The Divine Dragon of Uiju
"History isn't about mindlessly memorizing facts. It's about uncovering the hidden causal relationships behind events—big data patterns accumulated over thousands of years."
In a cramped studio in Gangnam, twenty-six-year-old Yi Si-woo glared at the camera lens with bloodshot eyes as he filmed his video, fantasizing about the moment it went live and he became the top tutor in Daechi-dong.
The instant this recording uploads, tens of thousands of exam-takers waiting beyond the monitor will hang on my every word.
"Once you read the flow, the answers are right there in the text. Understand? History isn't memorized—it's designed."
Top tutor. He was just one step away from the pinnacle.
The endpoint of four years crawling from the bottom, wrestling with moldy study materials. Uploading this lecture would reshape the landscape of history education in Korea.
Once this analysis pack goes up, the world is mine.
But as he placed the final period, his heart screamed, and his vision blurred sharply.
"Ugh... urk."
The sound of empty canned coffee cups spilling across the desk echoed.
"No, not now... I'm so close..."
A dry groan escaped his lips.
I endured four years. Cup ramen for every meal in a Noryangjin basement studio, grinding toward success as the top tutor—it's right there...
"Fuck... I can't die like this...!"
Images of his dreamed success flashed by like a montage: tens of thousands awaiting his lectures, textbooks emblazoned with his name, the throne of the number-one instructor.
"I haven't even hit upload yet!"
He reached for the mouse, but felt nothing.
"......"
It was unbearably unjust. Just as light dawned, indifferent darkness swallowed him whole.
"Waaah—! Waaah!"
When he came to, the first sensation was frigid air stabbing his lungs. He tried to open his eyes, but his eyelids weighed a ton, and his limbs wouldn't obey.
What the hell? Didn't I die?
His vision cleared faintly. No bright lights or smooth ceiling—just flickering candle flames and thick wooden beams. Gazing down at him wasn't a camera lens, but the tear-streaked, smiling face of an unfamiliar woman.
"He's out! My lord, it's a boy!"
General? A son? His bewildered mouth produced no logical question.
"Waaah—! Waaaah!"
His mind brimmed with 21st-century Joseon history expertise, yet his body was a helpless blob that couldn't even hold its head up. As disorientation hit, a booming voice rang from beyond the door.
"My lord! And it's the first day of the first lunar month in the gyeongjin year of Qianlong 25—surely this child will have extraordinary spirit!"
Qianlong 25... gyeongjin?
The words sparked a frenzy in his head. Heavenly stem gyeong meant a year ending in 0. Late Joseon, year of the dragon. The intersection of Qing Emperor Qianlong's reign and the sexagenary cycle pointed to one moment.
AD 1760. Yeongjo 36.
To an aspiring Joseon history instructor, this year marked eight years since the birth of Jeongjo—Joseon's last reformist king, the final spark of enlightenment. Two years before the tragedy later chronicled as the Imo Incident, the eve of the storm.
Heaven had granted him the perfect preparation time.
"Indeed! A tiger to carry on the Uiju Yi clan has been born!"
The man who burst through the door scooped him up. Acrid gunpowder and blood assaulted his nose. Rough, sturdy hands—befitting a border military family.
Uiju. Korea's northern tip, facing the continent across the Yalu River—a strategic chokepoint. Historical fragments snapped into a vivid map: Noron dominance, seeds of regent politics, Joseon tilting toward decline.
Swaddled in a baby blanket for now, but history lay in his palm.
While others wasted breath on petty debates over Four Books and Three Classics phrases, he would redesign the nation's foundations.
I've already solved all the past questions.
Now, just rewrite the error-riddled history into the correct answers.
With un-baby-like eyes, he gripped the man's robe tightly. Joseon's crumbling timeline burned clear before him. He would flip the board himself.
Eight years later.
"...I can't teach him anymore."
In the Uiju Yi clan's annex in Pyongan Province's northern frontier, a chill wind stirred.
