The Law of Mediocre Preservation
This was the principle of mediocre preservation in action. The Hakdang taught not just literary and military tracks but various other subjects too, yet first-year classes were all pretty much the same. It was like modern basics—Korean, math, social studies, science. There might be slight differences in the second semester, but that was it. Things diverged sharply in the second year, though. For us in the military track like me, we dove into military formations, weaponry, emergency first aid, military history—theory and practice both. Third-year first semester ramped up to hardcore combat training: matchlock handling, bayonet drills, tactical maneuvers, command skills. And what I was taking the exam for right now was one of those.
Filtered and winnowed down to just twenty military cadets, we moved along the mountain path. Dressed in faded green combat uniforms, armed with matchlocks. The rustle of leaves in the wind sounded unnaturally loud. No one uttered a word. Eyes wide, we scanned every direction meticulously.
"3 o'clock! Multiple enemies!"
Someone shouted, and we moved in perfect unison. We took cover behind rocks, trees, dirt hollows. No time to check what the others were doing. I crouched against a tree trunk, propped my matchlock between my knees. From my chest pocket, I pulled out the matchlock fuse and a finger-thick bamboo tube.
I popped the lid on the bamboo tube—faint white smoke wafted up. "Hoo, hoo." A light puff, and it glowed cherry red, generating heat. I held the fuse to it and lit it. Capped the tube and tucked it away. Flipped up the serpentine, slotted in the lit fuse. Only now, with firing prep done, did I glance around.
"Urk!"
"Tch!"
"...!"
Not everyone finished as quick as me. In their haste, some dropped their tubes, knocked over their matchlocks, or snuffed out their fuses. The evaluators behind us took note.
"Tsk. Number 17..."
"Still, shouldn't we give him one chance?"
"Let's watch for now. We're not done yet."
The five evaluators didn't spare me a glance, scoring the others. I tuned them out and refocused. Several cadets had finished prepping; they signaled with thumbs up. Among them were my squadmates, So Ji-hu and Jeong Hyeon-beom. As squad leader, I waited till my squad was set, then raised my left hand—First Squad, firing prep complete.
"...!"
Park Seon-ryung, our platoon leader, looked my way. Setting aside any personal grudges, he held out his palm flat—hold. The order to fire came when another squad leader raised his hand too.
"First Squad! Third Squad! Fire!"
""Fire!""
We echoed the command in unison, leaning out from cover. Aimed at the wooden targets marked "Japanese bastard" and "Red-headed scum," pulled the trigger.
Bang! Bang-bang! Bang! Bang!
The matchlock's signature gas-leaking cracks echoed through the mountains. Pale smoke filled the forest like fog; coughs broke out here and there. Once fired, we ducked back into cover and reloaded. Meanwhile, other squads who were ready fired on command at the imaginary foes. First and Third alternated with Second and Fourth; gunfire never let up.
When powder smoke hung so thick you couldn't see an inch ahead, the platoon leader yelled.
"All hands! Fix bayonets!"
""Fix bayonets!""
We shouted back, drawing our long dirks from our belts. Click—slid the hilt into the muzzle socket till it locked. Others did the same, a chorus of clicks. As they faded, he bellowed again.
"All hands! Charge!"
"Chaaarge!"
"Waaah!"
"Die, you bastards!"
We sprang up, charging the targets. A few overdid it, hamming it up to make up for lost points. Tweeeet! A whistle from behind—the end signal. We halted, gasping for breath. Swallowing dry, we turned tense eyes rearward.
"Alright! Good work, ev—who the hell is that?!"
One evaluator cut off mid-sentence with a roar. Where he glared, some idiot stood with his muzzle pointed straight at the evaluators.
"Hey! Point that muzzle away!"
"Pardon? Me, sir?"
"Yes, you! Raise that muzzle now!"
"Am I failed?"
"Raise it before I fail you for real!"
Failed, obviously. Training like combat. Combat like training. And training demands perfect control. That was this instructor's catchphrase. Probably picked it up from one of the modern reincarnates back in Hanyang.
"Commence safe firing procedure! All hands! Muzzles up!"
His tone sharper now, we all raised muzzles and followed the drill.
"Serpentine up! Check fuse! Open pan! Fire!"
