Episode 8: The Day the Stone Lantern Shattered
Striding boldly into the government office like a criminal waltzing into his own bedroom—folks around here had probably never seen the likes of it.
Look at that courtyard. Ferocious didn't even begin to cover it.
A punishment frame squatted smack in the middle, flanked by bailiffs gripping thick wooden clubs, lined up like a firing squad. Classic showmanship to break a prisoner's spirit. As if that'd work on me.
And up on that lofty wooden porch sat a man with a belly like Namsan Mountain, lounging in arrogant splendor.
The Damyang magistrate.
He must've scarfed down a fortune in bribes—his face was a greasy mask plastered with raw greed. At his side, a weasel-faced clerk fanned him furiously, the picture-perfect sycophant. One glance and you could tally the county budget's whereabouts.
"You the one they call Deok-ryeong?"
The magistrate slammed his desk with a thud, bellowing like a thunderclap. His gut jiggled spectacularly.
"Prisoner, kneel! What are you standing around for? Force that bastard down now!"
No sooner had the words left his mouth than the bailiffs charged.
"On your knees!"
One swung his club at my Achilles tendon.
I didn't dodge. Instead, I tensed my leg like iron. My thigh muscles bulged rock-hard.
Crack!
A sharp thwack echoed. But the scream wasn't mine.
"Aigoo, my hand!"
The bailiff dropped his club, shaking his wrist. It must've vibrated up his arm like he'd full-swung at a utility pole. My leg? Not even a mosquito bite.
"Wha...?"
The bailiffs faltered, stumbling back. Hitting a man and having the club rebound? Instinct kicked in—they knew: This guy's untouchable.
I slowly raised my gaze to the magistrate.
"Your Excellency."
I dropped my voice low, rumbling like it shook the office pillars.
"Only the guilty kneel. I've committed no crime—why should I?"
"Wh-what? You dare talk back in my court?"
The magistrate's face flushed purple. A lowly wretch—a prisoner, no less—staring him down? His guts must've twisted.
"Raising a private army and tiger-poaching aren't crimes? You law-breaking felon, got a mouth on you!"
"Private army? I just did some calisthenics with the village lads. Bandits are rampant these days—keeping fit to protect myself a crime now?"
"'Calisthenics'? Swinging clubs and yelling?"
"And the tiger? Killing a man-eating beast a crime? The office should be paying me a bounty, not treating me like scum."
I played it brazen. Nitpicking arguments? I'd done it to death in my past-life office grind. When logic fails, the loudest—or boldest—voice wins.
"Y-you insolent cur! Guards! Cuff that jaw—give him the clamp!"
The magistrate flew into a rage, blood pressure spiking toward collapse.
The clerk sidled in, gauging the mood.
"Your Excellency, this one's no ordinary thug. Bind him to the frame first, whip him soft?"
"Yes! Seize him now!"
The bailiffs surged again—this time six or seven, spear tips leveled, eyes feral.
Things were getting dicey. Submit, and I'd be beaten to pulp; Joseon floggings shredded flesh as a starter, killed if unlucky. Fight back? Attempted murder of officials. I'd be a full-blown rebel, fleeing to the hills.
I needed a tightrope act: Crush their egos without tipping into all-out war. My own brand of showmanship.
I scanned the yard.
There—plopped in the center for show, a massive stone lantern. Carved from solid granite, hefty as hell. Especially the roof stone on top: two or three grown men couldn't budge it.
Perfect.
"Hold."
I raised a hand. The charging bailiffs froze.
"Words won't convince you, so I'll prove my innocence."
"Prove? With what?"
The magistrate scoffed.
"That I don't need a private army."
I stomped toward the lantern.
"Why bother with troops when I can handle it solo?"
I gripped the roof stone's corner with one hand. Rough granite bit into my palm. Roughly 120kg—maybe more.
The magistrate and bailiffs gawked: What's this lunatic doing? Throw it? Terror flickered in their eyes.
I breathed deep, channeling qi from my dantian to my right arm. Muscles coiled; my sleeve stretched taut.
"Hup!"
Whoosh—
A wind-slicing roar as the boulder soared. I caught it one-handed, light as a feather, balancing the granite slab precariously on my shoulder.
"......!!"
The magistrate's eyes bugged out. The clerk dropped his fan; spear-wielding bailiffs shrieked "Eek!" and recoiled.
Not human. Lifting that—one-handed?
Dead silence choked the yard. Not even my breath broke it. I stood calm, sweatless.
But stopping here? Boring. Raw strength alone wouldn't cut it. For bone-deep terror, I needed destruction.
I clenched the stone with my fingertips.
Crunch.
A chilling grind—like bones pulverizing, rock screaming. Fissures spiderwebbed the granite surface.
"Your Excellency."
Stone aloft, I locked eyes and grinned.
"If I'm wronged, my grip might... slip."
Crack!
I unleashed. The corner crumbled like cookie bits, powder snowing down.
"Like this."
Pure threat—blatant, elegant, laced with overwhelming dread.
Your skull could shatter just as easy.
The magistrate blanched. Lips quivered; teeth chattered audibly.
