734 — After Speaking
After delivering his words,
Park Seong-jin felt a trace of regret.
The King had shown neither surprise nor anger.
He had seemed like a man long accustomed to such counsel.
And perhaps that was natural.
If the King possessed even a modest circle of advisers,
then Seong-jin could not have been the first to speak of decline.
The phrase "Goryeo's mandate has ended" was not a rumor born yesterday.
The King must have known it as well.
A recent decision came to mind.
Goryeo had ceased using the Yuan era name Zhizheng (至正),
yet had not proclaimed a new era of its own—
instead returning quietly to an older Goryeo reckoning.
On the surface, it seemed modest.
But to Seong-jin, it had felt like a struggle to prolong breath—
a kingdom trying to draw air just a little longer.
The King had already been striving.
He had already understood.
To stand before such a man and urge him to move faster—
it could not have eased his heart.
And yet the King had not rebuked him.
Perhaps not because Seong-jin was right,
but because the time purchased by blood and steel
was not easily dismissed.
As he exited the palace,
Seong-jin wondered if he had spoken unnecessarily.
Perhaps his words were merely another burdensome suggestion among many.
Words solve nothing.
The reasons reform fails already tower like mountains.
That was why his words felt heavy—
and hollow.
He exhaled and said quietly to Lee In-jung,
"Perhaps I spoke in vain."
Lee did not slow his steps.
"You spoke. That means you fulfilled your duty. Let that suffice."
It sounded like comfort,
but the weight within it was not light.
Lee, too, seemed uneasy about the King's muted reaction.
They walked on without speaking.
Beyond the high palace walls,
the same question circled silently within them both.
Outside the Palace
Once they had left the corridors,
Seong-jin spoke again.
"I should not have said it."
"Because you cannot watch a nation fall?" Lee asked.
"I believed I had to speak.
But seeing His Majesty's reaction,
I feel I may have overstepped."
Lee nodded slightly.
"Similar words were spoken during the last Palgwanhoe**."
** Palgwanhoe (八關會): A Goryeo state festival that combined Buddhist rites with indigenous heaven-worship rituals, affirming royal authority.
"Were they?"
"His Majesty was furious."
"So there has been precedent."
"Who would welcome hearing that their nation's lifespan is over?"
Seong-jin pressed his lips together.
"I will remain silent from now on."
Lee glanced at him.
"That would frighten me more."
"…."
"What exactly did Pyeonunja say?"
"That letting it collapse would be wiser."
Lee shook his head.
"Collapse is not like colors fading under sunlight."
"…."
"Collapse tears."
Seong-jin inhaled sharply.
"…Ah."
"It is violent. Brutal."
"Like the endless rebellions."
"Exactly."
They did not continue.
The farther they moved from the palace walls,
the heavier the silence became.
The Palgwanhoe
It had been during the Palgwanhoe festival.
That night had layered splendor over foreboding.
In the center of the palace courtyard stood a great rotating lantern—
a circular frame bearing dozens of lamps.
When lit, it turned slowly, casting spiraling light in every direction.
It was as though the stars had descended and begun to revolve upon the earth.
Tall incense burners stood nearby.
Aloeswood and sandalwood rose together,
their smoke drifting beyond palace walls.
Darkness did not linger that night.
Radiance pressed against it from every side.
The light was not merely illumination.
It declared that the kingdom still stood under heaven's protection.
Four sons of noble families were chosen as Seonrang—
ritual youths dressed in garments bright as rainbows.
Crimson, azure, gold, violet—
colors shifting with every step.
Jade pendants hung at their waists.
Feathers adorned their hair.
They crossed the courtyard in measured dance.
Their gestures slow and solemn.
Each movement patterned after ancient rites of Silla.
Drums resounded.
Bronze chimes rang in sequence.
Flutes stretched long into the night sky.
Gongs struck deep as if sounding the earth's roots.
The ceremony resembled less a Buddhist assembly
than a ritual offering to Heaven.
They invoked celestial spirits.
Recited the names of sacred mountains.
Offered wine and grain to great rivers and dragon gods.
Flags snapped in the wind.
Ceremonial fans opened wide.
Canopies and staffs rose toward the sky.
The King ascended the platform and moved through the rite's center.
Black-feathered guards surrounded him—
a procession walking the boundary between human and divine.
That night, several "sages" were invited as honored guests—
men said to bring strength to the state.
The tables overflowed with delicacies.
Wine flowed without pause.
Yet their words did not match the festival air.
They spoke of decline.
Of a final opportunity.
Of reform that must come swiftly—or never.
At one point, the King's cup descended too quietly.
No sound was heard,
yet the breath of those nearby seemed to halt.
He had invited them for strength.
Instead, they offered warnings.
The lanterns continued to shine.
Music did not falter.
The Seonrang dance remained flawless.
But beneath that brilliance lay an unspoken truth.
Signs of exhaustion had long been scattered everywhere:
unceasing rebellion,
tilted taxation,
resentful peasants,
greedy aristocrats.
Each problem appeared solvable in isolation.
Yet each was bound to the others.
Repair one, and blood surfaced elsewhere.
That night, the palace courtyard blazed with light.
Yet the light seemed less to illuminate the future
than to hold fast to present splendor.
The Palgwanhoe was beautiful.
And uneasy.
A nation already leaning
shining brighter to hide its shadow.