Chapter 23
The Guard in the Dream
A shadowy form streaks to and fro amidst a realm of roiling smoke and flame. Its form turns into lightning, tearing through the night sky, its radiance surpassing the river of stars mirrored by ten thousand torches, stretching endlessly for a thousand miles... like a fire dragon baring its fangs and claws, pouncing upon prey that rushes into a desperate and brutal battlefield.
Warriors shout in excitement, brandishing their weapons as they charge forward with full force. A majestic and imposing commander sits upon a thunderous war chariot, which crushes the earth beneath it, raising high the battle flag as he commands the entire army:
"High tide!"
Soldiers roar like thunder; a hungry pack of wolves unleashes ferocious hunting howls. The bloodthirsty army surges forward like a great deluge, sweeping away all in its path, utterly unstoppable.
The undefeated legion never expected that one day it would need to pour out all its strength… to… wipe away that red-and-yellow streak that blurs their vision. Detestably, even with all their might, they still cannot cleanse that figure that both daubs and smears ash and chaff upon their perfect victory.
Humiliation sinks and erupts within boiling blood—gushing forth from countless crushed throats, from chests pierced with holes, from broken neck bones.
The most humiliating of all: the sound of shattered bones drowns out the terrified screams of soldiers, echoing together with the roar of generals who shout commands to inspire and intimidate the tiger-and-leopard army that trembles before the monster charging straight into the battlefield.
The creature rides across the field as though there is no resistance, like a war god descending, breaking through all formations, sweeping away thousands, crushing everything in its path.
Each kick sends enemies flying into the air; each punch strikes like a collapsing mountain, killing seven soldiers whose bodies are three to four times larger than the short, shadowy figure.
"Where is your commander? Summon that coward, and let him face me in single combat!"
A tiger's roar tears through the Nine Heavens, piercing directly into the painter's inner mind. The little painter startles; his hand holding the brush shifts slightly, ink scattering instantly into the smoky battlefield illusion, staining the soldiers within.
Clear eyes and elegant brows, the little painter falls into silent self-reproach, feeling that a month of discipline of the mind has all been in vain. He believes his mind should have been steady enough to withstand the invisible pressure of the battlefield illusion that besieges him night after night, yet he still jolts back into the present.
Once he falls into such a state, he cannot sleep peacefully, and it also burdens those who care for him. Startled, he is gently comforted by a companion, who softly wipes the cold sweat from his childlike face.
He turns toward a private attendant dressed in a black four-lapel round-collar robe over a long white chang. She stands tall and graceful; her slender willow brows sweep lightly across eyes that shimmer with the light of sea and lake, adorned with a pure and simple elegance like a lotus.
Her jet-black hair flows like clouds, glossy and dark, cascading over her shoulders. Plum blossom ornaments gleam, set upon peach-colored silk wrapped around her head. Two silk ribbons hang down by her temples, swaying gently in the wind… as though concealing the faint blush upon her peach-like cheeks.
The young painter recalled scenes from the past: he smiled faintly, took her jade hand, and signaled that he would wipe himself; she lowered her head without speaking. She remained silent.
The little painter feels the atmosphere grow heavy, sensing that she fears losing that simple joy—repeatedly wiping away sweat, yet never finding it tedious.
The little painter had struggled against nightmares. When she had been drawn into such pressure, she herself had not even realized it at all. The little painter had wanted her to rest.
Though she had been exhausted beyond measure, she had still used "uneasiness" as an excuse, unwilling to entrust the person she cared for to others. Thus she had begged the young painter to allow her to follow from the capital to Mau Son, to stay by his side, share his troubles, and take care of daily needs.
The young painter did not wish to let her remain in sorrow and unease all day, so he agreed. Since that time, those who had received her care have allowed her to freely do what she liked.
This simple and unadorned flower has gradually moved away from its withering state, and has once again become bright and charming, having regained a joyful smile.
She holds a handkerchief, gently wiping away the beads of sweat upon his oval face. That mischievous, playful disposition—fond of teasing those who care for him and bantering with those around him—has now wholly vanished; in its place stands a quiet and solemn countenance. His gaze shines brighter than the stars, fixed intently upon the blurred band of light within the painting.
Strange it is: viewed from the front, that band of light appears as a golden bolt of lightning; yet from other angles, it seems… like the shadow-form of a human.
