(Chapter 5) 4. You Shall Become My Companion (1)
Park Ji-won asked with a hint of nervousness.
"What help could I possibly provide?"
"My scholarship is still humble. I need to take a good teacher, but I fear scandal due to that so-called Hyungsa, Tagubong, I mentioned earlier. So I want you to deliver my letter."
Park Ji-won looked puzzled.
"Me?"
No matter how young he was, he was still the child of a yangban family. Such tasks were for servants, not nobles.
It wasn't rude, just strange. It's like having a washing machine but being ordered to hand-wash the clothes.
Yet, just as some clothes require hand-washing, there are times when a noble must take on unpleasant tasks. I lowered my voice.
"Forming factions is considered treachery, so I cannot speak openly, but how could the scholars who have inherited and solidified Yulgok's academic tradition (here, I mean the Seoin, especially the Noron) not care for each other? A family with a long tradition of literary excellence, like yours, surely has a talented literary guest. I wish to request this urgently from your grandfather, the Cham-pan (Vice Minister) Park Pil-gyun."
Park Pil-gyun, who had a close relationship with my family as a Noron vanguard leader, would not refuse. It's difficult for anyone to object to a beautiful example of educating the next generation.
This suited me well too.
It's burdensome for me to associate with people from the Soron faction. For example, someone like Park Mun-su, who now ranks among senior ministers. Knowing the reputation of the secret inspector Park Mun-su, it's regrettable, but family ties matter more.
However, someone like Ban-nam Park Mun would not seem strange to others.
Park Ji-won was also very pleased.
Even if clever and daring, he was only twelve. In Joseon times, being able to manage oneself already counted as brilliance.
Inside his family, he only listened to adults' admonitions; he likely had no chance to be involved in external matters. A child like that has predictable desires.
It's the same in Joseon or modern Korea. Teenagers, seeking stimulation, will jump into things that seem interesting—in this case, sadly, I, who caused social disturbance, fell into that category.
So the bait I offered—pride in representing his family in scholarly exchange—satisfied the desire typical of boys. Park Ji-won patted his chest.
"How could your grandfather withhold help from a junior thirsting for learning? Leave all matters to this younger brother and rest with your pillow high."
After receiving the errand fee I offered, Park Ji-won left like a secret agent, and I whistled.
I felt sorry for him, but it didn't matter who Park Pil-gyun sent. I had no intention of taking the civil service exams anyway.
What mattered was that a sitting Minister of Personnel (without going through my father) interacted with me.
The network of the Gyeonghwa scholar families was like the parents' internet cafes of Gangnam's elite schools. This news would soon spread, and government officials would know.
And the examiners for the civil service were naturally drawn from current officials.
That alone was enough for now. Perhaps an apt metaphor would be tidying one's attire. Now it was time to execute the next plan.
I recalled my time in Korea.
Even by the fourth year, diligent university students often adopt the attitude that they weren't unemployed—they simply chose not to work.
"Focus on the essence. University is for studying, not preparing for employment."
But such pretenses can be dangerous.
You might fall into the spiderweb of professors seeking new servants—or graduate students. Even today, students who refuse to chase employment and retain the essence of scholarship are considered rare talents (professors flatter them).
Luckily, I could pass it off as preparing for a civil service exam. The professor said wistfully:
"Civil service, well, from the old state exams, Koreans have always regarded that as supreme."
"Isn't it easier than the state exams?"
"Well, yes. During King Jeongjo's time, 200,000 people came over two days for the state exam celebrating the crown prince. Final competition ratio was about 50,000 to 1. But that doesn't mean today's 50 to 1 civil service exam is a thousand times easier. For some, it's far easier than now; for others, it's ten thousand times harder."
"Excuse me?"
My interest piqued; the professor's glasses glinted.
"Are you interested in micro-history of late Joseon? Many seniors research that. You aced classical readings, right? Our lab is running a pilot project to translate the Seungjeongwon Ilgi with AI. Come by tomorrow; I'll explain in detail."
"Ah, no, that's fine. Thank you for the coffee, professor."
I later realized the professor's casual offer of scholarly conversation was a significant gesture of goodwill.
Regardless, I have no regrets about not attending graduate school. Or perhaps I should, since I wouldn't have fallen into traps in Noryangjin if I had.
I shook my head, dismissing useless thoughts.
Indeed, the professor was correct.
The state exams weren't fair civil service exams. As examinee Kim Un-haeng, I could feel that truth.
The exams themselves were absurd.
During Jeongjo's reign, up to 200,000 people could gather.
Special exams often had no qualification or participant limits, and could be completed in one go—no minor or major division—resulting in overwhelming crowds (which was my target).
200,000. Sitting four abreast, numbering takes a full day. Even without resting, under the sun.
Joseon never gathered that many people, even in the military. Think about managing 200,000 people's excrement in one day. Only then could you imagine the administrative challenge.
Joseon's administration was competent; they split it into three areas, superficially completing the exams. Superficially.
Special exams often began and ended on the same day. Particularly royal exams, which celebrated the king's visit. It had to finish while the king was present.
Believe it? Without computers, all exam papers had to be graded and posted before sunset. This is called immediate posting (即日放榜).
Even modern states with massive computing and administrative resources don't do this.
Gathering 200,000 in one place in a city of similar size is like suddenly doubling a capital city's population.
So how did they manage the exams and select successful candidates?
Simple.
Do what can be done. That's Joseon's way.
A scholar with literary talent might not pass? Fate.
Fighting for a position and dying? Who forced you?
Those who navigate this chaos and absurdity become successful.
Arriving at a crowded exam, securing a good spot, and submitting a proper answer within the tacit cutoff of ~300 is where real learning begins.
