Fear Lays Weakness Bare (2)

Dawn was breaking.

"I just can't understand it..."

"What is it you don't understand this time?"

Until they had left the legation, Woo Beom-seon had been following at his heels without a word. The question now carried something raw in it.

He spoke.

"You."

"...Me?"

As if to confirm it, he pointed a finger and answered again.

"Yes. You, boy."

When the boy turned his head, Woo Beom-seon had stopped dead in his tracks, the crimson dawn rising at his back.

"Strange, isn't it. Why do people listen so meekly to every word you say? That's what I mean."

"..."

"Don't you find it strange?"

For a moment the boy had no answer. How was he supposed to explain this? He could hardly tell him the truth: The fact is, I've lived seven times as long as you have.

Woo Beom-seon, meanwhile, had gone rigid, like a man suddenly confronted with the poverty of his own tongue. He kicked at the innocent ground with a gravity that was almost solemn. It was lament more than rage.

"You're a six-year-old brat who hasn't even reached fifteen — the age of setting one's heart upon learning. And me?"

His military boot raised a little mound of earth, as if the dirt itself might serve as an excuse, and a few droplets fell upon it.

He was crying.

"His Highness. The Grand Academician. Even the Japanese consul. They all nodded and listened to you. Tell me — what kind of witchcraft is that?"

The boy's eyes caught the trembling of his beard, and the thick palms that clenched and unclenched.

"...A man like me gets dressed down constantly. By soldiers far below me. By vice-ministers far above me. But you — you..."

"It's fear."

"...What?"

"You said you were curious. Fear. Why? Obviously, because I threatened them. The power I have to persuade people — that power is fear."

"..."

"What? Too simple a principle? Are you disappointed?"

Whether the answer was entirely unexpected, or whether he simply hadn't imagined the boy would so readily confess the secret, Woo Beom-seon seemed briefly at a loss for words.

"Simply. As it is."

The boy began to speak in a calm, almost consoling tone — as if to say, don't take it so hard; don't be discouraged. If the great steed he meant to ride a long way with him went off the rails from self-loathing this early, they would be in a fine mess.

"What do you think His Highness fears most?"

"...I'm too dull for politics. I wouldn't know."

"I always tell you not to call yourself dull. There are things in this world one doesn't know, but no one is born dull. There are only people who refuse to try to learn. Anyway — the Grand Prince fears only one thing."

"And what's that?"

"Simple. Being pushed from the seat of power."

At the same time, the boy drew a thumb across his own throat.

"What...?"

To the man who had started so violently, the boy told the truth about the nature of politics.

"Want to know someone's weakness? Drive him to the extreme. Then he'll be so busy hiding that weakness that in the end he'll destroy himself. And if he doesn't hide it? Seize him by the throat. Until he begs for his life. That's negotiation. That's politics."

His expression must have been a little sharp as he said it, because Woo Beom-seon looked sick of the whole business and tried to pull his neck back. The boy did not let him go. He took another step forward instead.

"Fear and weakness. That's my secret."

The spectacle of a six-year-old pinning a grown man against a wall would have been somewhat comical to anyone passing by. But the boy had gone suddenly serious, and he fixed Woo Beom-seon with burning eyes.

"Men of power like the Grand Prince fear being pushed from the center more than anything. Complete exclusion from the political arena is as good as a death sentence to such people. The ending His Highness fears most is not physical punishment, but political punishment. If you want to ruin him utterly, exile him beyond the capital — more than ten li outside the city walls — and it's over."

Woo Beom-seon shook his head, unable to believe it.

"...Just... just that?"

"To him, it's worse than dying. A terror that precedes death itself. To be locked in a back room and die in loneliness. And His Highness has already tasted the pain of being driven from the political world once. So I simply provoked it — with words and with actions. The fear he dreads."

And just then they were passing in front of Sungkyunkwan. The boy glanced that way, and Woo Beom-seon understood, slowly bowing his head. He must have recalled the memorial of Choe Ik-hyeon — that warrior who had been played by the royal will — and the waves it had caused.

"...I see. So that's why His Highness feared the 'channels of speech' gathered at Gwanghwamun!"

