#127. Wouldn’t That Be, in Its Own Way, a Return of That Child’s Affection?
Should I tell this to another when I haven’t even told Yu-hyeon?
But is it really best to stay silent, even knowing the tragedy that befell precisely because I had not told Yu-hyeon?
Part of me thought—what problem would arise from leaving this unspoken? Yet at the same time, my thoughts drifted to the fact that even when she took her own life, I had never once imagined Yu-hyeon would do such a thing.
“Your Majesty.”
So I resolved to gather my courage.
“Your Majesty.”
The flickering expression on Blanche’s face had now settled into calm.
Melchizedek tried to gauge what lay beneath Blanche’s placid surface.
“Yes, Baekryeon.”
“Your Majesty treated Yu-hyeon kindly, didn’t you?”
The sudden change of subject startled him, but since it was about his child, Melchizedek quickly understood.
“As much as I could.”
At that time, Yu-hyeon probably hadn’t desired Cheongneung’s favoritism. Even so, Cheongneung had given her everything he could.
Before taking her own life, Baekryeon had sorted out all of Cheongneung’s gifts and returned them.
She said that as a criminal, she could no longer privately make use of the Heaven’s grace.
After Baekryeon’s funeral, Yu-hyeon—saying it was her mother’s will—sat before Cheongneung and declared she would return all estates and houses to the state and go back to her clan.
Cheongneung had many thoughts.
If she had lowered her head and endured, eventually he might have sought her again.
If she had truly believed it was the end, there were other paths she could have taken.
Why had Baekryeon, who was always so upright, never spoken a word in rebuttal, endured the scolding, and then died?
She returned everything she possessed to the state, leaving nothing behind for her daughter.
Only after time passed—long enough for hot tea to grow cold—did he understand Baekryeon’s true intention.
So, just as Yu-hyeon said, Cheongneung gathered all of Baekryeon’s estate.
Then, seated before Yu-hyeon, he asked her again: would she prefer the house she was living in, or a larger and finer one?
When Yu-hyeon replied she preferred the familiar, Cheongneung immediately appointed her as general, granting her a northern estate as salary and a capital mansion as a gift.
Yu-hyeon continued to live in her house and collect taxes from the granted lands. But now it was no longer “the inheritance of Lee Baekryeon”—it was “the stipend bestowed upon Lee Yu-hyeon.”
That Yu-hyeon, who had barely begun her official career, rose to general was absurd in itself. But because Baekryeon had once surrendered her fortune to the state, Yu-hyeon’s rapid rise was brushed aside.
Everyone assumed it was simply a necessary procedure to return Baekryeon’s wealth to her daughter.
Had that procedure not existed, even Cheongneung would not have been able to raise Yu-hyeon to the rank of Grand General within only three years without sparking resistance.
With no one left he wished to protect, Cheongneung willingly named his youngest child crown prince.
He selected that child’s mother as empress.
He left the ministers who had once been entangled in succession struggles to choose freely whether or not to support the crown prince.
He steadily raised Yu-hyeon’s rank.
Yes. Melchizedek had no quarrel with history’s judgment that the fall of the Jin Empire was Cheongneung’s fault.
He bore that responsibility.
Had he done better, at least the empire would not have collapsed in his son’s generation.
Only one part of the record was false: that age had clouded his eyes.
Even in his later years, Cheongneung’s eyes remained clear. He saw ambition in Yu-hyeon’s gaze.
He foresaw what would happen if he placed power in her hands.
He knew that while Baekryeon had been loyal to him, his son would end up dancing in Yu-hyeon’s palm.
Yet rather than suppressing Yu-hyeon’s defiance, he enabled it.
He promoted her swiftly and provided no factional support to the crown prince, who was too young to have a base of his own.
In such circumstances, it was inevitable that upon ascending the throne, the boy would rely on the daughter of Baekryeon—the loyal subject who had endured rebuke without protest, even unto death.
The way Yu-hyeon brought the empire to ruin was simple: she made the emperor incompetent.
She made him depend entirely on her.
He entrusted both defense and domestic governance to Yu-hyeon—and she truly carried them out.
