do next.
But at this moment, he had no leisure to concern himself with it.
Grain ships from Jiangnan had not arrived for a long time.
The Empire's finances were drying up, and the bureaucracy creaked under strain.
Above all—
the three contenders fighting over supremacy in Jiangnan no longer feared the Empire in the slightest.
Outside, snow fell hard.
The lights of Dadu wavered like sparks before the wind—
like the fate of the Empire itself.
The Empress's Night — Where Fury Settles
The moment the Empress left the hall, she did not slow her pace.
Her silk robes trailed long across the stone corridors.
The palace attendants followed with bowed heads, yet none dared to speak.
The night air was cold.
No stars shone over Dadu's sky; only dust-laden clouds lay low.
The lanterns burned bright, yet their light failed to reach the ground.
At the door to her quarters, the Empress dismissed her attendants.
When the door closed, all sound was cut off.
Incense burned inside—
a calming fragrance.
But on this night, it did nothing to steady her breath.
The Empress walked slowly inward and sat before the mirror.
In the large mirror framed with gold, her face appeared clearly.
A face without the slightest disturbance.
The same expression she had worn in court.
She gazed at it for a moment, then raised her hand.
She removed her earrings and set them down.
One by one, she drew out the hairpins from her hair.
Metal touched the table with dull sounds.
Each echoed unnaturally loud in the room.
"Brother."
She spoke the word softly.
The name scattered the moment it left her lips, never becoming a prayer.
"A foolish man."
Her voice did not tremble.
It held neither resentment nor grief.
"In life, you borrowed the name of the Empire.
In death, you borrowed the name of heaven."
Slowly, she clenched her hand.
The faint marks of the hairpins reddened her palm.
"Heaven."
She spat the word as if chewing it—
the word she had heard in court, the word spoken by the Great Khan.
"'Heaven has taken a man.'"
The corners of her mouth lifted ever so slightly.
It was close to a smile, but nowhere near joy.
"Since when has heaven chosen whom to take?"
She rose and moved to the window.
Outside, snow was falling.
It fell evenly, without discrimination.
"Heaven is always a convenient word."
She placed her hand against the glass.
Cold seeped into her palm.
"When one wishes to kill, one says heaven.
When one wishes to discard, one says heaven."
Her gaze stretched far away—
beyond Liaodong, past Goryeo, into places unseen.
She lifted her head and stared straight into her reflection in the glass.
"But I know."
It was not a monologue.
It was certainty.
"When did Heaven ever grieve over the affairs of men? Heaven does not move.
It is always people who move."
She drew a slow breath.
Her chest grew calm.
Her fury sank deeper still.
And in the place where fury settled, calculation took root.
"Gichul's death is not the end."
Her voice was low now, stripped of emotional heat.
She turned slowly.
The darkness of the room naturally wrapped around her.
She sat again before the mirror.
The face reflected there had not changed at all.
Only the eyes were different now—
no longer those of one mourning the dead,
but of one who intended to measure
the very sky of the Empire
with her own hands.