Mark stood rooted in place, his heart thundering against his ribs as Ch'un-ch'u's question echoed through the cavernous hall. The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the distant whisper of wind through the elaborate eaves and the soft crackle of oil lamps that cast dancing shadows across the intricately carved wooden pillars.
This was nothing like fixing engines or solving complex mathematical equations. Those challenges had been straightforward, logical — problems with clear solutions that his genius mind could easily unravel.
But this?
This was like trying to defuse a bomb while blindfolded, where one wrong move could spell disaster not just for him, but for everyone in his vicinity.
The man before him — no, not just a man, but Kim Ch'un-ch'u himself — stood like a coiled serpent ready to strike. His presence filled the hall with an almost physical weight, making the air thick and heavy. Mark had read about powerful personalities in history books, about men whose mere presence could command rooms and alter the course of nations. But reading about such figures and standing before one were entirely different experiences.
His face was a masterpiece of controlled fury, each line and wrinkle telling the story of battles fought and kingdoms conquered. His eyes, sharp and penetrating beneath thick brows, seemed to bore straight through Mark's skull, as if trying to excavate the truth from his very thoughts. The rich silk of his formal robes rustled softly as he shifted his weight, the sound somehow more menacing than the clash of steel on steel.
"I await your response, son." The words carried the weight of mountains, each syllable precise and measured, yet laden with barely contained anger, causing Mark to fight the urge to take a step back.
In his previous life, he'd never truly understood what it meant to be intimidated. After all, his intelligence had always given him a certain confidence, a sense that he could think his way out of any situation. But standing before Ch'un-ch'u, he felt that confidence crumble like sand beneath a tidal wave.
"Honorable father," he began, bowing deeply at the waist in what he desperately hoped was an appropriate gesture. His voice still sounded strange to his own ears, higher and younger than he was used to, yet carrying traces of the careful articulation that had marked his speech in his previous life.
A derisive snort cut through the air like a whip crack. "Since when does my wayward son stand on such ceremony?" Ch'un-ch'u's voice dripped with contempt. "Where is the boy who stormed these very halls last week, declaring that protocol was for 'simpering courtiers and doddering old men'?"
The words hit Mark like physical blows. Internally, he cursed the original Kim Pŏm-min with every oath he could remember from his previous life, plus a few choice phrases he'd picked up from his mechanics' days. What kind of mess had that spoiled princeling, the one who was supposed to be the next great ruler of Silla, left him to clean up? It was already bad enough to be thrown into ancient Korea without warning, but to also land in the body of someone who'd apparently made it his life's mission to be as insufferable as possible?!
Was someone playing a prank on him?!
The atmosphere in the hall grew even heavier following these rebukes, if that was even possible. Mark could feel the weight of dozens of eyes upon him — guards stationed along the walls, servants trying to make themselves invisible in the corners, and of course, Ch'un-ch'u himself, whose gaze hadn't wavered for even a moment.
A bead of sweat traced its way down his spine beneath the unfamiliar weight of traditional Korean clothing. The silk felt alien against his skin, another reminder of how far he was from the comfortable cotton t-shirts and worn jeans of his previous life. But he couldn't afford to let such discomfort distract him now. He needed a plan, needed to find some way to navigate this treacherous situation.
Then it hit him.
The memory loss! Of course!
It wasn't just a convenient excuse, it was a lifeline.
"My escorts," he called out, proud that his voice remained steady despite the thundering of his heart. "Step forward."
The four soldiers who'd accompanied him exchanged nervous glances before moving forward with a subtle chorus of creaking leather and clinking armor. Their faces were masks of carefully controlled terror as they knelt before Ch'un-ch'u, foreheads pressed to the polished wooden floor.
Mark drew in a deep breath, trying to channel some of the authority that should have come naturally to a prince. "First of all, they are not to blame for what transpired today," he declared, forcing himself to meet his supposed father's piercing gaze. "The fault lies solely with me."
The words felt stiff and formal on his tongue, completely at odds with the apparent character of the real Kim Pŏm-min. But perhaps, in this unique scenario, that discrepancy could work in his favor.
"I would have them recount the events that led to our delayed return, if you would permit it."