Choi, the renowned local scholar who fancied himself a master tutor, shoved his desk aside with trembling hands and stood.
Before him sat nine-year-old Si-woo, expression impassive.
"What? Tutor Choi! What do you mean? Is my Si-woo lacking somehow?"
Yi Seong-ho, Si-woo's father, rushed in from outside where he'd waited anxiously.
Choi pointed shakily at the paper Si-woo had filled.
"Lacking? This... this isn't human writing—it's the work of a ghost!"
Yi Seong-ho snatched the paper.
Considerations on the Tax Efficiency of Northern Trade
The handwriting was impossibly neat for an eight-year-old: Considerations on the Tax Efficiency of Northern Trade.
This wasn't mere literacy. It was the explosion of 21st-century Yi Si-woo's vast knowledge—chewed through endless study—clashing with 18th-century Joseon reality.
Did I overdo it? Si-woo clicked his tongue inwardly.
Eight years of restraint, reciting classics to suppress his intellectual itch. He'd feigned half a year for Thousand Character Classic, three for Great Learning. To him, they were texts lectured hundreds of times—but rumors of a nine-year-old mastering the classics reaching Hanyang spelled trouble.
A tree hides best in the forest; a blade is sharpest sheathed.
Si-woo eyed the paper in his father's hand, mentally tracing the family tree.
The progenitor: Yi Pyeong, head of royal spies under King Sejong's secret orders. First in the Four Armies Six Garrisons' opening, but branded traitor protecting Danjong in the Gyeyu Coup. Fleeing execution with survivors to Uiju, the clan lurked as northern shadows for 300 years.
Sunlight returned with his great-grandfather: a prodigy rising to third-rank, disillusioned by early Yeongjo faction wars, retiring to Uiju.
"Power's peak is a sandcastle washed in blood. We return to the shadows."
Outwardly border military, inwardly spy heirs gripping continental intel, quietly building strength.
Recalling the dying words, Si-woo vowed: The timeline's whole in my head. I'll go to Hanyang and rewrite the answers myself.
Five years later. Si-woo, age fourteen.
Uiju's trading company faced its worst crisis since founding: Qing's Jinhu Company, their monopoly partner, suddenly strong-armed them.
"What insolence! You agreed on silver, and now you foist these low-grade herb scraps?"
Despite Yi Seong-ho's roar, Qing manager Jin Pyeong sipped tea smugly.
"Decide by tomorrow. Take it or leave. Without this silver trade, your company folds in half a year anyway."
"How dare you...!"
As merchants fumed, Si-woo quietly pulled his father aside.
In the flickering study, alone, Si-woo spoke.
"Father, buy up all those low-grade herbs."
"Si-woo, what? They're warehouse trash. Accepting that over silver dooms us."
Si-woo traced a map on the desk with his finger, unshaken.
"Haven't you heard the rumors of a red-rash plague ravaging northern Qing?"
"Rumors, sure—but border stuff, right?"
"No. Cross-referencing clan archives' old records with current weather shifts: matches the century-ago famine's cooling rate. Soon, harsh cold and plague will engulf Qing."
"When it breaches the capital walls, those herbs become priceless—tenfold unobtainable. Then we don't just get silver; we choke Jinhu."
Yi Seong-ho peered into his son's eyes. Fourteen. Uiju's divine dragon. He chose trust again.
"This... truly your read on the answers?"
"Records don't lie, Father."
Yi Seong-ho nodded firmly, then declared to the merchants that afternoon:
"I stake the clan on my son's insight. Buy every herb they offer!"
A year later, Si-woo's prediction hit with chilling precision. Plague swept northern Qing; herb prices soared. The Uiju Yi clan seized northern economic reins with fivefold profits.
But Si-woo pressed on. For two more years, holed in the clan library, etching Joseon's maps and networks into his mind. 21st-century fragments meshed with spy intel, unfolding the Joseon chessboard before him.
