PABO Ch 1 – A Rolling Stone

On May 5th, Children’s Day, the coronation ceremony of a new Emperor was held. There were some who complained about two public holidays overlapping, of all things, but the majority of the populace was busy speculating about the identity of the new Emperor.

In the evening, just before sunset, many families gathered in front of their televisions. The official live-streaming site of the Korean Imperial Household was on the verge of crashing under the surge of viewers, and internet news outlets raced to publish new articles. Most of the content had only little difference from what had already been reported. The headlines, too, all sounded much the same.

“The Coronation Ceremony of the Seventh Emperor”
“The Appearance of Children Awaiting the New Emperor”
“The Sky Over Gyeongbokgung Palace^[1] Covered in Lanterns”

Normally, an imperial coronation is among the most beloved national events, but this time the fervor was even greater. It was because, from their days as crown prince until just yesterday, not a single strand of hair of the person who would become the seventh Emperor had ever been revealed. Having lived an entirely ordinary life without showing themself to the public, yet born with blood more extraordinary than anyone else’s, the Emperor’s first appearance drew the attention of the entire world. Their name, appearance, education, even their gender—everything was shrouded in secrecy, multiplying public interest hundreds, thousands of times over.

Up to now, only rumors about him—or her—had circulated. That the child had been sickly from birth and suffered from a chronic illness, never knowing when death might come; that they possessed the ugliest looks in the imperial family and had undergone plastic surgery throughout their life; that they had been horribly entangled in crime and their face had already been plastered across the news…. Thirty minutes before such baseless, dubious suspicions would be stripped away, in one noisy corner of Seoul, there was a man who had absolutely nothing to do with any of it.

Name: Han Sol. Age: 29 years old. Family relations: unknown.

‘Ugh, I feel all stiff….’

Peeling his shoulders off the yellowed linoleum by shrugging left and right, he scratched his side vigorously. The muggy daytime heat seemed to linger especially long in the pit-like semi-basement studio. The air was hot, and the flooring was filthy. Mold had meticulously crept into every corner of the wallpaper.

“I should’ve bought more pain patches.”

Stretching out his aching arms and legs like he was tossing branches in every direction, Han Sol drew a deep breath. All that came of it were two ragged pants, like a dog on a summer day. The heavy sensation in his chest, as if his lungs were filled with stones, refused to go away.

It had been an unusually exhausting evening.

“They are beginning to beat the drums! This is the moment when the seventh Emperor reveals himself before the people for the very first time!”

Waaah, waaah… Cheers could be heard from afar, and the excited voice of the news anchor echoed from the next room.

What a damn one-room apartment… Han Sol let out a long snort.

The semi-basement rooms, illegally expanded by putting up paper-thin partition walls, all had terrible soundproofing. And so, on rare occasions, there was a silver lining. On days like today, when there was major news, the thug-like middle-aged man next door would blast the live broadcast at full volume.

“We’re seeing the procession of multicolored lanterns passing through Geunjeongjeon^[2]! Wow, what a spectacle.”

‘What exactly makes it such a spectacle, Ahjussi^[3]? Give me some details.’

Listening with interest to the sounds drifting in, Han Sol groaned from the lingering muscle pain. Even as he groaned and writhed, he had no idea what had caused it. Was it the day of construction labor last week, or getting beaten up by drunks while filling in for a night shift at the convenience store…. There were plenty of reasons to hurt.

So even when a sudden fever struck, he wasn’t particularly surprised. His head felt like it was boiling, his chest was tightly constricted, but he brushed it off. He figured it wasn’t a deadly illness and left it unattended.

“The Emperor is entering!”

As he heard the announcer’s heightened voice, Han Sol closed his eyes. A dry cough hacked its way up and then seemed to settle, only for his entire body to begin burning up. Every opening in his body—sweat pores, breathing passages, hair follicles—felt as if needles were being driven into them. It was like ten thousand dwarves were mercilessly stabbing him all at once.

