Chapter 9 – 6. Aim for the Top (1)
In truth, Jang Bok seemed anxious about the civil service exam since he had practically done nothing in the testing hall.
That guy dashed off as if flying, eager to deliver the good news home. From Changgyeonggung to Jangdong, it was merely a leisurely stroll by Joseon standards, but he seemed in such a hurry—why, I couldn't tell.
Anyway, I had no plans to rush.
My mind was full of other things.
I couldn't properly react to Jang Bok's frantic excitement, Gobonghwan's heartfelt congratulations, or even Eoji's joy—whatever that meant—because my thoughts were elsewhere.
Returning home, I focused on what the status window had said.
"Crown Prince and Park Mun-su?"
Ah, familiar names.
Starting with Park Mun-su… well. I couldn't say I wasn't intrigued by the 'Inspector Park Mun-su' standing vividly before my eyes.
But was this really the time for some exciting historical scholar's play?
If I didn't become Yeonguijeong before I died, I might end up fueling the fires of hell or somehow reducing the universe's entropy.
In the Noron household where I was 'born and raised,' Park Mun-su's reputation wasn't exactly glowing. Even setting aside that he was aligned with the Soron faction, the negative assessments I remembered were quite striking.
At best, people described him as gwangdang (狂戇, mad but righteous). In informal settings, he was often compared to a beast. When Yeongjo had to calm other ministers upset with Park Mun-su, he would say, "Park Mun-su's temperament is like a wild horse [悍馬]."
It wasn't a question of political loyalty. Rather, he clashed with others on practical policies.
Park Mun-su particularly excelled in military and land tax reforms, as well as local finance management.
Abolishing useless units and offices, decisively rooting out corruption, undertaking large-scale construction and manufacturing—he was so effective I wondered if he had, too, traveled back in time.
From a modern perspective, most of these actions were right. But for those tasked with executing such difficult, uncontrollable reforms, opinions differed.
Imagine a new team leader suddenly arriving, claiming to reform the entire system, overturning everything, when things had been running smoothly.
Add to that his authoritarian streak: stiffening his face and speaking sharply even before the king (an offense as serious as half-heartedly applauding someone in the north!), interrupting other ministers, bulldozing arguments with harsh tones.
He would inevitably make enemies. Reports from other ministers often described him as "ignorant," "radical," or "insane."
I wouldn't want him as a superior, especially.
"Besides, Park Mun-su probably isn't personally interested in me. Any attention would come from the king—basically, a VIP matter to monitor."
In bureaucratic terms, it's just a "check." It's tool-like and unlikely to last. Socially, we wouldn't cross paths beyond this. There's no reason to worry about him.
So, the one I should focus on is the Crown Prince.
Right. The same sad, tragic Crown Prince whose tomb at Hwaseong in Suwon later becomes a mockery experience for descendants even in the 21st century.
He's far higher in rank than Park Mun-su—so why focus on him instead?
Because his attention is likely not politically motivated.
I had learned that the Crown Prince was four years younger than me. Around 13–14 years old, about the age of Park Ji-won. At that age, the fire of adolescence is strong; sleep at night is unpredictable. I couldn't foresee what he might do.
Why he noticed me, I had no clue. But I trusted the status window: not that he liked me, but he was paying attention.
Perhaps he might petition the king to let me serve in the Crown Prince's office as a consultant or junior official.
Yeongjo might even approve. The prince hasn't yet reached a stage of excessive abuse or obsession requiring psychological intervention.
Attaching a promising young talent as a companion, advisor, or future policymaking partner is standard monarchical strategy. Yeongjo knew this basic tactic. Hong Guk-yeong, a future regent, was one such case.
Hong Guk-yeong's approach backfired excessively; he once lamented that being male prevented him from bearing children for the king—a line only found in BL comics.
But this Crown Prince would one day ruin everything irreversibly. If I became involved, I'd have to worry not only about Yeonguijeong but possibly even a second coffin beside me.
"Should I just refuse the post and lie down?"
In Joseon, a scholar could refuse office if displeased.
My father himself had twice refused positions and finally accepted a minor post after the king attempted to honor the family. But royal proximity couldn't be refused lightly—it could be taken as insult.
No clever plan came to mind. Avoidance was the only option.
"I'll think about it when the time comes."
If necessary, I could claim my parents were ill and flee home. Being the youngest, and given their age, there were likely a few minor ailments anyway.
But arriving home, my plan had to be revised.
My parents' energy had surged ten years younger upon hearing of my exam success. Judging by how lively they were, it seemed unlikely they'd fall ill anytime soon.
Filial piety was irrelevant. I stared miserably at the sky.
"Wonderful! Truly wonderful!"
Although dusk had fallen, no one in the household was in bed. Jang Bok must have delivered the news without diversion.
Even if always seeming a little lacking, Jang Bok was reliable. How he hustled must have made the atmosphere feel like a victorious monarch receiving congratulations from ministers.
As I entered the main room, servants' warm congratulations awaited me. My mother wiped tears with her sleeve.
"Now our household shall shine again. All thanks to the ancestors' blessings…"
My father, seated beside her, hid his joy with a heavy expression—the weight of a patriarch.
"Given your modest scholarship and tender age, this fortune is overwhelming. Do not be arrogant; act with restraint and continue diligent study…"
"Is that all you have to say to your son, who just aced the exam? One would think you were a nine-time top scorer yourself!"
My mother's scolding made my father cough awkwardly.
In Joseon, even wives held influence—not because of equality, but often because women's families had higher status.
