The vast Gyeongbokgung Palace’s Geunjeongjeon Hall.
The place was unusually bustling with many people, lively and crowded.
It was none other than because today, at this very spot, there would be a grand ceremony for a precious treasure setting foot on its homeland for the first time in a staggering 145 years.
The sounds of drums, janggu, and flutes intermingled and resonated high and far. Amidst this, a palanquin with hundreds of guards, led by colorful red and blue flags, gradually passed through three gates and entered.
Above their heads, the clear and sunny sky without a single cloud seemed to celebrate this historic return.
It was truly a magnificent sight.
The people invited for today’s ceremony were each busy capturing this rare ceremonial procession (a procession carrying a palanquin enshrining important ceremonial objects) in photos and videos. Young and old alike, everyone was full of excitement and joy.
However, in truth, there was someone who received even more attention than today’s main attraction.
It was a man standing in a higher place than them, on the Geunjeongjeon’s stone terrace, greeting the procession with a sullen expression.
His name was Lee Hwan.
He was the Third Imperial Prince of the Korean Empire, commonly known as a “troublemaker.”
The sound of camera shutters directed at him literally burst out like heavy rain—tudududuk. The surprising fact was that despite this, his somewhat insolent expression showed no signs of softening.
To say it again, this place was a meaningful occasion commemorating the precious cultural artifact of the Korean Empire, which had been taken away in the past, finally returning to its rightful land.
If the person acting so arrogantly at such a place had been another member of the imperial family, or even another prince, it would certainly have made headlines on portal sites along with all sorts of rumors that very instant.
But Hwan’s case was a bit different.
Perhaps everyone there, or rather, even many people—enough to say the entire nation—knew the reason all too well. They also knew well that he was, in his own way, “holding back.”
Even so, if his sulky expression was showing on the outside, there could only be one reason.
“Huiseo didn’t come.”
Someone pointing what’s called a “cannon”—a large camera—at him muttered as such. And so many others around them obediently nodded their heads.
An unstoppable Jeong Huiseo devotee.
To put it more directly, a “Jeong Huiseo fanboy.”
That was the Third Prince Hwan’s other side that everyone knew.
It was a sight they’d seen ad nauseam since his childhood days when he’d scurry around Gyeongbokgung Palace with his small body, so there was nothing surprising about it now.
In all sorts of interviews too, regardless of the question, whenever he opened his mouth it was “Huiseo this,” “Huiseo that”…
Chattering on and on, so excessive that as a citizen of the Korean Empire, if you didn’t know “the Third Prince’s childhood friend Jeong Huiseo,” you might even be treated like a spy.
No, thinking about it again, this was information even spies would know well enough and more.
***
“A small, delicate boy always positioned behind the Third Prince Hwan.”
This was the representative image of Jeong Huiseo that many people recalled.
Of course, it was an expression that would make the person in question jump, but still. He had absolutely no idea how he’d ended up with such an image.
“Is the problem that people have seen me since I was too young?”
First, the “always” at the beginning—well, he supposed he could accept that since they had stuck together enough to warrant saying so.
However, the ticklish word “boy” was an age he’d long since passed, and moreover, while he was somewhat thin, he wasn’t particularly small in stature compared to his peers either. Yet people persistently said “small, small,” forcibly making Huiseo’s face turn red.
The problem was probably Hwan.
Because he had such a flashy impression and was even large on top of that, Huiseo, with his light-colored hair and thin body that contrasted with him, seemed to receive such unwarranted misunderstandings. For that reason, describing him as delicate or fragile actually made no sense either.
“…Delicate. That’s really absurd.”
It was something people said while knowing far too little about Huiseo.
This might be a somewhat ridiculous comparison, but he could be called Hwan’s only “safety pin”—unpredictable as he was. It meant that Huiseo was the only one who could calm the wild, troublemaking prince by his side.
Could that have been possible for all that long time with a delicate and fragile disposition?
Absolutely not.
Anyway, though such prejudice was somewhat mixed in, the one fact that was certain was that Hwan was crazy about Huiseo. The proof was that even today, Hwan was acting childishly in relation to Huiseo. He was sulking for the single reason that Huiseo hadn’t come along.