He got it: No mere subject to flog—this was an uncontainable monster. That slab crashing down? Piss-yourself nightmare fuel.
I set it back.
Thud!
Earth quaked. Every heart in the yard skipped.
I dusted powder from my hands.
"Now, shall we talk?"
The magistrate gaped, soul-shocked. The clerk tugged his robe, snapping him back.
"Y-Your Excellency... He's no man. Touch him and we're done."
The magistrate gulped.
"A-hem! Fine... You're strong, got it. B-but! Strength doesn't excuse breaking the law!"
Pigeon coos—gu-gu-gu. Voice quavered, but he squeezed out pride. Greedy tyrants' cash lust and old-man ego outlasted fear.
"Fine it is! Half the tiger bounty to the treasury—"
"Money?"
I flipped my empty pouch. Dust flew.
"None left. Spent it feeding the kids."
"Wh-what? All of it? That fortune?"
"Growing boys eat big. All on grub."
His face turned to dirt. Called to squeeze cash, got a pauper. Monster-strong, untouchable, unjailable. Total chicken-and-egg.
"Then... labor it off! Hard labor sentence!"
"Labor, huh."
I stroked my chin.
"Your Excellency, I've got something better than money."
"Better?"
"How about insurance?"
"In-surance?"
I stepped closer. He flinched back.
"War's coming. Japanese across the sea—hordes inbound."
"Nonsense! Wokou pirates are—"
"This is different. 150,000-strong army."
I whispered low.
"First to die in war? Magistrates like you. Japs behead officials for show."
He paled. Sounded fake, but my display lent eerie credence.
"My army—the Yiho Army. Who do they protect? Our town. You."
I flexed my fist.
"My punch: your only shield. Ditch it for pocket change?"
Threat and lure. Not "pay up"—"I'll save you." For corrupt lords, life trumped gold.
His eyes wavered. Money stung, but feuding with this? Terrifying. Real war? Better him allied.
Math done.
"A-hem! Makes sense... Your loyalty to the people's safety—commendable."
He coughed, flipping scripts shamelessly.
"Fine waived. But! Maintain village security from now on!"
"Naturally. Oh, one more."
I pulled a paper from my bosom. Prepped ahead.
Request for Permission to Gather Saltpeter and Manufacture Gunpowder
"What's this?"
The clerk snatched and passed it. The magistrate's eyes bugged again.
"G-gunpowder?! Madman! State's strictly controlled! You plotting real treason?"
"Boar hunting. Need it."
I lied smooth.
"Saw my strength, right? Packs like mountain beasts overwhelm even me. For the people's safety—gunpowder. Block it, and..."
I eyed the shattered lantern.
"Folks'd be heartbroken. Me too."
Say no, I smash more?
Silent pressure. He glanced paper-fist-paper.
Options clear: Reject, risk monster rampage now—or stamp and survive.
"A-hem! Boars, eh? Can't be helped. Special permit granted."
He grabbed the brush. Hand shook, but stamped hard.
"But! Any accident—your fault! No misuse!"
"Of course. Deeply moved by your benevolence."
I snatched the permit.
Done. Official nod, zero cost. Now gunpowder production was legit. Zero-capital negotiation—M&A style.
I bowed—polite, pointed.
"Taking leave. Oh, and."
Turning to go, I glanced back.
"No backpedaling later, no double-cross. Good memory—hold grudges forever. Got it?"
"Y-yes! Go, go!"
He waved frantically. Eager to eject the disaster.
I whistled out.
Gate guards parted at my sight—180 from entry. They'd heard the thuds, magistrate's yelps. My unscathed exit? Ghostly stares.
Outside, Seo Baek-seol paced anxiously afar.
She bolted over.
"How'd it go? Hurt? Anywhere?"
She patted me down. Expected flogging-corpse; my pristine state baffled her.
"Hurt? Sipped tea, strolled out."
"Liar! Heard a boom—you didn't deck the magistrate? We're dead!"
"Me, a thug? Talked it out. Constructively."
I waved the permit.
"Souvenir."
She took it. Eyes widened at the text.
"This? From that tightfisted magistrate? What'd you do? Bribe?"
"Bribe? Nah."
I showed empty hands.
"Mouth and fist suffice. 50 seok? Too precious—kids need feeding."
Seo Baek-seol gaped. Bribe-free permit from the greed goblin? Beyond her math.
She stared, then burst laughing.
"Ha... Can't rein you in. Swindler streak too?"
"Swindler? Call me negotiator."
I grinned, arm around her shoulders.
"C'mon. Saved cash—time for jumbo sulfur and cauldrons."
She shook her head, but her eyes shone with unprecedented trust.
We headed to market.
Steps light. But I knew: Real fight starts now.
Gunpowder meant beyond beasts—firepower. Power draws bigger foes, top talent.
Sure enough. En route, eyes watched us.
Not spy or thug glare. Deep curiosity. Relentless scrutiny—heavy gaze.
I chatted on with Seo Baek-seol, nerves locked on it.
Who?
Oil and iron tang. No warrior's aura.
One suspect: This era, nearby—gunpowder and weapons nut, another genius.
No way...
If right? Bigger than the tiger. Saved the hunt—Joseon's top engineer, walking right to me.