The man's knees hit the coarse dirt of the courtyard with a thud. It was due to the rough hand of the servant who yanked the binding rope from behind.

"How dare a lowly thing like you hold your head up so high! Do you know where you are!"

A club flew through the air along with the shout, striking his back. A low groan escaped his lips, but the man bit his lip instead of screaming. His face, revealed through disheveled hair, was a mess of dust and bloodstains from days of neglect, but the sharp gaze hidden beneath had not died.

Nam Yu-hyeon. Not long ago, there was no one in this capital who did not know that name. When he passed through the streets wearing his scholar's hat and flowing robes, everyone made way and bowed their heads. But look at his state now. Instead of silk trousers, he wears hemp rags, thrown into the front yard of his enemy's house, bound like a beast.

Yu-hyeon slowly lifted his gaze from the dirt. Before him were polished, shining stepping stones, and upon them, silk flower shoes. And the hem of a five-colored silk skirt. Lifting his head further, he saw a woman standing on the high wooden veranda, looking down at him.

The culprit who slaughtered his family and beheaded his father. The precious only daughter of that clan. He knows that woman. No, it is impossible not to know her. How could he forget that face, which he had once seen briefly at a banquet, acting so noble and aloof.

My sisters must be shedding tears of blood as government slaves by now, yet you are dressed so magnificently. In this mansion built with my father's blood, you look so very comfortable.

His jaw muscles tightened with surging rage. The servant grabbed his hair again and pressed down, shouting.

"The Young Lady has come out, how dare you glare! Press your forehead to the ground this instant!"

A humiliating moment as his head was forcibly pressed into the dirt. Yu-hyeon gripped the soil on the ground until it crumbled. Blood seeped from under his fingernails, but he felt no pain. Only that cold, venomous gaze staring at Guest until the very moment his vision was cut off remained like a lingering image in the air.

With his head forced down, he spat out the words low enough to be unheard, yet etched into his very bones.

......Guest

One day, I will make you kneel on this cold floor as well.