The Unlucky Bride Is Loved by the Fortunate Desert King - Chapter 34 – Messenger from the Grasslands One (Flashback)

A breeze swept across the plains. Waves of green rippled before him, the grass bending and swaying as the wind carried its rhythm far into the horizon.

Feeling the gentle breath of the earth, the boy sat in meditation. He was about fifteen years old.

The flat stone beneath him, just large enough for one person to sit comfortably, was his favorite spot.
It had been shaped smooth and level by countless years of wind and rain, nature’s patient handiwork.

From afar, his posture made him look as though he were sleeping. In fact, most of the village children often thought that Yusuf—quiet, still, always half-dreaming—spent his days dozing in the sun.

“Yusuf!!” A voice called out. Half awake, the boy slowly lifted his eyelids.

“It’s tomorrow, right!? You’re leaving!” The village was alive with cheer; a modest festival was being held in celebration. And the one at the center of it all—the one everyone was celebrating—was this boy, Yusuf.

Yet Yusuf himself seemed utterly indifferent, going about the day as calmly as ever.

―Tomorrow. He mouthed the word without sound.

“…Was it?”
“Of course it is! You’re going as our envoy to the great empire! You better act like it!” The other boy puffed his chest, trying to sound important.

Yusuf, however, had never cared much for days or hours. For someone who lived attuned to nature’s rhythm, such things as calendars or clocks felt meaningless.

Humans live within nature. What God gives, God can take away. You live with the sheep. You dwell with the wind. You look to the stars and find your direction. That alone is enough. That alone is life.

And yet, for someone so detached from worldly things to be called the finest swordsman among five hundred tribes of the Mughal Empire—surely that was some mistake.

Yusuf himself believed the only reason he stood apart was because he fought without thought—without hesitation, without emotion—moving only his body, not his mind.

Fear, anxiety—He had recently realized that those feelings, natural to others, were somehow missing from himself.

The Mughal Empire was famed for its horsemen and swordsmen, the pride of its nomadic people.
Yet Yusuf, even without formal training, bore their legacy in his bl00d. He simply knew—as though someone had taught him long before birth—what was right, what was wrong, and how to act.

“Hey, Yusuf. The chief’s calling for you,” the same boy said suddenly, remembering his errand.

Inside the chief’s ger, the air was warm, filled with a gentle pastoral scent. The old man offered Yusuf a cup of steaming goat’s milk. The festival was ending; at dawn, Yusuf would depart the country.

“Yusuf. The time has come. Are you ready?” Yusuf replied vaguely.

“…I think so.”
“Bah! You never have any fire in you! Tell me—have you remembered the foreign tongue I taught you? Speak it!”

The old chief, eldest and wisest of the village, was the only one fluent in the neighboring nation’s language. Yusuf had no choice but to endure the man’s strict lessons. He could outrun the chief easily, of course—but running away would only mean trouble later, when he couldn’t understand a single word abroad.

And so, day after day, with the chief—and sometimes the other children—Yusuf had struggled to learn the foreign speech. The results should be good by now. They had to be good.

Taking a slow breath, he began to recite the formal introduction like a spell.

“My name is Yusuf. I have come as envoy, to ensure the everlasting prosperity between the Mughal Empire and your nation. I humbly ask for your favor.”

“…Hmm. At least you remember your lines,” the chief said, clearing his throat. Then, with a serious gaze, he spoke again.

“Do not misunderstand why we chose you as envoy, Yusuf. The neighboring kingdom is vast—far greater than ours. Even though our five hundred tribes are fierce with sword and horse, the times are changing. Soon, battles of flesh and steel will mean little. Still, we are a people best not made into enemies. That kingdom seeks peace with us—and they requested that a boy of fifteen be sent to meet their prince, who is of the same age. You were not chosen because you have no family. I would never give such a burden for so small a reason.”

The old man, his long white beard glinting in the lamplight, smiled faintly. Then he reached out, brushing Yusuf’s pale hazel hair with a weathered hand.

“Some call you a sacrifice, a scapegoat,” he said quietly. “But I do not believe that. You are unmatched with the sword and the steed. Even in a foreign land, your skill will serve you well. Should danger come, your calm mind and strength will see you safely away.

We entrust to you the fate of our people, Yusuf. If the other nation mistreats you—if you are ever wronged—all our tribes will rise as one.”

