Monologue
As night deepened, Gyeongbokgung Palace began to catch its breath, slowly. The halls bustling all day with the footsteps of ministers, eunuchs, and court ladies fell quiet, as if entering another world. Yet with the king bedridden, the palace could never fall completely silent. Some stayed up all night praying his condition wouldn't worsen. Others lay sleepless, calculating how far the illness might progress.
In Joseon, politics flowed through the palace by day, anxiety by night. Amid that unease, King Munjong—Yi Hyang—sat before the mirror in his bedchamber. The court ladies had just opened the windows and left. The candle flame flickered gently. He drew in a quiet breath. And paused. Munjong tried to sense how far the incoming air reached. Just days ago, this had been difficult. His chest felt clogged deep inside, suffocating. Any deep breath triggered a cough that scraped roughly and endlessly from within, like clawing something out. On days when blood mixed with phlegm, he heard the court ladies whispering. Munjong pretended not to notice. A king must not show worry.
But tonight felt a little different. Breathing was slightly easier. Not entirely comfortable—something heavy still lingered somewhere in his chest. Yet it was unmistakably better than yesterday. The coughs came at longer intervals, the choking sensation subtly lessened. It wasn't the sense of recovery. But at least it didn't feel like sinking deeper into the mire. The difference was tiny. To the ill, though, that sliver was worlds apart.
Munjong closed his eyes briefly. He knew his illness had lingered long. Coughs didn't fade with the seasons. Fever hid by day, rising at night. His body grew lighter bit by bit—flesh wasting away. The royal physicians changed decoctions, sent nourishing foods. They said little, but their eyes betrayed concern. Munjong ignored those anxious gazes too. A king must sometimes feign ignorance of his own ailment. He must handle state affairs with calm composure, even sensing death's approach. That was the throne.
Thus the king calls himself gu—the solitary one. The throne is a lonely seat. Yet since meeting Do-yoon through the mirror days ago, things had shifted slightly. Munjong opened his eyes. Unfamiliar Hangul floated quietly on the mirror's surface.
"I am Do-yoon. I am in a place that is not Joseon."
Munjong had replayed Do-yoon's words many times. A place not Joseon. Nonsense. The mirror itself defied reason. When letters first appeared, he'd summoned a eunuch to check. Nothing in the eunuch's eyes. The Hangul showed only to Munjong's. That alone marked it extraordinary. Unbeknownst to him, the eunuch had left and interrogated the mirror's craftsman.
Munjong murmured lowly.
"Do-yoon."
An alien name, unused in Joseon. Yet it rang true, untainted by deceit. From the first letter, Do-yoon never boasted or embellished. A physician? Unclear. Aspiring to be a great one. That candor bred trust. Deceivers puff themselves up first—a lesson from prince to king.
Munjong's thoughts flowed on. Open the windows, Do-yoon said. Exchange air periodically. He'd half-doubted at first. Even Jeon Sun-ui disapproved. Prevailing wisdom held drafts worsened illness. But kings heed results. And results existed. Coughs lessened slightly. Fever eased a touch. Minute changes. Ignoring them would be stubbornness, not judgment.
He'd praised Jeon Sun-ui's prescriptions too. A master physician. That line lingered. As if Do-yoon knew him. Perhaps judged from recipes alone. No rivalry or envy colored Do-yoon's words. No claims of superiority. He affirmed others while adding counsel. Rare, for physicians or any trade.
Munjong slowly touched the mirror's frame.
'Whatever this is...'
Gatong yielded results. Enough for a king. Not all must be understood to decide. Acting on outcomes sans comprehension—that too was kingship.
The candle flickered again. Did a king have leave to crave life? This moment, though, the slight improvement gladdened him. State affairs awaited. The crown prince was young. Unreviewed memorials piled. Much remained for Joseon's people. That was his royal duty.
Yet honestly, not duty alone. He wished more words with that stranger from beyond Joseon.
Then cautious footsteps.
"Your Highness."
Jeon Sun-ui. He approached warily, knelt, and silently took the pulse. Steady hands, honed over decades on countless wrists. Silence fell. His eyes closed slowly. Yesterday and today differed. Subtle, yet clear. The pulse flowed faintly weaker but more evenly than before. Thread-thin, yet with a whisper of strength.
