Reform and Ten Thousand Troops (3)

Ki Dae-seung’s ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠eyes trembled violently.

I can’t believe this!

He kept drawing quick, shallow breaths as he stared at the book the king had written, titled Hangul First Steps.

How is this even possible? The words flow so smoothly…?

The letter shapes were clearly those of the vernacular script. Yet they could not be called the same. The entire structure was utterly different.

It isn’t written vertically but horizontally, and you read from left to right instead of right to left.

At first he had been thrown into confusion. But once he caught the direction, the text began sinking straight into his eyes. What’s more, certain passages were wrapped in unfamiliar symbols (“”) that let him read the lines as if he were listening to actual speech.

Ki Dae-seung flipped the book back to the very first page. He had skipped the opening section earlier because it resembled the explanatory guide in Hunminjeongeum, laying out consonants, vowels, and character composition. Now he found himself wanting to read it.

King Sejong pitied the common people who could not read or write and therefore created Hunminjeongeum. However, it is still not widely used. Therefore, I, Yi Yeon, have revised Hunminjeongeum and produced this book, hoping every one of my people will be able to read and write.

Not a single Chinese character appeared. On the contrary, the text had been crafted with painstaking care to avoid even Sino-Korean pronunciations. Unlike Hunminjeongeum, it carried no rhythmic marks or emphasis symbols. Nevertheless, it was astonishingly easy to read, easy to pronounce, and its meaning slipped naturally into the mind.

The gaps between words are called spacing, and every sentence ends with this mark (.) which is called a period?

Ki Dae-seung turned to Yi Yeon, his voice filled with awe.

“Your Majesty! Just what is this book?”

“Is it not written there? Hangul First Steps.”

“When you say Hangul, do you mean the vernacular script—no, Hunminjeongeum?”

“Correct. Because I, a mere descendant, have altered the Hunminjeongeum created by King Sejong, I could not bring myself to keep the original name. Therefore I have newly christened it Hangul.”

“Ah… so that is what you meant. Then what does the ‘Han’ in Hangul signify?”

“It means ‘great,’ for it can express every word under heaven.”

“I am humbled beyond words by Your Majesty’s teaching.”

After offering his grateful bow, Ki Dae-seung gazed at the title on the cover and muttered to himself.

“So that is why… yes, that is why. It carries the meaning that the reader is like a newborn baby taking its very first steps in learning to read and write. That is why His Majesty composed this book.”

Only now did Ki Dae-seung fully understand both the title Hangul First Steps and the king’s true intention in creating it. The shock he felt was even greater than the one he had experienced as a child when first learning the Lesser Learning at the village school.

Although he already knew the vernacular script, Hangul First Steps—with so many elements changed—constituted an entirely new system. The fact that he could read it at once struck him like a bolt of lightning.

The example sentences in the book were also taken from the Lesser Learning. The only difference was that they were written in the everyday language children actually used.

“Why could I never think of something like this…?”

Watching Ki Dae-seung mutter in astonishment, Yi Yeon let out a quiet sigh of relief. Where Ki Dae-seung blamed himself, Yi Yeon’s thoughts ran in the opposite direction.

Thank goodness. He’s an even greater genius than I expected.

Yi Yeon had worried that Ki Dae-seung might fail to grasp Hangul First Steps. If that had happened, explaining it would have taken forever. Instead, after tilting his head a few times, the scholar had immediately understood a writing system quite different from Hunminjeongeum.

So the saying that everyone who passes the civil service exam is a genius is true after all.

Among them, Ki Dae-seung stood out. Having engaged in the famous Four-Seven Debate on Principle and Material Force with Yi Hwang—the greatest authority on Neo-Confucianism—for eight full years, his logical mind surpassed ordinary imagination. That was precisely why Yi Yeon had chosen him, and the result had been a resounding success.

Just then Sim Ui-gyeom, who had been peering over Ki Dae-seung’s shoulder at the book, cried out.

“This is incredible!”

A moment earlier he had only caught a rough glimpse and grasped the general structure. Upon closer inspection, however, the wonder only deepened.

“Wow! This book is truly remarkable.”

At Sim Ui-gyeom’s loud exclamation the other ministers, overcome by curiosity, crowded around him. Yi Yeon clenched his fist.