The little painter devotes himself to grinding ink. The second is a young noble girl, who possesses a graceful and supple form, moth-like brows and phoenix eyes, a delicate and beautiful visage, and exudes a regal aura.
Her raven hair is bound into a phoenix coiffure; she wears a phoenix-shaped brooch and jade earrings, and upon her slender fair wrists are lotus-petal golden bracelets.
She is clad in a flowing long chang, her steps graceful. Her outer garment is a pure white cross-collared robe. At her slim waist hangs a perfumed sachet pendant, from which a gentle fragrance softly diffuses.
The young noble girl comes before the long table, carefully arranging the scroll painting and surveying the whole, from great to small, weighing each simple yet refined sketch: it is the same single figure—just moments ago like an unparalleled war-god, sweeping across the battlefield with the ferocity of tiger and leopard; yet in the blink of an eye, returning to solitude, quietly seeking a secluded place, gazing toward a distant and uncertain horizon.
After repeated scrutiny, the young lady takes up the brush and dips it in ink; here she lightly dots, there she finely traces. The tip of the brush turns with light agility, her movements like a dance, as though a celestial maiden glides in the air.
A hundred times as one: no matter how stained, disordered, or damaged the painting may be, with but slight repair it becomes again perfect and vivid and lifelike, so that the beholder feels as though iron cavalry burst forth from the painting, rushing into reality and wreaking great slaughter.
Whenever he dreams of that illusory battlefield, the little painter adds yet another scene to the scroll painting whose ending is not yet determined. This boy is engrossed in his work, exerting all his strength to overcome the pressure, bringing each part to completion.
Each depiction demands utmost concentration and consumes great mental strength, until his whole body grows weary. His figure sways slightly; his brows knit together as he presses his forehead lightly. The young lady hastens to draw a chair before him. He sits, giving a faint smile:
- Thank you, Sister An Lac!
The young lady named An Lac quickly performs an obeisance:
- Pray do not call me elder sister; I do not dare accept it, Your Highness the Crown Prince.
The Crown Prince, seeing the flustered state of the young lady, cannot help but laugh softly, then once more fixes his gaze upon the scroll painting. An Lac offers counsel:
- Each time you paint, Your Highness is ever lost in thought, speaking with no one, and not even thinking of food or drink…
Before she finishes speaking, she turns to look toward the young noble girl, who is still attending to the painting. The second young lady's moth-like brows tremble slightly; her phoenix eyes shimmer like autumn waters, her lips curve in a smile, like a rose just in bloom.
- Throughout the capital, among scholar-officials and military generals alike, all know of Your Highness's resolute nature. Whatever you desire to do, from small matters to great, you spare no cost to accomplish it. Though I possess a noble status, in the end I am but a mere young girl…
The young noble girl leaves her words unfinished, yet the Crown Prince and the perceptive ones understand without needing to hear the rest. Even the pillars of the state cannot sway the will of the Crown Prince—how much less the ladies of the inner palace.
Whether it is she or the other ladies, they can only assist in silence, offering words of encouragement, and never overstepping their bounds. An Lac appears somewhat at a loss, yet she does not lower her head to conceal the confusion in her eyes, fearing others may perceive her thoughts.
Today, whether she or the Commandery Princess, both wish that the Grand Chancellor and the Emperor may understand: they—these ladies—should not compare with the scholar-officials and military generals, cannot compare with them, and still less dare measure themselves against them.
Two girls therefore act in perfect harmony, leading speech and guiding discourse, creating opportunities for themselves, expressing that they should behave properly and keep to their duties, willingly serving as a firm "rear realm", building a warm home to support the "front line", thereby strengthening the very foundations of the dominion.
The nearby General of the guard scratches his nose and squints at the smiling Emperor. No one knows what the future will be like, for who shall govern the matter of the imperial warm home… is decided by the one who stands beneath a single man and above ten thousand others.
Yet the enlightened ruler is still pleased; seeing that the two girls share one heart and mind, jointly praying for the eternal prosperity of the realm, and also wishing the Crown Prince peace and stability.
The Grand Chancellor turns toward An Lac and the painting girl—Tran Thieu. The old man nods and claps his hands to praise Tran Thieu. She feels secretly pleased, yet remains composed, and replies to the Grand Chancellor with a gentle smile.
An Lac smiles. Her smile is bright with joy for her confidant… and… buries her own unspoken feelings. She knows well that her identity and fate are an insurmountable barrier, one that no one dares to break.
