"When this mother calls and you don’t even bother to listen, what brings the esteemed prince to such a humble place?"

Cold words, sharp as ice. Sweat trickled down my back.
What the h*ll was wrong with this guy? No matter how much he wanted to keep his distance, how could he completely ignore his own mother?

The shock and irritation hit me hard, but I couldn’t show it.
Not only because the woman before me was this body’s mother, but also because the fault lay entirely with the original owner of this body—not me.

Any plan or script I had prepared was now useless.
The basic premise—that his mother would welcome her son warmly—was gone. I had to think fast and improvise.

Appealing to maternal affection was off the table.
Her tone and expression made it clear there was no love left. That wasn’t the voice of a mother upset her son hadn’t visited—it was the tone of someone disgusted that he’d dared to show his face here.

Right. That explained a lot.
No wonder this guy’s memories held almost nothing about his family. He’d probably lived his life relying solely on his grandfather’s influence, caring only about his own survival.

No point in acting cute or pleading pitifully now.
If I had to, I’d play the role of the b*stard to the end.

"Please tell Grandfather that his grandson needs his help."

She let out a short, bitter laugh.

"Ha. You ran away from your own mother to save your precious hide, and now that you’re greedy for the throne, you come crawling back to me for help?"

So it was like that. When he’d been smuggled out of the palace for political reasons, she’d been left behind.
No wonder she harbored resentment. Still, that didn’t change what I had to do. I ignored her tone and continued.

"There’s no one I can trust in the outer palace. All the attendants are spies planted by the Crown Prince’s faction. I can’t move without being watched. I need to leave the capital for a while. If Grandfather would lend his support, I could disappear quietly."

Her expression tightened, as if realizing I wasn’t living the carefree life she imagined.

"The ruffians you used to hang around with were all men assigned by Lord Baekje. Why not ask them instead of coming to me?"

What? Those ruffians were Baekje’s people?
I’d thought they were just street punks from Pyongyang. I’d spent all my time buried in the library since arriving, so I’d had no idea.

But I couldn’t let that ignorance show. I kept my expression calm.

"I’m simply choosing the safest and most reliable option. The situation’s too unstable to risk any uncertainties."

That much was true.
Even as a prince, secretly sending a message to a duke was dangerous. If caught, it could turn into a political nightmare.

But if the Queen herself sent a letter to her family, no one could object.
Even the Grand King wouldn’t dare interfere—it would only make him look petty.

She stared at me, half amused, half exasperated.

"You really think I’ll help you?"

"You will have to."

"And why is that?"

"Because Lord Baekje would want you to."

She scoffed again, but the bitter smile that followed told me she knew I was right.

"True enough. My father would be delighted if you set your sights on the throne. Pushing aside Lord Silla would require more than his own power, after all."

Exactly.
If either faction had been capable of overwhelming the other, this century-long struggle would have ended long ago.
Neither could win, so they’d been locked in balance for generations.

The southern nobles had no more room to expand their influence, and the royal court kept them from reaching north.
The north was the King’s domain—vast but poor in productivity. The central government sent trade envoys and officials, restricting southern lords from political maneuvering there.

So, the Silla and Baekje factions had focused on building influence in the capital, trying to sway the royal council.
That was the nature of this power struggle.

The royal family still held absolute power in name, of course. No matter how the balance tipped, neither faction could reduce the throne to a puppet. But even so, the influence they held was enough.

None of them truly sought independence—they only wanted dominance over the southern peninsula.
Their ties of marriage with the royal line kept them safe from purges. The Queen herself, my mother, was living proof—daughter of both Silla and Baekje houses.

"Very well. What do you want, then? Money? More guards? What should I ask my father for?"

Her tone softened a little, though her neck still flushed red with restrained anger.
I felt a twinge of guilt—but I’d make it up to her once things worked out.

"As I said, I need to leave the capital. I’m of age now. The Crown Prince can’t keep me idle forever. Have Grandfather persuade His Majesty and the ministers to grant me a title. Once I receive my fief, I’ll have an excuse to leave Pyongyang."

She nodded, seeming to agree with my reasoning.

"Indeed, the capital has been restless lately. Many of the nobles support Lord Silla, and criticism of Lord Baekje is spreading. If you stay here, you may well end up in danger."

She tapped her chin thoughtfully before asking,

"All right. I understand your plan. But which title do you have in mind? The southern lands are already full, and the north is off-limits for political reasons."

I gave the answer I’d already decided on.

"I intend to go to Khitan. It’s remote, still culturally distinct from Goryeo, and difficult for spies to infiltrate. If I can win their loyalty, it will be a great advantage."

A solid, logical argument—or so I thought.
But my mother’s expression turned strangely strained.

"Khitan? Are you sure that’s the right choice?"

"Is there a problem?"

She sighed, rubbing her forehead.

"Do you even know that since Khitan was annexed, fifteen different men have held the title of Duke of Khitan?"

Wait, what?

Khitan had only been part of Goryeo for less than a century—barely seventy years—and yet fifteen lords had already been replaced. That was practically one every five years. Sometimes even yearly.

Which meant every one of them had likely been killed.

So the Khitans weren’t just restless—they were deadly hostile. This was far riskier than I’d imagined.

But danger only made success more valuable.
If I could win them over, they’d serve me with unwavering loyalty, precisely because of their hatred toward the established powers.

Besides, what other options did I have?
Every northern province except Khitan and Xianbei was already governed by the King’s own brothers.
There was no way I could replace them without the King’s permission.

So I met her eyes and nodded firmly.

"Yes. Please ask Grandfather to help me receive the title of Duke of Khitan."

If I failed, I’d die.
But that was already my fate.
If death was inevitable, then I might as well wager everything on this one chance.

My declaration of war—and of ambition—had been made.