She ruled in the place of the puppet emperor, then died without leaving an heir.
Even had her friend not staged a rebellion, even had the uprisings not spread after that failure, the empire would still have walked steadily toward collapse.
The emperor, who relied wholly on Yu-hyeon, had no ability to govern such a vast realm. Everyone in the empire knew it.
“I gave her everything she seemed to need.”
And that, too, was possible only because Cheongneung had deliberately isolated the crown prince, neglected to teach him political skill, and placed Baekryeon’s daughter always within his sight.
Had the crown prince possessed another support base, Yu-hyeon could never have monopolized power.
Had Cheongneung instructed the crown prince as Baekryeon once raised Yu-hyeon, the next emperor would have known that clinging to a single powerful minister was dangerous.
Had Yu-hyeon’s rank not been elevated so high, perhaps the last emperor of Jin would have turned to someone else—not her—for help.
“Then I am at peace.”
Cheongneung knew this was what Yu-hyeon wanted and had aided her.
Even knowing it meant a thousand years of blame in history books.
Even knowing the empire he had built in his lifetime would crumble like a mirage after his death.
Yet he could not understand how that could be any consolation to Baekryeon, who had lost her child.
Perhaps it was comfort to Yu-hyeon—but surely not to Baekryeon.
For Baekryeon had never wished for the empire’s downfall.
“Because…”
Blanche paused, as if the words were hard to frame—not out of grief, but because explanation itself was difficult.
This wasn’t suppressed emotion; it was clarity. Melchizedek quickly caught that nuance.
“In the end, the child achieved what she desired.”
He still struggled to understand.
It was the death of her first child that had grieved Blanche—then why should it matter that the second, Yu-hyeon, fulfilled her wish? Was it enough that both were Baekryeon’s children? Did it not matter that the first, Yu-ui, had been poisoned unjustly, and someone else reaped the recompense?
Blanche moved her lips in hesitation, then, as if giving up, spoke briefly:
“Yu-hyeon was Yu-ui reborn. If that child ultimately seized what she desired, then you could say her misfortune in her first life was atoned for.”
Ah. So the first child’s name was Yu-ui. Melchizedek fixed in memory the name he had never once spoken aloud.
And then he frowned.
“Reborn?”
“Like Your Majesty. Like me.”
It wasn’t hard to understand—just hard to accept.
Questions piled upon questions, but he wasn’t sure if it was right to ask them.
So he asked only one:
“Is that why you noticed me first?”
Blanche laughed softly, stepped away, and began to walk at an unhurried pace.
It was aimless—an invitation to continue the conversation while walking. Melchizedek followed suit.
“Perhaps it had some influence. Since I knew it was possible for others to reincarnate with their memories, not just myself. But it wasn’t the only reason. Until the day of the Hunting Festival, I wasn’t even conscious of it.”
Melchizedek tried to recall that festival, but his memories faltered.
What lingered most vividly was the following day, the Night Festival.
Blanche’s hand receiving the cup he offered. The elegant profile tilting it. The moment her doll-like face twisted in pain.
The vision of blood—redder than her lips—spilling forth. Those were the only memories that surfaced.
“So it’s fine.”
Fine? As if reading his unspoken question, Blanche continued.
“I was not grieved by Yu-ui’s death. What weighed on me was that, though I did not grieve, the child was reborn as mine again. It pained me that though I did not mourn her death, she sought vengeance for mine. …So, if Your Majesty gave her what I could not—whether it was vengeance or anything else—if she pursued her desires, lived without being murdered, and continued to enjoy what I should have given her… then, in its own way, isn’t that a return for her affection?”
A sigh, light as wind, passed between them.
Blanche, who once hesitated even to walk beside Melchizedek, now walked a step ahead, her horse slightly in front, her face unseen.
Yet unlike before, Melchizedek felt she did not want him to see her expression, so he kept that single pace of distance.
“It would have been better had I given her all of it myself. But if Your Majesty, out of regard for me, took my place and provided her with what she needed… then, in its own way, wouldn’t that be considered a return for her affection?”
