Master Physician Jeon Sun-ui
Jeon Sun-ui. Does it mean "to connect with each other"? Gatong.
I read King Munjong's message yesterday through Gatong. But after downing a few cans of beer for the first time in ages, I fell asleep without replying. I barely got any sleep today either before opening my eyes again. Not because of Munjong, though. That's just resident life, isn't it?
I somehow made it to work, but my body still felt heavy. My head throbbed like it did when I collapsed into the on-call room chair after my shift. Today, though, my hand unconsciously reached for my phone. Up until yesterday, I'd half-convinced myself it was a dream. It didn't seem like a prank, but I did briefly wonder if it was some high-quality scam text. If voice phishing were done at this level, it'd probably succeed every time. Of course, Munjong's archaic speech—reminiscent of a Korean-Chinese pidgin—might keep anyone from falling for it.
Anyway, I was now convinced that the Yi Hyang connected to me via Gatong was none other than King Munjong. Now I wanted to check on his condition first and foremost.
These days, Munjong makes me chuckle to myself. Who would've thought I'd end up naming a mobile messaging app in Joseon style for the king of Joseon? On the other hand, it's no laughing matter. Beyond Gatong lies a real Joseon in the sinmi year, with a real Munjong. Our Gatong exchanges could alter the Annals of the Joseon Dynasty. No—they will alter them. And there's one more figure at the center of those changes: Jeon Sun-ui. The greatest physician of his era. I can't treat Munjong without his help.
I was lost in these thoughts, phone in hand, when I glanced at the clock and snapped to attention. Time to head out. I practically rolled out of bed, showered, threw on a shirt, tied my tie—and kept thinking about Munjong the whole time.
Today, too, Jeon Sun-ui would attend to Munjong, taking his pulse. He'd examine the king's condition even more closely than yesterday. But there was nothing I could do about it right now. Instead, I had work to do: run to the hospital.
The hospital was the hospital, as always. Morning rounds went sideways right from the start. A delayed test stretched out the family explanations, and an ER call piled on top, so the morning vanished in the blink of an eye. I had a moment to check my phone, but nothing had changed. It was daytime in Joseon too. Munjong probably wouldn't send a Gatong message until evening, sitting alone at his vanity in his chambers. Around the time Jeon Sun-ui was taking his pulse, I'd be auscultating pneumonia patients, adjusting IV orders, and reviewing blood test results to get through my day.
It was a strange feeling. The patient right in front of me was real, and the patient I couldn't see in Joseon—Munjong—was real too. Both coughed, ran fevers, and tossed and turned at night. But the one before my eyes had CT scans and antibiotics, while the unseen one only had herbal decoctions and pulse diagnosis.
Oddly, my nerves kept pulling toward the latter.
After wrapping up my busy day and grabbing dinner near the hospital on my way home, Gatong crossed my mind. Four unread messages. I took a deep breath and opened them.
Today, Jeon Sun-ui took the pulse again. He said old phlegm is blocking the lungs.
I muttered under my breath, "As expected."
It was the direction I'd anticipated. From a Joseon-era perspective, it was a natural diagnosis. Cough, phlegm, fever, weakness. Grouping that as lung obstruction, heat, and deficiency wasn't odd. The problem wasn't the name of the disease but the limits of treatment in Joseon's environment. No matter how skilled Jeon Sun-ui was, he couldn't know about tubercle bacilli or use antibiotics.
He prescribed a decoction. It includes ophiopogon and platycodon. Also astragalus and licorice.
Better than I'd expected. Ophiopogon moistens the lungs and eases dry coughs. Platycodon loosens phlegm, stops coughs, and opens the chest. Astragalus tonifies energy. Licorice harmonizes the other herbs and soothes the throat.
Jeon Sun-ui didn't know the true nature of the illness. But he'd accurately assessed the symptoms: chronic cough, phlegm, weakness, fever. And he'd pulled out the best combination his era allowed.
He said that if the air in the room grows stale, the cough may worsen, so it would be fine to open the windows briefly.
I let out an involuntary gasp of admiration. "This guy is the real deal."
Just yesterday, he'd disapproved of ventilating Munjong's room. Yet in a single day, he'd internalized my suggestion in his own way. He hadn't grasped the modern concept of "ventilation" directly. But he'd interpreted it at Joseon's level: stale air could worsen the cough.
