The Eighth Prince trudged alone through a warm summer night. He had separated from the rest of the procession to return to his mother's courtyard.
How could everything have gone so wrong?
Abi d'Ilga called him a "nincompoop." Twice. No! Three times! That hurt.
It was ridiculous for a grown athlete with giant blood and royal title to worry about being called "nincompoop" by a twelve-year-old girl, but that girl was obviously the reincarnation of some ancient master — and they always got along!
"Why was she so angry?" Eight asked a wall. "How many people died?"
Consort Chen killed most of them. Would she really have killed him too if the Grand Preceptor hadn't intervened? And what was the fight about? The plan, as it had been explained to Jihûn, felt reasonable under the circumstances.
Those circumstances were bad.
If Ten and Eleven remained on the Imperial Mound, factions would form to manipulate them. Jihûn avoided factions by acting like a goofball. Sometimes, it wasn't even an act. Politics got in the way of muscle training. But Jihûn was savvy enough to know that unscrupulous players would manipulate his youngest brothers.
By getting disinherited, Ten and Eleven could have gone south and escaped the games. The south had the most lively cities, best weather, and tastiest food. Old Red Bird might not have been able to defend against Consort Chen and whoever Abi was a reincarnation of, but he could protect his grandsons against random assassin wannabes.
"Old Red Bird killed random assassin wannabes all the time!"
Jihûn's mother and younger sister were still at the Emperor's banquet when he got home. Life was so unfair! His family got to eat dumplings. He got yelled at by one ancient witch — and almost killed by another! It frustrated him so much, he could only do what any young man would do in the same situation: lift weights. Then pushups. Then pull ups. Back to weights. After all that, Jihûn practiced his horse stances.
Finally, he took a hot bath.
The steaming mineral water felt magnificent. It was so dense, even his magnificent muscles floated. That's when his mother and sister came home. His mother was practically the same size as him. His sister was small and cute. They barged in on him all the time.
Servants were slipping them information.
Jihûn covered his upper body with one arm, his lower body with another, sank until his chin was at water level — and complained about the violation of his personal time.
His sister splashed him while he couldn't protect his face.
"Jiji!" cried the Seventh Princess. "What the hell happened!?"
"I almost died!" he said. "I hope you enjoyed your food."
"The food was okay," said his sister. "But the ice cream was divine."
"Mom! That's not fair! I'm taking a bath!"
"Son," said Consort Yeon. "Did Consort Chen really attack you?"
She sounded so serious, Jihûn thought he might score some sympathy.
"Mom," he said pitifully. "It was so scary. One moment, nothing. Next moment, sword! In my face! If the Grand Preceptor hadn't caught it, I wouldn't have had time to know I was dead!"
Consort Yeon leaned forward. Jihûn anticipated pain and shrank away. His mother ran the knuckles of one hand back and forth on the top of his head — when he couldn't defend himself. His mother asked how many times she had beaten the importance of maintaining situational awareness into his thick skull. Jihûn acknowledged she had beaten the importance of situational awareness into his skull on numerous occasions — but it was difficult to be aware of a situation when the situation changed so fast.
Consort Yeon stood back up to her full height. The Goddess of Glaives was intimidating. She agreed to let Jihûn finish his bath. His sister Jieun felt reluctant to surrender the advantage, but followed her mother out when the Goddess of Glaives grabbed an ear. Jihûn finished steaming his magnificent muscles in mineral water, wrapped himself in a towel, and headed in the direction of his room.
No sooner had he turned a corner than an enormous knife hand came straight for his face.
He turned to one side. The knife hand shot past his nose. The hand rotated parallel with the floor and chopped. Jihûn blocked its advance with a beefy forearm.
"Mother," sighed Jihûn. "All this is slow."
His mother redoubled her efforts to land a blow. Jihûn avoided or blocked each strike. When she was armored up and wielding her glaive, Consort Yeon was an unstoppable battlefield juggernaut. When it came to unarmed combat, however, Jihûn was actually pretty good.
The Seventh Princess clapped.
"Jiji is slippery when wet," she said. "More of an eel than a turtle."
"You're old enough to come up with a new nickname," said Jihûn.
"I like Jiji!"
Consort Yeon waved one hand impatiently and demanded to know everything that happened.