That Familiar Taste - 4
Starting with Jin-gwangmun, we ransacked every sect and clan in Gwangju that had been collecting tribute from the merchants. Any group big enough to demand tribute was already on the government's radar, and the ones deliberately hiding their presence, like Jin-gwangmun, were known to I Pil.
Being treated like an outsider has its perks sometimes.
It was a strange twist of fate. If I Pil had successfully integrated into Gwangju society, he'd have had clear affiliations or at least a network of connections. But as an outsider, he lacked firm ties, drifting as a guest scholar among various groups. Without a gossip-prone network, shadowy powers felt safe hiring him, figuring he wouldn't spill their true strength.
In reality, he kept his mouth shut until he met me.
If he'd leaked it earlier, a certain body would have washed up in the bay off Gwangju.
A wandering ronin blabbing the secrets of hidden sects and clans? I Pil wasn't dumb enough to court that fate.
"Young master."
"Hm?"
Lost in those thoughts while drafting my report, I looked up at Ak I-yeon's call. She was hunched over her brush, grunting in frustration. She'd insisted on recording the incident herself but had hit her limit.
"Something on your mind?"
I softened my expression and spoke gently. Ak I-yeon was my fiancée in private and my official scribe in public. I was more than willing to help with questions or matters too tough to handle alone.
"Well... is it really okay to handle this incident like this?"
She answered cautiously to my question. I understood her hesitation. To her, the situation must seem convoluted and bizarre. On the surface, we'd punished and reined in sects and clans illegally extorting tribute from the people. But the outcome? It was like handing merchant protection back to the martial world, reminiscent of the old days when the government couldn't touch murim.
In a world where murim privileges had crumbled and sects faced suppression, this was hard to grasp—especially for Ak I-yeon, who'd often heard me whine in letters about the headaches of controlling "those murim bastards."
"Is this really alright? Propping up specific factions in other regions was just the government turning a blind eye for convenience, not delegating public order. Haomun got a self-sustaining estate, but we didn't let them collect tribute."
"True enough."
She had a point. The Lang Clan I'd backed in Habuk already had self-sufficiency. Baek-su-mun and Jeom-cheongpa in Yunnam hadn't taken tribute from the people, and the new Haomun in Fujian had been given ways to fend for themselves. We'd never outsourced policing and tribute collection to murim like this.
But it was fine. We'd ordered Gwangju's murim to maintain order, but we hadn't handed it over entirely.
"What the government fears is giving murim autonomy. If we fully control them, keep them on a tight leash, it's a different story."
"Control... you say?"
"Yeah. Control so thorough they can't move without us."
Ak I-yeon tilted her head at my words, as if to say permitting tribute—even reduced—while letting them handle policing hardly sounded like control.
Twist the process a bit, and it works just fine.
Thankfully, it did. The government's ironclad resolve to leash murim. Gwangju's immense wealth. The tears of frontline officials forced to adapt iron-fisted central directives to local realities. And me, wielding the authority of the crown prince. Mash it all together, swallow the hassle, and the impossible becomes possible.
"In the old days, as long as murim paid their taxes, the government ignored them. How much tribute they squeezed, what they spent it on, how they treated the shops—the state stayed out entirely. Short of outright rebellion."
Gwangju's murim was different. All tribute went straight to the government, so they had to report exact amounts. Until the state graciously returned thirty percent as a grant, they couldn't touch it. Afraid of reprisals, they couldn't dare mistreat the merchants—they had to pamper them like lords.
It wasn't true murim immunity; the leash was tight, and officials could meddle anytime—questioning tribute amounts, accusing embezzlement, even why someone was glaring.
Of course, such meddling would burden merchants with double taxation—fiscal levies to the state and tribute to murim. The government, duty-bound to protect the people, couldn't commit such an atrocity.
"So we'll let them collect tribute just a couple times, then ban it. It'll serve to verify how much they were raking in before."
"Th-then what about the thirty percent we grant them?"
"The government foots that bill."