This confirmed that to drive change through my Gatong with Munjong, I needed Jeon Sun-ui's help.
Open the windows not for long, but briefly several times.
Jeon Sun-ui asked if the words heard last night were the same today.
I nearly spat my pork-braised rice back into the pot. I set down my spoon and scrutinized the messaging app.
Jeon Sun-ui was all but certain someone was advising Munjong. He wouldn't outright demand the identity in Joseon era—that would be audacious even for a king. Instead, as a physician, he was checking for consistency in the advice. Not stubbornness, but shrewdness.
"No wonder King Sejong put him on compiling the Yi bang yu chwi."
That's when my phone rang. "Doctor, the professor's looking for you."
I shoved a spoonful of pork-braised rice into my mouth and hurried back to the hospital. Of all times, when I'd finally gotten some... Men are pork after all.
Suddenly, Munjong came to mind. I knew nothing of his eating habits. No history book I'd read mentioned it—at least not in my memory. But he was Sejong's eldest son. Sejong was notorious for picky eating, with tales of meatless royal meals and even diabetes as a possible cause of death. From a "like father, like son" view, I needed to check Munjong's diet soon. Absolutely.
Alas, the modern hospital wouldn't let me reassess Joseon's top physician in peace. By the time I dragged myself home, I was utterly spent. I opened the door, took off my shoes, dropped my bag. But today, I didn't slump against the wall with my eyes closed. I sat straight in my chair and fired up my laptop.
I opened the browser and loaded the Annals of the Joseon Dynasty site. That's when a new Gatong popped up on my phone next to the mouse.
After taking the decoction, Jeon Sun-ui asked if breathing felt easier. He said the cough was less during the day than before.
I stared at the screen. Cough less severe. Of course, I couldn't conclude the illness had meaningfully improved in a day. Tuberculosis wasn't that kind of disease. But easing symptoms was entirely possible—with less movement, ventilation, and proper decoctions. The key wasn't cure but direction. Jeon Sun-ui's prescription wasn't bad.
Read receipt. You see it that way too?
Despite the hospital interruptions, I'd reevaluated Jeon Sun-ui today. So I replied without hesitation.
He is a master physician.
I think so as well.
A short line, but it carried weight. Munjong trusted Jeon Sun-ui. And he wasn't discarding my words either. This was a good sign. To avert Munjong's tragedy—with less than a year left—we couldn't pit one against the other. Joseon's physician Jeon Sun-ui and modern doctor—no, resident—Lee Do-yoon. Only if their judgments ran in parallel could Munjong hold on longer.
I clicked on the Munjong Annals again. And froze. A new sentence that hadn't been there yesterday.
— Junior State Councillor Yi Gae remonstrated that it was improper for Grand Prince Anpyeong to concurrently hold a literary official's post, and participated in the yun dae and royal lecture.
— The Office of the Inspector General requested punishment for Yi Baek-seon, Im Hyo-ryeon, Yi Yeon, et al.
The Inner Medical Bureau reported that His Majesty's cough was less than the previous day and the evening fever had slightly subsided.
I moved the mouse to refresh the page. Same. Again. Same. Again. Same.
"It's changed again..."
Yesterday, a record appeared for the 23rd that hadn't existed. Today, a new line was added to the original 24th entry. The annals were no longer dead records. They were being rewritten, absorbing my exchanges with Munjong and Jeon Sun-ui's judgments. Probably even the maids opening and closing windows.
I reread the addition: The Inner Medical Bureau reported that His Majesty's cough was less than the previous day and the evening fever had slightly subsided.
My advice, Munjong's faith, Jeon Sun-ui's decoction.
"Not just Munjong—Jeon Sun-ui is changing history alongside him."
Maybe the Munjong Annals would continue past the 9th month of imsin year. Maybe Jeon Sun-ui wouldn't become a prisoner. Maybe Grand Prince Anpyeong, mentioned in the 24th entry, wouldn't drink Sejo's poisoned cup.
As a history buff more than a doctor, something boiled deep in my chest.
The messaging app chimed again. I checked my phone.
Tomorrow, Jeon Sun-ui will adjust the herbs slightly more.
I burst out laughing. Now it really begins.