Even Yusuf’s calm eyes widened at that. No one had ever told him such a thing.

They’d spoken of being an envoy, of living abroad, of making preparations—but never that the entire nation’s fate would rest on his shoulders.

“The fate… of this country? On me…?”

He could hardly believe it. Only yesterday, he’d been a rootless wanderer—a boy who belonged nowhere. And now they would make him bear a burden even kings might shrink from.

In that moment, Yusuf realized just how reckless his people could be. And yet, the chief’s eyes held no trace of jest. They were solemn, unwavering, and full of faith.

“Yusuf,” the old man said,
“I entrust the Mughal Empire to you.”

The weight of a nation pressed upon him. It was heavy—too heavy.

It felt as though someone had placed lead upon his feet. Yusuf stood frozen where he sat, unable to take even a single step forward.Top of Form

“I didn’t know… anything about that.” Yusuf muttered blankly.

For the first time, the village chief looked satisfied.

“There was no way I could let that leak before the plan was in motion. I let the gossipers say whatever they pleased. Thanks to that, everything went smoothly. A fine bit of camouflage, if I do say so myself.”

“Ho-ho,” the old man chuckled with a sly grin.

Yusuf had always believed himself to be free from tension or fear. But this time, his shoulders trembled slightly.

—He was being sent alone to a foreign land, carrying the fate of his entire country on his back.

He had no parents, no one to ever carry him. He had no siblings, no younger sister to ever carry on his back.

He had always lived lightly, letting only the wind rest on his shoulders. And now, the weight of so many lives was enough to crush him.

The old chief, who had cared for Yusuf since he was a child, placed both hands firmly on the boy’s shoulders — firmer than ever before.

“Yusuf. Prophet of the Star Readers. You shall go west, endure trials and hardship, and seize the Morning Star. Then, just as dawn breaks the darkness, happiness shall one day shine upon your life. It will not be an easy path — but this is your destined fate.

We, the people of the grasslands, shall see you off as a hero of honor. Yusuf, we give you the name of our nation. We bestow upon you the title ‘Mughal.’

You will likely have to abandon your given name in that foreign land. So that a piece of it may remain, we have all thought of this together. Will you fulfill this duty, Yusuf Mughal?”

“Yes.”

The weight of responsibility pressed down on him. If Yusuf’s actions displeased the neighboring kingdom, his head could easily be cut off. He must, at all costs, avoid being the spark that ignited war.

(But what did the chief mean by the Morning Star…?) Yusuf’s tribe was once known as the clan of Star Readers. Now, he was the only one left — and the prophecy’s meaning was beyond his grasp.

And so, Yusuf said farewell to the grasslands.

With the resolve of a man marching into battle, his heart trembled with unease. Yet when he finally arrived at the royal palace, the prince who awaited him greeted him with an innocent, radiant smile that could melt any fear away.

The prince grasped Yusuf’s hands and, with a voice bright as song, said:

“You’re my new friend, right!? Thank you so much for coming all this way! I truly welcome you from the bottom of my heart. Please — be my friend, for a long, long time.”

War had seemed inevitable. But this boy — so pure, so beautiful — had no trace of such thoughts.

His name was Ishtar.

The name that meant the Morning Star — Venus.

Yusuf’s eyes widened.

—He had found it.

This was the one. The one he was meant to endure hardship for. The one he was destined to find.

Both were fifteen.

A warm wind swept across the grasslands, making the flowers bloom.

—It was the first spring of their lives.

His long, pale-purple hair shimmered like lilac silk, and his skin was as smooth and white as porcelain.
His eyes were a dazzling shade of icy blue — so beautiful, they could steal a person’s breath away.

His frame was slender and delicate. If he didn’t refer to himself with “boku,” one might have easily mistaken him for a girl.

Perhaps it was because of that fragile beauty that he bore the name Ishtar — the goddess of love, fertility, war, and Venus.

Yusuf suddenly snapped back to himself and delivered the formal greeting he had been taught by the village chief.

“I am Yusuf. I come as an envoy to ensure eternal peace and prosperity between the Mughal Empire and your great nation. It is an honor to be here.”

The guards who had accompanied him couldn’t help but stifle their laughter. It wasn’t meant maliciously, but that somehow made it even worse.

The king and queen managed to keep straight faces, but everyone else was either biting back laughter or struck speechless.