Gwangju was teeming with people and incidents. Deploying murim for fine-grained policing made sense—using their manpower instead of ours. But exploiting them without compensation? Even when mobilizing ordinary folk unskilled in martial arts, we paid them. And taking a hardline "we owe you nothing" stance could spark a return to murim autonomy.
That's why we cut off their independent income—tribute—and forced them to live off government handouts alone. Withhold the cash, and they'd come crawling. Obey the leash we held.
Only a city like Gwangju could pull off a stunt like this.
I gave a wry internal smile. The plan was foolproof, but the cost was clear: thirty percent of Gwangju's merchant tribute. An astronomical sum to cover from state coffers. Shift it to civilians, and it's double taxation on merchants. Use murim for free, and even cowed sects might rebel.
Gwangju could afford it as Guangdong's premier city, seat of the Pojeongsa. A remote county? Forget it.
Like that O Tae-hyeon mess in Habuk.
A bizarre case where a single county reverted to murim immunity. But its poverty allowed leniency, and Jung San Wang himself descended to clean it up. With Gwangju-level budgets, O Tae-hyeon would've swung a fat money stick instead—treating murim like dogs, no different from the common folk. Martial prowess no excuse for special treatment.
Money's the real enemy.
One place scrimps so a king intervenes personally; another overflows, so a prince and prefect scramble for workarounds. What a well-oiled kingdom.
Damn murim scum.
Every such ordeal piled resentment toward murim. Sure, their wartime silence was ancient history. But the headaches they caused now? Ongoing.
I could forgive the cowards who'd shut up back then. Not the bastards tormenting me today.
"My lord."
"Ah, you're back?"
"Yes. As ordered, we've subdued the five defiant sects and two clans."
I nodded in satisfaction at Jo Wi-cheo's report as he entered. A chunk of my murim headaches reduced to ash and dust.
Clueless about the mercy we'd shown.
This administrative edict—born of central inspector and Guangdong overseer—was as good as a final warning. Spare the tribute-extorting scum, pay fair wages for labor? They should've been grateful.
Instead, some rejected it. Madmen.
Then again, right after arriving, I'd seen parakho brawling in broad daylight. Par for the course?
Top ten percent lunatics...
Defying what amounted to a government ultimatum. Lucky it was just five sects and two clans amid Gwangju's hordes. Countable on two hands—what a blessing.
Gratitude for small mercies keeps the sanity intact.
A couple days later, the government issued more detailed orders. For three months including this one, remit all tribute in full. Thereafter, no tribute from merchants under any circumstances—but the government would grant Jin-gwangmun an amount equal to thirty percent of prior collections. It set a minimum for redistribution to other sects and clans but left excess distribution to Jin-gwangmun's discretion.
We're the bailiffs here.
Government as landlord, murim as tenant farmers—we Jin-gwangmun were the overseers. No independent action, but borrowing the lord's clout to wring wealth from the peasants.
Perfect.
My lips curled up. Direct take shrank to under half, but stability soared beyond comparison.
Long-term? We'd rake in more than before. Previously limited to select businesses; now, all of Gwangju. Even at thirty percent, minus redistribution—fail to hoard wealth with such perks, and drown in Aishan Bay.
"What do you think? The Pojeongsa and Left Vice Inspector General praise your sect highly for striving for Gwangju's peace and avoiding petty quarrels before the people. They've entrusted you with heavy responsibility. If it's burdensome, you can decline."
"How could I shirk from such undeserved trust? I vow to meet expectations."
I bowed politely to the bearer of the orders. I Pil, was it? A mere ronin days ago, now an official.
The snitch who exposed us.
Racking my memory desperately, it clicked. I'd briefly hosted him as a guest scholar years back. He'd reported our strength then—likely to the Left Vice Inspector General, since our cover blew right after his arrival.
No use resenting it now.
Bitter, but I hid it. Water under the bridge; we'd gained massively. And I Pil was no ronin anymore—he was officialdom. Antagonizing him yielded nothing.
"By the way. If you're free, my lord, perhaps dine together? Does your schedule allow?"
Instead, nurture ties with this man linked to the Left Vice Inspector General. When the government deems murim expendable and tightens the noose, we might yet earn mercy.