Intimate like flesh and bone, as close as sisters, yet the lonely often envy the joyful, and may even turn into enemies. Yet An Lac does not follow this common rule; she willingly prays for those she cares about. This hidden thought lies deeply buried within her clear insight into the mortal dust.
The Grand Chancellor is thoughtful; the Emperor and the General remain silent. They neither offer words of encouragement nor show a trace of pity. Those who need no consolation find their spirits lightened instead; for empathy or encouragement toward an unalterable fate often becomes hollow and ridiculous. Those who yearn for sincerity deeply hate false pity that further increases the suffering of the unfortunate.
In the mortal dust, how many people "are given" understanding of their thoughts by both Emperor and Grand Chancellor? For her, a person toyed with by fate, this is the most meaningful comfort.
The Crown Prince does not understand why everyone suddenly falls into silence. This child is sensible and avoids touching matters that are hard to speak. Yet because the atmosphere grows heavy, he feels a sense of oppression, and the future Emperor breaks the silence:
- How should I say this? Every time I see this, little brother… ah, no…
The Crown Prince shyly glances at the Grand Chancellor sitting in the corner of the room, coughs lightly, covers his mouth, and clears his throat:
- I am often drawn into the scroll painting, as if being urged by 'that person' to enter the fray and fight alongside him. If I do not look, the chaotic scenes instead disturb my mind even more…
The Grand Chancellor says in a low, hoarse voice:
- Oh, why do you assume the "shadow" is a male?
His tone is excited at the new information, yet to the listener's ear, it clearly sounds as though he already knows and is merely asking.
The Crown Prince glances sideways and sees the Grand Chancellor sitting on a black chair.
The old man is short and sturdy, wearing a round-collared robe, trousers of fire-washed cloth, leather shoes, holding a white pheasant-feather fan. His dark face is deeply carved with the coldness, ruthlessness, and cruelty left by those who have faced foreign enemies, internal chaos, and clan disputes.
All hypocrisy, deception, bitterness, cries of hatred, storms of power, and thunderous rage of years are hidden within his sunken dark eye sockets. Anyone who dares face him directly feels cold fear rising, as if a blade is placed against the throat, ready to cut it at any moment.
The Crown Prince feels fear and quickly looks toward the Emperor.
The ruler is of medium build, yet strong like a warrior. He wears a cross-collared long robe with double front flaps, tied at the waist with a sash, silk trousers beneath, embroidered shoes on his feet, his hair neatly bound and wrapped in white silk.
The Crown Prince concentrates on observing him as he sits casually on a sandalwood chair, supporting his chin while reading. He carefully watches how his stern father turns page after page, examining and thinking deeply.
The Crown Prince smiles slightly, knowing the books are similar to those he recommended for imperial progeny: sentences are simple, some passages are blunt, others profound and difficult, requiring explanation to understand their meaning.
His leisurely reading posture resembles a teacher imparting instruction, standing in sharp contrast with his intense focus during rigorous tempering of intellect and physical vigor, meticulous study of letters, vigorous martial practice, or solemn ceremonial rites.
Contrary to his tranquil and gentle state, once he becomes enraged, he metamorphoses into a fierce deity, using an overwhelming and dread-inducing aura to suppress the minds of others, shattering all will of resistance and defiance, and utterly crushing every design of invasion at its very inception.
At the moment when his mind enters meditative stillness according to scripture, the Emperor temporarily sets aside state affairs and enjoys a brief period of leisure. Only when he teaches or plays with his descendants does his spirit truly relax.
Not tense, not harsh, not solemn; whether the imperial progeny commit minor or grave mistakes, the father, regardless of the severity of punishment, still gently instructs them to live in harmony, united in one heart, mutually caring and protecting one another, even willing to sacrifice for each other. As a father, only thus can he peacefully govern the household, rule the state, and bring order to the realm.
The bond of brothers is as heavy as Mount Tai; therefore, no force, slander, or division can separate them. This allows the father, amid storms of power, to stabilize the fragile kinship within his household and firmly steer the ship of the nation across raging waves of internal hatred and external enemies. Kinship is the boundless force that secures peace, stabilizes the state, and governs all people in the realm.
At this moment, the father finally attains a brief moment of tranquility. He holds a cup of warm Shan Tuyet tea, slightly furrows his brows, takes a light sip, and sighs that its bitterness resembles the sorrowful taste of ancient primordial tales of love and fate.
