781.
As they left the fortress, the road changed. It was at this point that the sound of water reached their ears first, and beyond the stream, the shadow of a temple emerged.
The earthen and stone walls were low but seemed endless, and the rooftops beyond the wall stretched like waves. Hwangan Temple resembled more of a fortress than a temple. The claim that it was larger than the royal palace was no exaggeration. On a site even larger than the main palace of Manwoldae, the golden hall and pagodas stood side by side.
The two pagodas soared towards the sky, and the two golden halls faced each other as if upholding the dignity of the royal family. The tiles gleamed in the sunlight, and the intricate paintings were still vivid, with red and blue lines standing out sharply. Every step was a reminder that this was the royal temple. The history of being built as the temple of King Munjong remained, and the monks' attire, who passed through the gates, was different.
Rather than simplicity, it radiated a refined grandeur, and rather than tranquility, there was an orderly vitality. On the day of the Lantern Festival, it was said that thousands of lanterns would brighten the night like daytime, and even now, hooks for lanterns hung under the eaves, waiting for them.
The courtyard was vast, and though there were many people, it was not chaotic. The low voices of chanting, the sound of wood being carved, and the distant ringing of bells intertwined, and the entire temple moved with a single breath.
This was the place where political discussions took place, royal orders were given, and national affairs were decided. Hwangan Temple was both a place for cultivation and the heart of the nation.
His gaze shifted to the old site of the former "Gyojangdogam" (Academy of Buddhist teachings) behind the golden pagoda. The doors were closed, but the place where knowledge and philosophy had resided made him slow his steps.
Park Seongjin passed by silently, and the reason for bringing the King here became clear. Even as arrows and swords were being aimed inside the city gates, here was still the place where the nation's breath continued. It was a hub of transportation, a military checkpoint, a place where the royal family's authority and the law intersected. Hwangan Temple stood as the most solid refuge in the midst of the chaos.
He paused for a moment as he crossed the stream. The shadow of the temple flickered over the water. It swayed, but did not collapse. Here, he decided, he could entrust the King for a while.
The King stayed at Hwangan Temple instead of returning to the capital.
News of his return spread throughout Gaegyeong, but his appearance did not. Although his choice was to head to Hwangan Temple to avoid further bloodshed, the world did not accept it as such. A temporary halt was soon read as a defeat.
To those who lived by instinct, this pause seemed like the turning of the tide.
Rumors quickly spread. The first word was that the King had retreated to Hwangan Temple to avoid Kim Yong's sword. The news that the King had retreated followed, and the situation was said to be tilting. Soon, rumors also circulated that many had sided with Kim Yong.
Those who should have welcomed the King upon his return did not appear. Instead, people who had slipped out of the castle under the cover of night came running to Hwangan Temple and reported in hushed tones. Kim Yong was allegedly solidifying the rebellion. Word was that he had already laid his hand on the sword and was calculating whom to target.
Park Seongjin called Song Isul to hear the situation. The assessment was that, in the King's absence, others were calculating different moves. Several months of delay were too long in this city. They discussed strategies. Words were short, and the conclusion was heavy.
If only Lee Injung had been here, things might have been different.
But he was in Gaebong, serving as the representative of Goryeo and keeping the negotiation position. He couldn't come back. Without people, the choices were limited. Park Seongjin knew this very well.
In this situation, they would eventually have to resort to force.
The King took a long time to make a decision.
In both battle and court, he had always made quick, decisive actions when needed. But when it came to Kim Yong's name, his mind slowed down noticeably.
Kim Yong was no ordinary subject. During the time when the King was held as a hostage in Yuan, Kim Yong had stood before him, taking the blow for him, and whenever the King was in danger, Kim Yong was the first to extend a hand.
He had been with the King before he became a king, and stayed by his side even after.
The time spent together was immeasurable in terms of both merit and position. What troubled the King was not the anger of betrayal, but the feeling that trust was crumbling.
"Did he abandon me, or did I abandon him first?"
On the waves of state affairs, there was no definite answer to this question. Politics always pushed people away and tore relationships apart before right or wrong could be judged.
What is loyalty? Is it right to repay grace, or to protect the country? If one tries to hold onto both, in the end, nothing can be kept whole, the King knew this with his mind, but his heart was different.
The grace he had received as a person and the responsibility he bore as a king were tearing at him in the same place.
Every time the King thought of Kim Yong, he asked himself, "Was he always like this?" Or, was this all a distortion caused by the currents of state affairs?
Who would not waver in a place where the boundary between loyalty and ambition was blurred?
That's why the King was troubled. There was a clear reason to draw the sword. But he knew that even if he drew it, his heart would not win.
Striking Kim Yong felt less like suppressing a rebellion, and more like cutting away a piece of an era's trust. He had been a friend, and a benefactor. And now, he was someone the King had to decide upon.
The gap between the two made the King's heart waver for a long time. He knew he had to choose the country, but the choice to abandon a person was not easy.