Mugeoja* — He Comes Even If Not Awaited
*A man who say nothing
Deep within the Imperial Palace, at the far edge where few footsteps reached, an old pavilion remained.
The farther one moved from the center of the palace, the thinner the sounds became—
until here, even breathing seemed swallowed.
Once, it must have served its purpose.
Now it had become a place where objects that had outlived their use lingered briefly before being taken away.
The door leaned halfway off its frame.
Rust had spread black across the hinges, and the lower edge of the door had scraped against the ground, exposing rough wood grain.
Upon entering, a damp odor struck first—
wet timber, dust, old paper, and rotting fabric mixed together.
Shards of broken jars lay scattered across the floor.
Cracked celadon fragments lay half-buried in dust, their luster long faded.
The pillars were thick and sturdy.
The eaves beneath the blue tiles still held straight lines.
But the bases of the pillars were stained dark with moisture,
mold spreading like bruises in patches.
Cobwebs stretched from the ceiling.
When wind brushed past, dust fell like rain.
In one corner, the broken frame of a palanquin lay overturned.
Torn silk clung in tangles to wooden chests.
The lids of those chests stood open.
Inside were cracked ritual vessels, chipped scabbards, dented brass bowls piled together.
No plaque remained.
Not even a trace of lettering survived to suggest what the building had once been.
When the wind rose, dry earth fell from between the roof tiles.
At the edge of the eaves, hardened streaks of water stains trailed downward.
It was hard to believe this lay within the inner palace walls.
Abandonment overlapped the remnants of grandeur.
The word desolation arose naturally here.
The pavilion stood at the northwestern corner of the palace.
A high wall rose straight beside it, and beyond that lay the outer district where the Royal Guards were stationed.
The walls were double-layered.
Inside was the deepest space of the palace; outside, a zone steeped in military discipline.
The pavilion at that corner seemed deliberately pushed aside.
Few people came here.
It was not a place where daily refuse was piled.
Rather, it gathered things too precious to discard, yet insufficient to use.
Objects that had lost their purpose but were not wholly abandoned—
left behind because perhaps, someday, they might be needed again.
Cracked ritual ware.
Folding screens with worn patterns.
Broken spearheads.
Mismatched brass bowls.
Ambiguous things layered upon one another in boxes.
Most were eventually forgotten.
They were not maintained.
They vanished under dust without even a name.
But sometimes, they were called upon again—
to fill a temporary gap elsewhere,
or summoned in times of emergency.
Thus they were never entirely thrown away.
Nor were they cared for.
There was someone responsible for oversight.
Yet visits were rare.
Deep within the palace, at a corner touched by the shadow of military authority.
The pavilion's placement was no accident.
Out of sight—
yet immediately accessible if needed.
A space suspended between abandonment and preservation.
Jin Mugwang, after paying his respects to the new Emperor and receiving several directives from the Queen Dowager who ruled in regency, made his way toward that aging pavilion at the far end.
He passed through winding corridors, through several gates, and walked alone to a place where not even the eunuchs guarding the palace lingered.
As foot traffic thinned and no one remained nearby, he walked the long path in silence.
The countless thoughts drifting within his chest began to take shape in concrete words.
When thoughts multiply, one cannot predict which words will leave the mouth.
He tried to bind the circling notions into a few terms—
words that might explain the present situation.
It seemed better to seize the scattered thoughts and arrange them.
The official robe he wore for the first time in a long while fluttered in the wind.
The unfamiliar fabric brushed against his shoulders.
It was uncomfortable.
The cloth was light, the sleeves long, the waist loose.
His body had grown accustomed to wearing armor over martial attire—
to iron pressing on his shoulders, leather straps tightening across his ribs.
Now it was different.
Though something hung over his body, nothing protected him.
His flesh felt exposed.
The Emperor's gaze and the Dowager's words felt as if they struck directly against his skin.
On the battlefield, he had a shield.
Even if a blade flew toward him, armor stood in its path.
Within the palace, there was no such shell.
Words and glances were attacks.
He glanced down at his sleeve.
The cloth was soft.
It would not shield him from political blows.
The Queen Dowager expressed regret for not properly honoring his hardships from distant campaigns,
and for placing him in a difficult position instead.
Her words were restrained,
yet within them lay both consideration and calculation.
On the surface, they approached apology.
Beneath, they determined the direction of the coming political order.
Her request was clear.
When the barbarians descended again in winter,
he was to block them once more.
This time, she demanded thorough preparation.
She explicitly required the death of Ga Teukrip.
After their recent defeat, the enemy would not recover easily—
yet she wanted the palace and the nation made completely secure against renewed invasion.
For his military strength to linger near the palace was a burden to her.
Yet entrusting him with the defense against the barbarians was, without doubt, the most fitting arrangement.
Sending him far away was both restraint and utilization.
A redirection of danger.
A choice to turn risk toward another horizon.