4. Become My Ally (1)
Park Ji-won asked, a hint of tension in his voice.
"What kind of help could I possibly provide?"
"My learning is still shallow. I must find a good teacher, but I fear gossip may arise because of that unfortunate incident involving the so-called Tagueobong. So I was hoping my younger brother could deliver a letter on my behalf."
Park Ji-won looked puzzled.
"Me?"
No matter how young he was, he was still the descendant of a noble family. Such errands were the work of servants, not aristocrats.
It wasn't so much rude as it was strange. Like telling someone to wash clothes by hand when there was a perfectly good washing machine right there.
But just as there are clothes that must be washed by hand, there are moments when even nobles must take on unpleasant tasks. I lowered my voice.
"Factionalism is considered treasonous, so I cannot speak openly. But scholars who have firmly inherited Yulgok's academic tradition—by which I mean the Westerners, especially the Noron—surely feel mutual regard for one another. A distinguished family like yours, with generations of literary accomplishment, must have at least one resident scholar skilled with the brush. I intend to make a discreet request to the Vice Minister—your grandfather."
Park Pil-gyun, who stood at the vanguard of the Noron faction and was on good terms with my family, would not refuse. No one could easily criticize the noble act of nurturing a junior scholar.
It benefited me as well.
Associating with members of the Soron faction was burdensome even for me. Someone like Park Mun-su, now counted among the elder ministers, was a prime example. Knowing the later fame of Inspector Park Mun-su, I found it regrettable—but family alignment mattered more.
However, asking someone of the Bannam Park lineage would raise no eyebrows.
Park Ji-won, for his part, was openly delighted.
No matter how clever or bold he was, he was still only twelve. Even in Joseon, a child who could merely manage himself was considered exceptional.
At home, he would have had nothing but lectures from elders, with no chance to involve himself in external affairs. And what such a child desired was obvious.
Joseon or modern Korea, it made no difference. Teenagers, drawn to stimulation, inevitably leap toward whatever looks interesting. In this case—regrettably—that meant me, the man who had caused a public disturbance.
So the bait I dangled—the pride of representing his family in an external exchange—perfectly satisfied a boy's desire. Park Ji-won thumped his chest.
"How could my grandfather withhold help from a junior so earnestly seeking learning? Elder Brother, leave everything to me and sleep with your head on a high pillow."
As Park Ji-won departed like some kind of secret agent, clutching his errand fee, I whistled softly.
I felt a bit sorry for him, but it didn't matter whom Park Pil-gyun sent. I had no intention whatsoever of passing the examination through scholarship.
What mattered was the fact that an active Vice Minister of Rites was communicating with me directly—without going through my father.
The network of elite capital aristocrats was much like an exclusive online forum of wealthy school-district parents. This rumor would spread quickly, and court officials would soon hear of it.
And the examiners of the civil service examination were, of course, drawn from current officials.
That was enough for now. Perhaps it was like straightening one's attire before stepping outside. It was time to execute the next plan.
I recalled my time in modern Korea.
By their fourth year, university students who still attended classes diligently often adopted the attitude that they were not unemployed—but simply choosing not to work.
Look at the essence. University is for learning, not job hunting.
But such posturing was dangerous.
At any moment, one could become entangled in the web of professors seeking to acquire new graduate students—no, new academic serfs. Even in these times, students who rejected single-minded job hunting in favor of academic purity were "rare talents" (or so professors liked to say while buttering them up).
Fortunately, I had escaped by claiming I was preparing for the civil service exam. The professor had sighed regretfully.
"Civil service, huh. Well, ever since the days of the state examinations, our people have always regarded that as the pinnacle."
"Isn't it easier than the old examinations?"
"That's true, in a sense. During King Jeongjo's time, two hundred thousand people flooded in for a special examination held to celebrate the crown prince's investiture. Final odds were around fifty thousand to one. But that doesn't mean it was a thousand times harder than today's fifty-to-one exams. To be precise, for some people it was much easier than modern exams, and for others not a thousand, but ten thousand—or even a hundred thousand—times harder."
"What?"
Seeing my interest, the professor's glasses flashed.
"Interested in late-Joseon microhistory? Many seniors research it. You got an A-plus in classical text reading, didn't you? Our lab is piloting an AI project to translate the Daily Records of the Royal Secretariat. Come by tomorrow. I'll explain properly."
"No—no, thank you. I'm fine. Thanks for the coffee, Professor."
It was only later that I realized how much goodwill it represented for a professor to casually discuss such knowledge with a student.
In any case, I don't regret not going to graduate school.