Perfect!

He had at least succeeded in capturing their interest.

Please, just don’t let any terrible objections come out…

Yi Yeon had heard far too many unflattering stories about Joseon’s scholars and therefore felt anxious. No, it won’t be like that now. The problematic bastard-scholars only appeared after the Imjin War.

He shook his head, casting the worry aside. Suddenly a certain internet post floated into his memory. It claimed that the Gi-chuk Ok-sa prison affair—instigated by Seonjo and led by Jeong Cheol—had wiped out more than a thousand Joseon geniuses in a single stroke. The remaining talents, terrified of Seonjo, had gone into hiding, leaving the country helpless when the Imjin War erupted.

Another post came to mind as well: Thanks to that incompetent Seonjo and the Imjin War, all the true Neo-Confucian scholars died, leaving only the trash scholars behind. That’s how Hell Joseon began.

The more he thought about it, the angrier he became.

Damn that useless Seonjo. He’s probably rotting in hell right now.

Although he had become Seonjo, Yi Yeon considered himself a different person. Instead of ruining the Korean people’s history, he was raising it up. Moreover, he largely trusted the ministers standing before him now.

Compared to modern politicians, these men are impeccably upright.

Standards differed, of course, but by the criteria of this era they appeared blameless. Some lusted after power and wealth, yet even they strove to follow Neo-Confucian ideals. Therefore Yi Yeon planned not to purge or crush them but to offer fair compensation and win their loyalty. Human greed might be endless, yet he could still see in them the desire to pursue ideals and uphold moral duty.

But there were also those who exploited the people with the slightest scrap of authority and cared only for personal gain. The prime example was Won Jun-ryang, father of Won Gyun.

Unlike the rigorously strict literary examinations, the military examinations were a disaster. In the literary exams, where answer sheets remained, even minor trickery would be exposed and lead to impeachment. Military exams left no such evidence, so cheating ran rampant.

Out of curiosity Yi Yeon had looked into how Won Gyun lived. I wish I hadn’t found out. The truth had filled him with rage.

In the 1564th year of King Myeongjong’s reign, Won Jun-ryang had used his position as examination supervisor to bribe other officers and rig his son’s military exam. The fraud was later uncovered by the Office of the Inspector-General. Won Gyun’s pass was canceled and Won Jun-ryang was dismissed.

In the future, dismissal won’t be the end of it.

Because Won Jun-ryang came from a prestigious clan, he had escaped further punishment. Unrepentant, he continued scheming and offering bribes to regain office.

If the original Seonjo were still on the throne, he might already have been reinstated.

Fortunately the other ministers refused to support him. They still remembered the king’s stern warning. Yi Yeon had declared he would overlook ordinary gifts, since even high officials received pitifully small stipends. Yet he had sworn that anyone who accepted gifts and then engaged in corruption or influence-peddling would be held strictly accountable—no exceptions. Because he had spoken with unmistakable force, Won Jun-ryang had failed to regain his post, unlike in the original history. The ministers had quietly pocketed his bribes and washed their hands of the matter.

We must abolish the joint-punishment system first.

To eliminate Won Gyun, who committed evil as casually as eating a meal, they would have to charge ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠both father and son. Yet that would implicate Won Yeon, Won Gyun’s righteous younger brother who had just passed the preliminary examination.

I want to recruit the capable and upright Won Yeon. To do that, the joint-punishment system must go.

If Won Yeon rose, the vicious Won Gyun would surely run amok, and Yi Yeon could not allow that.

While Yi Yeon was lost in thought, the ministers continued their heated debate over Hangul First Steps.

“No matter how easy it is to read, this book still goes too far.”

“What exactly is too far?”

“Unlike classical Chinese, the meaning can easily be distorted.”

“That is why parentheses are provided so that Chinese characters can be inserted for clarification, is it not?”

“Even so, a true scholar must know classical Chinese.”

“Did His Majesty not say he wrote this for the sake of all the people?”

Perhaps because they had received shiny gold coins that morning, quite a few ministers stood firmly on Yi Yeon’s side. Yet a far larger controversy soon erupted.

“Even so, declaring that the civil service examinations will be taken in this Hangul is simply unacceptable.”

“What is unacceptable about it? It looks far easier to grade, if you ask me.”

