It was a mild spring afternoon.
Seated at his large desk and reviewing documents that awaited his seal, the Emperor suddenly turned his head.
The audience chamber boasted broad, lofty windows through which one could admire the palace gardens, now bursting with spring blossoms. Yet the Emperor’s gaze did not linger on the lovely flowers or the fresh green foliage. Instead, it fixed on a lone man crouched in the grass, tugging out weeds by hand.
“Positively shabby,” he muttered.
“P-pardon, Your Majesty?”
Across the desk, the Minister of Finance flinched.
Shabby?
Well… it was true the coming banquet, His Majesty’s first since ascending the throne, seemed rather small in scale.
“You are correct, Sire. The budget is modest, especially for your first official celebration!”
That, however, was entirely because the Emperor kept saying ‘Save money,’ ‘Cut costs,’ ‘Why pour funds into a birthday party when the Harvest Festival is only two months away?’ The finance minister had simply obeyed.
(What courtier would wish to hold his sovereign’s birthday fête on a shoestring!)
The decision had sound reasons.
In his final years, the previous Emperor had neglected state affairs and squandered the treasury on indulgence, leaving everything to his younger brother, the Grand Duke.
Under that borrowed name the duke embezzled taxes, amassed wealth, and filled offices with his own men. Worse, he carried on an improper liaison with the late Empress and forced the then-Crown Prince, Guien, to the front lines of a vicious war.
After an unhappy youth and a hard-won climb to the throne, the new Emperor saw fit to remove his enemies: the Grand Duke, the former Empress, and even the Crown Princess who had been a mere puppet of theirs.
Many nobles who had followed the duke were executed for treason or driven into exile.
Once the purge was complete, the Emperor imposed strict austerity to replenish the emptied coffers: canceling balls, ceremonies, everything. He had even refused to celebrate his own birthday until the council pleaded and begged that at least one small banquet be held.
And now His Majesty called it “shabby.” The minister felt wronged though he had to admit this might be his chance to request a slightly larger budget.
He glanced at the Emperor in cautious hope, but the monarch’s attention lay elsewhere.
Realizing those earlier words had not been addressed to him, the minister also peered into the garden.
What on earth has His Majesty spotted?
The grounds were beautiful, yes, but hardly worth that intense stare…
Just then, the Emperor spoke again.
“He isn’t even wearing gloves. His hands are caked in dirt. If he keeps at it bare-handed, he’ll crack a nail on a stone or slice himself on a shard of glass. Maybe then he’ll come to his senses.”
Clucking his tongue, the Emperor did not stop grumbling. His deeply furrowed brows betrayed clear irritation.
“And why no hat? Does that southerner not know how fierce the sun is? As ugly as he is, he’ll turn bright red and look even worse. If he collapses from heatstroke, who is supposed to care?”
The longer the Emperor’s muttering grew, the more bewildered the finance minister became while the chief chamberlain waiting by the door watched with a peculiar gleam in his eyes.
The Emperor, though, remained riveted on the man in the garden, oblivious to both reactions.
“Chamberlain!”
His sudden bark made the chief step forward at once. “Yes, Your Majesty?”
With a tilt of his chin toward the window, the Emperor sneered. “Utterly unimpressive. Who would take that fellow for the Emperor’s consort? I’d sooner believe he was some rustic gardener from the provinces.”
The Emperor’s consort…
Only then did the minister realize whom His Majesty was watching: the one person every court official and gossip-monger in the capital knew.
Lev—His Majesty’s kept man.
Named only in rumor, he had been brought into the palace last summer when the Emperor returned from a seaside holiday in the south.
Lev was no great beauty: plain brown hair, nondescript brown eyes, sharp angled brows that made him look more like a surly palace guard than a lover.
Thus the nobility concluded the Emperor had some hidden motive. They were nearly certain. With the throne still lacking an Empress, every family dreamed of placing their daughter beside the powerful, brilliant, and unattached monarch.
But Guien, scarred by the late Grand Duke and Empress, wanted neither wife nor in-laws. He already had an heir; he needed no rival power.
Lev’s sudden arrival in the palace was therefore a warning the Emperor flung at the nobles.
“So unsightly. Tell him to quit loitering and get inside,” the Emperor ordered, one elegant brow arching. The minister silently nodded. His Majesty showed no affection toward that consort, merely tolerating him when useful.
Feeling a twinge of pity, the minister glanced at Lev, still crouched in the dirt. What reason has he to endure such treatment? Tsk-tsk.
“Understood, Sire,” the chamberlain bowed and left. In the corridor, servants awaited commands. One hurried over as he beckoned.
“His Majesty fears the cherished one may fall ill from heatstroke,” the chamberlain said, quite differently from the Emperor’s actual words. The servant merely dipped his head and hastened into the gardens.
Lev had just straightened up to rest. After squatting so long, his legs, back, and waist all ached. The servant conveyed the message.
“What? Go inside?”
Rubbing his stiff back, Lev scowled toward the Emperor’s office.
Why must he nitpick every little thing? Honestly, couldn’t he just ignore me like in the original story? He stamped a foot, knowing full well why. Lev was not truly Lev.