“Ah… it hurts…”

Clutching the chest of his stretched-out T-shirt, Han Sol twisted his body left and right. The motion of shaking his shoulders soon escalated into rolling around on the floor. At the same time, as the new Emperor’s face presumably appeared on television, the man next door muttered, “Wow, he looks strange…”

The voice seeped through the wall.

For a very brief moment, Han Sol lost consciousness. Foam spilled from his lips, and his brown eyes rolled back. Then the sound of falling water filled his ears. What had drenched his body as sweat became a stream rising up past his waist.

Burning with fever, Han Sol drifted in and out of consciousness. His mind was swept away by torrents of water pouring down over rocks.

“Ah!”

Crying out, Han Sol kicked his legs. In an instant, the limbs of a twenty-nine-year-old man, approaching thirty with nothing to his name, changed. The hands that had clenched anxiety became smooth and languid, and the legs once covered in small wounds grew pale and youthful, as if they had never known hardship. The feet paddling through the splashing stream were likewise fair and soft.

Those who dream do not know they are dreaming. And Han Sol was no exception.

Blankly, he blinked. Within the dream was a bright sky and shining sunlight. The glare of the sun was so intense that it was hard to open his eyes fully. Stirring the stream water that reached his waist with both arms, he watched red plums bobbing away in the distance.

“Hey, hey! You let all the plums get away!”

The shouts of young boys seized him. At the word “plums,” Han Sol reacted sharply.

“Ah, right. Plums… I’ve got to catch the plums.”

Plump, soft plums that could not be sweeter, ripe in season. Those were beautiful plums he’d been lucky enough to get from Uncle Kim’s orchard. Chasing after three plums, Han Sol splashed his way down the stream.

After walking a long while, cutting through the current, the stream suddenly grew shallow enough to barely touch his ankles. When he lifted his head, towering trees loomed in deep blue. Sunlight piercing the dark shade glittered like stars. And then he saw a small villa with a beautiful garden, and a single boy standing by the water.

With his white T-shirt rolled up over his lean stomach, the boy was using the hem of it like a net to scoop up several plums.

“Huh?”

The young Han Sol cried out. The unfamiliar, beautiful boy picked up one of his precious plums and took a bold bite.

“That’s mine. Why are you eating it? It’s mine…”

Flustered, he hurried closer to the boy. The reason he kept repeating the same words—It’s mine, that’s not yours, it’s mine—was foolish. The city-bred, unfamiliar boy was so pretty that it made his heart flutter, and that sudden flutter left him at a loss.

“Then give me one,” The boy said. “If you give me yours, then this one is mine, right? Give me yours.”

The moment the boy, half his face hidden in shadow, stepped into the sunlight—

“Hah!”

Han Sol opened his eyes.

Whether dreaming or waking, it was unreal all the same. Muddy, yellow-brown water surged around him. Spitting out the filthy water that had rushed into his ears and mouth, Han Sol flailed where he lay. Groundwater, overflowing due to a sudden downpour, was pouring in through the window of his semi-basement room.

In the middle of the filthy water, Han Sol hacked out dry coughs. The nauseating stench seemed to stab at his nostrils, and he heard the crackling sound of short-circuiting electricity. Lifting his head, he groped across the soaked floor. Crawling along, he tried to find the small window at ground level where passersby’s feet could be seen.

Residents holding buckets to bail out the overflowing groundwater spotted him. Crouching by the small window, they frantically waved their hands at Han Sol. Hearing them shout for him to hurry outside, Han Sol scrubbed his filthy face hard with both hands.

An anxious premonition seized him. The thought came to him unbidden that he would never forget all the trivial things that filled today—the stench that pierced his nose, the foul, stifling air, the unfamiliar shouts that sounded like scolding, and the roar of pouring water—for the rest of his life.

“P-please, turn on the lights.”

That was the moment when his perfectly fine eyes went blind.

“Ah… I can’t see….”

Stretching his neck toward the small window in search of even a scrap of light, he felt uneasy yet strangely light. The fever that had weighed down his body was gone. The stabbing pain that lingered in his limbs, the pressure constricting his heart, all had vanished. As if stealing his sight had been the goal from the very beginning.