Bang-bang! Bang! Sporadic shots rang out.
Bang!
"Wha—huh? Why won't it fire?"
"You little...!"
That same idiot who'd pointed at the evaluator was among them. Three years of weeding out, and mediocrity endured. The law of mediocre preservation.
"Alright! Good work, everyone! Mock field exercise complete! Rest up till lunch, you! You, over here. Now."
The evaluator signaling break time singled out the muzzle-moron, dragging him behind the brush. Wails soon followed—he was getting reamed.
"Haa, gonna die."
Whatever. I doffed my helmet, sat on a nearby rock. Extinguished the fuse by rubbing it on the ground, detached the bayonet and sheathed it. Helmet on my knees, matchlock between my legs. Scratched my sweat-matted head, letting it air.
"Ah, refreshing."
Cool November air whispered through my buzzcut (one-and-a-half bun). I wasn't the only one rocking the open, carefree style. Other cadets too—and approaching So Ji-hu and Jeong Hyeon-beom matched it.
"Heh heh. Squadmate Byeoljang, impressive as ever."
"Experience tells, huh? How do you light that fuse so calmly?"
"Eh, just luck."
Couldn't greet elders sitting, so I stood. Thanks to growth spurts since we met, I only had to tilt my head a bit now. Not that it mattered. So Ji-hu was a lanky beanpole; Jeong Hyeon-beom bulked like my father-in-law. Fine. Still eighteen. Room to grow. And guys keep growing till twenty, even past. Definitely.
"Ahem! Ahem!"
As we three settled to chat, someone coughed to insert himself.
"Yo, Yong-yong. Good work."
Park Seon-ryung should've been rolling in the field by now, test-taking or not. Bumped the wrong people, demoted to first-year; even after I hit third, he stayed my classmate. Poor bastard.
"Why the grin?"
"Good dream."
"You psycho..."
He scowled, plopping beside me uninvited. Pulled a bulging pouch from his belt.
"What's that?"
"None of your business."
Then why show it? Pouch open for all to see: bite-sized rice taffies.
"...".
Crunch crunch. Park Seon-ryung fished one out, chewed without offering. Didn't look like some ex-War Minister's son.
"Eww, gross."
"Hm? What's gross?"
"How do you eat it with spit on it?"
"Spit?"
He scoffed like it was impossible, holding up the pouch. Perfect opening.
"Ptoo!"
Not real spit, just the motion. Though a bit got in anyway.
"You bastard?!"
Park Seon-ryung recoiled. I asked shamelessly.
"See? Got spit on it."
"You put it there!"
"Don't mind me. Eat up."
"Forget it! You eat it!"
"Didn't ask, but thanks. Dig in."
Caught the tossed pouch, popped a piece. Crisped then gooey melt—stirred old memories. Ate taffy when Dung-dwaeji was born too.
"Elders. Want some?"
"Er, no thanks."
"Krahaha! That neat in battle too?"
So Ji-hu shook his head awkwardly; Jeong Hyeon-beom grabbed a fistful carefree.
"Haa, big hurdle cleared."
So Ji-hu eyed the pouch like he'd take one more offer. I silently extended it; he dug for a bottom one and munched as I replied.
"Big for you elders. For us, lowest hurdle yet."
Third-year first-sem exams weren't one-day deals like first-year. Just finished: mock field exercise. 100-ri march endurance. Wargame strategy eval. Compendium theory written. Front two I could muscle through; back two? No confidence.
Damn you, Munjong. Just hire me special. Fairness my ass—forcing exams. Annoying prick!
It's Kim Si-jin again! Driving me nuts.
"Your Highness. Kim Si-jin has racked up merits without formal commission. Sending such a man to Peace Command strikes me as proper."
"Ahem. Graduates south of Chungcheong go to southern garrisons by custom. Why send him north?"
"Unaware of his exploits around Jeonju and environs? He's clearly itching for a chance to shine up north."
"Plenty shine chances south too. Odd reports on the islanders lately. Tsushima garrison could use him."
True enough. If the Ouka clan's intel held, Shimazu'd hit next or year after. But sending a fellow modern soul to war? Tricky. Nah. Our Joseon forces unbeatable. Trainee posting—no real danger. Probably.
"Kim Si-jin goes to Tsushima garrison."