Ch'un-ch'u's eyebrow arched slightly, a gesture so subtle yet so laden with meaning that Mark felt his stomach clench. "By all means," the nobleman drawled, his tone suggesting he was humoring what he assumed would be yet another of his son's elaborate deceptions. "Let us hear how my son's latest act of rebellion unfolded."
The lead soldier raised his head slightly, his voice quavering as he began to recount the tale. "The young master was... restless during our journey, my Lord. He expressed dissatisfaction with the pace of our travel and insisted on racing his horse, leading him to fall off and—"
But the man never got to finish his story.
"ENOUGH!"
Ch'un-ch'u's out of nowhere roar seemed to shake the very foundations of the hall, with its force causing the flames in the oil lamps to dance wildly, their shadows leaping across the walls like frenzied demons. "You are telling me that you have DARED to return here after allowing my son, my HEIR, to come to harm through your negligence?"
The explosion of fury transformed Ch'un-ch'u from an imposing nobleman into something almost otherworldly. His presence seemed to expand, filling every corner of the vast hall with an almost supernatural pressure.
Mark even found himself struggling to breathe, his lungs refusing to expand properly against the crushing weight of the man's anger.
This wasn't normal. No, was he even human?!
In his previous life, Mark had faced down angry customers, disappointed parents, and frustrated professors, but none of them had ever made him feel like this — like a mouse caught in the coils of a python, watching helplessly as it squeezed tighter and tighter.
Around the perimeter of the hall, the stationed guards moved with practiced precision, their hands dropping to their sword hilts in perfect unison. The metallic whisper of steel being loosened in its scabbard echoed ominously through the chamber. The four kneeling escorts went even paler, if that was possible, their faces masks of pure terror as they realized the gravity of their situation.
Mark's genius mind worked frantically, processing the scene with the same analytical precision he'd once applied to complex engineering problems. The guards' positioning, the subtle shifts in their stance, the way their eyes kept darting between Ch'un-ch'u and their intended targets — all of it painted a clear picture. These men weren't just making a show of force. They were prepared to execute the escorts right here, right now, their blood staining the polished wooden floors of this ancient hall.
The realization hit Mark like a ton of bricks. These men were about to die because of him — no, because of the reckless prince whose body he now inhabited. They would be cut down where they knelt, their lives forfeit because they had failed to control an uncontrollable youth.
Time seemed to slow as Mark watched one of the guards take a deliberate step forward, his hand tightening on his sword hilt. In that crystalline moment, something shifted inside him.
The paralyzing fear that had gripped him since entering the hall transmuted into something else — determination, perhaps, or maybe just the stubborn refusal to let others suffer for his predecessor's mistakes.
Before he could second-guess himself, he was moving. Three quick strides carried him between Ch'un-ch'u and the kneeling escorts, his arms spread wide in a protective gesture that seemed to surprise even himself. The silk of his robes whispered against the wooden floor as he planted his feet firmly, creating a human barrier between the condemned men and their would-be executioners.
"Father," he called out, his voice carrying a authority he didn't know he possessed, "you are not to touch these men." The declaration rang through the hall like a temple bell, clear and impossible to ignore. "This accident was the foolish result of a stupid teenager. Nothing more, nothing less."
The words hung in the air like suspended droplets of water, and Mark could feel the shock rippling through the assembled crowd. The guards' hands retreated from their weapons as if burned, their expressions a mixture of confusion and disbelief. Even the servants, who had been trying their best to blend into the shadows, couldn't help but stare openly at this unprecedented display.
But it was Ch'un-ch'u's reaction that truly caught him off guard. The rage that had contorted his features moments before gave way to something else — surprise, yes, but also a sharp, calculating interest that was somehow more unnerving than his previous fury. His eyes narrowed as he studied his son, as if seeing him for the first time, trying to reconcile this sudden display of backbone with the troublemaker he'd known.
The silence in the hall grew thick enough to cut with a knife, broken only by the rapid breathing of the four escorts still kneeling behind Mark. He could feel their terror radiating against his back like heat from a furnace, could sense their confusion at being defended by the very prince whose recklessness had landed them in this situation.
Taking advantage of this momentary equilibrium, Mark pressed forward with his plan. "However, Father," he began, allowing his voice to waver slightly, injecting just the right note of uncertainty into his tone, "complications arose from this accident..." He paused, swallowing hard for effect. "I've... lost my memories..."
