2
The king's carriage rattled southward along the dusty road toward Jeolla Province, lacquered panels glinting faintly in the early sunlight, and silk curtains swaying gently with the motion. Each mile traversed had been assiduously marked by a sigh from Do-guen and a muttered prayer that their next destination might prove less humiliating than the last.
Yi Jin reclined within the lacquered enclosure, draped in the finest yanbang hanbok of muted jade and cream, the silk heavy but impeccably arranged, as though a court painter might have paused mid-stroke to admire him. The carriage rocked gently with each rut and dip in the road, yet Yi Jin's posture betrayed the restless impatience of a monarch long accustomed to bending an entire realm to his will. Do-guen, pressed into the narrow corner behind him, bore the uncomfortable impression of a man trapped in a gilded cage of absurdity.
In the days since his ill-fated encounter at the mountain shrine, the King had conferred with himself, Do-guen, and an invisible chorus of attendants and ministers, all of which suggested that a sudden journey southward—this time representing the royal state, might just yield the desired reunion with Min Woo-won, escape artist extraordinaire. His carriage, decorated with lacquered lattice and silk panels, bore the trappings of a minor envoy inspecting provincial affairs, and Yi Jin imagined that from within, he appeared every inch the dignified inspector, tasked with upholding the province's honour and ensuring the proper treatment of sacred manuscripts.
Do-guen elected not to inform him that every detail—the gilded handles, the soft velvet cushions, the quiet attendants stationed behind curtains—betrayed the truth that a King travelled within. Even he was not so bold nor so cruel to shatter Yi Jin's illusions. Instead, the Chief Eunuch's eyes darted to the passing plains with the look of someone wishing he were anywhere else instead of here. "I pray, Your Majesty, that this journey will prove less injurious to one's dignity than before."
Yi Jin let out a rolling laugh. "Do-guen, dignity is the first casualty when chasing a historian. But one must chase regardless. And we shall have the skill and patience to do so."
And so they travelled, three days through plains and hills, past villages clinging to the edges of rivers swollen with recent rains, and into the stubbornly independent heart of Jeolla. The local magistrates, upon receiving word of a royal inspection—conducted, apparently, by a scholar of minor station—had apparently descended upon their offices with the panic of men fearing sudden imperial wrath: orders were shouted, clerks scurried, and inkstones clattered from desks as they accelerated their labours. Yi Jin received the news of all this flurry with growing satisfaction. At last, he thought, a stage worthy of the drama that was to unfold.
The pretext that the King had carefully arranged was flawless, Yi Jin reasoned aloud to Do-guen as their carriage tumbled along: a countryside monastery library required urgent restoration, its ancient scrolls threatened by the creeping damp of the season. This kind of ailment would surely be the sort to attract the attention of one Min Woo-won. Ever the dutiful scholar, Woo-won would surely see it as an opportunity to engage in righteous labour if nothing else. Along would come Yi Jin, as royal inspector, ostensibly thrown together to oversee the project—but truly, the stage of their reunion would be set with perfect precision.
In his mind's eye, the scene unfolded with an almost theatrical clarity. His historian would be kneeling over scattered scrolls of ink-stained parchment, the afternoon light catching the topknot of his hair, the line of his back stooped in quiet concentration. Yi Jin would step forward, bowing with meticulous courtesy, and extend his hand to assist, modestly brushing an errant fold of paper or a fallen scroll into place. Woo-won's eyes would lift, surprised, and Yi Jin would allow a fleeting, gallant smile to bridge the distance between them. Perhaps he would offer an arm to steady the scholar as he bent too low to inspect a fragile text; perhaps a playful reproach at his single-minded devotion, masking the deeper admiration he could not yet name aloud.
Yi Jin imagined it down to the smallest detail: the soft rustle of silk, the faint scent of incense mingling with Woo-won's own natural austerity, the gentle, almost imperceptible warmth of a hand brushing against his own. The tableau was flawless, a trap of courtesy and circumstance so cunning that even Woo-won would not be able to resist participation -- nor would he be able to resist the subtle persuasion of a King's charm hidden beneath the guise of official inspection.
And when his historian finally looked up fully, meeting Yi Jin's gaze—oh, surely then, Yi Jin thought with a thrill that sent warmth curling through his chest— then surely he would falter just a fraction, acknowledging in the quietest of ways, that the King's persistence was not without merit, and perhaps, that the heart behind it was not entirely unwelcome.
"Perhaps we might send a decree ahead of time to the monastery: 'Please preserve the books, not the King's dignity,'" Do-guen muttered half to himself. Yi Jin pretended not to have heard him: half of success was faith in one's own scheme; the rest… well, fortune would follow.
The first signs of chaos arrived as soon as the carriage rattled past the outer magistrate's office. The officials, long accustomed to a more leisurely rhythm in Jeolla, had been unprepared for sudden attention, much less the very obvious presence of the King cloaked in the guise of an inspection. Young clerks toppled inkpots, papers fluttered to the dusted floor, and the magistrate himself—a man of forty summers and considerably less courage—flung open the doors to greet the imperial party, face pale enough to rival the marble steps beneath his feet.
