Chapter 4: First Mission (2)
"······!! So these are the twelve mandatory objectives······?"
The goal of the Seung-gyeong-do game was to become Chief State Councillor (even if there had been a "become king" version, it would have been immediately deleted along with the creator's life).
It's called Seung-gyeong-do because it's the "road to promotion" up to the rank of minister [卿]. Now, the first objective I had to accomplish on that ladder had just appeared.
But the goal was rather… odd.
[1. Pass the civil service examination (Optional Goal: 1 item)]
What the hell was this?
Sure, there had been a minor incident yesterday, but I had already entered the Seungmunwon as an official candidate, hadn't I?
After a brief moment of confusion, I realized something.
Namheng is essentially a special recruitment system.
On the surface, it was meant to discover hidden geniuses (through the king's wisdom) or favor the descendants of meritorious officials (through the king's grace).
In cases like my family, it was a convenient tool for political purposes, or to support a powerful faction.
And discrimination against irregular appointments existed even in Joseon. In some ways, it was even worse.
Imagine in modern Korea, a parachute recruit joins a reputable company without going through the public exam system. Every employee would resent the "sleaziness of someone getting in without effort."
But if it turns out that the person is the chairman's relative or grandson, suddenly no one in the company dares to speak of fairness or effort.
At that point, silence becomes "effort," and the rewards of effort become "justice."
Yet, the upright Confucian scholars of Joseon were… different.
The Myeonshin-rye itself began as a reaction by officials who had passed the civil service exam, enraged that the children of powerful families received posts through inheritance without merit.
Who would call a flatterer of the elite a true scholar?
In the end, even if one was appointed through namheng, the ridicule of others often forced them to take the civil service examination or abandon office. While some did rise through inherited appointments, this was rare and not widely respected.
A modern Korean would instantly know Park Ji-won, the famous Yeonam scholar. He also entered government through namheng but ultimately failed the main examination and spent his life in minor posts.
I knew about him in two ways: as a modern reader, and politically, because my family was part of the No-ron faction.
Park Ji-won's grandfather, Park Pil-gyun, held a senior government post (Jeong 2-pum). And Ji-won himself was exceptionally talented.
Even so, the highest position Ji-won attained was a county magistrate or local governor.
Someone like me, Kim Un-haeng, without strong connections, would have no chance of surviving long at Seungmunwon solely through namheng.
"Come to think of it, they promised to make me an official, but never said I'd pass an exam. These bastards are truly maliciously meticulous."
I stopped cursing and refocused.
There's no need to corner myself into a dead-end. Let's calmly consider: is passing the civil service exam really the only path to becoming Chief State Councillor?
Of course, other methods exist.
Since I already had the status window, I could imagine a soda-fizzy plan: get some cheat skill, stage a coup, install a puppet king, and instantly take the Chief State Councillor seat.
Even better would be a brainwashing/mesmerizing skill—no need for violence, just walk up to the king and it's done. When did I ever think I wasn't the Chief State Councillor?
Who cares about a messed-up country? Let the revolution deal with that. I just want to go home.
Yet the abilities I had gained—language synchronization and disease immunity—felt barely enough for basic survival.
Considering the context, expecting an all-powerful cheat skill was just overconfidence.
Rather, I felt more like a toy being toyed with by some Lovecraftian elder god.
"And if that were possible, they wouldn't have called it Seung-gyeong-do."
Step by step, go up the ladder, face exile, encounter secret royal inspectors, maybe drink poison if unlucky, and eventually reach Chief State Councillor—that's the Seung-gyeong-do.
Once you reach the Chief State Councillor seat, you merely receive the ceremonial staff and retire with honorary duties. In other words, it's a game of enjoying the process.
The twelve mandatory objectives are the same. Skipping them would likely be a "rule violation"—impossible.
In games, completing the main quest often leads to facing the final boss. Seeing the first objective is passing the exam, it's obvious the rest are linked to building a career toward the ministerial seat.
Thus, my path is clear: climb the civil service career in Joseon. First step: pass the civil service exam.
It sounds long-winded, but this train of thought didn't take long.
I couldn't afford to stare off into space in front of my father, especially during a scolding session.
Fortunately, he didn't find my behavior suspicious.
Well, even a modern parent couldn't imagine their son staring at a floating status window on the floor. My father, rather pitifully, said:
"Seeing you trembling and moaning on the floor… you must be quite upset. Speak if you have something to say."
It wasn't that I didn't have words. Reputation is important. Long-term, I had to turn yesterday's chaos into a righteous act.
I steadied my voice.
"Your Excellency repeatedly forbade Myeonshin-rye by law, yet people excused it as custom, engaging in plundering and abuse, causing deaths. This deceives the king and angers the populace. Scholars like Yulgok argued this was unjust, and I also······."
Ouch.
My father hit my forehead with his pipe. Strange, he was normally dignified.
"The worst ailment of a scholar is arrogance. You've gained fancy words without grasping fundamentals. Yulgok saw the Myeonshin-rye and simply retired, he didn't go around hitting people with sticks."
The tone was strict, but just arguing logically with his son already proved he was progressive by Joseon standards. I immediately bowed.
"I spoke recklessly."
"What will you do now? Will you, like Yulgok, retire in shame?"
He was clearly leading me to the answer. I responded with relief:
"No."
"No?"
"One may lose life or office in a fit of anger, but Jing Ke preserved his life for a greater cause, and Han Xin endured humiliation for great achievements. Returning home now would be a petty man's life."
Even as a modern person, I could recite this like poetry. I felt proud; my father stroked his beard with amusement.
"You dare compare yourself to the ancients? Then what will you do?"
I gave the answer he expected.
"They harassed me under the guise of Myeonshin-rye because they look down on namheng. I will pass the civil service exam and silence them. That is the righteous path."
