You Must Read the Terms and Conditions Carefully
The definitions and scope differ slightly from school to school, but generally, the departments of Korean Language and Literature, History, and Philosophy are grouped together and called the College of Liberal Arts.
At the university I graduated from, there was a cynical joke that circulated.
"In the career statistics of the College of Liberal Arts, second place is civil servant."
That joke carries many implications.
First and foremost, it means that the only way to get a job is through blind examinations where they don't look at things like your department of graduation.
Private companies are so rational, after all, that they need to hire parachute employees—like an outside director's unemployed nephew, or someone who used to be a division chief in the ministry overseeing their business. Up to this point, most people can guess as much.
And then there's the second implication, which naturally leads to the next question.
"Then what's first place?"
That, without any exaggeration, is something I can prove with my own body.
First place is the glorified profession known by many names—the immortal house guard, the number-one candidate for being summoned to another world as a hero, and so on.
In other words: the unemployed.
Put simply, this joke is a form of self-mockery layered with complexity. These days, the term "문송합니다" ("Sorry for majoring in liberal arts") has far more impact, but long before that phrase became common, this joke was already being passed down by word of mouth.
I, too, had spent many years struggling to descend from first place to second place among liberal arts graduates.
Put another way, I failed the exam over and over again.
It seemed even my family was gradually getting tired of supporting me. They started suggesting that I try entering a company where an older relative held a respectable position.
These days, civil service isn't as popular as it used to be, and competition rates had dropped quite a bit this year. So I could only answer that I'd try one last time, and if it didn't work out, I'd do that.
"Haah..."
Letting out a sigh, I walked down the dark streets of Noryangjin.
The cup-rice vendors whose faces had grown familiar to me were packing up and heading home. Among them were even a few who, apparently, had parked flashy foreign cars somewhere nearby and were driving off in them.
People who don't really know the scene sometimes say that's better than being a civil servant—but there's no such thing as free money in this world. Leaving aside the massive premium fees that would make those cars look trivial, the amount of visible and invisible labor involved is no joke. It's a profession that requires placating both gangsters and district offices alike—a balancer between light and darkness.
Even so, perhaps trying to earn even a single won more, there was a street stall with its lights still on at an hour when even exam-takers usually wouldn't be wandering around.
Even I—someone who could say they'd cut their teeth in Noryangjin—had never seen this place before, and a spark of curiosity flared up.
People might say all street food is basically the same, but even cup rice has subtle differences.
If a beginner jumps in without thinking, it just turns into a greasy mess that tastes like nothing but store-bought mayonnaise and teriyaki sauce—and stalls like that don't last long.
I happened to be hungry, so I lifted the tent flap and went inside.
At the time, that was all it was—a modest hope that even a small satisfaction might brighten an otherwise gloomy day.
That was it.
And yet, before I could even properly take in the scene inside, I realized something was wrong.
There was no smell of food at all.
Inside was a single, spotless table that didn't look like it had ever held food. Behind it sat a woman who looked, at most, about my age, resting her chin on her arm.
Naturally, our eyes met.
"Welcome."
I'll be honest. The reason I didn't say "Sorry, wrong place" and leave was because she was extraordinarily beautiful.
It wasn't that I intended to try anything. It was more like the way your feet stop when you see a breathtaking landscape or an artistic sculpture. Her beauty existed on a plane completely detached from realistic expectations.
After hesitating, I finally managed to come up with a safe question.
"Are you still open?"
If she was just packing up and heading home, I planned to leave. But she nodded.
"Yes. I was waiting for you."
The honorific she used definitely existed in the Korean dictionary and was common in written language—but rarely used in spoken conversation. I was caught off guard again.
"Waiting… for me?"
"More precisely, for someone who could find this place. Didn't you see the sign outside?"
Who reads the sign of a cup-rice stall? At a loss for words, I turned my head.
On the standing sign outside were written the words:
'Do you want to become a civil servant? We'll make it happen today.'
I see. So it wasn't a cup-rice stall—it was an academy advertisement.
"I thought it was a street stall. I'm already enrolled in classes, so..."
"Classes are something you take in order to pass, aren't they? If you pass, you don't need classes."
