After leaving the main residence, Mark was led back to his chambers by his four faithful escorts, relieved that the initial contact with his father had gone 'smoothly'. After all, he had anticipated many catastrophic scenarios resulting from it, and he was quite happy that none had come to fruition.
But despite his situation only marginally improving, he couldn't help but marvel at the historical accuracy of his surroundings.
Every detail, from the intricate architecture to the traditional clothing of the people he passed, seemed to have been plucked straight out of the pages of his beloved history books.
Growing up, Mark had always been fascinated by the past, especially the ancient cultures of the Far East. He'd devoured every text he could find on the subject, immersing himself in the rich tapestry of dynasties, wars, and cultural revolutions that had shaped the region. Now, seeing it all come to life before his very eyes, he felt a strange sense of elation, his predicament momentarily forgotten in the face of such wonder.
As they walked, his keen eye also picked out details he'd only ever seen in illustrations and descriptions. The sweeping, curved roofs of the buildings, adorned with intricate carvings and vibrant paint. The meticulously maintained gardens, filled with exotic flowers and carefully pruned trees. Even the people embodied the essence of the era, their mannerisms and speech patterns so different from what he knew.
He just couldn't help but feel a thrill of excitement at the prospect of experiencing it firsthand. After all, this was the class he'd always excelled in, the one where he could reliably predict the future based on the patterns of the past. Humans, he had concluded long ago, were too short-sighted and forgetful to ever truly learn from their mistakes, doomed to repeat the same cycles of conflict and resolution over and over again.
But his musings were cut short as they arrived at his chambers, the four escorts suddenly falling to their knees in a display of profound gratitude.
"Thank you, young master," the leader of the group spoke, his voice thick with emotion. "Without you, we'd be..." He trailed off, unable to finish the thought, but the implication clear. Had Mark not intervened, their lives would have been forfeit, ended in a brutal display of power in that great hall.
Mark felt a pang of guilt at their words, knowing that it was his predecessor's reckless actions that had put them in such a precarious position to begin with.
"You don't have to thank me," he replied, his tone tinged with regret. "I was the one who put you four in this situation." The words felt inadequate, a paltry apology for the terror they must have felt, but the escorts merely nodded, a tacit understanding passing between them.
As they assumed their positions around the residence, Mark turned to face his new reality, the grandeur of his surroundings suddenly feeling more daunting than exciting. A tutor, his father had said. Someone to re-educate him in all aspects of his position and duties. The thought both filled him with a sense of trepidation and dread.
In his previous life, he had always been light-years ahead of his peers, his genius intellect making even the most advanced classes seem like child's play. The idea of being subjected to remedial lessons, of having to pretend ignorance and feign interest in topics he could probably teach better than his instructor, was almost physically painful.
But he knew he had no choice. If he was going to survive, if he was going to have any hope of unraveling the mystery of why he had been brought here, he needed to play the part of the dutiful son and student. He would have to suppress his natural inclination to question and challenge, to bite his tongue and nod along like a good little prince.
And unfortunately, that thought made him want to scream.
Sighing, he then stepped into his chambers, only to be immediately accosted by a gaggle of servants, their faces a mix of concern and irritation. "Young master, how could you do this?!" one of them scolded, her tone sharp with reproach. "We always tell you to be prudent! Why do you keep putting yourself in danger? Do you have a death wish?"
Mark blinked, taken aback by the onslaught of grievances. Just what kind of reckless, impulsive fool had Kim Pŏm-min been before his untimely demise? He opened his mouth to respond, to try and defend himself against accusations aimed at a dead man, but before he could get a word out, a new voice cut through the clamor.
"MAKE WAY, YOU DAMN SERVANTS!"
The crowd parted like the Red Sea, revealing a wizened old man who looked like he'd been carved out of a particularly gnarled piece of driftwood.
His skin was weathered and deeply creased, his eyes little more than glittering black pinpricks set deep in a face that seemed to be more wrinkle than feature. A wispy beard, white as snow, hung from his chin, and his hands were gnarled and knotted, the knuckles swollen with age.
"Young master!" the old man crowed, his voice a reedy wheeze. "I've heard you've injured yourself! Let me treat you!" He pushed forward, his bony elbows jabbing into the ribs of the servants as he forced his way through.
Mark couldn't help but recoil slightly at the sight of him, his nose wrinkling at the pungent odor of herbs and incense that clung to the man like a cloud.
A shaman, he realized. A Baksu, in the parlance of this time and place.
"Judging from your reaction, I guess you really have forgotten about all of this," the old man cackled, his eyes glinting with amusement. "And don't you dare say I'm ugly, I already know it!"
The blunt rebuke caught him off guard, and he found himself struggling not to laugh at the sheer absurdity of the situation. Here he was, a man out of time, standing in a room that shouldn't exist, being scolded by a living fossil. It was like something out of a fever dream.
"If you already know this, may I know your name?" Mark asked, choosing his words carefully. In his old life, he would have probably responded with a sarcastic quip, but he sensed that respectful deference was the order of the day here.
The Baksu's bushy eyebrows shot up in surprise, his wrinkled face creasing into an expression of shock. "My oh my," he marveled, "it's been years since you've addressed me like that! Baksu is fine, young master."
Mark nodded, filing the information away. It seemed that having one's job double as a name was common practice in this era, a simple and practical solution in a world without surnames or formal titles.
"Very well, Baksu," he said, inclining his head slightly. "And yeah, I do need treatment." It was an understatement. His entire body felt like one giant bruise, every movement sending fresh waves of pain radiating through his muscles and bones. The fall from his horse had clearly done a number on Kim Pŏm-min's mortal coil, with Mark now being the unlucky inheritor of it all.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of strange potions and pungent ointments, the Baksu's gnarled hands working over Mark's battered body with surprising gentleness. The concoctions he was made to imbibe tasted vile, bitter and earthy on his tongue, but he forced them down without complaint, hoping that the old man's expertise was as great as his age implied.
By the time the treatment was finished, the sun had long since set, with Mark finding himself alone in his chambers, his body aching and his mind whirling with unanswered questions.
How had he come to be here, in this time and place so far removed from his own? What cosmic force had seen fit to rip his life apart and drop him into the body of a dead prince? Or was this due to a timeline failing? But then, what was he supposed to do now?
He lay on his bed, staring up at the intricately carved ceiling, trying to make sense of it all. But the more he thought about it, the more his head hurt, his mind struggling to wrap itself around the sheer impossibility of his situation.
"Ah... Well, no point in overthinking it now, is there?" he muttered to himself, his voice sounding strange and small in the cavernous room. He closed his eyes, willing sleep to come, hoping that perhaps in the morning, he would wake to find that this had all been some sort of bizarre, historically accurate dream.
But it was not to be.
The pounding on his door came far too early, jolting him out of a fitful slumber filled with strange, disjointed visions of his old life blending with his new reality.
"Young master!" a voice called, far too chipper for the ungodly hour. "Your tutor has arrived!"