Garden of Joy C1

Chapter 1

The vast expanse of Gyeongbokgung Palace’s Geunjeongjeon Hall buzzed with rare excitement.
Today, the grand courtyard was brimming with people — a rare sight, but for good reason. A splendid ceremony was being held to welcome back a priceless treasure — a royal artifact returning to its homeland after a long, long 145 years.

The air trembled with the sounds of drums, janggu, and flutes blending together in perfect harmony. Amidst the festive clamor, a palanquin, escorted by hundreds of guards and adorned with banners of red and blue, slowly passed through the three grand gates leading into the courtyard.

Even the sky above — cloudless and bright — seemed to celebrate this historic homecoming.
It was truly a majestic sight.

The invited guests busied themselves with capturing the rare moment — cameras flashing, phones raised, each desperate to record the stately procession that carried the relic-laden palanquin, known as Ibonghaengnyeol. Excitement rippled through the crowd; joy and awe painted every face, young and old alike.

Yet, in truth, the person who drew even more attention than the day’s honored “guest” stood elsewhere — above them all, on the royal terrace of Geunjeongjeon.

A young man stood there, his expression stormy, watching the procession with apparent displeasure.

His name was Lee Hwan — the Third Prince of the Korean Empire, infamous among the people as a troublemaker.

The sound of camera shutters firing at him poured out like a heavy downpour. What was astonishing, however, was that his defiant expression refused to soften, despite the countless lenses turned his way.

To clarify — this was no ordinary event. This was a solemn ceremony marking the return of a national treasure, once plundered, to its rightful home.
In any other case, if a member of the royal family — especially a prince — behaved so irreverently, he would have immediately graced the front pages of every news portal, drowning in scandalous rumors.

But things were different when it came to Hwan.

Everyone present — no, the entire nation — knew precisely why he was making that face. In fact, they all understood that he was already doing his best to behave.

So, if even while “holding back” he still wore that sulky scowl, there could only be one reason.

“Heeseo didn’t come, huh.”

Someone among the crowd murmured this as they aimed a large camera, the kind dubbed a “cannon lens,” at the prince. Hearing it, many others nodded knowingly.

A hopeless Jung Heeseo enthusiast.
Or, to put it more bluntly — a Jung Heeseo fanboy.

That was the other well-known side of the Third Prince, Lee Hwan.

It wasn’t anything new, either — people had seen that same behavior since his childhood, when he’d toddled around Gyeongbokgung Palace chasing after his playmate. No one was surprised anymore.

In every interview, regardless of the topic, his mouth inevitably produced one of two words: “Heeseo is…” or “Heeseo said…”
He babbled on so relentlessly that by now, not knowing “the Third Prince’s childhood friend, Jung Heeseo” was enough to make one seem suspicious — almost unpatriotic.

No, actually — even spies probably knew that much.

“The delicate, small boy who’s always standing behind Prince Hwan.”

That was the image most people had of Jung Heeseo.
A description that would’ve made him leap to his feet in protest if he ever heard it.

Heeseo had no idea how such a perception had even formed.

Was it because people had known us since we were little?

Perhaps. He had indeed spent much of his youth trailing alongside Hwan, so the “always together” part wasn’t entirely false.
But the word boy no longer fit him — he had long outgrown that age. And though he was slim, he was by no means shorter than his peers.

Yet people stubbornly insisted he was “small” and “frail,” until his face flushed red in exasperation.

The real problem, of course, was Hwan.

Beside that tall, broad-shouldered prince with his striking features, Heeseo’s pale hair and lean frame created a misleading contrast — one that made him seem fragile, even delicate. But such impressions couldn’t be further from the truth.

Delicate? Absolutely not.

Those who thought so clearly didn’t know Heeseo at all.

If one were to use a metaphor — albeit a slightly silly one — Heeseo was Hwan’s safety pin.
The only person capable of restraining the reckless, wild Third Prince was Heeseo himself.

Could someone truly delicate have managed that for so long?
Not a chance.

So while public perception might have been tinged with false assumptions, one truth stood unshakable:
Hwan was utterly, hopelessly smitten with Heeseo.

And proof of that was right there — his childish sulking today, all because Heeseo hadn’t shown up.

Naturally, the elders of the royal family wore grim expressions.

But for the public, it was just another amusing spectacle. As Hwan’s pout deepened, the clicking of camera shutters grew louder, and soft laughter rippled through the crowd.

[(Photo) #HwanAgain #PoutyPrince #NotPrinceYunButPrinceHee #NoHeeseo #DefinitelySulking]
[Oh dear, Your Highness, LOL]
[Pay attention to the relic procession, please ]
[Why didn’t Heeseo come? Something happen?]
[Even the way he wears ceremonial robes is art, seriously]

As the photos spread across social media, the laughter multiplied.

Though the mood seemed lighthearted, from the royal family’s perspective, it was mortifying.

How dare they act so casually toward a prince of the empire?

Unauthorized photographs of royalty were being circulated freely — not only that, but hashtags turned his very name into a meme. Such insolence would’ve been unthinkable in any other era.

In older times, this would have been considered a crime so grave that even the ancestral shrines would have risen in protest — an act of treason demanding immediate punishment.

But alas, today’s royal family could do nothing.

They had no power.

The empire existed in name alone; the emperor was but a hollow figurehead.
Though the law still technically recognized “crimes against the crown”, their authority had withered to the point that unless a direct attack occurred, they could not punish a citizen — nor did anyone fear they could.

Worse still, there were even those who claimed the royal family should be grateful for any attention at all, even mockery.

Outdated.
Irrelevant.
An old tiger with no teeth.

That was how the modern public saw them — neither awe-inspiring nor intimidating, merely relics of a bygone age. And beneath that surface dismissal simmered sharper criticism still.

“Honestly, aren’t they just living off taxpayers’ money?”

And again, the royals had no answer.

With science advancing, education expanding, and human rights progressing, the world had changed rapidly — and those who once lived off old glory found their power fading, piece by piece.

Thus, whether willingly or not, the royal family had been reduced to living museum pieces — trapped not even in Deoksugung, the true symbol of the Korean Empire, but in Gyeongbokgung itself, the cage of their former grandeur.

Now, their only choice was to lower their heads, live quietly, and survive.

Survival.

That was the royal family’s chosen strategy as the end of their era drew near.

And yet, amidst all that — Lee Hwan appeared.

An anomaly. A complete deviation from the pattern.

While the others hid, he shone.
Every move he made, every word he spoke, drew public attention.

Some even joked, half in admiration and half in mockery, calling him “the idol raised on tax money.”

Of course, he didn’t actually sing or dance like a real idol.
So why, then, were people so enamored with him — a mere high school student, not even the crown prince?

The reasons varied, but one stood out above all others:

They said it was because he was “ordinary.”

But that statement, at first, seemed impossible to grasp.

Ordinary? How could a prince of the empire possibly be ordinary?

The answer lay in contrast — in how unlike the rest of the royals he was.

For decades, the public image of royalty had been one of flawless composure — immaculate posture, gentle smiles, calm dignity. They were like cranes standing in still water, or perhaps porcelain dolls crafted to perfection.

It wasn’t wrong, of course.
Given their situation, it was perhaps necessary. Even if only symbolically, they had to remain the nation’s “face.”

But reality and public sentiment rarely align.
Despite their propriety, people mocked them as stiff, boring, even soulless.

And that was precisely where Hwan differed.

He wasn’t like them.

He was real.

His mischief.
His impulsive emotions.
The way he laughed, sulked, pouted, and loved — all so raw, so unfiltered — made him feel strangely human.