- The Grand Chancellor is occupied with countless affairs. - The Emperor clears his throat in reminder - The Crown Prince, he has no time to await your answer any longer.
The Grand Chancellor smiles inwardly, glancing sideways at the man who continues reading calmly. Since returning to the capital from Mount Yen Tu, he has been regarded by the Grand Chancellor as the father of all people, devoting himself daily to studying the classics and contemplating Buddhist teachings, without cessation to this day.
Whether in sorrow or in joy, the face remains like a still lake, without the slightest ripple. Only those within the matter can discern whether, in the heart of one who has awakened to Suchness, there is truly any fluctuation.
Tch, this nephew is once again sentimental, pitying those in similar circumstances.
His mind wanders along one path, yet his gaze drifts toward another. The old man sips that frowningly bitter taste, yet for one who who governs fate and disposes the lives of others, bitterness upon entering the throat becomes into sweetness, a cool sensation flowing through his body. He observes the Crown Prince turning toward An Lac.
- Because no man has ever possessed a voice as pure as An Lac's, like a golden oriole.
An Lac smiles faintly, her gaze lightly passing over the girl named Tran Thieu who is repairing the scroll painting. She is certain that the Crown Prince will next mention his elder cousin:
- And speak in a soft, whispering tone, like the Commandery Princess singing a lulling melody.
The Commandery Princess remains focused on repairing the scroll painting, yet a subtle, demure smile plays upon her lips. The Grand Chancellor becomes intrigued, noticing something worthy of attention. That trace of delight vanishes in an instant, sinking into the depths of his murky eyes.
The strange old man slightly raises the corners of his mouth and lifts the tea cup, savoring a sweetness that is even more profound... and... mellow. The Crown Prince emphasizes the details he observes:
- His power is soul-shaking and terrifying, its tyrannical force beyond measure. In history, though there are many talented and valiant female generals, rarely can a woman kill seven armored soldiers with a single punch. One kick shatters entrails and sends dozens of enemies flying into the air.
The scroll painting presents everything the Crown Prince describes. The crowd is no longer as shocked and bewildered as when they first saw him scroll painting battle scenes in dreams; instead, their gaze turns toward the imperial bodyguard general beside the Emperor.
He stands tall, like a deity supporting the heavens. His solid, muscular body causes the gray-black armor engraved with tiger patterns to strain tightly as if it might burst.
His feet are covered in tiger-skin boots, steady and firm like pillars of the royal court. Blue veins bulge upon his muscular arms, which once crushed enemy generals on brutal battlefields. His sideburns and beard cast a darkness across his face, that of a violent and ferocious deity.
He arches his brows, sharp as a great saber, then draws them down over eyes far brighter than the flickering blade-shadow amid the flames of war, as though he himself stood alone upon an illusory battlefield.
- Oh! Hearing the Crown Prince's description, the flames and blood of battle instantly surge within me, stirring a heart full of battle spirit.
The general looks excitedly at Tran Thieu, carefully adjusting her brush, and according to the Crown Prince's description, refining the smudged ink into the form of a black-clad shoulder.
- I long for that fierce tiger to rush into the mortal realm. I would surely stroke its whiskers and see whether it bites me or pounces upon me!
Everyone laughs at this joke. However, the general's tone is extremely serious; clearly he indeed wishes to use this method to try and gauge the power of the shadow. But…
- What a pity, he only appears in dreams.
The Grand Chancellor lets out a sigh, his tone of regret like the feeling of having lost a talented man in the past. The old man hears the Crown Prince's puzzled words:
- If he is not real, why do I dream of him? Why do only I dream of him? I am the Crown Prince, bearing the duty of succession to the throne, yet I am merely a child now. Why does he not appear in the dreams of the Grand Chancellor, my father, or the scholar-officials and military generals, but instead disturb me night after night? I feel as if I am the one "chosen" by him! But why does he not choose a pillar capable of bearing the state's great burdens, but choose me?
The Crown Prince lightly rubs his temples, where waves of pain are now surging through him:
- I truly do not understand! Is he real, or merely an illusion?
The Crown Prince has never fallen into such a state of confusion. At times, he even suspects he has some strange illness, though the imperial physicians have pronounced him completely healthy. Astrologers, dream interpreters, and even yin-yang masters are all unable to explain it.
