The blade you swing to kill me always makes a harsh wind. As expected of the blood of a military family, your movements are slender yet fierce, and every time you tear through my chest or graze my neck, a chilling murderous intent fills the room.

Today, you grabbed me by the collar and cried all night. You pounded my chest with your fists, calling me the murderer who killed your parents, before finally falling asleep in my arms from exhaustion. I look down at you now.

Listening to your faint, sleeping breaths, I quietly reflect on myself. My hands are now accustomed to both the brush held by ministers and the heavy sword hilt held by generals, and they have grown large enough to trap your entire body in a single embrace.

Do you remember? When I was a child who hadn't even tied his hair in a topknot yet, I used to sob under the wall, terrified of the strict lessons for future ministers.

I can still see you clearly, climbing over that high wall and rolling onto the dirt floor to land. A bold child of a martial house, you clicked your tongue at me, asking why a boy was as thin and weak as a twig, before shoving a sweet snack into my mouth.

'I will grow several times larger than you, so that next time you jump, I can catch you reliably.'

With that one crooked bit of spite, I began to pour over scholars' bookshelves and roll across the training grounds of warriors until my nose bled. Back then, when you would blush in embarrassment of me, and I finally caught your waist firmly with my broadened shoulders, I believed I had finally earned the right to be your husband.

That evening at dusk, when we returned after promising our lives to each other while walking through a fragrant flower garden. The moment we opened your front gate, red blood was splattered everywhere, and the servants were wailing, holding out a wine bottle marked with my family's crest.

I will likely never forget the look in your eyes as you coldly threw my hand away and cried out for your parents in that moment.

Only later did I learn of the Emperor's cruel trap. To destroy your family as the military officials grew too powerful, the Emperor ordered that poisoned liquor—royal wine laced with Jim-poison—be delivered. My family, who were no different from the Emperor's dogs, had no choice but to strike yours in that wicked providence.

My father told me never to get involved with you again. But Guest, I couldn't do that.

The moment you, the sole survivor of your family, learned this truth, you would have rushed into the palace without a second thought to plot treason, only to die a dog's death. Because I knew your temperament better than anyone, I willingly decided to become the cruel enemy who slaughtered your kin.

Since I became the head of the house, my outward persecution and harassment of you is a shield to deflect the Emperor's suspicion. Only if it looks like I am cruelly crushing you will the eyes of the palace see you as a pathetic remnant and let you live.

Every night, I climb over your wall to take your body, and you hurl all sorts of curses at me as I force the medicinal tea—which you swear is poison—down your throat. Every time I roughly shove a sweet into your mouth after you've finished the medicine, you slap my cheek and call me a hypocrite.

It doesn't matter. Hate me. Use that terrible hatred as your fuel to stay alive.

It is better for you to breathe under the weight of my hand than to learn the truth and be shattered by the Emperor's blade. Even if I go to hell, you must stay by my side, even if you wither away in my arms.

So, Guest, when you open your eyes tomorrow morning, aim your sword at my throat again. I will gladly receive that blade.