Though if I had, I wouldn't have fallen into that ridiculous trap in Noryangjin. Maybe I should regret it after all.
I shook my head, casting off the useless thoughts.
In the end, the professor had been right.
The state examination was not a test where every applicant had equal odds. As Kim Unhaeng, an examinee of this era, I could be certain of that.
The Joseon examination system was absurd from the very format.
As the professor mentioned, as many as two hundred thousand candidates could gather—especially for special examinations.
These often had no qualification limits and skipped preliminary stages entirely, finishing everything in one go. That was precisely why I was targeting them.
Two hundred thousand people. Even seating them four abreast would take an entire day—assuming no breaks, no delays, from sunrise to sunset.
Joseon had never even assembled that many soldiers in one place. If you think managing such numbers is easy, start by explaining how to handle the daily waste produced by two hundred thousand people.
Of course, Joseon's administrative capacity was impressive. Somehow, they split the candidates across three locations and managed to conduct the examination—at least on the surface.
On the surface.
Special examinations often began and ended on the same day, especially those commemorating a royal appearance. The event had to finish while the king was present to preserve its "presentation."
Believe it or not, that meant reading and grading all exam papers—without computers—before sunset, then posting the results immediately. This was called same-day announcement.
Even modern states with vast administrative and computing power do not do this. They choose not to.
The population of the capital itself barely reached two hundred thousand. In the professor's example, the city's population suddenly doubled.
That would be like gathering all ten million residents of modern Seoul in one place. Regardless of the event's purpose, it would be a disaster—no, a large-scale devastation.
So how did the examinations actually work? How were winners chosen?
Simply put: they did only what was possible.
A man with literary talent worthy of lasting a hundred years fails to even enter the hall? Fate.
Someone dies trampled while fighting for position? Who forced him to take the exam?
Those who somehow claw their way through this chaos and absurdity are the ones who pass.
First, you must reach the site through crowds described only as hell. Then you must secure a decent position and prepare every "setup" without error. How? With wit. With instinct.
Only after all that—after submitting a proper answer sheet within the tacit cutoff of around three hundred candidates—could one even begin to discuss scholarship.
It seemed unfair. But in another sense, it was a test of whether one could survive the brutal reality of Joseon bureaucracy.
Modern people who mocked Joseon scholars for merely reading Confucian texts indoors should reflect deeply.
I guarantee that nearly all modern people would fail to even reach the examination grounds.
Improvisation unconstrained by formalities? Practical thinking? In those respects, Joseon people were superior.
Far superior to modern individuals who can do nothing without flawless instructions, repeated explanations, and manuals shoved in their faces.
If you cannot even manage yourself amid changing conditions, you have no right to step into the ultimate improvisation test—the Joseon state examination.
That was its true purpose.
It reminded me of some hunter-card test from somewhere, but it was real. I, Kim Unhaeng of Joseon Confucianism, guarantee it.
So then—what should I do?
Should I cram for a year and cultivate scholarship worthy of a successful candidate?
Or should I hone the true skill the examination demanded—the ability to navigate total chaos and contradiction?
Scholarship was the main event. No matter how well you survived, if you scribbled nonsense, you would fail. The main round was harder than the preliminaries.
But that did not mean the main round was more important.
You had to pass the preliminaries first.
Understanding the true nature of the examination, my preparation could not possibly resemble that of ordinary men.
That preparation required the right "people." Allies, if you will.
While pondering my next move, I straightened my attire before dawn.
My father was on night duty, and my elder brother Kim Jeok-haeng was away on an external post—also through special appointment—so I could move freely. It was the perfect chance to visit several places within the capital.
Going alone, however, was not an option. Unlike the child Park Ji-won, I had already undergone my coming-of-age ceremony. Wandering alone would damage my dignity.
In this era, scholars were such delicate creatures that even after falling from a horse, they could not rise unless a servant helped them.
How such men survived the state examinations was a mystery, but let us say the meaning of "self-reliance" differed slightly between modern and premodern times.
In any case, a nobleman walking alone invited strange looks.
Of course, I was a modern person. Such silkworm-like existence deserved rejection.
Yet after bringing Jangbok along several times, I could not help but submit.
Servants in this era did far more than housework.
They were essential for outings. Smartphones, kiosks, cars, shopping carts, or even emergency substitute fighters—they fulfilled every imaginable role. A universal, nonlinear computer. Life was impossible without them.
Lest my human-rights sensibilities be questioned, let me clarify.
Even if I freed them out of moral principle, they would simply beg on the streets and starve. And as employers went, I was practically top-tier in Joseon.