The declaration landed like a stone in a still pond, sending ripples of shock through the assembled crowd.
Whispers erupted from the shadows where the servants lurked, quickly silenced by sharp glances from the guards. But it was Ch'un-ch'u's reaction that Mark watched most carefully, noting how the nobleman's eyebrows rose fractionally, how his fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on the ornate armrests of his chair.
"It's true, my lord!" The lead escort's voice rang out from behind Mark, trembling but clear. "When the young master regained consciousness, he knew not who we were. He had to ask our identities!"
The other three escorts quickly added their own confirmation, their voices overlapping in their eagerness to support the claim. "He seemed completely lost, my lord!" "Asked where he was, who we were!" "The fall must have addled his mind!"
Ch'un-ch'u's expression cycled through a range of emotions with dizzying speed — disbelief, concern, anger, and finally, something approaching calculation. Mark could almost see the wheels turning behind those penetrating eyes, weighing possibilities, considering implications. His son, the perpetual thorn in his side, had not only stood up to him in defense of others but now claimed to have no memory of his past transgressions.
The silence stretched on, becoming almost unbearable. Mark forced himself to remain still, to meet his father's gaze without flinching, even as his heart threatened to burst from his chest. This was the gambit — everything hinged on how his father would react to this development.
And finally, Ch'un-ch'u stirred, his movement sending another wave of tension through the hall. He rose from his seat with deliberate slowness, each motion measured and precise, like a predator sizing up uncertain prey. The silk of his robes whispered against the polished wood as he descended the few steps that elevated his position, coming to stand directly before Mark.
Up close, his presence was even more overwhelming. Mark could see every detail of his face — the network of fine lines around his eyes that spoke of years squinting against sun and wind, the barely visible scar along his jaw that hinted at battles fought and won, the steel-gray threads beginning to appear in his otherwise jet-black hair. This was a man who had clawed his way to power through sheer force of will, who would one day unite a kingdom through cunning and strength.
"The escorts will retain their positions," Ch'un-ch'u announced finally, his voice carefully controlled. The four men sagged with relief, though their respite was short-lived as he fixed them with a glare so menacing it made their earlier terror seem mild by comparison. "But know this — if any harm comes to my son again, if he so much as stubs his toe under your watch, your deaths will be neither swift nor merciful."
The threat hung in the air like poison gas, and Mark could hear the escorts' breath catch in their throats. The guards stationed around the room shifted slightly, their armor creating a subtle symphony of metallic clicks that seemed to underscore the deadly serious nature of his words.
Then those penetrating eyes returned to Mark, studying him with an intensity that made him want to run away. He'd never felt so thoroughly examined, so completely exposed, as if Ch'un-ch'u could somehow see past the flesh and bone of Kim Pŏm-min's body to the displaced soul within.
After what felt like years, Ch'un-ch'u moved back to the ornate chair he had just left, settling into it with the air of a man coming to a momentous decision. The wooden seat creaked slightly under his weight, the sound unnaturally loud in the tense silence.
"You will be assigned a tutor," he declared, his tone brooking no argument. "If you have truly lost your memories, then you must be re-educated in all aspects of your position and duties. The reputation of our family — and the future of Silla itself — may depend on it."
Mark felt a wave of relief wash over him, though he was careful not to let it show on his face. This was perfect — exactly what he needed. A tutor could help him navigate the intricacies of court life, fill in the gaps in his historical knowledge, and most importantly, help him avoid making any catastrophic mistakes while he figured out what the hell was going on.
"Thank you, Father," he replied, bowing once again. "I look forward to relearning my place in this family and in Silla."
Something flickered across Ch'un-ch'u's face then — surprise again, mixed with what might have been approval. But it was gone so quickly Mark couldn't be sure he hadn't imagined it, replaced by the nobleman's usual stern expression.
"You are dismissed," Ch'un-ch'u said, waving a hand in dismissal. "Rest. Your tutor will begin tomorrow at dawn." His eyes narrowed slightly. "And we shall see if this... change in your character persists beyond today's excitement."
As Mark turned to leave, followed closely by his still-shaken escorts, he could feel his father's contemplative gaze burning into his back. He'd managed to navigate this initial confrontation, had even potentially turned it to his advantage, but he was under no illusions about the challenges that lay ahead.