(Chapter 11) 6. Aim for the Top (3)
The people around me assumed that my anxiety while waiting for the exam results was just the natural tension of a past examinee.
So even if I got annoyed or wandered around the courtyard under the moonlight, screaming like a lunatic, everyone still understood.
Except for the servant who, with a resolute look, offered me the hidden rice cake ("Hungry?"), no one paid me any attention.
Even Jangbok wore an obviously forced smile, responding "Yes, yes" to everything I said. Might as well just cover your ears, you fool.
Everyone assumed they knew exactly what I was worrying about.
It was far from the truth, and I felt like I was losing my mind.
Fortunately, the results were announced soon enough.
Don't imagine some notice being delivered to my house. That's absurd.
Who would dare sit at home and receive an award?
Naturally, I had to go myself.
Damn those royalist fools. Ah, let them rot after I become Yeonguijeong.
The ceremony wasn't much different from the exam itself.
The only difference was that this time, since it was purely an awards ceremony, a "rehearsal" was conducted first.
Makes sense. It would be troublesome if someone burst into tears at the king, or cheered wildly upon being top scorer.
You might say "Who would do that in Joseon?" but human emotions aren't that easily controlled. There was even Shin Suk-ju, who, drunk, once applied a joint lock on the king.
By the way, that king had a habit of cracking people's heads with a flail if he disliked them. Oh, not all kings in Joseon, just some. Not Taejong, though.
Anyway, one must always prepare thoroughly for royal events.
Thus, before the king arrived, we were first informed of our rankings by officials from the Ministry of Personnel.
The top scorer was obvious. If not a powerful official's child, then a current high-ranking official's son. What mattered was whether I was among the top three, alongside the first rank.
So I imagined the best-case scenario I could conceive: that I became Tamhwarang (third place).
Tamhwarang, literally "the one who seeks flowers," is not symbolic. They are the ones who receive the king's osahwa (bestowed flowers) and present them to the examinees.
A welcome role. One wrong move in front of high-ranking officials could be disastrous.
Ugh, even this is stressful. At least there's a rehearsal.
Then, I heard a sound.
"Seongonggam's assistant Kim Yong-gyeom's son, Kim Un-haeng! First place in the civil service exam (Jangwon). When the Changbanggwan calls during the ceremony, you must stand."
Silence followed.
"Kim Un-haeng! Come forward and listen carefully to the ceremony procedure!"
What? Why is no one responding?
Doesn't anyone know a radio broadcast is considered a failure if it pauses for more than three seconds? If this were the live ceremony instead of rehearsal, someone's neck would literally be in danger.
Hurry up. You're the top scorer. I don't care who the hell you are.
Suddenly, an unpleasant jab hit my side.
Someone had poked me. In a low, firm whisper, he said:
"Why aren't you rushing forward? Are you fainting in surprise while standing?"
I pointed at my face, bewildered. He returned a look as if to say, Are you crazy?
Everyone has experienced this: a trivial remark you didn't fully process suddenly clicks a few seconds later.
My brain hadn't interpreted it yet, but it had stored it.
That's exactly what just happened to me.
The next moment, I almost fainted for real.
After being scolded mercilessly as a fool who underestimated the court, I honestly don't remember much.
Somehow, even when the live ceremony began, I avoided making mistakes, which was a relief.
In fact, there was little room for error.
During the awards ceremony (Bangbangui), there is no scene where the king personally presents something or the top scorer praises the king.
You simply bow, receive the award, bow again, and leave. That's it.
Music is played intermittently, but without modern equipment, and the venue wasn't acoustically optimized, so it sounded rather modest to my ears.
Yeongjo and Crown Prince Sado?
I didn't even see them. Closer than before, but I couldn't lift my head.
That was disappointing. I wanted to see the king and prince up close, even for a brief conversation.
Surely my answer wasn't worthy of first place. There must have been a political motive.
But that didn't matter at all.
What would the king think of me? What was the prince's true intention hinted by the status screen?
No way to know. Hidden glances in conversation or subtle encouragement meant nothing.
If anyone spoke, it would only be at the very end, when the Chisagwan (official giving the speech) faced north, knelt, and reported to the king on behalf of the successful examinees. Even then, it wasn't a "thank you," but "Congratulations to the king for selecting a talented man."
Still, after that, I got to experience what it felt like to be the top scorer.
First, I received a horse from the state. Of course, also the osahwa and the Hongpae (certificate).
Wow, now I get to parade through the village riding this horse with a flower in my hair.
It felt like borrowing a hanbok from a rental shop near Gwanghwamun for a date. I didn't want to, but Jangbok, waiting outside Changdeokgung, was already causing a ruckus, so it was inevitable.
