Chapter 2
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: penny
Chapter: 2
Chapter Title: The Warrior from Joseon (1)
-----------------------------------------------------------------
“Huh. Already time for the shift change?”
“Yeah. Makes sense, though. The sun’s right overhead.”
“Good work. Go get some rest.”
Baek Il-yeong stood at the very back of the group of samurais chatting amiably, waiting for them to leave before leaning against the statue of Buddha next to the guard post.
“Yawn.”
He let out a small yawn and scratched his shaggy head. When his fingers still tangled in the thick locks of hair, he couldn’t help but chuckle to himself.
‘I was worried at first about what if they shaved my head.’
You know how it is.
In historical dramas set in the old Qing Dynasty of China, they have those queues, and Japanese samurais have that topknot called chonmage with shaved sides.
That’s why Il-yeong had fretted over what he’d do if they shaved his head here, but fortunately, this world had no such custom.
‘If they had, I might’ve killed myself.’
Being suddenly dragged to some bizarre world was bad enough; if they’d shaved his head on top of that, he’d have sunk into depression and committed seppuku for real.
‘And the name thing too...’
The reason he could keep using the name ‘Baek Il-yeong’ was simple.
He’d naturally assumed it was a Japanese name at first, but no—it turned out he was a ronin samurai who’d come over from Joseon. And coincidentally, his name was none other than ‘Baek Il-yeong.’
He snorted and muttered toward whoever might be watching him from beyond the clear blue sky.
“Man, you really went all out with the considerations.”
As if all this could be coincidence.
It had to be the arrangement of whatever entity had sent him to this absurd world. Still, he was grateful.
Being yanked back to Japan’s Sengoku period—no, to an era of upheaval filled with blood and slaughter—and then having to change his name on top of that? How unjust would that be?
At least the name Il-yeong didn’t strike anyone around him as odd, probably because Japan and Joseon were separated by just a sea, making it less alien.
As he mulled this over, he closed his eyes against the warm sunlight filtering down from above. Then a friendly voice rang out beside him.
“What’s this? Slacking off again? Keep it up, and you’ll get the boot with just this month’s pay.”
“As if.”
Il-yeong opened his eyes and chuckled.
Then he brushed off Itsuki’s hand, which had casually draped over his shoulder, and replied.
“I’m good at what I do. That’s how I’m scraping by in this foreign land.”
“True...”
It might sound arrogant, but it was the truth. Not from the start, of course—somehow, after being transported here, he’d become surprisingly skilled with the sword.
“Probably another one of those considerations to keep me from starving as a guest.”
“Huh?”
“Nothing.”
He shook his head at Itsuki, who’d reacted to his unwitting mutter, and flashed a meaningful smile before asking,
“So, what’s up?”
“What, you already sniffed it out?”
“Spill it. I’m curious.”
Itsuki shook his head with an expression that said, You’re too sharp for your own good. But to Il-yeong, it was just exasperating.
The guy who had the widest network among the low-rank samurais and served as the info broker—acting like he’d been caught off guard?
Whatever. Itsuki glanced around cautiously and whispered,
“Word is, things are tense at the Oda main branch. Everyone’s hushing it up, but...”
“Oda main branch... You mean Oda Nobutomo?”
Itsuki nodded in silent affirmation.
‘Starting to bare their teeth, huh.’
The Oda Clan, ruled by Oda Nobunaga—the current lord of Owari Province—was a branch family’s branch family. Think of it as a minor administrative clan that had overtaken the main line and swallowed up a province.
So, Nobunaga’s shaky foundation was the perfect opportunity for them.
‘And they’re not stopping at rumors—they’re acting on it.’
If even a low-rank samurai like him had heard, it must be pretty blatant, no matter how well-connected you are.
Il-yeong ran his hand over the hilt of the katana at his waist, biting his lip with a troubled expression. Instead, Itsuki—the one who’d tipped him off—laughed and clapped his shoulder.
“Haha. Why so spooked? Low-rank warriors like us just fight when told, and run if it gets dicey.”
“Yeah. Fair point.”
It was self-deprecating, but true. They were formally employed by the clan but not retainers—just low-rank samurais, hired help.
But just then,
as their conversation was winding down, a group approached the path they were guarding and called out loudly.
“Hah. The big-mouth gossip with the wide feet and the Joseon monkey who washed up from across the sea?”
“...Sigh.”
He turned toward the voice dripping with malice and mockery. There stood a very familiar face—one he knew well but felt no fondness for.
Short stature, slight build, monkey-like features that didn’t make for a pleasant impression. And on his right hand, an extra finger.
Il-yeong stared at the man leading the group glaring at him and Itsuki, then shook his head and named him.
“Hideyoshi. Picking a fight again? Got nothing better to do?”
Toyotomi Hideyoshi.
The man with that inescapable name—whether Korean or Japanese—stood right before Il-yeong.
‘Man, I was shocked when I first saw that guy.’
About two months ago, spotting Hideyoshi had kept him up for two straight days. And who wouldn’t be stunned? The mastermind behind the Imjin War was right there.
“Hah? What gives a Joseon monkey like you the right to stick around these islands? Heard your mom tossed you into the sea and you washed up here.”