The future Emperor usually speaks little, and has never before spoken so openly as today. But not a single word is hollow or senseless rambling. After all, once may be a dream; twice may be coincidence; three times or more is no accident. Moreover, that shadow disturbs the "victim" every night. And every sentence strikes directly at the core:
Is this shadow real or illusory? If it truly exists, then who is he? Where is he? And when will he appear in the dreams of the future Emperor?
Is he a friend… or an enemy?
The invisible man has haunted the Crown Prince's dreams every night for half a year. Thus the Emperor and the Grand Chancellor accompany the Crown Prince to Mau Son. At first, Le Van Huu is ordered to serve as overseer, responsible for collecting tidings about the fighters. Dang Ma La and the court painters draw portraits of everyone for record-keeping and present them to the Crown Prince for viewing.
Because the number of those gathered is great, the Crown Prince fears missing any principal persons and insists on verifying personally. The Emperor and the Grand Chancellor accept this reasoning and order trusted men to disguise the Crown Prince as Ma La's page.
From all directions, fighters of every kind gather here. Some are as thin and dry as withered wood. Some have full, plump faces. Some are as pale as corpses rising from graves. Some are as radiant as beings descending from heaven. Some are disheveled and unkempt. Some are neatly dressed. Some are so ugly that even ghosts despise and demons detest them. Some are handsome like scholars.
The short are often laughed at by the tall and strong. Those who are charming, seductive, lightly coquettish, and clad in immodest attire, exchanging glances and wandering eyes, are always looked down upon by the dignified and proper, and are regarded as people of the dusty world who should be avoided.
The Crown Prince observes in silence, taking in the features of all present at a glance, remembering them upon a single viewing, never to forget. The future Emperor depicts each person's appearance, bearing, and attire with lifelike strokes, leaving all who behold them in awe.
The Crown Prince raises a scroll painting. The figure within is a young man, his attire refined like that of a deity, his long hair flowing with the wind. His frame is robust, a long sword borne upon his back. His brows are sharp as blades, his gaze cold as ice.
Though his appearance is exceedingly handsome, he is utterly impassive; even those most sociable and friendly of nature keep their distance from him. Through the Crown Prince's exquisite technique, those who have not seen this man in person still faintly sense the chill that radiates from that solitary figure.
- This is the last fighter recorded today; he is not the shadow from the dream.
All look upon the painted fighter and thus know that he is entirely different from the figure in the Crown Prince's dream. That invisible person is far smaller than the fighter. Those who yearn for talent still hope for a miracle:
- Does the Crown Prince truly dream only of that small shadow?
The Grand Chancellor asks in the most ordinary tone, so as not to place pressure upon the Crown Prince:
- Apart from him, are there any others?
The Crown Prince nods. The Grand Chancellor and the Emperor exchange a glance. The sovereign lightly rubs his aching brow, then turns again to various books concerning dreams. Having read several hundred volumes, he still cannot find a means to unravel this strange dream.
The Grand Chancellor frowns, unwilling to believe those occult texts which he deems absurd. Yet the old man has always respected the inclinations of others, especially when such inclinations may offer even a faint clue, or merely a single hint.
He waits in silence for the Emperor to finish reading, yet the answer remains a disappointed shake of the head, causing even the most patient to feel disheartened. Even so, the Grand Chancellor still holds firmly to his view:
All things in the world possess a cause; at times, they are even intimately and inextricably linked. One as steadfast as he cannot but believe that there must be a reason the invisible figure manifests in the Crown Prince's visions. Once or twice may be a coincidence; but if this 'uncanny dream' disturbs the future Emperor five or seven times over, it surely harbors a hidden cause or a profound meaning.
- Crown Prince, I implore you to recall every nuance, and see whether there is anything unusual within the dream.
The Grand Chancellor gently places his hand upon the Crown Prince's shoulder. The Emperor lets out a long sigh. Such a gentle act is exceedingly rare, yet none are now as astonished as when they first witnessed the Grand Chancellor's mild and benevolent manner, like a grandfather speaking with his grandson. Whenever warmth is needed, this tenebrous old man repels the darkness that weighs upon the heavy air.
The Crown Prince slowly closes his eyes, focusing on recalling the details of the dream. Yet the more he attempts to reconstruct the image within his mind, the more intense the pain in his temples becomes, and sweat gradually dampens his shoulders.
His small body trembles under the strain of weariness of mind, nearly collapsing. Seeing this, the Grand Chancellor hastens to support his back, settling him carefully upon a chair.