“We are not talking about grading! A scholar should be able to compose at least a proper sentence in classical Chinese. Only then can he communicate with Ming officials when he meets them.”

“Do we not bring interpreters along anyway?”

“Do you not understand that cultural exchange matters more than mere language?”

“I understand that, but not everyone is skilled at composing poetry.”

Yi Yeon had tucked a note into the final pages of Hangul First Steps that read: In the future the civil service examinations shall be conducted according to the method set forth in this book. Review the matter thoroughly.

He had explained his reasoning as follows:

The classical Chinese we currently use follows Chinese word order, not the word order of Joseon speech. This is an undeniable waste. We must translate Joseon speech into Chinese to write it, then translate the Chinese back into Joseon speech to read it. Such writing is unfit for upright scholars. Therefore, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠conduct research so that future civil service examinations may follow the system presented in this book.

Contrary to his expectations, however, the discussion had veered in a different direction. Beyond the usual sadaejuui mindset, the debate had intensified around the examination format and diplomatic consequences—all because Ki Dae-seung had become utterly captivated by Hangul First Steps.

“Since ancient times we have pursued the principle of serving the great and befriending neighbors. What will become of us if we abandon classical Chinese?”

“We can simply assign those proficient in classical Chinese to the Ministry of Rites. And who said we are abandoning it?”

“Is ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠that not exactly what testing in Hangul implies?”

“Of course not.”

“Then what does it mean?”

“Is it not written here? We will conduct the examinations in our own language.”

When Ki Dae-seung continued to refute him point by point, his opponent grew so frustrated he pounded his own chest.

“Don’t you think this is going way too far?”

“What exactly have I done to deserve such words?”

“Just think about it. What will happen once the examinations are given in Hangul?”

“What will happen? People will no longer have to struggle to express their thoughts in difficult classical Chinese.”

“That is precisely abandoning classical Chinese!”

“How can you interpret it that way?”

“If classical Chinese is no longer needed for the exam, who would bother to learn it when easy Hangul exists?”

“Those with the will shall learn it. Otherwise we can recruit specialists separately.”

“Is that not wasteful?”

“Why is it wasteful? Only those who wish to learn need do so.”

The debate continued without the slightest concession from either side.

They really are something else.

Although only a little over six months had passed since Yi Yeon had taken the throne, he had witnessed many such ministerial debates. The officials always quoted from the Four Books and Three Classics to attack one another. The arguments never ended. Raised voices inevitably led to curses and sometimes even physical scuffles. That was why Yi Yeon had banned the practice of citing the classics in debate.

Fortunately every minister had accepted the prohibition. They too were exhausted by endless quarrels and slanders, and they feared another literati purge might erupt. They had therefore agreed among themselves to stop “writing letters” against one another.

Yet here they were, arguing again. Although not a single classical idiom had been used, the debate showed no sign of ending. At least no curses had been uttered, and no one had dragged the opponent’s parents or family into it.

It was right to ban the practice.

Quoting the classics often led unconsciously to veiled insults. Once that avenue was closed, truly vicious personal attacks naturally vanished.

Watching them, Yi Yeon fell once more into thought.

Still, this is fortunate. I expected them to dismiss it as vulgar writing and ignore it entirely.

He had assumed these proud, brilliant men would declare that a script anyone could read and understand at a glance held no value. Yet no such words had appeared. On the contrary, many seemed enchanted by the script’s elegant simplicity. Not a single minister had voiced contempt.

Others supported the Hangul examination for more personal reasons—ministers who had children or grandchildren less gifted than themselves.

Even our little dog-dung might pass the first stage now.

I had given up hope for my second son because he’s so clumsy with classical Chinese composition, but now I see a path.

For the sake of my foolish boy, I must make sure the examinations are given in Hangul.

These men welcomed the reform because it opened a path to office without the need to master difficult classical Chinese.

While everyone offered opinions according to their own interests, Sim Ui-gyeom clapped his hands loudly to draw attention.

“Everyone, please focus on what I have to say for a moment.”

All eyes turned toward him, each man wondering what new scheme the hot-headed official was about to propose.

“Instead of quarreling like this, I have a good proposal. With Your Majesty’s permission…”

Sim Ui-gyeom bowed briefly toward Yi Yeon, then began to speak.