“Hideyoshi! That’s too far!”
Itsuki couldn’t take it anymore and shouted, but Il-yeong, who’d been listening silently, just chuckled despite himself.
Wasn’t that some cute mom-jab? To someone who’d weathered the depths of modern internet hell, it was laughable.
Still, he’d been insulted, so he had to clap back. Il-yeong strode up to Hideyoshi and stood face-to-face.
“Hey.”
Hideyoshi had to look up at him. Il-yeong towered over 180 cm, while Hideyoshi barely scraped past 160.
“...Wanna go?”
His pride wounded, Hideyoshi scowled. Whether from confidence in his skills or his backup crew, his condescending tone didn’t waver.
But Il-yeong didn’t rise to the bait. He just said one thing.
“Shut it, monkey boy.”
“...You... you son of a—!”
Crude as it was, it hit Hideyoshi harder than any insult. His monkey-like looks were a massive complex.
Face flushing red, Hideyoshi gripped his sword hilt as if to cut him down—but Il-yeong watched calmly and said,
“Draw it? Sure you can handle that?”
“...What?”
Il-yeong leaned in close to Hideyoshi’s face and whispered low.
“The moment you do, your dreams of climbing the ranks are over. You’re a ronin hired by the Oda Clan, same as me. Fists might slide, but draw steel, and we’re both out. Me? I can hop to Mino or even Imagawa, no sweat...”
With every word, humiliation colored Hideyoshi’s face. He’d caught on.
Il-yeong didn’t stop, striking at Hideyoshi’s sore spot.
“But you, kicked out of Imagawa and crawling to Oda—think any clan will take you after another boot?”
“You... you bastard!”
It was blatant provocation, but Hideyoshi just trembled, unable to act. Humiliating, but true.
The tension was thickening when—
“That’s enough out of you lot.”
A deep, resonant voice cut in. The low-rank samurais, including Itsuki beside them, spotted the old man and paled, bowing their heads.
“W-We greet the Chief Advisor!”
“W-We greet the Chief Advisor!”
Chief Advisor. Il-yeong and Hideyoshi, knowing full well what that meant, each took a step back and bowed to the elder. But Il-yeong subtly noted his face.
‘Hirate Masahide.’
The old man was Nobunaga’s uncle, teacher, and key minister. Everyone was visibly startled by the sudden bigwig’s arrival.
Hirate glanced between Il-yeong and Hideyoshi, then addressed Il-yeong.
“You’re the warrior from Joseon, I take it.”
Hideyoshi scowled at the attention going to Il-yeong instead, but that was it. Sucking up to a clan heavy was par for the course.
“Yes. Baek Il-yeong.”
Il-yeong straightened and gave a brief nod. He sized up Hirate’s demeanor.
‘Looks kindly on the surface, but cold and by-the-book underneath... Gotta be that ironclad to give life-risking counsel.’
Nearly white hair, wrinkled face, but the body of a veteran of chaos—angular and robust, imposing even if you covered the face. Could pass for middle-aged.
“Baek Il-yeong... Heard you’re quite skilled. I expect great things.”
“Thank you for the encouragement.”
Hirate moved past them after that. Hideyoshi, who’d hoped for a mention, slunk away with utter defeat on his face.
Watching him go, Itsuki said with a baffled look,
“Why’s he always gunning for you? Joseon’s not our enemy or anything.”
“Beats me.”
‘He’s the one who’ll make it one, though.’
Il-yeong nodded inwardly at Itsuki’s words but held his tongue. The ‘Joseon monkey’ jabs didn’t faze him much. Outsiders get shunned everywhere.
What really bugged him was Hideyoshi himself.
‘Toyotomi Hideyoshi. The monster who devoured Japan after Oda Nobunaga burned at Honno-ji.’
Not even going by Hideyoshi back when he was young, not even in the Oda Clan yet—why was he here?
‘Ugh... headache.’
Too much he didn’t know. Or rather, knowing only original history left a ton unfamiliar.
‘This won’t be smooth sailing.’
He stared silently in the direction Hideyoshi had vanished, pondering.
‘Should I kill him?’
He’d already steeled himself for killing. Two months in, he’d gotten pretty handy with the katana too.
Not just for Joseon’s sake.
The Imjin War was tragedy for Joseon, but pointless for Japan too—no gains, just mountains of lives wasted.
Il-yeong pondered long, then shook his head and stroked his katana.
‘Not now.’
Hideyoshi was a failure as a human but useful to Nobunaga ability-wise. Killing him now? No telling how history twists. Better to watch.
This fallen world was chaotic with blood and slaughter. Perfect for vanishing someone quietly. Just not yet.
“Plus, drawing eyes isn’t smart.”
“Huh?”
Itsuki blinked at the sudden mutter, but Il-yeong just shook his head and leaned back against the statue to bask in the lazy sun.
The sun dipped low, and the day seemed set to end peacefully.
Seemed.
Dong—! Dong—! Dong—!
“Assassin!”
“Grab them! Don’t let ‘em escape!”
Il-yeong barely had time to smooth his tousled hair before buckling on his two swords and jumping from bed, muttering,
“...Sigh. Yeah, thinking like that always jinxes it.”
Looks like this dawn would be a long one.