Joseon's Area 51 (3)
The morning at the military arsenal warehouse by the Han River began with the damp river breeze carrying mist and the sharp tang of mold piercing the nostrils. Choi Hyeong-do's swagger, so bold under the palace eaves just yesterday, was utterly crushed by the dank air here. But worse than his pitiful sight was his grumbling, which had been echoing across the Gigi-cheong courtyard since dawn.
"My lord Byeolje! There's no such protocol in all the etiquette I've studied my whole life! I'm an official with a court rank—how can you make me sweep cobwebs from rafters chewed by rats before I've even had a bite of breakfast!"
Choi Hyeong-do shook the cobwebs from his sleeve as if they were filth, jumping about in a rage. Man-seok, shifting dusty rice sacks nearby, clicked his tongue and chimed in.
"Lord Jorang, if sweeping cobwebs is too much for you, how about moving those iron ingots piled in the corner? Or if that's not to your liking, maybe dust off the desk over there. I'm only saying this because my master would feel sorry seeing a noble like you sitting in a dust pit."
Man-seok effortlessly lifted a massive chest with one hand and dropped it with a thud at Choi Hyeong-do's feet. The official startled back in alarm.
"Y-you...! You call me 'lord' every other word, yet act so rudely! Lord Byeolje, look! That brute is openly insulting me!"
Choi Hyeong-do pointed accusingly at Yi Si-woo, but Si-woo didn't even respond. He simply pulled out his pocket watch, his cold gaze scanning the warehouse ceiling, ignoring the plea like dust.
"Jorang."
Si-woo's low voice cut through the humid air.
"If even a single weed in the courtyard or a speck of dust on the rafters catches my eye before the sun reaches midday, consider lunch off the table. If you hate cobwebs, follow Man-seok's suggestion and move those rusted weapons over there yourself. The choice is yours."
"M-my lord! How can you side with that lowly commoner? I am a Jeong 5-pum Jorang!"
Si-woo slowly turned his head, locking eyes with Choi Hyeong-do. The official felt chills crawl up his neck under that impassive stare.
"The Gigi-cheong isn't a brothel for loafing around—it's where every tool in Joseon will be reborn. And the new rules here start with my designs. My calculations don't include time for your rest, so if you're aggrieved, why not step outside the line right now?"
"Th-that's...!"
"If you can't leave, grab the broom. Before your precious hands touch iron, you should at least learn to dust."
At Si-woo's curt command, Choi Hyeong-do clamped his mouth shut, as if a blade pressed against his nape. Raised as a Hanyang elite, he'd never done menial labor, but Si-woo's overwhelming presence left him no choice but to grip the broom tighter. His appearance was utterly wretched: his splendid Jeong 5-pum silk official robes, splattered with ash from yesterday's ironwork and caked in this morning's dust, hung in tatters; his neatly oiled topknot had unraveled into a wild mess.
"Jorang, you don't think a bit of cleaning settles our bet, do you? When that precious sword cracked yesterday, it wasn't just your pride that broke—your time became mine too. Have you forgotten?"
"Th-that's... But I am the Jorang of the Ministry of Works! His Highness granted me this post—how can I be dusting in this hovel!"
"If you're unhappy, go complain to the Minister right now. Of course, the stigma of boldly wagering before dozens of artisans, then fleeing your own promise like a coward, will stick for life. You know better than anyone what that means in Hanyang's noble circles."
Choi Hyeong-do sealed his lips tight. For a yangban who valued honor above life, the label of bet-dodger was social execution. Si-woo had precisely seized that shallow yet heavy pride.
Si-woo nudged the charcoal line he'd drawn yesterday with his toe.
"From today, you are my recorder and quartermaster. Note every figure and blueprint explanation I call out without a single error. And procure whatever materials I demand from anywhere in Hanyang—that's your duty."
As Choi Hyeong-do trembled in injustice, a scholar cautiously stepped into the warehouse courtyard. His neat, unadorned robe and eyes brimming with zeal marked him as extraordinary.
"Si-woo, is this gloomy ruin truly the heart of Joseon you spoke of?"
Si-woo's lips curved faintly at the plain yet warm voice. Turning, he saw Jeong Yak-yong, whom King Jeongjo had dispatched as Jeong 6-pum Byeolju.
"Yak-yong, earlier than expected. Looks like His Highness approved my request swiftly."
"Request? You personally asked him to summon me here? No wonder the Gigi-cheong Byeolju post came so suddenly—I was puzzled. Just like you."
Their bond was peculiar. It began on the long road from Uiju to Hanyang. Yak-yong heading to the civil exams, Si-woo drawn by fate. At that nameless wayside, they'd recognized each other's brilliance in a glance, sharing a brief but intense exchange. But when Si-woo returned to Onseong for near-exile, their connection shifted to letters. Over two years, hundreds flew back and forth. Si-woo sent rough sketches and engineering ideas rooted in future knowledge from Onseong; Yak-yong refined them in Hanyang to fit Joseon's materials and physics, returning flawless blueprints. Si-woo proposed the impossible; Yak-yong carved it into reality.