- I only wish for you to recall whether any vital detail has been overlooked; you need not force yourself.
Trung Hieu stands in the left corner of the room, silent from beginning to end. Yet upon hearing the Grand Chancellor's soothing words, he clicks his tongue:
- Because what the Grand Chancellor says is always as a command.
The old man glares at the only one who dares to mock him, yet is vexed that Trung Hieu's words strike true in every line; thus, though he holds the power of life and death, he cannot punish him. Trung Hieu turns his gaze toward the vague shadow in the scroll painting and sighs:
- I see that you are all merely wasting time and strength. Why persist in entangling yourselves, expecting one who does not exist to appear? Rather than being lost in pursuit of a figure from dreams, it is better to train our armies and lay schemes to draw hidden men of talent back into the realm, that they may willingly serve the state.
The Grand Chancellor lets out a cold laugh:
- To obtain one who has truly cast off the dust of the world is harder than ascending to the heavens. I know not in what remote wilderness they hide. This so-called honoring and seeking of the worthy is but a hollow delusion. Such people, outwardly righteous, are like snakes pretending to be eels, calling themselves pure and lofty, unwilling to associate with the mortal realm, regarding the court as a place of mixed creatures, fearing only to stain their own name. Yet in truth, they are nothing more than a group driven mad by fame, crazed for profit, and moved at heart by beauty. I know well the hearts of such recluses. What they desire is nothing more than that those who sit high above and look down upon all under heaven beat the drums and unfurl the banners, bear aloft sedan chairs of the luan-bird and roll forth phoenix carriages, to escort them into places of splendor.
The old man sees only darkness in the mortal realm, and with a cold smile declares, firm as driven nails:
- True recluses cannot be obtained; those whom we find are not truly hermits.
Trung Hieu nods, understanding the Grand Chancellor's intent: true recluses wish to remain hidden—never dream of finding them. Bringing those who crave fame and profit, who lust for beauty and power, wolves in sheep's clothing, into the fold is but raising bees within one's sleeve or foxes within one's house—who knows when they will turn and bite their master.
Rather than staking the gains of family and the fate of the realm upon a gamble of uncertain fortune and disaster, the Grand Chancellor would rather pursue a dream that is vague and unreal, at least it still allows him to cultivate patience. Trung Hieu smiles and speaks with a faint sense of mystery:
- I know there is one person who is not stained by the dust of the mortal world...
Before the words finish, those who sit high above and look down upon all under heaven beat the drums and unfurl the banners, bear aloft sedan chairs of the luan-bird and roll forth phoenix carriages, immediately grow excited and turn their gaze toward him. He feels that the Imperial Clan is almost driven mad in their pursuit of talent. Trung Hieu lets out a long sigh:
- He does not stoop to madness for fame, nor grow crazed for profit, nor have his heart moved by beauty. He regards the realm as life itself, stooping to any means, sacrificing everything, only for the peace of the common folk and the strength of the realm. Do you believe this?
The Emperor, the Crown Prince, the Grand Chancellor, and the general all stand in stunned silence, turning their heads toward each other, exchanging glances as if asking: can this be trusted? All four stare at the one who speaks these words, words even more absurd than strange dreams. Even the two women widen their eyes and look at him. No one can believe such things that only exist in imagination. Yet precisely this absurdity instead arouses curiosity in everyone, and they ask in unison:
- Who is he?
Trung Hieu clicks his tongue:
- A monster who eats from one household yet bears the cares of ten thousand households!
***
Laughter echoes and pulls the Crown Prince out of his reverie. The future ruler looks into the distance and sees Lam Thiet Nam walking through the crowd, quietly heading toward the martial grounds. The Crown Prince raises his hand and lifts the painting of the figure in his dream to eye level.
- The Guardian of Justice cannot possibly take care of all the world's troubles! He needs a Guard like you to assist the Emperor, to uphold and restore the realm—sharing the burden and bearing the weight of the kingdom upon his shoulders! The Guard, when do you appear?
As the Crown Prince is lost in thought, a slight smile brushes his lips, finding the scene of that Guardian of Justice playing with a child somewhat amusing. The child nimbly climbs onto his shoulder, joyfully shouting "run, run," turning him into a horse, riding all the way into the martial grounds for fighters.
In the end, the child slips down from his shoulder, smiles and waves, then bounces away and follows the white-haired elder back to the inn.