He had once been Woo I-jun, a twenty-nine-year-old Korean man living in Seoul. To explain how he ended up here, we must turn back three months.
Just after New Year’s, exhausted from endless shifts at the café, I-jun, finally enjoying a short break, received a desperate call from his only female friend.
“I-jun! Save me, please!”
Her near wail was impossible to refuse.
She drew a BL webtoon. It had begun as a free series but gained such popularity it became an official release, leaving her perpetually swamped. At times like this, she begged for help.
I-jun didn’t assist with her drawing. Instead he tidied her apartment and kept her fed. The upside? As a lifelong single gay man, he could indulge a small hobby: ogling the handsome seme protagonists in her comic.
Yes, they were only drawings, but each seme was god-tier gorgeous, stealing all of I-jun’s fluttery feelings. One night, reading chapters until dawn, he nodded off.
When he opened his eyes, he assumed he was dreaming. After all, he’d fallen asleep while helping his friend.
In the dream, he was the penniless youngest son of a minor lord: a kindly but spendthrift father, a sister home after divorce, and an elder brother too absorbed in painting to care for the estate.
If I’m dreaming, couldn’t I at least be born into a nice family? he sighed.
Real life had been harsh. An orphan with no support, I-jun had worked every job imaginable since high school, eventually becoming café manager and harboring the modest wish to open his own place someday.
Still, even in a dream, it’s something to have family, he decided and resolved to help with household finances.
The estate lay in a seaside resort town bustling with tourists each summer. I-jun bought cheap oranges at the market, squeezed fresh juice, and sold it. Business boomed. Within days, his pockets overflowed.
On another day of sales he spotted, even from afar, a breathtakingly beautiful man: platinum-blond hair that caught the sunlight, gleaming golden eyes, a piercing nose, tantalizing red lips. Though the sharply arched brows hinted at a harsh temper, such beauty could make even that charming.
Wow… unreal.
Carrying juice as a convenient excuse, he edged closer and realized the face seemed oddly familiar. Within moments whispers around him supplied the answer:
The man was Emperor Guien Angoulême of the Empire of Antoine. Delighted to see such a visage in “person,” I-jun returned the next morning and again found the Emperor on the crowded public beach.
Doesn’t a sovereign have private shores? Maybe this is some “tour the people’s lives” excursion.
While he wondered, a scream split the air. A child had been swept away by a wave. Without hesitation, I-jun, an excellent swimmer and former beach lifeguard, dove in and rescued the boy.
Dripping water, he climbed onto the sand and faced the Emperor. Guien’s gaze was… curious, as though observing a rare creature.
“Thank you,” the Emperor said first. I-jun didn’t understand why.
“Just doing what anyone would.”
Guien’s eyes flashed again, surprised. Before I-jun could think further, a middle-aged woman ran up and snatched the child.
“Oh, heavens! Your Highness! Prince Henri, stay with me!”
Only then did I-jun grasp whom he had saved: the Emperor’s only child, Prince Henri.
The wet nurse offered Guien a hurried curtsy and whisked the prince away.
Throughout, the Emperor studied I-jun. “I ought to reward you. Is there anything you desire?”
“No, thank you,” he answered firmly, eager to leave before things grew complicated.
Guien, intrigued by a man who showed no trace of awe, pressed, “Had it not been for you, my son’s life would be lost. I must compensate you. Name it.”
Really, I just want to go… But Guien insisted like a relentless debt collector.
“I said I’m fine.”
Unfazed by I-jun’s chilly refusal, the Emperor turned his back. The unspoken command was clear: Follow me or else.
With a sigh, I-jun trailed behind, shepherded by an austere elder attendant. They arrived at a sparkling two-story pavilion, one I-jun recognized from the web-toon: the very villa where, in the original ending, the Emperor spent a blissful holiday with the beloved uke after destroying the villainous one.
His friend had modeled a certain side character on I-jun—the villainous uke Lev. He had begged to be the main uke instead but was flatly denied.
“You just don’t fit the role!”
The main uke was delicate, ethereal. At 179 cm with solid labor-honed muscles, slightly upturned eyes, and a naturally impassive face, I-jun indeed suited a villain better.
Still… of all places, why here…
The pavilion was smaller than imagined yet exquisitely elegant, worlds apart from the ramshackle coastal castle where he’d awakened.
“First, you’ll need dry clothes.”
Only then did I-jun realize he was still dripping seawater onto the marble floors. An attendant guided him to an enormous dressing room lined with every kind of garment. Presented with silk shirts so soft they startled him; he rubbed the fabric between his fingers.
So even in a dream I get to wear clothes like this? Feels awfully realistic… No, no—just vivid.
Forcing down a creeping anxiety, he focused on changing. Afterwards a servant led him to a cozy drawing room, richly appointed with art and porcelain.
“Please, have a seat.”
While gingerly stroking the glossy table, I-jun asked, “How is the prince?”
“He has been examined by the palace physician and is resting.”
“I see.”
An awkward pause followed. Watching the servant pour tea, I-jun tried again.
“Then… where has His Majesty gone?”
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