My father's expression looked like he wanted to clap.
"Good! Act like a true gentleman. Even if obstacles appear, a gentleman avoids shortcuts or back alleys [行不由徑, Analects]. In our country, scholars who don't take office are respected, but that's like calling an unmarried woman virtuous. One only dismisses office after fulfilling duties well."
Many imagine late Joseon No-ron scholars as rigid Confucian extremists.
But my father, Kim Yong-gyeom, was practical. He mingled with people regardless of status and cultivated broad knowledge. In modern terms, a pragmatic thinker. He didn't care much for the formalist attitude of other scholars.
Thus, I bowed deeply without hesitation.
"I will always heed your teaching."
"I will observe the family's status. For now, await your punishment. Seungmunwon is important though not the most crucial office. The king will issue a reply soon."
Damn it. Still, guilt is guilt.
Seungmunwon handled diplomatic documents. As my father said, it was an important office.
But the incident itself was minor—just young troublemakers' foolishness. Even the Ministry of Justice stepping in would be embarrassing. Kim Jeong-bong, the Pan-gyo of Seungmunwon, merely reported to the king.
I couldn't know exactly what happened in the palace, but I could guess the outcome.
From what I heard indirectly, the king's reply was long but predictable.
The child sitting before me summarized it succinctly:
"Strike those causing disturbance [騷者打擲]. Ultimately, all dismissed."
The punishment was simple: all who violated the banned Myeonshin-rye, damaging the scholars' dignity, were dismissed. Including me.
Of course, my mission wasn't ruined.
In Joseon, dismissal (pajik) differs from modern Korean firing.
It's closer to a temporary suspension, and the severity is lighter. The three greatest offenses of officials—embezzlement, sexual misconduct, drunk driving—were rarely committed, yet pajik was common.
If one made a mistake, pajik was the usual follow-up. Heavy crimes might prevent return, light ones allowed returning after a few days.
Even removal of office (sakdal-gwanjik) was mostly intimidation; many returned to office afterward. Only exile was taken seriously.
So context matters more than dismissal itself. In this case, as the boy said: "Be quiet!" It's temporary; reinstatement is certain.
Sudden mass dismissal of lower officials disrupts the government. Even Yeongjo only dismissed entire ministries if politically needed. This wasn't a big deal.
"The magistrate must have supported his own staff. Reports likely claimed a rookie swung sticks and injured officials. But both sides were dismissed, so the king seems to favor Seonmun."
"You mock me. Surely the king doesn't know our formerly disgraced family. He simply aims to abolish Myeonshin-rye and restore order."
Laws are weird anywhere. Slight mischief might be ignored, but striking in anger becomes a major crime.
By Joseon law, I was the guilty party—but the king dismissed everyone. Effectively: "You did the right thing, but don't abuse it."
The boy nodded.
"Indeed. Your fame has spread through the capital's Six Ministries."
I never had such a "younger sibling." I was the youngest with older siblings. The boy's calling me "brother" was a courtesy based on family ties, not age.
I had already undergone the coming-of-age ceremony; he had not. If both were adults, it would be more natural to be friends than siblings.
Still, I couldn't send him away.
Family ties were correct, and he would eventually be far more famous than me, even if I became Chief State Councillor.
This boy was Park Ji-won, grandson of the current Minister of Rites, Park Pil-gyun. The same author of Yeolha Ilgi I had read in modern Korea.
Even without knowing his future, I couldn't ignore him. My family was politically linked to the No-ron core; dismissing his grandson was unimaginable.
So I listened reluctantly, uneasy at becoming the SNS star of Hanyang.
"My fame has spread?"
Park Ji-won brushed his non-existent beard. He was big for his age; it didn't feel strange.
"Oh, didn't you know? Young officials call you Ta-gu-bong (Dog-Beating Stick) Kim Un-haeng."
"······Does that mean I fight dogs?"
Unlike me, Park Ji-won hadn't read modern martial arts novels, so he looked puzzled.
"No. It means a master of Salwi-bong-beop (killing-intimidation stick), a Song dynasty punishment to terrify miscreants. That's why you came, naturally. If someone asks me, I can't deny it."
The boy's voice was huge, though his voice hadn't even broken yet. I shook my head, embarrassed.
"Let's stop that. People might think I'm a street thug."
"Ha! Truly a model scholar. I heard you resolved to study to impress the younger officials?"
Even my father was surprised at acting like a parent of a high school senior studying seriously. The story had spread to the neighboring boy.
It was good he knew—speeds things up. I gave a meaningful smile.
"Yes. I plan to pass the exam within a year."
I knew regular examinations (Sik-nyeon-si) were held once every three years. This year (Mu-jin) and next (Gi-sa) had no scheduled exams.
No worries. By this time, numerous special exams (byeol-si) were held for various excuses. At least once per year, according to my memory.
Most were for political stability. Special exceptions like Jik-bu-hoe-si or Tong-bang-oe allowed me to take the exam. I could pass.
What shocked Park Ji-won was my age. If I passed next year at nineteen, it would be one of the youngest in history.
"Your scholarship is vast yet meticulous, I did not realize."
I admired him. "Your head, in one year?" A twelve-year-old said that so politely. He'd grow up great.
I wasn't lying. I would take the civil service exam. Couldn't avoid it.
But Joseon exams weren't easy. Even special ones required effort.
A time-traveler? Even someone I knew in the future couldn't pass a modern civil service exam, much less a Joseon exam.
I needed other resources.
Yes—other resources. I never intended to pass purely by my own scholarship.
Passing the exam was all that mattered. First step: act through this young gentleman before me. I lowered my voice and softened my tone.
"I don't possess deep scholarship myself. So I must rely on your help, little brother."