Then, the status screen finally appeared:
[Additional Objective: Pass the exam in top three ranks (Achieved)]
[40 Mage Coins awarded for completing additional objective (Balance: 70)]
Hmm. Looks like the ceremony confirms achievement, just like during the Chundangdae exam.
Coins are steadily accumulating. Top three, even first place—anything else?
As if reading my thoughts, the next message appeared:
['Top Scorer' Special Reward (Foresight): Hidden side objectives will now be visible.]
Yes, this is exactly what I wanted!
To clear objectives efficiently, coins are necessary.
To accumulate coins, side objectives must be completed.
But to do that, you first need to know what the side objectives are.
In other words, in this unkind game, information is the most crucial element.
Surely this isn't all; there are elements I haven't yet uncovered.
With coins, the first thing to consider is the shop content.
No news yet, but it will unlock eventually. Perhaps a coin threshold is required.
The status screen continued:
['Top Scorer' greatly increases reputation.]
[The following people now pay attention to you: Left Chamchan Won Gyeong-ha, Daesahyeon Lee Jong-baek, Confucian scholar Hong Dae-yong... (More)]
So many that I had to press "More."
I realized the status screen had touch functionality.
I carefully tapped the horse icon—these were all famous high officials I recognized. In the future, only Hong Dae-yong was familiar to me.
Hong Dae-yong was someone even Kim Un-haeng knew.
Hong Dae-yong, my age, wasn't famous as a scientist yet. He was a disciple of my family's senior Kim Won-haeng.
The more I learned, the more I realized: Joseon scholars were intricately connected through educational, regional, and blood ties. Few people were unknown within a few connections.
Likewise, the number of people who disliked me increased dramatically.
Mostly Hong Bong-han's faction, Soron, Namin, but surprisingly even within our own Noron, there were quite a few.
Hmm. This needs verification.
In a company, the important virtue is not having many friends. It's having no enemies.
Would anyone be jealous just because I became top scorer?
The celebration in Jangdong could be likened to the festival after a hero defeats a demon, three days later.
I was congratulated by so many people that I feared being crushed before even reaching home.
Even my father shamelessly rejoiced, and my mother wept. I had too many people to greet to focus on the status screen.
Among them was my young friend Park Ji-won.
While offering congratulations, he tugged my sleeve and whispered discreetly:
"By the way, I hear the person who selected your exam score was the Crown Prince."
I snapped awake.
"What?"
"I hear the court was in an uproar. Your rank wasn't high, and your writing wasn't exceptional—no, I don't mean my words, the ministers' words. They insisted you could never be top scorer. Especially Hong Bong-han filed a petition, saying his sign was on your paper and requesting investigation."
I shivered. Even in this chaotic environment, I could hear my own swallowing.
Why?
Even if the prince watched me through the status screen, why would Yeongjo support me?
Our family belongs to Noron, but many talented Noron families were closer to the core than us.
And yet, my father's household, facing off against Hong Bong-han, was defended by the king because the Crown Prince selected me?
Even if the king and prince had a good relationship, that might make sense. But historically, their relationship was terrible. Few pairs of father-son rivals were worse.
Objectively, Yeongjo wouldn't normally do this for me.
I have no faction in court, nor prospects of building one.
Top scorer? Jeong Mong-ju, Seong Sam-mun, Heo Gyun, Yi I-cheom—all were top scorers. Even modern records, Kim Ok-gyun too.
Notice a pattern? They all ended tragically.
In contrast, renowned ministers like Yi Hwang, Ryu Seong-ryong, Hwang Hui barely placed, or barely passed.
Particularly, Ryu Seong-ryong, though in the top ranks, became youngest Daesehak. Rank didn't determine career path.
'Wait.'
I noticed my own perceived lack of value. Not pleasant, but significant.
Stocks are bought at low prices. If the king nurtures me regardless of ability, generating enemies along the way isn't bad—ensures loyalty.
That's why monarchs traditionally favor despised officials and eunuchs.
If so, I could become the target of conflicts instead of the king, especially with Hong Bong-han's faction.
Yeongjo, feigning indifference, subtly fosters the Andong Kim clan (my family) to maintain balance.
This way, he drives a wedge within Noron and warns the powerful.
Even though my branch isn't the main line, the Kim clan can't consolidate strong power.
This is long-term strategy.
And his personal risk is minimized.
I was stunned.
'Could it be… this bastard…'
Truly cunning, Yeongjo deliberately left the decision to the prince. Probably hinted at which answer to choose.
If the king chose directly, ministers could object. That's their role.
But if the prince chooses and the king approves?
