(Chapter 10) 6. Aim for the Top (2)
Fortunately, the question came from one of Go Bong-hwan's examples.
Truly, he was Joseon's finest lecturer.
The question concerned a woman's hairpiece—the gache, commonly known as a wig—and how it should be banned. As Go Bong-hwan noted, although the court had officially prohibited it, the ban was never actually enforced.
And a prohibitory law that existed only in name? There were more than a few of those. The reason was obvious. Yet…
"How can it be banned among the people when the royal court receives these wigs as tribute? Let's start by taking off your wife's hairpiece and then talk."
Of course, one must never say something like that. Who in their right mind would want to take that shot of "that medicine" from the 21st century and depart from life? Misfortune could ensure that even a gentle death was denied, for the true terror of poison was absolute.
"Luxury…? Ah, you Joseon people, obsessed with Neo-Confucianism, fail to understand. In our world, it's common sense that money must circulate for an economy to thrive."
This, too, was off-limits. Did I really want to see the four divisions and six garrisons? Very few had ever returned safely from that forbidden dark dimension, unleashed by Sejong to annihilate the Jurchens.
I emptied my mind and activated my active skill: "Han Seok-bong's Handwriting."
Without hesitation, I wrote out Go Bong-hwan's memorized answer in a single stroke. Gasps immediately rose around me.
"Which family's son is this author?"
"Let's see… ah, the second son of the Jangdong Seongonggam's manager."
"What? That troublemaker Kim Un-haeng, the one always causing mischief?"
Wouldn't such murmuring in the royal hall be punished? Then again, the king couldn't hear them, so they spoke freely without concern.
I pretended to pause and ponder, or to make minor corrections, while completing the answer sheet. It was a rather tedious task.
Other examinees seemed to lack a top lecturer—or perhaps they hadn't memorized the answers—and most wrestled with their papers for nearly two sijin periods.
One even dared to sneak a rolled-up paper up his nose under the pretense of scratching, only to be dragged out.
The thought about the four divisions and six garrisons might very well become his reality. Depending on the era and the king, punishments for cheating ranged from being beaten to a pulp on a rainy day to being sent to the army.
Tsk. Shouldn't he have studied honestly like me? I shivered with the joy of having one less competitor.
Any more cheaters? I would find them and report them immediately.
Absolutely no personal interest—only for the sake of the state. What use would such a despicable man be to the court? He should be singing a private's song on the front lines.
Fortunately—or perhaps unfortunately—there was only one contender with that sort of spirit.
Besides, having already passed the exam, there was no need to cheat for a good score. I had to give up.
Instead, I spent the remaining time pretending to inspect the papers while turning my mind to other matters.
Based on the information from the status window, I needed to predict the trials this fellow would throw at me.
I couldn't be dragged along forever. In games, it's always faster to understand the quest-giving NPC or acquisition conditions on a second playthrough.
Yet this problem was far more difficult than the civil service exam.
King Yi Geum, standing in the throne hall, bore an expression as if his beard were twisting in frustration.
In the past, Emperor Kangxi mocked Joseon as jun-weak, ministers-strong.
Considering the Jurchens measured strength by kill count (tragically, the strongest came from Han communist ranks), a normal ruler like Joseon's king might indeed appear weak. Sejong had reason to try to exterminate the Jurchens.
But for ministers to mock their king was an enormous insult. It could even be interpreted as subversion of the political system.
When Yi Nam, the Duke of Bokseon, served as an envoy, he boldly told the emperor that Joseon was not like that. Clearly, even Hong Taiji could not pierce the impenetrable fortresses of Namhansanseong's steel-gate grandchild, King Injo. Courage ran in the blood.
Yet Kangxi never lied, and neither did Yi Geum.
Thus, this civil service exam scene stirred peculiar feelings in Yi Geum.
Most of those present were heirs to accumulated influence and wealth over generations.
Just as King Taejo had risen from the ranks of officials to rule former comrades, these youths could challenge the throne if destiny permitted.
Yi Geum was no ruler without talent either.
Like many Joseon kings, Yeongjo was a competent administrator and a mature statesman, even if not technically a king. He was a philosopher of unrivaled caliber.
Yi Geum wondered: among the thirty-three examinees, was there anyone superior to himself?
He shook his head slightly.
"No, talent in choosing people is always secondary."
Perhaps, like a Confucian ruler, he internalized the principle that virtue must come first.
Or perhaps, honestly, there simply wasn't anyone he wanted to select. He alone was the intellect of the nation; the rest were merely limbs. Why bother with excess thought or possession? Only rebellion would result.
If the right hand claimed superiority over the left, the head might barely notice. Given his whims, Yi Geum felt he'd rather appoint ordinary townsfolk to official positions than indulge entitled noble heirs.
It wasn't strange. Across Europe too, enlightened absolute monarchs rose in popularity by punishing corrupt, incompetent nobles while claiming equality for the common people.
Power, like wealth, is relative.
A country where everyone is wealthy? Even then, the rich oppose it. They remain wealthy only as long as there are more poor people than themselves.
The same applied to power: the more commoners beneath, the higher one stands.
Thus, the monarch's ideal was to be the sole high one. All others, including children and relatives, must appear humble. Only then does power become absolute.
