The Seed Drill
Seeder
“Oppa, is this the right place?”
Kang Seo-yeon stopped at the entrance to the Pyeongtaek weekend farm. A banner proclaimed “Rice Farming Experience Program.”
“Yeah.”
“Aren’t weekend farms usually for growing veggies in little plots?”
“They’ve got paddy fields too.”
We borrowed rubber boots and stood on the ridge. We pulled seedlings from the trays and divvied them up into handfuls. The moment we stepped into the field, the mud sucked at our boots like a greedy mouth. Bending at the waist, we started planting the seedlings one by one.
This is what the Joseon commoners did—barefoot, all day long.
Transplanting. King Sejong had warned against it in Nongsa Jikseol. A drought during transplanting season could wipe out the entire year’s crop. That’s why the state had suppressed it. But the advantages were overwhelming. Yields soared compared to direct seeding, labor dropped sharply, and you could even plant barley beforehand for double cropping. The one catch: plenty of water.
I straightened up and glanced at Seo-yeon. She was clutching her waist, face twisted in a grimace.
“Oppa, this isn’t farming—it’s torture.”
“We’re just doing the experience version with hand-transplanting. This is work for machines, not people.”
That instant, lightning flashed in my mind.
A machine that planted seeds at precise intervals and depths. Right now in Joseon, they scattered by hand—so most seeds flew away, got eaten by birds, or died from wrong depth.
I froze, unable to move for a long while. Seo-yeon poked my arm.
“Oppa, what’re you thinking about?”
“Hold on. I just had a great idea.”
I clambered back onto the ridge, still in my boots. Seo-yeon eyed me strangely.
“Oppa, you’ve been muttering to yourself a lot more lately.”
She tilted her head but didn’t press further. I shook the mud off my hands roughly and pulled out my phone.
‘Seeder’
1701, Jethro Tull’s seed drill. A wooden frame with a plow and seed hopper attached—furrow as it went, seeds dropped evenly, soil covered behind. Simple. Joseon could build it.
If Abraham Darby’s coke blast furnace revolutionized ironworking, Jethro Tull’s seed drill transformed agriculture. Both inventions from the early 18th century, both feasible in Joseon. I’d already shared Darby’s tech.
Geokmulwon can handle the iron parts. Carpenters for the wooden frame, just iron for the blade and gears.
Back home that evening, a Gatong message from Munjong was waiting. He planned to recheck the household registers. With the population booming, food plans needed to come first. Just like with the navy. Munjong kept pushing forward.
Munjong’s reply came faster than expected.
Along with the seeder, I compiled a document outlining four measures: transplanting, improved grain storage (drying, ventilation, moisture-proofing, pest control), and superior seed selection. I sent it off.
Munjong went quiet for a while, then messaged softly.
A moment later, another Gatong arrived.
A conclusion he’d reached on his own.
Two days later, after my shift, I checked the Annals of the Joseon Dynasty on my way out.
Munjong 2nd year, 6th month, 22nd day (Gye-mi)
The King decreed: “Recheck the household registers without omission. Count men and women, young and old, slaves included—no exceptions. Punish any who leave them out.”
He further ordered the Ilyeongwon to implement transplanting starting in areas with complete irrigation, transferred Yejo Assistant Minister Gang Hui-meng to Ilyeongwon to oversee seed selection and farming trials, and commanded the Geokmulwon to fabricate the seeder.
Gang Hui-meng. Twenty-eight years old. Munjong’s maternal cousin. His maternal grandfather Sim On was Queen Sohyeon’s father, Sejong’s father-in-law. Rose to Chief State Councillor but executed by King Taejong. Gang’s mother was Queen Sohyeon’s younger sister, making him and Munjong cousins on their mothers’ side. A prodigy who topped the literary licentiate exam at twenty-four. Currently Yejo Assistant Minister. In history, he’d author Geumyang Jibrok, a farming text—but in this world, it looked like it’d come forty years early. Like Sikryo Chanyo.
I reached for the elevator button and froze. The panel, once capped at 15, now went to 40. I got off at 15 and hurried to the living room. The Han River skyline had grown taller. Skyscrapers packed the horizon.
I opened my phone and searched South Korea’s population.
100 million?
I scrolled back up. Read the number again. Once more. No mistake.
I’d always thought history had inertia. Things like Bosinsijok or eobyeong might butterfly-effect the modern world easily enough, but a farming revolution? Not so much.
Yet South Korea’s population had doubled.
The population boom resolved alongside food production scaling up…
Desirable, sure. But my head spun.
When does inertia kick in—not for the old history, but Munjong’s?
The moment inertia attached to this new “Munjong Joseon” history, could I handle the butterfly effects?
That same night, in Hanseong’s Bukchon neighborhood.
Prince Suyang’s wife, Lady Yun, was writing.
My lord won’t bother reading a woman’s diary. I’ll set down my resentment here.
My lord came home late again. Past the Tiger Hour, and his robes reeked of ink. In his hand, the usual wad of blank paper. He saw me and smiled sheepishly.
“Still awake?”
“How could I sleep first when my lord hasn’t returned?”
The moment he entered the chamber, he unrolled documents. Blueprints for a “seeder” machine. Ox-pulled seed scattering, he said.
“Look at this. From His Highness. The ox furrows, seeds drop evenly. How does he conceive such things?”
My lord’s eyes sparkled. Once, those eyes had turned to me.
“His Highness is a genius. I must admit it. But!”
He fixed me with eyes full of resolve.
“When His Highness entrusts something, who in Joseon can carry it out?”
He wasn’t asking, so I stayed silent.
“The seeder doesn’t just sow seeds. It sows to feed all the myriad people.”
His gaze, briefly on me, returned to the papers. He took up the brush and began writing on fresh white stock.
Whenever His Highness issues a command, my lord stays up all night planning. Then dashes to Ilyeongwon at dawn. His Highness gives my lord ever more tasks. From my place at his side, it’s all for Joseon. The grace of His Highness. Seems I’m the only one not receiving it.
Thirty-four this year. Still in my prime. Our youngest, Hwan, is two—I’d hoped for another child, but my nights with my lord are gone.
He doesn’t know my loneliness. He vows to succeed a dozen times a day; no doubt there.
“Brother, watch. This Suyang will surely accomplish it.”
The lights at Ilyeongwon went out at varying hours each day. So too our bedchamber.
I left the chamber and went to the children’s room. The youngest had kicked off his quilt. I tucked him back in.
My lord will soon go to Ming. He may not return till the year changes.
The root of it all: one man. His Highness, my lord’s brother. Our great-uncle-in-law is a sage king. To feed the myriad people—what intent could be nobler?
Great-uncle-in-law, your subject’s wife is a commoner too. Please return my nights to me.