Power dynamics and psychology get tricky. Ministers can't oppose both at once, so the momentum wanes.
Ultimately, they compromise: "Fine, let the rookie be top scorer. It's the king's exam anyway."
Paranoid? Not strategy—sheer pleasure from controlling people.
I understand why he killed his sons.
'And now, I'm inevitably entangled with Crown Prince Sado.'
For Yeongjo, incidental. For me, serious.
Ever heard of quantum entanglement?
Simply put, observing one of two entangled states instantly determines the other—faster than light.
This came to mind because of Yeongjo's reputation as a scientific monarch.
Imagine Yeongjo conducts Schrödinger's Sado experiment: until the wave collapses, Sado's life and death are superposed. The moment it collapses, my state, entangled with his, is decided too.
Live or die, we're linked.
Is this real?
Park Ji-won, worried:
"Brother? Why are you sweating so much?"
"Huh, uh?"
Park Ji-won grasped my sleeve, as if understanding everything:
"Don't worry. Hong Bong-han is nothing to fear. Historically, virtuous kings didn't favor corrupt officials, so the king made a wise decision. In a sense, you've pinned that man down, haha!"
I gave up explaining. Why talk to a twelve-year-old?
Also, I didn't want my conjectures about royal affairs to reach his grandfather, Minister of Rites Park Pil-gyun.
Most importantly, I didn't want to stir the atmosphere.
Nothing urgent, anyway.
The temporary "banquet hall," using our house and next door, was overflowing with food.
I couldn't focus only on Park Ji-won. People I'd never met before approached as if we were lifelong friends, and I had plenty of greetings to make.
By the time I entered, my father was already quite drunk.
His son became top scorer, instantly rising four ranks to a Jeongsang-gwan of 6th grade. Though currently dismissed, he'd soon be called by the king—he'd said it about a dozen times.
Tomorrow, my brother was coming to celebrate.
I laughed like a sigh.
Today, I wouldn't complain about Joseon's rough cuisine.
I reminded myself:
'Some things feel uneasy, but let's stop thinking.'
I achieved in Joseon, under much harsher conditions, what I never could in Korea.
Exam success is about enjoying the process.
Worst-case scenarios are unlikely—they happen as often as best-case.
If needed, one can stay outside longer for appearances (though resigning ends it).
I would not yield to those "company" guys who want me to fall into despair. I genuinely raised my cup in pleasure.
But reality must be considered. Damn it.
After sobering up, I realized the situation was serious.
'No money at home…?'
My father held office, but official salary was practically nonexistent.
High officials receive gifts to maintain households; a minor official like my father? No one would send presents.
We weren't a main line of Kim Chang-jip; any inheritance was gone.
Worse, I was in debt.
Expenses for Go Bong-hwan, feeding the servant, and especially the banquet were crushing. Being top scorer, I couldn't host a modest one.
'Did the banquet have to happen?'
Yes. No choice.
This is Joseon. In the past, when a family could not take turns in the exam due to fraud, it was lamented that filial piety and friendship were broken—morality demanded generosity.
Failing to give after success wasn't a minor slight; social collapse could result.
In premodern times, broken social ties weren't trivial; they threatened survival.
Reason: public service didn't exist. Survival required help from friends, neighbors, relatives. Not emergencies—daily life depended on it.
If alienated, biological death followed.
Thus, aside from notable geniuses, everyone had to maintain social ties diligently.
If my prediction holds, navigating court life will be even harder. I shouldn't skimp on the banquet.
'Should I have negotiated more with Go Bong-hwan?'
Thoughts change with context. Already spent money, can't recover it.
Debt in Joseon doesn't feel like a mere loan.
State loans: 20% annual interest. Private: minimum 50%, typically over 100%.
Seoul's despair tower? Compared to Joseon moneylenders, a charity. Modern risk is lower, but I wouldn't borrow.
"Why worry about collectors if the king exists?"
Yes, a credit card buys a tank, no debt worries. But here, private loans are legally protected.
If you don't repay, law dictates beatings. Everyone treats finances like dice games.
Damn, no "second son of a chaebol" skill?
Then, a realization hit me.
'Wait, I can do what Go Bong-hwan did, can't I?'
Not literally following him to the exam, of course.
Face publicly embarrassed officials? Dangerous, time-consuming.
I brought out pen and notebook.
Time to earn money like a true scholar.
Notes
Ceremony protocols and ranks are based on the early Sejong-era specifications. Rehearsal is a narrative addition.
In mid-late Joseon, families often alternated exam participation among generations.
Expenses for exams and advancement were high; even after success, ongoing financial burdens existed.
The "quantum entanglement" is fictional; Kim Un-haeng is a civil service examinee.