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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 4
Chapter Title: City Outing and Assassination Attempt
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"What?"
The guard with the dark, tanned face answered again.
"It's Geom Mojam, Master."
I nearly pulled him into a hug without thinking. It was because I'd come face-to-face with the protagonist of the novel I'd written.
'He's not what I expected.'
I'd imagined Geom Mojam as a burly, steadfast brute. But aside from his swarthy skin, he had a slightly small build and an ordinary face.
Getting out had been a real ordeal anyway. When I suggested disguising ourselves, the ironclad Geom Mojam pulled a long face. In the end, he borrowed clothes from one of the slaves working in the mansion. And when I mentioned taking a carriage, he flatly refused.
"You want me to disguise myself and then ride in a carriage?"
In the end, it was just the two of us—me and my guard, Geom Mojam—heading out.
"I want to go somewhere with lots of people."
Geom Mojam's face fell at my words.
"Places like that are dangerous, Master."
"But we even changed clothes."
Eventually, Geom Mojam led me to the outer city. Chang'an Fortress—also known as Pyongyang Fortress—was enormous, as befitted Goguryeo's capital.
"The walls are pretty high."
As soon as we left the inner city where the Yeon clan mansion was located, the scenery changed dramatically. Precisely, it was the outer city beyond Jeongyang Gate.
"It's like a folk village. A total folk village."
I couldn't stop gaping at the bustling crowds chattering away. The inner city had wide, straight roads paved with coarse gravel to prevent the ground from eroding. There were even drainage ditches along the sides. I'd thought the outer city, where commoners lived, would be shabby. But the roads were straight, just narrower.
"Right. This place started under King Yangwon and was completed under King Pyeongwon—a planned city."
The books and papers I'd read described it as divided into a grid layout.
"It's a bit messy, but just like I pictured."
The streets teemed with people. There were girls in pleated skirts with fine wrinkles and blouses dotted with droplet patterns, just like in the murals. Men with huge topknots, wearing loose blouses and pants. Cute kids with twin buns holding their mothers' hands. Places I'd only imagined from documents were unfolding before my eyes.
"It's surreal... and moving."
Geom Mojam, following behind, perked up his ears at my mumbling. But he kept his mouth shut until I asked him something, just trailing along. At the corners of the grid sections stood stone pillars about waist-high.
"Those must be the mile markers."
They marked off the grid divisions—large and well-carved. Just then, a procession of monks passed by, so we stepped aside. While watching the monks go by with palms pressed together, I turned to Geom Mojam.
"I want to check out the market?"
"Too many people there."
"That's why I want to go."
When I told him to lead the way, Geom Mojam grimaced but took the front.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
"Whoa! The market's the same whether it's Goguryeo or modern Korea."
Apart from slight differences in clothing and goods, it was almost identical. Tents shaded from the sun, vendors calling out to passersby. Even their pitches were the same.
"Cheap prices! Come see!"
"Freshly cleaned chickens here!"
"Rice cakes! Freshly made and steaming hot!"
Repeating "amazing" under my breath, I ventured deep into the market. Amid the crowd, I spotted someone hurrying along. Seeing that, I couldn't help but chuckle.
"Impatient personalities—same in Korea or Goguryeo."
Geom Mojam fidgeted nervously as he followed, hand resting on the cloth-wrapped Hwandu Greatsword, glaring at the surroundings. After walking a ways, I spotted something intriguing.
"That's a smithy."
It matched the space from the murals, filling me with nostalgia. In the center loomed a massive furnace like in historical dramas. I could see a small hole midway up. Blacksmiths wielding huge tongs pulled out glowing red metal and hammered it on an anvil. Sparks flew with every strike.
"Wow! It's like a scene from a movie."
I stared entranced when murmurs rippled through the crowd.
"What's the spectacle?"
Pushing through, I headed toward the noise. Geom Mojam came panting after me, sweating bullets.
"Whoa!"
The commotion was at a wide open square by the market entrance. On the sandy ground, two bare-chested, strapping men were wrestling.
"Just like in Gakjeo Bell."
The burly, fierce-looking wrestlers snorted through their noses as the crowd clapped. I looked for Westerners like in Gakjeo Bell, but both were rugged Goguryeo men. The match dragged on boringly without much excitement until the slightly bigger one won—hooking his opponent's leg and shoving him down.
"Not that fun."
But the onlookers went wild. Probably because there wasn't much else to see. Sitting on the ground like everyone else to watch, I dusted off my butt and stood. Geom Mojam, standing behind, spoke up for the first time.