Oh. That was a pretty aggressive line.
Well, like cup-rice stalls or exam-takers, this industry isn't exactly easy to survive in either. If everyone is struggling to live, something's clearly wrong—but anyway, that's how this country has always been.
As the weight of the college entrance exam declined, many CSAT instructors had moved en masse into the civil service exam market.
But like a lake drying up after people fled there due to drought, now that civil service competition rates had dropped, customers had dwindled. They were locked in brutal competition themselves.
If I'd seen this advertised somewhere, I probably wouldn't have forgotten it. Is she new?
While I was thinking that, the woman spoke bluntly again.
"If your goal is to enter national civil service, I can grant your wish immediately."
With that level of confidence, it wouldn't hurt to listen once. Even a village dog learns poetry after three years at a school—just from a sample lecture, I could roughly judge the quality.
"Then maybe you could at least send me a message link or something... Ah, right. Trial sessions are free, right?"
To be honest again, I had an ulterior motive. No matter how I looked at it, she didn't seem like a promoter for a big company. In this industry, instructors often handle their own promotion, so it was unlikely to be an official company chatroom.
She readily took out her phone.
"Yes. Just tap 'Agree' to the terms here."
The app displayed a caricature of a Joseon-era official in traditional court robes. It was covered in Chinese characters—surprisingly elaborate.
It was a metaphor so overused it felt outdated. Still, clichés are effective for a reason. Even now, the unspoken rule that "official ranks get engraved on gravestones instead of 'devoted son'" still holds, which shows how little this country has truly changed.
Feeling lighthearted, I moved my finger.
Reading every detail of the terms and conditions disqualifies you from being Korean. I felt proud of myself for the careful touch of unchecking only the non-essential items—obviously marketing consent.
Name, phone verification, membership registration—everything proceeded smoothly. Any modern person should be able to do this with their eyes closed.
In a world where you have to sell your personal data just to get a discount point somewhere, I felt no resistance. For all I know, some Mr. Jang in Harbin was already making enthusiastic use of my information to illegally enter Korea.
Relaxed by the familiar process, I deliberately added an unnecessary comment.
"So I just enter here?"
She gave a strange smile.
"You're going in right now?"
"Is that a problem?"
"There's no reason it would be. Then, as I said—starting now, you are a civil servant."
Up until that moment, I thought her words were just a strong advertising line.
But she didn't mean she'd teach me a legendary lecture that would all but guarantee passing the civil service exam.
She meant it literally.
I realized that soon enough.
It wasn't because my vision changed. The scenery looked exactly the same.
But her voice sounded unmistakably different.
[Congratulations on registering as a member of Seunggyeongdo (陞卿圖). You have now become an official.]
What…?
The closest way to describe the discomfort would be the difference between a voice speaking in front of you and one heard through a phone call. That description is wildly inaccurate, but that's the limit of my ability to explain it.
The voice continued.
[The contract period lasts until the member fulfills their obligations under Article 2 of the Terms and completes payment of tuition. The company bears no responsibility for injuries, death, memory loss, or physical or mental illness incurred during the course. If, before fulfilling Article 2, payment becomes impossible due to death or complete incapacitation, forced execution under Article 8 will be unavoidable.]
It was the flat, rapid tone of a call-center agent who knows the other party isn't listening, but needs to say it anyway so they can later claim they explained everything.
As a result, none of the content registered.
What did register was the tone—the mismatch between sight and sound, that dissonance—which summoned an uncontrollable terror within me.
If I had known absolutely nothing, I would have been merely confused.
But I was a Korean living in the 21st century.
I'd heard that some hardcore exam-takers even get rid of their phones entirely, but how easy is that, really?
There's a reason Noryangjin is packed with PC cafés, motels, karaoke rooms, and billiard halls in every alley. The civil service exam isn't a competition of academic mastery—it's a battle of whether you can resist temptation.
I, too, took modest breaks under the pretense of "recharging." Not hardcore gaming or dating—just modest things like reading webtoons or web novels.
Because of that, I had a rough idea of what might be happening.
And that half-baked knowledge multiplied my fear several times over.