I didn't beat servants to vent anger, nor did I bind their arms to cut off circulation just to force faster deliveries. All of those were real practices in the capital.
Is that something to brag about? In Joseon, yes. In another world, knowing a simple encirclement tactic already made you a tactical genius.
So I called my computer—no, Jangbok—without guilt.
"Jangbok, are you there?"
But the response from outside the door was strange.
An error message filled with angry shouting and strained grunts. I wondered if he'd been bitten by a dog while collecting dog droppings at dawn—an important duty.
When I went outside, Jangbok was pointing furiously at something crouched beneath the wall.
"You wretch! Even if you live as a lowly beggar, don't you know the basic moral order? Even beggars are treated with respect when they know propriety! You're here before breakfast loitering for leftovers—what do you think you're doing? Are you daring to eat before my household's elders?"
Even for a servant, his eloquence was impressive—but I wondered why he was making such a speech.
I soon understood.
Jangbok's face was flushed red as he swung his broom. He must have already used all his strength, yet the crouched beggar had not moved.
Despite being beaten savagely with a long broom, the beggar did not budge. From a distance, he looked like a filthy rag bundle that had wandered the streets for months.
Seeing no resistance, Jangbok grew bolder—perhaps encouraged by my presence.
He drew his leg back with all his might and kicked.
A dull thud echoed. I frowned.
Isn't that a bit much for someone who hasn't done anything yet?
Just as I resolved to stop this lunatic servant, Jangbok suddenly launched into the air and flipped.
I shouted in shock.
"Hey!"
It conveyed many meanings at once, chief among them: Why are you doing an aerial somersault kick against a beggar who would leave if given a spoonful of rice?
I stomped the ground, uncharacteristically vulgar.
Rushing toward Jangbok, I abruptly halted.
He was floating in the air.
Legs up. Head down.
"...!"
He was not performing a martial arts technique.
The beggar had caught his leg, dangling him like a fish.
I was stunned. Jangbok was no giant, but neither was he frail. Years of servitude had made him strong.
And yet he had been lifted with one hand?
Only then did I properly observe the beggar, now fully standing.
And in the next moment, I deeply cursed Jangbok's shallow judgment and reckless stupidity.
At that level, you should have sensed the aura of strength around him beforehand. Are such energies invisible to commoners?
The beggar wore nothing but rags more torn than intact.
Which only made his massive frame and steel-cable muscles stand out all the more.
His face was obscured by wild hair and beard, but it surely matched his physique.
Is that really an East Asian… no, a human?
Joseon had no concept of modern training. Even famed wrestlers rarely had pronounced muscles. The typical strongman physique was that of a farmhand.
But this man's body transcended such notions—pure, ostentatious musculature.
The knuckles on his exposed fists jutted grotesquely, testifying to a life steeped in violence.
One look told you never to provoke him. Whether due to hormonal abnormality or not, he was easily over six feet two.
I quickly stepped back.
Then I inhaled deeply. Dignity be damned.
"Help! Someone help!"
After "Fire!" this was humanity's most universal distress signal. The household poured out.
But unsure what was happening, they held no weapons—nothing that could threaten the strongest beggar on earth.
As the beggar casually flung Jangbok aside and advanced, the servants retreated in perfect unison.
I swallowed hard.
In a historical drama, someone would shout, Go report this to the police bureau!
But this was not a drama. The police bureau was nothing like modern police. Even if they came, it would be after my neck had already been twisted.
In Joseon, self-defense was the norm in violent crime. People did not live fearing a "criminal record."
The concept of punishment for assault existed—but unlike modern times, it did not translate into therefore, don't do it.
And due to my circumstances, I absolutely could not die before becoming Chief State Councilor.
Just as I decided I might have to use someone else as a shield to escape, Jangbok—sprawled on the ground yet stubborn as ever—screamed.
"You bandit scum! Have you no sense of heaven and earth? My young master is here now—you're finished! Have you not heard of the secret Tagueobong technique that knocks down half a dozen strong men in an instant?"
What the hell did this idiot just say?
While I stood there in a daze, Jangbok desperately hurled the broom toward me.
I caught it reflexively—only to see every member of the household staring at me with desperate expectation.
I was too shocked for words.
Worse still, the beggar's attention fixed on me—the only armed person present.
My attack power had increased by a grain of rice, and with it, all the aggro.
The beggar reached toward me.
Had I been calm, I might have seen it as a simple step forward with an outstretched arm.
But to my terrified eyes, it was the charge of a mad beast.
Screaming, I thrust the broom with all my strength.