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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 5
Chapter Title: Become My Companion (1)
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Park Jiwon asked, a hint of tension in his voice.
"What help could I possibly be?"
"My scholarship is still too meager. I need to find a good teacher, but I'm worried that associating with that Dog-Beating Stick business you mentioned earlier might stir up rumors. So, I'd like you to deliver a letter for me."
Park Jiwon wore a puzzled expression.
"Me?"
No matter how young he was, he was still from a yangban family. That kind of task was for servants, not nobles.
It wasn't so much rude as it was simply odd. Like telling someone to hand-wash clothes when you have a washing machine.
But just as there are clothes that must be hand-washed, there are times when even yangban have to handle the dirty work. I lowered my voice.
"Forming factions is considered treason, so I can't speak of it openly, but how could scholars who faithfully carry on Yulgok's academic tradition—here meaning the Westerners, especially the Noron faction—not hold each other dear? A prestigious family like yours, with a long line of literary excellence, must have at least one fine literary guest. I'd like to earnestly ask Minister Park Pilgyun—your grandfather—for his help."
Park Pilgyun, who shared considerable ties with our family as a vanguard leader of the Noron, wouldn't refuse. It was a noble example of mentoring the younger generation; no one could find fault with it.
It suited me perfectly.
I found it burdensome to associate even with those from the Southerners, like Park Mun-su, who now ranked among the elder statesmen. Knowing his fame as the secret royal inspector from the dramas, it was a shame, but family came first.
However, a moderate like Park Mun from the Half-Southerners wouldn't raise eyebrows.
Park Jiwon also seemed greatly pleased.
Even with his quick wit and bold spirit, he was only twelve. In Joseon times—or any era—that age was praised just for managing one's own affairs.
At home, he would only listen to the elders' lectures; he likely never had a chance to meddle in outside matters. For a boy like that, the desires were predictable.
Whether in Joseon or modern Korea, it was the same. Teenagers wander seeking thrills, jumping into anything exciting—and sadly, in this case, that included me, the one who'd caused a social stir. Their mindset was crystal clear to me.
So the bait I dangled—the pride of representing his family in exchanges—perfectly satisfied the ego boys his age naturally craved. Park Jiwon thumped his chest.
"How could my grandfather withhold aid from a junior thirsting for knowledge, like a parched man seeking water? Brother, entrust everything to this little brother and sleep with your head high on the pillow."
Once Park Jiwon, clutching the errand fee I'd given him like some secret agent, departed, I let out a whistle.
Sorry, Park Jiwon, but it didn't matter who Park Pilgyun sent. I had no intention whatsoever of taking the civil service exam through scholarship.
What mattered was the fact that a sitting Minister of Rites was exchanging with me (without going through my father).
The network of capital aristocratic families was like an online cafe for parents from Seoul's top eight school districts. The rumor would spread quickly, reaching the court officials soon enough.
And exam proctors were naturally drawn from active officials.
That was sufficient for now. Like straightening one's clothes, it was an apt metaphor. Now was the time to execute the next plan.
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I recalled my days in Korea.
By fourth year, diligent college students who still showed up to class started acting like they weren't failing to get jobs—they were simply choosing not to pursue them.
"Look at the essence. University is for studying, not job prep, right?"
But such pretense was quite risky.
One wrong step, and you'd get ensnared in the professors' webs, luring fresh slaves—no, graduate students. In these times, a student rejecting job obsession to pursue pure scholarship was a rare gem (or so the professors greased it).
Luckily, I brushed it off by saying I was prepping for the civil service exam. The professor said regretfully,
"Civil service, huh? Well, since the old gwageo days, our people have always prized that above all."
"Isn't it easier than the gwageo?"
"Sure, it is. During King Jeongjo's celebration for the crown prince's investiture, 200,000 showed up over two days. Final odds about 50,000 to 1. But that doesn't mean it's a thousand times harder than today's roughly 50-to-1 civil service exam. Precisely, for some, the gwageo was far easier than modern exams; for others, not a thousand times harder, but ten thousand, even a hundred thousand."
"Huh?"
As I perked up with interest, the professor's glasses flashed.
"Into late Joseon microhistory? Plenty of seniors research it. You got A+ in classical Chinese reading, right? Our lab's testing an AI project translating the Veritable Records of the Joseon Court. Come by tomorrow. I'll make time to explain."