"His Highness fears most the sudden reversal of popular will, the channels of speech honed like a blade with that will as their justification, and His Majesty's change of heart that would wield those channels as a political counterstrike. We drove into that gap."

"Yes. Now I understand. Why you insisted we had ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠to take the men of the military camps under our wing."

"His Highness said wealth and honor were useless, didn't he? Half right, half wrong. Power — true power — is the ability to move the masses wherever you want them to go."

The words must have sounded a little chilling, because Woo Beom-seon, catching the boy's gaze, hunched his shoulders. That wasn't how it had been meant.

"Then why did the Japanese consul follow you? They have nothing to do with the popular will you manipulated—"

"Same as before. What do you think Japan fears most in Joseon?"

"...I wouldn't know."

"The castration of their influence."

The boy shaded with his palm the long shadow the dawn had stretched from Woo Beom-seon, and spoke.

"With the last treaty, they spent seven years twisting themselves inside out to expand their influence in our country. They poured their shadow into military reform, inserted themselves into the relationship between Qing and our nation, and tried to infiltrate capital through the open ports."

"And they bought the hearts of people in the court, too."

"Well. The pure-hearted ones, anyway."

He didn't bother explaining that he meant the Enlightenment faction — no point wearing out his mouth — and hid the shadow against Sungkyunkwan's wall. Then the long shadows of Woo Beom-seon and the boy vanished.

"What they fear most is the growth of Qing influence in Joseon — or its reduction to a vassal state. That's terror to them. Or that the Grand Prince's return to power would render all the Japanese government's accumulated efforts for naught."

"The complete extinction of the Enlightenment faction in the cabinet, or a total revision of the treaties. Isolationism at worst."

"Exactly. They're grateful just to maintain the status quo — and if the new ruler were warm or cooperative toward Japan, they'd welcome it with both hands."

Woo Beom-seon folded his arms and went on.

"So that's why you agreed to lay the bridge."

"And the rest. The reason the Grand Academician, the vice-ministers, and the consort clans heard me out to the end comes from the same place. The worthless men of my own family will find their own graves when the time comes — but just because the ship is sinking doesn't mean everyone has to go down with it, does it?"

"They'll lance the festering pus themselves, you mean."

When the boy put it flippantly, Woo Beom-seon answered with an expression of something like enlightenment.

"...Conversely, the reason Secretary Yu and Principal Kim sought you out separately was because you used their fear of being abandoned by His Highness."

"You've got it right."

"That rumor — the one you had me spreading all over town... Ha! Well, I'll be damned!"

Only then did something dawn on him. He stood in place, bent double with incredulous laughter for a long while, then finally laid it out honestly.

"Haha! Damn it all!"

He had dimly realized that the boy had been quietly pulling the strings of this whole game from behind.

"...What kind of monster of a child is this?"

Still, his expression had eased considerably. The shadow had left his face. The boy smiled back at him.

"Haha. Isn't there a better word for it...? Prodigy, perhaps."

"...To me you're just a monster, you little brat."

"Think whatever you like."

"Fine, monster."

"Tch."

And so they started walking again.

Monster. Well, it wasn't an expression he entirely disliked. If you cannot win a man's goodwill, then for the sake of the kingly way you must willingly bear the infamy that comes with it.

And this would become the nickname that dogged him relentlessly in the years to come.

Rice Merchant Yang, who dealt mainly in cotton cloth and grain at the marketplace, had until a few days ago privately prided himself on being lucky — or at least sharp-eyed.

No: he had been lucky. He had survived the rioters, after all.

Like the Red Turbans of a former dynasty, the rioters in red armbands and headscarves who had painted the capital crimson had hunted the wealthy with relentless persistence.

"...Greedy fools. High officials dropping dead left and right in a catastrophe that's no catastrophe at all, and they fuss over a few sacks of rice? Tsk. Holding people's lives as collateral?"

