The Sage's Passing

It was the last day of the Lunar New Year holiday. The hospital hadn't changed much, but with many people still away visiting family, my rounds were quiet—mostly just the occasional ER call.

During morning rounds, an elderly man in Room 5 caught my eye. An 80-something gentleman, three weeks into his pneumonia admission. He'd responded to antibiotics, but his recovery was slow. That morning, his fever had spiked again.

"Sir, anywhere you're feeling uncomfortable?"

"A bit short of breath."

I listened with my stethoscope. Crackles in the left lower lung.

"When did it start?"

"Last night."

I pulled up his chart again. The night shift had noted nothing major. It might not have been wrong at the time. But now, with things this bad, I needed a different approach. I reported to the professor and scheduled a CT scan.

"I'm eighty-four this year. Feels like my time's come."

"Sir, you're still in your prime."

"You sure know how to talk, Doc. Well, there's a guy back home over ninety who's still spry, so I guess I gotta buck up."

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"That's the spirit."

After finishing rounds and grabbing lunch, I was taking a short walk in front of the hospital when a Gatong message came from Munjong.

Who was Munjong's teacher? I was a history buff, but I couldn't recall. Still, the moment I heard "ninety-two," a name popped into my head. I opened my phone browser and logged into the Annals of the Joseon Dynasty.

This was the final record of Hwang Hui in the Annals of the Joseon Dynasty. Midway through the entry on his death, it mentioned that King Sejong had promoted him to Crown Prince Tutor—teacher to Crown Prince Yi Hyang.

A chill ran down my spine. Sejong had worked Hwang Hui to the bone—practically workplace harassment by modern standards. In the Annals of King Sejong, every entry about his resignations was the same: "Requested resignation" followed by "Denied." That was it.

Curiosity piqued, I dug deeper. Hwang Hui first submitted his resignation at sixty-five, and from what I found in the annals, he'd requested it eight times total—all rejected by Sejong except the last one, when he finally retired at eighty-seven.

Hwang Hui blamed the freak winter weather on himself as an excuse—old, forgetful, deaf—and preemptively took the hit. Sejong shot back that anomalies were the king's fault and shut it down cold.

That's straight-up verbal sparring...

I couldn't close my mouth after reading more annals.

I was speechless. Kim Don basically said, "If it's too hard, he can work from bed." No solidarity there. But Sejong's response? "So be it." Imagine being in your late seventies, barely mobile, deaf, with killer forgetfulness as a doctor—and the thirty-three-year-old hospital director, son of the chairman, says, "We'll bring patients to your office; just diagnose from bed."

Telling my eighty-four-year-old patient in Room ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠7 he was "in his prime" was doctor-speak. I wasn't Sejong or Kim Don. I sincerely offered condolences to Prime Minister Hwang Hui, set down my takeout coffee on the bench, and thanked him for his lifelong service to Joseon. From the heart.

Of course, Hwang Hui's endless pleas to retire weren't pure selflessness. Lingering near power too long breeds enemies. Sejong blocked his exit, but a minister the king wouldn't release became his shield.

Suyang mourning Hwang Hui's death... Of course. He was still hiding his claws. Calculating what image served him best and projecting it. He might still crave the throne from his nephews, but right now, he played the unambitious brother.

If Suyang followed Hwang Hui's path—relinquishing power endlessly when offered—there'd be no blood around Munjong. But Suyang's ambition couldn't be cured by medicine, prescriptions, or Gatong. It was up to Munjong alone, though meds and advice could help.

I flinched. Ever since learning my family genealogy from Dad yesterday, those thoughts had swirled.

The reply came.

One line. Munjong asked nothing more. No how, what kind, when, or if it linked to him. Instead, he shifted topics.

This would take time. I ducked into a hospital bathroom and quickly searched the annals.

I pondered. "Two or three villages nearly emptied." Malaria passes solo. Dysentery kills via diarrhea but doesn't spread this fast. Measles hits kids hardest; adults survive. A disease felling entire villages regardless of age or sex, no immunity—this screamed smallpox. Joseon's "dodok" or "mama," deadly pox. Thirty percent ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠mortality, survivors scarred. In 1452, no cure. Heo Jun's treatise comes later—eighty-seven years later, when he hasn't even been born.

But I knew what to do.

The Hyal-in Institute was Joseon's clinic for commoners. But would they isolate early and provide supportive care swiftly? Doubtful.

I separated what I could do now from what I couldn't. Variolation or vaccination? Explainable, but Buyeo had missed the golden hour—more would die.

Checked more annals.

As expected. Reported to the king four months later—delayed partly by Munjong's death in May, sure. Anyway, now: isolation and supportive care.

But I couldn't have Munjong upend every Heo clan searching for an unborn Heo Jun.

No lie. Just felt bad for Heo Jun.