"Ah, no thanks. Great coffee, professor."
I later realized professors chatting surface-level "intellectual curiosity" from self-help books was their way of showing favor.
Anyway, I don't regret skipping grad school.
Or do I? If I'd gone, I wouldn't have fallen into that Noryangjin trap.
I shook my head to dispel idle thoughts.
Anyway, the professor was right.
The gwageo wasn't like the civil service exam, with equal odds for all. As examinee Kim Unhaeng, I was even more convinced.
This era's gwageo was absurd from the format alone.
Jeongjo's reign, so the massive 200,000 turnout hadn't happened yet, but as the professor said, it did occur.
Especially special exams often lacked eligibility limits or applicant caps, ending in one go without prelims or finals—drawing insane crowds (exactly what I was aiming for).
200,000. In four ranks abreast by number, it'd take a full day. And only if marching nonstop from sunrise.
Even the military never assembled that many in one spot. Think managing 200,000 is easy? First, solve their daily shit disposal.
Of course, Joseon's administration was quite capable. They split into three venues and pulled it off—on the surface.
On the surface.
Special exams often started and ended same-day. Like the royal audience exam celebrating a king's inspection. Had to finish while the king was there for the event's prestige.
Believable? In computer-less Joseon, grade that many papers from sunrise to sunset, posting results before nightfall. Called immediate posting.
Even modern states with vast computing and bureaucracy can't—or won't—do that.
Hanyang's population barely hit 200,000. As the professor said, the capital doubled overnight.
Like 10 million Seoulites cramming one spot in 21st-century Korea. Event or not, it'd collapse. The area would be devastated.
So how did the gwageo work? How pick winners?
Simple.
Rule of non-interference. Joseon's way. Do only what's doable.
Got literary talent to shine for ages but couldn't enter the exam hall? Tough luck.
Fought for position and died screaming? Who forced you at swordpoint?
From winners who "somehow" pierced the chaos and absurdity.
Starts with battling hellish crowds to claim a good seat, then flawlessly prepping every "setup." How? With skill. With savvy.
All that effort bears fruit only if you submit a proper answer within the unspoken first-come 300 cutoff. Then discuss scholarship.
Unfair? Perhaps a test of surviving Joseon's brutal bureaucracy.
Modern folks mocking Joseon scholars for just reading classics—time for harsh reflection.
I guarantee 99% of moderns wouldn't even reach the exam hall.
On-the-spot improvisation unbound by pretense? Practical spirit? Joseons excelled there.
Unlike most moderns who can't function without flawless notices and repeated demos, even with manuals.
Can't even self-manage amid flux? No qualification for gwageo's ultimate improv test.
That's its purpose. Reminds me of some hunter card exam, but real. Guaranteed by this Joseon Confucian Kim Unhaeng.
So, what must I do?
Cram a year for top honors scholarship?
Or hone the true purpose: navigating this omnidirectional mess of contradictions and surprises?
Of course, scholarship is the finals. Scribble nonsense early, you're out. Finals harder than prelims.
But that doesn't make finals more important.
You pass prelims to reach finals.
My prep, piercing the gwageo's essence, naturally differed from ordinary folk.
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That prep needed the right "people." Companions, if you will.
Mulling the next plan, I refined my attire from dawn.
Father was on night duty, absent; brother Kim Jeokhaeng was out on provincial post (another sinecure). Free to move. Time to visit key spots in the palace grounds.
But going alone was problematic. Unlike child Park Jiwon, as an adult who'd undergone coming-of-age rites (unmarried), it'd tarnish my dignity.
Scholars here wouldn't rise if fallen from a horse without a servant.1
How'd they conquer gwageo? Let's say modern and premodern "self-reliance" differ slightly.
Anyway, a non-poor yangban wandering alone draws odd looks.
Of course, as a modern man, I should reject such silkworm-moth life outright.
But after dragging Jangbok—the tongue-in-my-mouth—a few times, even I surrendered.
Servants here aren't just houseworkers.
Essential for outings. Smartphones, kiosks, cars, shopping baskets, or emergency meat shields—omnipotent nonlinear computers handling all imaginable roles. Life grinds without them.