Thankfully, both seemed genuinely pleased.
How I passed, however, I could never reveal.
Officially, I had succeeded on my own.
Eoji and Jang Bok knew nothing of Daebyeok. Gobonghwan, planning to live off this, naturally had to keep the secret.
Jang Bok, ever perceptive, might have guessed during our travels, but fortunately, he had been knocked out by Gwiduseo, missing the part where Gobonghwan drafted it.
He'd be a guide, advisor, or tutor—nothing grave. And Eoji? I didn't mind if he saw.
After all, gaining capable allies is a skill. Even Gaozu of Han didn't unify China just because he was a military genius.
My father, feeling awkward, brought up another matter.
"So, when will the royal assessment be held?"
"They said it'll happen in a few days, so as not to inconvenience those returning home after the exam."
"Truly, our king's governance is exemplary."
Joseon people always praised this whenever possible, just in case others were listening—like automatic comments from secretaries in North Korea.
"You were already a local official, even if now traveling south, so should you pass the top exam, you'd rise three ranks to Churuk (출륙, 6th rank). That's the rank of a chamsang-gwan (참상관)."
My father's mention of Churuk is easy to grasp even for modern Koreans. In government exams, passing to 6th grade (Churuk) is a crucial threshold. Only the top scorer (jangwon) of the gapgwa exam jumps straight to that rank.
Additionally, immediate office appointment is a major privilege. If a current official passes as top scorer, promotion jumps four ranks. Hence the scramble among incumbents.
"Yes. I shall devote myself to entering gapgwa."
My father, unaware of my secret, warned me of youthful arrogance.
"One who is arrogant invites envy and ruin. Even if you enter the byeongkwa (丙科, 3rd division), be thankful. A protruding stone gets hit."
Wise words, indeed.
Yet I care about coins… no, Majieun.
I remembered the hidden bonus mentioned after the Crown Prince and Park Mun-su in the status window. Completing the hidden goal gave Majieun. I didn't know what it was, but perhaps a form of currency. Let's call it a coin.
Likely, mandatory goals reward skills, while optional goals reward coins. The game mentality: first give "means," then give "reward." Makes sense.
Coins are exchangeable—skill, extra life, or quest completion. One thing is clear: I must stockpile as much as possible. Heavy spenders and free players in mobile games differ greatly.
If this were a game, spending real cash solves it—but this is life, and resources are finite. The only option is to achieve bonus goals.
Previously, the royal assessment was merely ranking, so winning the red banner held no personal meaning.
Now, it's different.
Unlike the Chundang exam, the king himself would oversee this one.
Security was unparalleled. With few candidates, trickery was impossible—no teams crashing in like last time.
Hence, I lived almost continuously with Gobonghwan, while the neighborhood gossip praised him as a diligent scholar's son.
My father raised a modest prize for Gobonghwan, thanking him. Though smaller than his contribution, Gobonghwan seemed indifferent—likely expecting other ways to secure my future once I reached high office.
As someone uninterested in a "pure" official career, I welcomed this.
Sitting across, Gobonghwan spoke professionally.
"This time, the exam is genuine. Forget the cliché about harmonizing Heaven and Earth; this will test what officials attempted but failed to achieve in policy. Some questions may even require revisiting Chinese Tang poetry, just as in King Gwanghae's day. I'll pick a few for you."
"I'll study diligently and commit them to memory."
Two weeks later, cheered by my entire family, I entered Changdeokgung's Injeongjeon.
Why call it Jeonsi (殿試)? Because it's held in the royal hall (jeon).
And why call the king "Jeonha"? Because everyone below him meets him at a lower position.
The thirty-three of us sat at a distance on mats, prostrating and waiting.
He was late, naturally. I worried he might skip again—but thankfully, the etiquette officer announced the king's entrance.
The hall, once silent, now hummed with dozens of movements.
Any accidental glance at the king was forbidden. Only favored ministers could look. Even high-ranking officials needed permission.
Soon, the presiding officer appeared. Following commands, all students bowed four times, then straightened.
Curiosity overtook me; I glanced at the king.
He wasn't seated directly in front of the candidates as dramas depict. Surrounded by senior officials and armed soldiers, his face barely visible. Security-wise, sensible—no one could throw a rock at him and survive the consequences.
Yet I noticed something odd. The arrangement suggested not just the king but another high-ranking person, perhaps the Crown Prince.
My suspicion was confirmed when the presiding officer mentioned the Crown Prince.
"This time, His Majesty, graciously accompanied by His Highness the Crown Prince, will encourage students and examine the papers together. Though the prince is young, he has been proficient in literature since age three. All must strive harder."
Now, perhaps all candidates, Korean and otherwise, shared a single thought:
"Why?"
The exam symbolizes royal authority over appointments; it must not be shared. The king's presence ensures control.
Yeongjo often staged this with the Crown Prince or heir apparent during his reign—but was this the prelude?
Unable to resist, I peeked briefly at the king while pretending to observe the presiding officer.
Yeongjo reclined, pillows at his back, while the Crown Prince sat rigidly beside him.
The power dynamics were clear.
No matter how stubborn the king appeared, this display sent both encouragement and warning: authority lies with me, prince.
I dismissed thoughts of the royal family.
Whether Yeongjo used his son as a pawn was none of my concern. Though the status window indicated some attention from the prince, I would focus elsewhere.
First priority: enter gapgwa and earn coins.
Until I fully grasp the rules of this "dice game" the devil cannot touch, acquiring resources was essential.
I studied the announced exam topics carefully.