"Your Majesty!" he exclaimed, voice pitched somewhere between terror and supplication. "I mean, Your Inspectorship! Welcome to Jeolla!" The man proceeded to drop to his hands, quivering.
Yi Jin leaned slightly forward, voice low, muttering to his eunuch, "I must admit, Do-guen, I am endlessly impressed by the rigour with which our court officials defer to one another. I had no idea that visiting inspectors were greeted with such discipline and respect."
Do-guen, lips twitching with barely suppressed amusement, replied softly, "Indeed. Few men could inspire such unanimous obedience. Most remarkable."
Inside the magistrate's council chamber, chaos bloomed in full. The young clerks scurried like startled birds, offering contradictory reports: of course everyone in the scholarly town of Jeolla knew of the great Historian Min. In fact, he had been seen kneeling by the riverbank, helping villagers tally rice stores; he had been observed at the granary, inspecting scrolls that were apparently in desperate need of cataloguing; he had even been rumoured to have taken up temporary residence on a pine-laden hill, reciting Confucian maxims aloud for the edification of wandering monks.
To the back of the same hall sat two older magistrates leaning back in their chairs, hands folded over their chests and eyes narrowed with the faintest trace of wry amusement, fully aware of the spectacle. One of them, an official long familiar with the audacity of Jeolla's scholars, murmured to the other, "Observe the king's parade, and yet that historian dances three steps ahead of him. Our province may yet survive, but His Majesty's pride? A far less certain fate awaits."
The second, more audacious, muttered while adjusting his sleeve, "Min Woo-won could have taught generals how to evade an emperor. By the time His Majesty's carriage rumbled down the road, he had left nothing but whispers and ink-stained notes behind."
Meanwhile, Yi Jin, oblivious to the thinly veiled amusement in the room, was listening to differing accounts of Master Min's exploits, each more incredible than the next, and each punctuated by a chorus of flustered bows and urgent scribbles. The younger magistrate who was attending to him bobbed repeatedly, like a reed trembling in a gale at each telling.
"The… Master Historian Min—he is… we mean—"
"Where is he now?" Yi Jin asked smoothly, letting the words roll as if lightly curious, although the weight of the question pressed upon the room like a subtle command.
"Ah… well, Your Maj- I mean, Your Inspectorship, he—he was seen by the riverbank just yesterday, helping… helping the villagers count the rice stores." The junior magistrate's hands twisted the edge of his sleeve, as though the folds themselves might provide a hiding place for his courage.
"Indeed?" Yi Jin prompted, eyes narrowing slightly, the faintest edge of expectation threading his calm demeanour. "I'd hoped you would find him for me."
The officials of Jeolla scrambled to maintain appearances. Messengers were dispatched in all directions to locate the elusive scholar. Some returned with tales so improbable that the older men could barely keep straight faces: Master Min had been seen guiding monks in cataloging manuscripts that had supposedly been moved to a different wing of the monastery; he had walked through the rice paddies barefoot, giving impromptu lectures on calligraphy; he had paused to correct a young novice's stroke, leaving the boy trembling with awe and a quivering brush.
The clerks swore each sighting was true, though none could provide precise times or even confirm the direction in which Min Woo-won had vanished next. Yi Jin listened to all this with a patience born of stubborn, self-deluding optimism, leaning slightly to the side as he drummed his fingers lightly against the polished wood.
At length, he straightened and declared, with the air of one pronouncing an elegant and irrefutable strategy, "Very well. We shall proceed to the monastery. If Master Min has business anywhere in Jeolla, he will surely be found there."
The effect on the younger magistrates was instantaneous: they bowed so violently their hats nearly toppled, each insisting—tripping over the others' assurances—that Master Min was most certainly at the monastery, had always been at the monastery, and could not possibly be anywhere but the monastery.
Do-guen, with the patience of a saint and the cynicism of a man long accustomed to this brand of folly, muttered under his breath, "Remarkable, Sire… how the man remains in all places at once, yet always exactly where Your Majesty expects."
Yi Jin pretended not to hear a word from his Chief Eunuch, a skill he had long years of practice in. Yet, as they approached the monastery, which was situated in a neighbouring district, the first signs of calamity presented themselves. For starters, there was no historian present; no brush poised above parchment whose equilibrium Yi Jin could upset, no quiet dignity resting in the courtyard for him to charm into submission.
The presiding monks, a sleepy cohort of men who had seen their abbey survive decades of war, factional bickering, and floods, looked at Yi Jin and Do-guen with faint amusement, as though observing children in unfamiliar dress attempting a complicated ritual.
"This humble monastery," intoned one monk, bowing low enough to brush the dust of the stone path, "is grateful for the interest of visiting officials. However, the scholar you seek—Master Min—departed at dawn, having left instructions for the cataloguing of texts, to journey further eastward on urgent matters of preservation."