So naturally, the faces of the imperial elders darkened.
But for the public, that too was an entertaining spectacle in its own way, so because Hwan’s expression wasn’t good, the shutter sounds grew even louder, and occasional small laughter mixed in between.
[(Photo) #HwanAgain #LipsStickingOut #NotYoonPrinceButHuiPrince #NoHuiseo #DefinitelySulking]
[Oh my, Your Highness ㅋㅋㅋ]
[Pay some attention to the Uigwe too ㅋㅋㅋ]
[Why didn’t Huiseo come? Did something happen?]
[Being able to wear ceremonial robes like that is truly a talent]
News related to him spread through SNS, creating even more laughter.
Fortunately, contrary to concerns, it seemed to flow in a pleasant atmosphere, but actually, from the imperial family’s standpoint, this situation was equally bewildering.
“How dare they treat a prince of a nation like this.”
Not only were photos taken at will circulating everywhere, but they were even calling the prince’s name freely in hashtags disguised as trending topics below them. Their attitudes were utterly presumptuous.
Not even going back to “the old days,” but just rewinding time a little, it would have been unimaginable. To use the expressions of that era, it was truly outrageous enough to provoke heaven’s wrath, and the royal ancestral shrine would have risen up in fury.
However, regrettably, today’s imperial family was in no position to make any threats regarding this matter.
They had no power.
An empire in name only, an emperor in title alone.
Though there certainly was such a thing as “lèse-majesté,” with their authority already crumbled to ruin, they realistically couldn’t punish citizens of the empire unless a direct terrorist act against them occurred. No, it would have been better if that were all.
Devastatingly, in some quarters, there were even words exchanged that they should be grateful for such contempt as it was still attention.
“Old-fashioned.”
“Stuffy.”
A “toothless tiger” no longer cool enough to admire or fearsome.
This was precisely the perspective that people nowadays had toward the imperial family. In fact, even that wasn’t enough—beneath the surface, there existed even more blatant criticism.
“…Honestly, aren’t they just eating up tax money?”
But even hearing such talk, they still had nothing to say.
The advancement of science and technology, the expansion of educational opportunities, the dramatic rise in human rights as a result… It sounds grandiose listing it all out, but in the end, it meant the world had changed rapidly, and in such a flow, it was perhaps inevitable that those living on past glory would have their existing power stripped away and lost one by one.
Because of this, ultimately half by choice and half by force, they became something like a cultural relic of the past, pleasant to observe, and were confined not even in Deoksugung Palace, which was like a symbol of the Korean Empire, but in Gyeongbokgung Palace. So for them, lowering themselves and living quietly was their only option.
Prolonging life.
That was the survival method the imperial family had chosen in the face of the “end” that would soon arrive.
And in the midst of all this, Hwan’s appearance was nothing short of bewildering.
It was unprecedented. In other words, he was like a mutation. Far from holding his breath, each action he took, each word he uttered, all drew public attention. So much so that in some quarters, people jokingly called him “the idol raised on tax money.”
Though of course, it wasn’t like he sang or danced like a real idol.
Then why? Why such fervor over just a high school student, a mere prince and not even the crown prince?
There were probably various reasons for each person, but if asked to pick just one most representative reason, people would surely mention Hwan’s “ordinariness.” However, this was difficult to understand at first.
“Ordinariness…”
No matter what, an imperial prince, in what aspect exactly?
***
In fact, this was a story related to other members of the imperial family.
Over the long years, the imperial family members that the general public had encountered were people who appeared consistently upright and composed whenever and wherever, regardless of the situation. It had nothing to do with their miserable actual circumstances.
Standing with proper posture, head held high, smiling gently—that appearance was like noble cranes, or going further, like well-crafted dolls.
It didn’t mean that appearance was wrong.
No, rather, considering their circumstances of barely remaining as the “symbol of the nation,” even if only nominally, it could even be said that they should naturally be that way.
However, reality and the public don’t always follow as intended, so despite such exemplary appearances, harsh criticisms were sometimes thrown at them, calling them formulaic, trite, or even lacking sincerity.
In other words, in that regard, Hwan was a person completely unlike imperial family members.
He was approachable.
The “trouble” he caused.
The emotions he displayed without filter.