"How about heading back now?"
"We've barely seen anything. I want to go outside the walls too."
Geom Mojam's face crumpled like he was about to cry at my words.
"Master."
"Fine. Let's go home."
Relief washed over Geom Mojam's face as he led the way. I followed slowly. From a failed dirt-poor author to Yeon Gaesomun's eldest son.
'No cola, no internet, no cell phones.'
Yet an inexplicable comfort settled over me. Probably because of my high status. Everyone trembled at my slightest glance or gesture.
'The question is how to keep this era going.'
In about ten years, Goguryeo would face invasions from Tang and Silla. Thirty years later, Chang'an Fortress would fall, leading to ruin. Many here would suffer that pain firsthand.
'Position shapes the man.'
I knew the future and had the power to change it. So, shouldn't I alter the world? That was my conclusion.
"My Goguryeo."
I recited a line from my novel. It felt good, like becoming the protagonist. Smiling as I walked on, we encountered a bizarre procession.
"What's that?"
Geom Mojam peered ahead at my question.
"Looks like a traveling troupe."
"A circus?"
He just blinked at my retort. Realizing my slip, I quickly changed tack.
"Let's go see."
Pushing through, we found street performers from the troupe. Up front, someone rode a hobbyhorse-like contraption, spinning a cart in circles. Behind, another thrust a huge sword in and out of his mouth. Kids screamed. Musicians with guitar-like instruments midway riled up the crowd. Toward the back, a juggler tossed balls nonstop, occasionally "dropping" them to gasps. Then came a fire-breather.
'Total circus.'
The crowd was ecstatic, dancing and clapping. I blended in naturally to watch. Geom Mojam beside me tensed up.
"What? Worried someone'll kill me?"
"You're the Eastern Division Leader's heir."
I shrugged at his reply. The fuss around me was hard to take in.
'From rags to riches—maybe because I lived in an equal world.'
The cart-spinner eyed me. Feeling off, I met his gaze—then he hurled the cartwheel.
"Urk!"
Geom Mojam yanked me back; the wheel grazed overhead. It struck an innocent onlooker behind, who clutched his neck and collapsed.
"You bastard!"
Furious, Geom Mojam drew his cloth-wrapped Hwandu Greatsword. Heart pounding from the real attack—not a movie or drama—I worried for the bystander.
"You oka..."
The man's eyes clutching his throat were odd—like Seon Do-hae's, glowing red.
"What's with him?"
Terror gripped me; I asked Geom Mojam, who was bristling nearby.
"Why are his eyes like that?"
He looked baffled, saying nothing. Everything felt disorienting. Then the red-eyed man rose, drawing a short sword from a pouch at his side.
"Wh-what!"
Startled, I backed away as Geom Mojam slashed the charging assailant. Flesh tore with a gruesome sound, blood spraying everywhere. A nearby onlooker, splattered, screamed. The rest vanished—but a few stayed, pulling weapons from clothes or bundles.
"This is real."
Over ten foes, easy to see. All had red eyes like the wheel victim.
"Do their eyes turn red when they target me?"
Vital info, but we had only Geom Mojam.
"We're screwed."
"Fall back."
He spread his arms firmly.
"Doesn't seem like we can escape."
"Why run?"
"Over ten of them."
An arrow from the rooftops dropped one assassin. I muttered.
"Down to nine."
Arrows flew relentlessly, felling more. Survivors charged but couldn't breach Geom Mojam.
"Damn, he's badass."
Not flashy like films—just flawless moves overwhelming them. Survivors shifted: two on him, one on me. The axe-wielder with an arrow in his shoulder dropped it but lunged wounded.
"Mommy!"
I retreated into a wall. The arrow-struck assassin pounced. Dodging barely, I grabbed his arm and locked in an armbar—grappling from my novel research. Flipped him, pinned with legs, yanked between groin.
"Argh!"
He screamed in agony. I was shocked.
"It actually worked."
No tap, so I pulled harder—crack. Releasing in surprise, he rose writhing, then charged again.
"Zombie?!"
Geom Mojam's blade impaled him mid-stride, tip protruding from his gut. No zombie—he crumpled. Blood-soaked Geom Mojam panted behind.
"You alright, Master?"
"Yeah, but what the hell?"
Blood stench assaulted; corpses littered. Real, not fiction. Dazed, Geom Mojam urged.
"Back to the mansion, quick."
Different tone, dire situation—I nodded.
"A-alright."