Jeon Sun-ui had tempered hopes countless times. Tonight, experience didn't lie. He opened his eyes slowly.
"How fares the cough, Your Highness?"
"Less by day."
Jeon Sun-ui nodded quietly. Expected. He glanced at the window—slightly ajar. Cool air seeped faintly in. Days ago, he'd frowned on it. Drafts harm, by common lore. Yet the king's condition hadn't worsened. If anything, inching positively, ever so slightly.
Jeon Sun-ui didn't credit his own decoctions alone. Long-lived physicians know their ignorance.
To the lady outside, lowly: "Open the window briefly, often—not long."
She bowed, closing it a bit more. He turned back.
"Today's decoction will differ slightly from yesterday."
"How so?"
"More platycodon. To open the lungs' qi and further soothe the cough."
Munjong pondered, then nodded.
"So be it."
Jeon Sun-ui bowed deeply, retreating slowly. But other thoughts swirled. The king heeded someone. Clear. He couldn't ask who. Physicians mustn't pry what the king conceals—nor anyone in the palace wishing longevity.
To Jeon Sun-ui, the source mattered less than the advice's merit. Stale air worsening coughs? Initially baffling, unscripted. Yet results spoke. He'd deemed his medicine complete: master's teachings, practice, vast knowledge from compiling Medical Prescriptions from the West by King Sejong's decree.
Now, an unknown method eased the king slightly. In the corridor, he paused, eyes closed. Physicians eye results. Where results lie, learn the why.
'As if there's one more unseen physician.'
He murmured inwardly, stepping on. The king might reveal someday—or never. No matter. Vital now: improvement over yesterday. Recheck the decoctions. Untried herbs remained.
As Munjong and Jeon Sun-ui pondered deeply, in a small Seoul officetel, Do-yoon sat before his laptop. Logged into the Annals of the Joseon Dynasty site. Records he'd checked repeatedly filled the screen. Do Victory Commander Yi Gae-jeon's memorial on Prince Anpyeong's concurrent posts, the Office of Censors' impeachment. And the final line.
"The Inner Royal Hospital reported that His Highness's cough was less than the previous day, and the evening fever had subsided somewhat."
Do-yoon read the line, reread it, read again. The eerie thrill of first seeing the annals change lingered. Dead records revived by his advice, Munjong's choices, Jeon Sun-ui's decoctions, the ladies' efforts—and unknown palace strivings. All congealing into one annals line.
His phone buzzed. Gatong. Yi Hyang's name atop the chat.
Do-yoon stared at the screen. Typed slowly.
A smile crept naturally to Do-yoon's lips. Good. Joseon's top physician and a modern resident aligned. He couldn't give Munjong antibiotics directly. But if Jeon Sun-ui grasped the direction...
Casually, he sent:
A pause. This question might tip Do-yoon knew he was king. "Who are you truly?"—Munjong's repeated query. Do-yoon planned gradual self-revelation for deeper trust, to save him.
Munjong's reply came late, but smoothly.
Do-yoon, who'd scoured the annals, nodded. Sent:
Do-yoon paused. Munjong's brother. Sejong sired 18 sons, 7 daughters. Even his mother, Queen Sohyeon, bore 8 sons, 2 daughters. One name surfaced first: Yi Yu. Prince Suyang to us. But unlikely. Probably another. Yi Yong from the annals. Prince Anpyeong.
Prince Anpyeong. Yi Yong. Sejong's third son, Munjong's full younger brother. Victim of the Gyeyu Rebellion. Exiled by Prince Suyang-become-Sejo, poisoned unto death. Artist of early Joseon's Three Excellences.
"Anpyeong, huh."
He knew the annals shifted. Munjong's survival would shake history. Now, concretely, he waded in. Medicine his entry, but politics loomed. While Munjong lived, Suyang couldn't thrive. While Munjong lived, Anpyeong wouldn't die.
The laptop annals glowed quietly.
"Munjong... if all goes well, he might live long."
Moments later, he added:
"Then... Joseon turns upside down."