Only Ishtar tilted his head curiously. Yusuf realized, with horror, that the village chief’s language lessons had completely failed.

(All that Spartan training, and for what—!?)  He wanted to cry, thinking all those long hours had been for nothing.

“Um…”
He opened his mouth, intending at least to apologize for his strange way of speaking. But Ishtar was staring at him with wide, sparkling eyes full of admiration.

“Ishtar …?”
“You sound like some great ancient wizard… So cool!”

Ishtar leaned forward, eyes shining with excitement. “Hey, who taught you to speak like that!? Oh, wait — since we’re the same age, I don’t have to be formal, right? Wow, you actually studied our language!? That’s amazing!”

He really meant it.

“I was taught by our village chief…”
“That’s why you speak in such a mature way! It’s really wonderful!”

Wonderful, he said. How could it possibly be wonderful? Even the guards, the king, and the queen had been left speechless!

“I… I’m truly sorry. If my speech sounds strange, I’ll do my best to learn again. Could you perhaps teach me?”
“I don’t mind teaching you, but there’s nothing strange about it at all. It’s just… an older way of speaking. It sounds dignified, actually. You’ll grow into that voice one day. I like the way you talk.”
“R-Really?”
“Yeah. I don’t go to school, so I don’t know much about the world outside. Yusuf-sama, I’d like you to teach me about it.”

Those pure, innocent eyes — untouched by deceit — made Yusuf falter.

(This is… royalty? Is he truly the son of a king? Even the nomads back home know more of the world than this.)

So this was the royal palace — a place he had imagined to be filled with schemes and intrigue.

(No… don’t let your guard down.)

A voice in his mind whispered coldly. It could be a trap. They might be trying to lull him into carelessness — to make him commit some act of disrespect and then swiftly cut off his head.

(Don’t trust them.) He had come alone to a foreign land — an intruder. The king, the queen, even this gentle prince — he couldn’t know what they were truly thinking.

In the end, this kingdom only wished to make the Mughal Empire its vassal. After all, they had already taken his most precious thing — his name.

Feasts and banquets followed, and before Yusuf realized it, he stood in the royal audience chamber surrounded by many onlookers.

He knelt on the marble floor, a magnificent white fur cloak draped over his shoulders — the likes of which he had never seen before.

The king unrolled a scroll and began to read aloud:

“From the Mughal Empire, we welcome you as the envoy of peace and friendship. Yusuf Mughal, as a token of goodwill, this nation grants you the right to reside here indefinitely. And so, we bestow upon you a new name — Euphorbia. From this day forth, you shall be known as Euphorbia Mughal. May you walk alongside us and dedicate your strength to the prosperity of both our nations.”

“…As you command.”

From that day on, Yusuf became Euphorbia. The boy of the grasslands — Yusuf Mughal — ceased to exist.

From this moment, he was reborn as Euphorbia Mughal. He would never again return to the green village, nor breathe in the strong blue scent of the open plains.

There was no one here who spoke his tongue, no fellow horsemen who shared his bl00d. No nights beneath the stars, no fireside laughter, no goat’s milk passed between friends.

He swallowed the lump in his throat. The sob that tried to escape made a low sound as he forced it down.

He had thought homesickness would never touch him.

But now, knowing he could never return, the longing cut deep.

He could still see the grasslands perfectly in his mind — their color, their scent, the feel of the wind — yet there was no place for Euphorbia in that world anymore.

The people of the Mughal Empire would never know a boy called Euphorbia.

“Rise,” said the king. “Let us swear eternal friendship between our nations.”

Everything went dark. Seeking light, he reached forward and grasped the nearest hand.

It was none other than the king’s.

To the onlookers, Euphorbia appeared calm and composed, exchanging a solemn handshake of goodwill.

Ishtar watched from the side, his brows furrowed slightly.

But at that moment, Euphorbia could think only of his distant homeland — the land he would never see again.

From now on, his life would be here, in this foreign kingdom. Even if his limbs were torn apart, even if his head were cut off —

—Yusuf Mughal had died today.

Then, suddenly, Euphorbia noticed something.

(Ah… it’s raining today.) He remembered the gray, heavy days spent inside the ger when the rain fell across the grasslands. Rain came even to the steppes.

But this time, the rain he heard… was the sound of applause echoing through the royal hall, celebrating the signing of the peace treaty.