According to fragments of forbidden documents scattered across the internet, this universe is infested with malicious wills.
Reincarnation trucks, nanomachines, grim reapers—names vary, but the behavior is always the same.
As if they have quotas to fill, they abduct people en masse, scatter them across other worlds, and impose cruel destinies—on both modern humans and the inhabitants of those worlds alike.
Wait, I never wanted to go to another world. I didn't get hit by a truck, and I didn't make a wish!
But I agreed to the terms.
I despaired at the realization that I could no longer mock victims of heated floor panel or water purifier scams.
My vision was starting to blur in earnest now. It felt similar to when I underwent general anesthesia during surgery—a sense of being severed from the world, utterly unable to resist. Death would probably feel like this.
Regression? Reincarnation? Teleportation?
The lowest-risk option is regression!
I desperately tried to recall lottery numbers, but of course, nothing came to mind.
When I'd heard there were people who memorized lottery numbers just in case of regression, I shouldn't have pointed fingers and questioned their sanity—I should have joined them.
Stay calm. I don't know how many years back it is, but first—Bitcoin, and... what stocks went up again? If it's before the IMF crisis, that'd be great. Or at least before the subprime mortgage crisis... No. Even five years back would do. I'll borrow in dollars and bet everything on the pro baseball championship team! I absolutely cannot bumble around like the protagonists in those novels I've read!
Clenching my teeth, I steeled my resolve.
Nothing was actually resolved—but organizing my thoughts like that made me feel strangely positive.
A life that hadn't amounted to much anyway. You could even call this fortunate.
I closed my eyes, imagining myself becoming a billionaire in an instant.
When I opened them again, I wanted to smash the entire world to pieces.
It was obvious at a glance.
There was no lottery, no stocks, no crypto, no professional baseball here.
A group of seven or eight people in robes flickering in torchlight—and tiled-roof houses visible beyond them—said everything.
Here and there stood torches and lanterns, and even when I looked far into the distance, there wasn't a single electric light to be seen.
It felt very different from scenes in historical dramas or movies. This was the difference between "a shot meant to look like night" and actual night. No reflectors, no color correction.
One thing was certain.
A place with houses and this many people, yet not a single electric light in sight, is impossible in 21st-century Korea.
I reflexively stepped back.
As if reflecting my instinctive sense of danger, a white rectangular shape—like a shield—appeared before my eyes.
Thanks to 21st-century knowledge, I immediately recognized what that damned thing was.
I shouted its name as if calling out my parents' murderer.
"Status window!"
At my call, the status window came to me—and became despair.
Name: Kim Unhaeng (金雲行)Age: 18 (born 1731)Clan Origin: Andong (安東)Racial Trait: "Gyeonghwa Sajok (京華士族)"
Noryangjin Package Event:Passive skills "Language Synchronization" and "Disease Immunity" activated.
...
Tuition Accumulation: 0 / 12 payments
Synchronization initiating...
Tutorial Mandatory Objective: Move to your home(Optional Objective: 1)
Post-Chapter Explanation / NotesNew Characters
Kim Unhaeng (金雲行)
Protagonist's current identity after transfer
18 years old, born in 1731
Clan origin: Andong (安東)
Belongs to Gyeonghwa Sajok, a Joseon-era elite capital aristocracy
Mysterious Woman at the Stall
Appears to be the facilitator/administrator of Seunggyeongdo (陞卿圖)
Speaks both normally and through a system-like voice
True identity not yet revealed
New Places
Noryangjin (노량진)
Modern-day area famous for civil service exam preparation
Unidentified Joseon-era Location
No electricity, torch-lit environment, tiled-roof houses
Clearly not modern Korea
New Systems / Concepts
Seunggyeongdo (陞卿圖)
Literally "Map of Ascending to Office"
A system that turns the protagonist into a Joseon official
Operates via contracts, tuition, obligations, and forced execution clauses
Status Window (상태창)
Game-like interface displaying personal data and objectives
Normally visible in isekai/system stories
Central irony: the novel's title implies it will later be hidden
Noryangjin Package Event
Grants passive skills:
Language Synchronization
Disease Immunity