Two years later. Si-woo, age sixteen.
Chance to earn the king's trust came unexpectedly: a massive tiger in nearby mountains routed even elite Tiger Hunters, leaving no bodies to recover.
To reach the king's ears first, I need undeniable prowess.
Si-woo decided on the hunt without hesitation.
Yi Seong-ho blocked him, furious.
"No! Even Tiger Hunters fled without corpses? That's not insight—it's recklessness!"
"I've analyzed its range, habits, mountain winds. Strong, but just a beast."
Unrolling terrain maps, Yi Seong-ho's eyes wavered.
"Hanyang's key lies in those peaks, Father. Trust me."
"......"
After long gaze, Yi Seong-ho sighed deeply.
"Come back alive."
He granted clan treasures: black-horned bow, progenitor Yi Pyeong's Byeolun Sword. Twenty elites and bodyguard captain Man-seok joined.
Before the warriors, Si-woo gripped the sword hilt, bowing deeply to his father.
"Tiger pelts make victory dispatches that jolt kings' eyes. I'll etch Yi Si-woo in His Majesty's mind."
By moonrise, in forest shadows, Si-woo commanded lowly:
"Northwest wind. Place braziers low on the pass. Smoke must hug ground—mix damp artemisia."
"Man-seok, steel snares in that rocky defile. Its sole escape from smoke. Double-anchor to stone."
"Yes, young master!"
Si-woo covered snares with dry leaves, murmuring:
"It'll come this way. The snare's snap is our only shot."
Hiss, sizzle... acrid herbal smoke crawled the forest floor.
Ssshh... Air chilled. Eerie wails spread with blue mist.
Grrr...
Foxfire lit the path. A lesser man would collapse; Si-woo steadied his breath.
Kuooooh—!
The mountain-shaking roar erupted with a house-sized shadow.
Clang—! Crunch!
Front paw snagged the snare. Wire bit flesh, but the great tiger thrashed to rip free.
"Squad one, javelins! Disrupt vision!"
Spears shattered ground around it. As it swung, squad two netted its torso.
"Groooarrr!"
The beast king off-balance in that instant.
"Now."
Thwuk— First arrow pierced left eye.
Kraaaah!!
Half-blind, it charged Si-woo. Death's reek loomed, but his eyes held steady.
Pfft— Second arrow flew.
Straight through gaping maw, shredding lung to heart.
Like reincarnated archer-king Yi Seong-gye, Si-woo's godshot felled the mountain lord without resistance, sprawling at his feet.
Roars silenced; only Si-woo's breaths remained. Man-seok and warriors gaped, collapsing in awe.
"Two... arrows..."
"How..."
"Hoo..."
Si-woo lowered the bow, steadying.
"Man-seok, haul it to the workshop now. Skin it, tan, present to His Majesty!"
"Yes, young master!!"
Returning home, his anxiously waiting father stood in the courtyard.
Yi Seong-ho rushed up.
"No injuries?"
"None, Father."
Chatting, Yi Seong-ho spotted the house-sized pelt and chuckled.
"Ha ha... Hunted tigers past forty, but never one this massive."
"His Majesty will love it."
"He will. To the workshop before rot—tan it quick."
"Yes."
The tanned great tiger pelt went to Hanyang Palace. Rumors blazed: Uiju youth slays mountain king with two arrows.
Days later, in Hanyang.
King Yeongjo's eyes widened at the pelt.
"Ha ha, such vivid markings—first I've seen! A sixteen-year-old from Uiju felled it with two arrows?"
Turning to Grand Heir Yi San beside him, Yeongjo laughed heartily.
"San-ah, look. Northern divine dragon Yi Si-woo sends such a fine gift. Timely rain... Well-named. Soon, I want to see him myself."
Yi San gazed silently at the pelt, sensing amid Noron hardliners' tangled stares: new winds from the north to aid him.