Yi Geum had devoted his life to this.
Initially, it was for survival. The cursed Soron faction constantly urged his half-brother to kill him.
But just as humans left cave life for comfort, Yi Geum had cemented his power. Traitors were purged, authority stabilized, borders secure. He had a legitimate heir.
Yet Yi Geum's enemies were not only Soron or Nam-in factions.
"Perhaps eighty percent of these examinees are Noron descendants."
The Noron heirs of Song Si-yeol, having grown arrogant since the Gyeongsin Disposition, sought to control the king.
But they erred: they did not make Yi Geum king for power. He had used them to survive and succeed.
At least, that's how Yi Geum saw it.
When the examinees' papers were submitted, Yi Geum summoned Crown Prince Yi Hwon.
The prince arrived respectfully. This year, the death of Princess Hwapyeong had sharpened the king's nerves, so even a moment's delay was impossible.
The prince's behavior wasn't overreaction. Anyone witnessing it might think he had killed the princess.
Although not officially considered historical fact, Lady Hyegyeong mentioned in Hanjoongnok:
"Near the death of Princess Hwapyeong, I gave birth to Yi So (the prematurely deceased Crown Prince), yet I dared not show fear. (King Yeongjo) never even asked if I had borne a child."
From Yeongjo Yi Geum's perspective, there were reasons—many, indeed.
The prince was brilliant, yet the king focused only on flaws. He was too eager to please his father. When asked about learning, he answered by correctness, yet constantly gauged the king's satisfaction.
Of course, Yi Geum didn't want to appear easy to control. But if the prince wavered like a reed in fear, would he not later falter with ministers after the king's death?
Rumors also suggested he indulged in martial arts, which Yi Geum found unacceptable. The throne was precarious; there was no room for diversion.
The prince, seeking release from suffocating pressure, didn't occur to Yi Geum. After all, 18th-century people weren't expected to display such consideration.
Thus, Yi Geum gave the approaching prince a disapproving look and tossed him the papers without affection.
"I have selected several answer sheets worthy of attention from wise professors and senior ministers. You, the prince, shall determine the top scorer."
The prince, dominated by fear, couldn't conceive of thinking "the old man's at it again." He prostrated himself.
"The ranking determines the arrangement of officials, which is among the most important duties of the monarch. It cannot be delegated; Your Highness, please take command."
"Who told you to decide? They have all passed the exam; you only determine the order. Do not be arrogant. If your judgment is flawed, I will correct it. Show your discernment."
Frozen by his father's words, the prince examined the papers with trembling hands.
Normally, papers would be collected and copied for evaluation to prevent recognition.
But these were originals. The official copies remained in the clerks' hands. Yi Geum had brought them to test the prince before anyone could curry favor.
The prince noticed one sheet immediately. Its neatness was striking, almost printed.
In college essay exams, students are told to meet word counts precisely and write legibly. Content is marked down if the format is wrong, and messy handwriting makes readers dislike even the best ideas.
Exams often hinge on aspects outside both the test-giver's design and examinee expectation.
The prince examined the paper carefully.
And, as a perceptive young man, he realized one thing:
"This handwriting… it's him!"
Han Sang-gung, who tutored the prince, had drawn him toward martial arts and play rather than reading. She had shared a rumor: a young scholar, trained in Changgong martial arts, had entered the civil exam by accident. When senior officials tried to intimidate him, he had beaten them all with a stick.
Even if true or not, it fascinated the prince.
This scholar was Kim Un-haeng from Jangdong, recently successful in the civil exam. Despite his rough reputation, his handwriting was remarkably neat, reminiscent of Han Ho of the Seonjo era.
Previously, when forcibly attending the court, the prince had searched for this scholar but gave up, seeing no imposing warrior-like figure.
Reading the paper, the prince found it utterly conventional. No sharp insights, no clever arguments. He was momentarily disappointed, then relieved.
"At least I won't be caught."
A straightforward, meek answer. Even the father, who harbored past grudges, couldn't harshly scold it.
The prince picked it up. Yi Geum snorted.
"The writing is mundane, the sentences plagiarized, and the author ignorant of practical statecraft. Do you really think this is correct?"
Changing his mind now would only invite more reprimand. The prince decided to proceed. Thoughts of Kim Un-haeng's heroic deeds gave him courage.
He may not break his father's head with a candlestick, but cowering endlessly is shameful.
"He is a young and inexperienced scholar, so his lack of insight is not his fault. Even if ignorant of statecraft, we should forgive him."
Yi Geum's brow twitched, and the prince swallowed. He had to continue.
"Only the purity and righteousness of intent remain to be judged. Although I do not know the author, the essay adheres to Confucius and Zhu Xi, denounces luxury, and cultivates virtue consistently. With Your Highness' guidance, he shall surely become a pillar of the nation."
Yi Geum silently observed the prince, whose voice trembled despite trying to be clear. Whether the prince discerned the king's will, the king did not know.
At least, in this moment, the prince gave the desired answer.
Yi Geum exhaled and said,
"The prince may withdraw."
"Yes, Your Highness."
The prince quickly bowed and left, relieved the ordeal was over.
Yi Geum then gauged the timing for announcing the top scorer—the one chosen not by him, but by the prince.