Harsh, but it tested the ability to survive in Joseon bureaucracy.
Moderns who scoffed at scholars reading Confucian texts instead of managing state affairs must reflect.
I guarantee almost 100% of modern people wouldn't even reach the Joseon exam hall.
Adaptability in the field? Practicality? Joseon people excelled.
Without endless instructions, manuals, and reminders, most modern people can do nothing.
Fail to manage oneself in changing situations? You have no place in the ultimate improvisation test: the Joseon exams.
That's the point of the exam. It reminds me of certain hunter card exams, but it's real. I, Kim Un-haeng, guarantee it.
So, what must I do?
Study for a year to cultivate scholarship worthy of a top pass?
Or master the skill to navigate the chaos and sudden situations of the exams?
Scholarship is the main stage. Quick but sloppy answers will fail. The main stage is harder than prelims.
But prelims are no less important.
You must pass prelims to reach the main stage.
Understanding the exam's essence, my preparation naturally differed from ordinary people.
Preparation required suitable "people." Companions, if you will.
I polished my attire at dawn, contemplating my next plan.
My father was on night duty; my older brother Kim Jeok-haeng was at a regional post. I had freedom to move. I needed to visit several places in the city.
But going alone was improper. Unlike the child Park Ji-won, I had undergone the coming-of-age ceremony. Acting alone would lose face.
In this era, even minor nobles could not rise if servants did not assist. That's how scholars managed.
How did they survive the exams? Let's just say "self-management" differed from modern times.
A noble walking alone drew suspicion.
Being modern, I rejected a miserable life of helplessness.
Yet, having taken the servant Jang-bok a few times, I could not resist.
A Joseon servant did more than housework.
They were essential for outings—a multifunctional, nonlinear human "computer." Without them, life was impossible.
If this sounds like human rights abuse, it's not. Even if freed, they'd starve on the streets. As an employer, I was practically among the best in Joseon.
I didn't abuse them or make them deliver letters under duress. All of this was everyday life in Hanseong.
In Joseon, that was a point of pride. In the other world, knowing encirclement strategies alone makes one a tactical genius.
So I called Jang-bok without hesitation.
"Jang-bok?"
But the answer from outside the door was strange—angry shouts and exertions filled the air. I suspected he might have been bitten while collecting dog feces at dawn (an important task).
I went out and saw Jang-bok gesturing angrily at something crouched under the wall.
"Hey, even a lowly beggar has rules. A beggar who knows propriety deserves respect. What are you thinking, wandering before breakfast trying to scrounge leftovers? Do you dare eat before our masters?"
Indeed, even a servant of a noble spoke eloquently. But why was Jang-bok giving a long lecture?
I soon understood.
His face was red, wielding a broom. He'd exerted himself fully, yet the crouching beggar remained still.
Despite fierce broom strikes, the beggar didn't budge. From afar, he looked like a clump of dirty rags.
Not intimidated, Jang-bok increased his vigor. My appearance may have spurred him further.
He swung his leg back to strike, a dull sound echoing. I frowned.
'Isn't that too much for someone who hasn't done anything?'
Just as I decided to intervene, Jang-bok leapt into the air, flipping. I shouted.
"Hey!"
He performed a complex acrobatic kick against a beggar who would otherwise leave quietly, implying something beyond simple violence. I stomped in shock.
I ran toward him but had to stop.
Jang-bok was suspended midair, legs up, head down.
"······!"
He wasn't executing advanced martial arts; his foot had been grabbed by the beggar and was dangling.
I was astonished. Jang-bok was strong, but not huge. Yet he had grown through years of servitude.
And yet he was holding up such a massive man with one hand?
I finally observed the beggar properly.
I cursed Jang-bok's poor judgment and lack of foresight. Shouldn't he have sensed the force aura?
The beggar wore tattered cloth revealing more than it covered, showing immense muscle and strength.
His face was obscured by hair and beard, but his physique suggested a striking presence.
'Is he really an Asian… or even human?'
Joseon had no modern training concepts; even a top wrestler wouldn't have such exaggerated musculature. Servant men were generally average build.
But this one was extravagantly muscular.
The knuckles of his fists were prominent, indicating extensive past violence.
Even visually, I did not want to confront him. He was easily over 190 cm.
I quickly stepped back.
I inhaled. From here, nobility and decorum meant nothing.
"Help!"
The universal emergency signal drew household members running out.
But clueless, they held nothing more than sticks—useless against the beggar.
As the beggar advanced, household members retreated in unison.
I swallowed hard.
In a historical drama, someone might yell, "Send word to Podo-cheong!" for clarity.
But this was not a drama. Podo-cheong differed from modern police; one could not expect intervention. Even if they came, my head would likely be twisted before arrival.
Violent crime in Joseon relied on self-defense. People didn't worry about red lines like modern humans.
Pre-modern people understood "hitting someone is punishable" (if the opponent was higher rank). But it didn't translate to "so don't hit."
I could not die before becoming Yeong-uijeong (Prime Minister).
I decided to flee using someone as a shield. Meanwhile, Jang-bok, flailing, shouted.
"This thief has no sense of heaven and earth! Our master is out; now you're dead. Haven't you heard of the secret Tagubong techniques that fells dozens at once?!"
This teenager, a servant, said what?
While my mind blanked, Jang-bok desperately threw the broom toward me.
I caught it, and everyone looked at me with urgent expectation. Shock doesn't describe it.
Worse, the beggar focused on me, the only armed person.
With sudden aggression, he was now drawn to me.
The beggar reached for me. Calmly, he just extended his arm, but to my panicked mind, it was a charging beast.
I screamed and thrust the broom with all my strength.