'Every time those bizarre figures from you took perfect form under my brush, I felt a thrill.'
A line from one of Yak-yong's letters flashed in Si-woo's mind. They'd met briefly on his recent return to Hanyang, but today was their first collaboration with completed designs bridging the distance.
"Hey, Lord Byeolju! Do you know this Yi Si-woo Byeolje? As you know, I'm the Ministry's Jorang! Yet he's treating a Jeong 5-pum like me like a slave, making me pull weeds! Talk some sense into him!"
Choi Hyeong-do clung to Yak-yong's sleeve like a lifeline. Normally he'd condescend to a Jeong 6-pum Byeolju, but desperation erased hierarchy. Yak-yong didn't even lift his eyes from the blueprint.
"Lord Jorang, learning knows no rank, but commanding people demands talent first. If you grasp and record the figures Lord Byeolje dictates clearly, why wouldn't I treat you like an elder brother?"
"Y-you insolent...!"
Choi Hyeong-do fumed, but Man-seok's hulking frame, casually tapping a massive hammer against his palm nearby, silenced him.
Si-woo, eyes still on the blueprint, casually extended a document.
"I've heard you're Hanyang's master of connections, Lord Jorang. Gather the materials on this list—using your noble networks or raiding the Ministry's stores—within exactly one week."
Choi Hyeong-do scanned the list: high-purity copper, wrought iron, specially refined carbon steel. All rare, but methods to procure them flashed through his mind, honed by Hanyang society and Ministry familiarity.
"A-all this in a week? Even for me, that's impossible! Without the Minister's approval..."
Si-woo finally looked up. The Jong 4-pum Byeolje's gaze made the Jeong 5-pum Jorang swallow hard. Rank or presence—Si-woo had him pinned.
"If recording doesn't suit you, I'll reassign you tomorrow. Until the materials arrive in a week, how about wielding a pickaxe to dig the machine pit below?"
Choi Hyeong-do bit his lip. That mad Byeolje would truly shove a pickaxe into a Jeong 5-pum Jorang's hands and make him dig dirt. And Man-seok's hammer-tapping bulk loomed as added pressure.
'I'm a Jeong 5-pum Jorang, yet this Jong 4-pum Byeolje's authority cuts like a blade! Backed by His Highness's favor, he's got me not just sweeping but now scavenging like a lackey...!'
Choi Hyeong-do bit his lip, whirled his robe hem, and bolted beyond the line.
"I'll watch if this Gigi-cheong sinks or swims! With my connections half of Joseon, you think I can't fetch a few scraps of metal?"
As he vanished, Si-woo stamped the warehouse floor firmly once more.
"Man-seok, call the laborers. We're boring ten cheok into bedrock below the courtyard. We need a canal to draw the Han's waters."
"Pardon? My lord, how do we pierce this solid floor with chisel and hammer? It'll take a full month."
To Man-seok's worry, Si-woo pulled strange metal cylinders from a chest—man-sized forearms, etched with odd patterns and trailing fuses.
"No hammering needed. We'll drive these cheondong I made into the holes."
"Cheondong? Like the Gunpowder Bureau's explosives?"
"Similar, but different principle. Regular powder scatters force everywhere, but these focus the blast like a needlepoint. We strike bedrock's weak spots like lightning. Instead of brute force, the powder shatters it from within."
Man-seok gulped. Concentrating gunpowder like a awl? Unheard of.
Si-woo turned to Yak-yong. "Yak-yong, is the ignition sequence you calculated ready?"
"Of course. Detonating ten charges not at once, but in microseconds sequence? As you said, the first cracks the rock, the second pries it apart. Vibrations cancel out—the bedrock pulverizes, but our warehouse stands untouched."
Yak-yong connected the fuses.
"By your ghostly math, Hanyang folk won't even notice the quake as the underground canal opens."
The two geniuses' eyes met in the air. From a roadside brush two years ago, they now stood before the blaze to reshape Joseon.
"Yak-yong, let's begin. While they waste time on etiquette and excuses, we'll embed Joseon's future power deep underground."
"Agreed. Time to harness the Han's fierce flow and ease the people's toil with new principles."
Black charcoal lines crisscrossed the floor like precise circuits. The ruin hummed with silence, but Si-woo's ears rang with phantom roars of future machinery. The Han's twisting currents battered Myosuk Cliffs to turn Joseon's first fate-altering gear. At last, history's vast cogwheels screamed into mesh.
'Congratulations, Lord Jorang. You'll witness firsthand how your vaunted yangban pride is just a powerless number here.'