Yi Jin's chest tightened. The words were civil, careful, perfectly polite; yet they seem to carry the weight of mockery, veiled in decorum.
He had ridden three days for nothing. Nothing, save the sight of monks scuttling with scrolls and inkstones as though he were a particularly ominous thundercloud, oblivious to the private amusement of those who understood too well the subtleties of Min's cleverness.
Do-guen, whose nerves were already frayed after days in carriage, whispered, "Your Mastery, might it be wise to rest here for a day? At least to inspect the library?"
Yi Jin waved the suggestion away, though the gesture lacked its usual imperial conviction. "I am inspecting… the province. The library. Yes. Summon the magistrates; I will spend the night here."
The magistrates of Jeonju—or was it Namwon?—revealed themselves to be, as provincial bureaucracies invariably are, both terrified and excessively eager to please. They insisted on escorting Yi Jin to the abbey's guest quarters, though the room proved scarcely larger than a monk's study: a narrow mat laid over a slatted floor, shelves sagging beneath worm-eaten sutras, and an air thick with the mingled scents of old paper, incense ash, and damp timber.
By dawn they presented him with a diligently inked list of Master Min's engagements, none of which bore the faintest resemblance to truth, and several of which contradicted one another outright. According to the magistrates, Min Woo-won had been seen:
Teaching calligraphy to a select circle of novices;Visiting the riverbank to assess water levels for the coming season;Delivering an impromptu lecture on ritual propriety to a group of bewildered farmers;Assisting an elderly scribe in repairing a torn genealogical register;Settling a dispute between two villages regarding the correct interpretation of a seasonal omen'Copying fragments of a damaged sutra said to date back to the early Goryeo monks.
Yi Jin, staring at the chaotic reports, was forced to conclude that if all these accounts were accurate, Min Woo-won must possess the many arms of a guardian bodhisattva and a talent for instantaneous travel unmatched in the annals of Joseon scholarship.
By late afternoon, the King had dispatched messengers in every direction: to villages, river crossings, even a distant pine grove rumoured to conceal wandering scholars. Each returned with variations on the same theme: Min had been seen, politely but firmly, guiding villagers in cataloguing manuscripts, tending to aged scrolls, and then departing without fanfare, leaving naught but whispered apologies and folded notes in his wake.
With a growing sense of dread Yi Jin read some of these such folded note, written in Min's careful hand:
Your Majesty, I am grateful for your concern and diligence.
Your Majesty, the monastery's work proceeds as required. I must travel onward to oversee similar efforts at neighbouring temples.
Your Majesty, I trust the province thrives under your guidance.
The King's shoulders slumped. The careful courtesy of the note, the absence of any mention of his efforts, even the lack of signature, struck him with a peculiar mixture of admiration and despair. Min Woo-won remained, as ever, composed, distant, and entirely beyond capture.
In a fit of frustration, Yi Jin summoned a magistrate to account for the scholar's disappearance. The man bowed so low that his forehead touched the floor, trembling.
"Your Majesty, it seems Master Min is… indomitable. His diligence is unsurpassed. Even the Sanshin himself could not have persuaded him to linger."
Yi Jin sighed and stalked the stone path outside the monastery, surveying the mountains and rivers with the grim determination of a man intent upon catching a shadow. He exhaled through his teeth, a sound as sharp and brittle as mountain air in winter.
This meticulously staged farce had proven that Min Woo-won was determined to elude him, leaving naught but traces of his presence, polite letters, and the lingering ache of an ever-thwarted pursuit.
The sun fell behind the distant peaks, and Yi Jin, dust-coated and weary, acknowledged, albeit begrudgingly, that Woo-won was cleverer and more audacious than he had imagined. Three days of riding, two provinces worth of panicked bureaucrats, and one monastery had yielded nothing but the faintest whisper of that frustrating man's passing.
Yi Jin returned to his modest lodgings within the monastery walls, Do-guen following with silent exasperation, and allowed himself a brief, humiliating reflection: his historian had outwitted him again, politely, mercilessly, and with the calm dignity that made Yi Jin's heart both ache and swell in equal measure.
Outside, the evening bell tolled across the valley, its low, resonant hum settling over the mountains like a benediction; lantern light flickered along the wooden corridor, casting wavering shadows that stretched and folded as the wind curled through the eaves. For a moment, Yi Jin stood at the threshold of the chamber, listening to the monks settling into their nightly chants, their rhythm steady and completely indifferent to a King's private defeat. The silence that followed was neither comforting nor cruel; it was merely honest, as though the monastery itself reminded him that pursuit, however fervent, did not guarantee capture.
Yet even folly has its momentum, and Yi Jin was determined that his would carry him onward. Tomorrow was a new day, and Yi Jin would pursue that damnable Min Woo-won further still.
For the first time that week, the king smiled grimly to himself. His historian might evade him yet again, but Yi Jin had infinite patience, endless resources, and an imagination capable of devising schemes far more audacious than this one.