On the day the old-style soldiers who had received rotten rice mixed with sand and chaff in their sacks rose in revolt, Rice Merchant Yang had burrowed deep into his fortress of a mansion, protected by walls stacked as high as a grown man's shoulder. He had watched askance as certain idiots, unwilling to abandon the rice tied up in their shops, crawled alone into the marketplace occupied by the rebel army.

And those men became the rioters' first sacrificial lambs.

"Idiots."

And in the end, the course taken by Rice Merchant Yang and the merchants who had acted similarly had been the right one. There was no obstacle in this world that could stop the red rioters who had seized the Four Great Gates and occupied the streets. The first to flee — and then to join them — had been the capital's own soldiers.

As if to vent every bitter, long-held grievance they had ever swallowed, the rioters punished those marked by their grudges with raw, unfiltered violence. Some were flayed alive and cleaved in two. Others had their limbs torn apart.

Centered on the rebel army and the destitute, the gates of rich houses were smashed, and merchants' warehouses and shops were plundered one after another. Those who fled clumsily were, without a single exception, executed before they could cross the Four Great Gates.

And the flower of those executions was transmuted into the very definition of justice by a single word from His Highness the Grand Prince — a man whose station in the realm was second only to the King.

Beneath that frenzied roar, the unfocused gazes of those who had not managed to flee met Yang's eyes. Maggots writhed in their hollow sockets, offering him a greeting. The red armbands flickered across his vision, and nausea spread through his entire body.

"Urgh!"

That day, everyone who had run out to protect their shops and warehouses had been slaughtered by the rioters' hands. Yang considered himself fortunate to have coldly abandoned his shops and stores that day. Otherwise he would have occupied one of those spots himself.

"Damn it..."

The thought that if he had made the same wrong choice that day he would be occupying a place among them sent a shudder through him. He hadn't. Truly, he was fortunate.

That was when it happened.

"Now then, if I could have ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠everyone's attention."

Behind a thunderous cheer, a young yet sharp and rough voice from the platform ended Yang's reverie, and he lifted his head. There was a dais built ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠upon the victims, their mouths hanging slack.

"This humble one is called Yi. And I have invited you all here today in order to faithfully carry out the mission His Highness the Grand Prince has entrusted to me."

The one standing on the platform looked them over one by one as he continued.

"Therefore, I thank you, the people, for taking time from your busy affairs to be present."

He was a boy. A little brat in a red durumagi, a tiny black paeraengi hat perched on his head. The problem was that he was no ordinary brat.

The boy drew a sheet of paper from his breast and read it aloud before them.

Elegant characters caught the eye. Well written — but that only made Yang more uneasy.

"I am not concerned that you might fail to recognize this style of writing. You can see it clearly from the back as well, yes?"

And then, peeking at the sentences written below, Yang wiped his face with a dry palm, his expression one of utter disbelief.

The world, it seemed, had gone mad.

"...I'm going to lose my mind."

Yes. It had gone mad. And the bigger problem was that this brat, holding nothing but a single document labeled Directive of the Grand Prince, had dragged every merchant and wealthy man in the capital — men like Yang the rice merchant — to this place. The intent was obvious.

"The people gathered here are those who can take responsibility for the capital's grain prices. Rice, barley, beans. All manner of things."

"Ahem!"

Each of them ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠sat with arms crossed, legs crossed, faces crumpled in displeasure — but the boy on the platform seemed entirely unconcerned. No: his expression said he couldn't care less about their resistance.

"From this moment, we are going to stabilize those grain prices. Within a week."

"What?!"

"Are you in your right mind?"

"I am. Oh yes, perfectly so. Do you imagine His Highness would write a letter of credence for a madman and express his trust in this humble one for such a momentous undertaking? It's not difficult. Because from this moment I am going to order you to open every warehouse and surrender your grain — free of charge."

"You — you've gone insane!"

"You little son of a bitch!"

The assembly stirred at that shocking declaration.

Open the warehouses? Without a single coin? For free?

"Good God."

Rice Merchant Yang's head was already beginning to throb at whatever nonsense might next come out of that boy's mouth.

The world had gone mad.

But what was more terrifying was the fact that behind their convulsing backs, the rioters in red armbandsands were watching in silence.

That was more terrifying still.