Sounds like human rights violation? Not at all.
Liberate them with rights talk? They'd beg on streets, starve homeless. As employers, I'm near Joseon's best.
No beating servants for stress relief; no binding arms bloodless for timed deliveries. All real Hanyang happenings.
Bragging? In Joseon, yes. In isekai, knowing encirclement tactics makes you a tactical genius.
So, without conscience qualms, I called my computer—no, Jangbok.
"Jangbok, you there?"
But the reply from outside was weird.
A furious roar laced with pained grunts—like error messages. I suspected he'd gone picking dog shit at dawn (key duty) and got bitten.
Outside, Jangbok was jabbing a finger at something huddled by the wall.
"Hey, you! Even lowly beggars have纲常. Beggars get respect knowing their place. Loitering before meals for scraps—what's your game? You dare eat before our masters, without manners?"
Slave-born in a yangban house, his speech flowed eloquently, but I wondered why the tirade.
I soon realized why.
Jangbok's face beet-red, swinging his broom. He'd likely spent his strength, but the huddled beggar hadn't budged.
Despite fierce broom whacks, the beggar didn't flinch. From afar, he looked like a bundled filthy rag, street-worn three months straight.
No resistance fueled Jangbok's rage. My appearance egged him on.
Showing off, he drew back his foot mightily and kicked. A dull thud. I frowned.
'Too much on someone who hasn't done anything yet?'
As I resolved to stop this thug servant, Jangbok launched airborne, flipping spectacularly. I yelled,
"Hey!"
Implying: why somersault-kick a quiet beggar over rice?
Un-yangban-like, I bolted.
But rushing to Jangbok, I halted abruptly.
Jangbok hovered midair.
Legs up, head down—in that pose.
"...!"
Not high martial arts. His kicked leg was grabbed, dangling like bait.
I was shocked. Jangbok wasn't huge but sturdy, toughened by lifelong servitude.
Yet lifted one-handed by that beggar?
Only then could I properly eye the fully risen beggar.
Next instant, I deeply cursed Jangbok's poor judgment and rashness.
Shouldn't the rippling power aura have tipped us off? Can't you heaven-sent see that energy?
The beggar wore tatters, more holes than cloth.
Exposing monstrous bulk and steel-cable muscles.
Face obscured by wild hair and beard, but surely matched the frame.
'Is that really East Asian... no, human?'
No modern training in Joseon, even top wrestlers lacked bulging muscles. "Farmhand build" was standard.
Yet this guy's ostentatiously ripped, defying norms.
Knuckles protruded brutishly, testifying to past violence.
Wouldn't tangle willingly. Hormonal freak? Height no under 190cm.
I swiftly retreated two steps.
Inhaled. Dignity be damned from here.
"Help! Murderer!"
Second to "Fire!", household rushed out universally.
But clueless, no clubs. Useless against Earth's mightiest beggar.
As he frog-tossed Jangbok and advanced slowly, servants backpedaled in sync.
I swallowed.
In sageuk, for viewer ease: "Someone report to the police bureau!"
But no drama. Police bureau handled political crimes or threats to regime (grand larceny included), not everyday peace.2
No settled policing; clans handled internally or neighborly—famous gelding or Achilles snip for thugs.
Not just Joseon; Europe till Napoleon birthed professional cops, full in Second Empire.
They wouldn't come; if so, after my neck's twisted.
Joseon violence: self-defense default. No wimpy red lines.
Pre-moderns know "hit people, punished" (if higher status). But doesn't link to "so don't hit."
Yet I couldn't die before Chief State Councillor.
As I eyed human shields to flee, water-safe Jangbok, battered, shrieked,
"This bandit scum rampages ignorant of heaven and earth! Our young master is here—you're dead. Heard of the secret Dog-Beating Stick technique dropping eight brutes instantly?!"
This teen slave fodder just what'd he say?
As my soul vacated in stupor, Jangbok desperately hurled the broom at me.
Catching reflexively, I saw all household eyes desperately expectant. Horror beyond words.
Worse: the beggar eyed me, the room's sole armed.
Agro maxed from rice-grain attack power.
He reached. Rationally, just approaching arm-out. To terrified me: berserk beast charge.
Screaming, I thrust the broom full-force.
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4. Become My Companion (2)