Work Guaranteed - 5: Introducing Provisional Martial Artist IDs
In the 21st century, with hyper-developed transportation and communication networks, managing ID cards isn't easy. So at this point in the 14th century, issuing and administering registration cards requires considerable resolve. Still, it's better than personally visiting and tallying the countless martial artists scattered across the Central Plains—whose numbers we can't even grasp.
We create a reason they have to come to us, and instead of us going to them, we wait for them to show up.
If push comes to shove, we can just have their sects or clans drag them in.
Second-rate martial artists are problematic because they don't stay put—they wander or suddenly set up their own factions. Pure independents are exceedingly rare. In this era, true wanderers are a tiny minority anyway. There are probably more ex-martial artists who've quit and gone back to civilian life than actual wanderers.
As long as they're not independents, even nomadic birds flitting from place to place pose no issue for issuing IDs. When assessing sect and clan strengths, those wanderers are a headache, but for just counting total martial artists in the nation? Wanderers or not, it doesn't matter.
We'll start like this.
If issuing IDs proves less effective than hoped or causes side effects? The Emperor can decide then whether to continue. We're introducing registration cards as a means to judge the scale and quality of martial artists, per the Emperor's order—not instituting the ID system itself. If problems arise, we scrap it. That mindset eased my mind.
Policies are shaped through trial and error, after all.
"Have second-rates get their plaques from cooperating sects or clans. We'll take reports on anyone refusing issuance and leaving their faction, or anyone wanting to join without a plaque—they report to the government. How's that?"
"That seems the best approach for now."
I nodded at the Right Censor-in-chief's words. Solid basic framework—safe and steady.
Martial artists refusing plaques, or joining factions without one. Spotting those two types slashes the burden. The rare exceptions are wanderers, whom we'd catch via spot checks anyway.
No one gets to live only doing the easy parts.
"Then we'll discuss details with the Left Censor-in-chief and report to His Majesty. Tough first day on the job, Deputy Right Censor-in-chief."
"I merely offered a suggestion. You've built the clear framework, ma'am. How could I claim the hardship?"
I bowed slightly at her encouragement. All I did was float the ID idea. She added layers, refined it through talks with the Left Censor-in-chief, and handles the Emperor report. By effort ratio, she's overwhelmingly more burdened.
First day on the job, huh.
Her words brought a bitter pang. Not because it was my first day, but because the first scroll I saw forced a meeting with my superior. Now starting day one proper, and already a task beyond solo handling.
But not all will be like this. Just bad luck drawing the knottiest issue first.
It has to be.
If every task is this level, bunking in my private office is inefficient—better share space with the Right Censor-in-chief. No sense shuttling back and forth per scroll.
Thankfully, later scrolls were manageable: reports on regional sect strengths, borderline clans with martial training (tallied anyway), skipping remote mountain hermits, etc. Pure local reports.
Group of retired generals exists in the area. Many have trained in martial arts, but questionable whether to treat government veterans as a murim faction for investigation.
Of course, ambiguous local judgments came up too.
The Emperor ordered murim forces investigated. Probing devoted officials feels like insulting them as "murim," which is regrettable—yet skipping feels like overlooking wanderers, leaving a sour taste.
Retired generals.
Lifelong soldiers who retired with age but grew restless at home, forming groups with old comrades. They gather at an inn built with one's retirement funds, drink, hunt local beasts, and aid neighborhood security. Much like the Baekpi Gate hunters' club I saw in Namyeong.
No real need to investigate.
Harmless to the state. Records of their realms and arts likely exist from service days—time-consuming to dig up, but doable.
Yet skipping sets a precedent in this massive murim census.
"Former officials, so exempt." That spawns endless similar cases everywhere—or opportunists exploiting it.
Include them.
One extra task beats dozens of variables from exceptions. Chasing ease now tangles things worse later.
The reporting inspector hesitates from qualms over probing veteran seniors—likely wartime old-timers from the founding war. Unavoidable.
This needs my name on it, not the inspector's.
A polite request letter should suffice.
A junior "inspector" probing them irks; the grandson of their old wartime boss politely asking? Different story. His Majesty's direct order—your cooperation silences any murim scum. Please help this junior once.
Who'd refuse? My bloodline seals it.
Send "donations" too.
Not overt—buy their hunted pelts at premium. My money, my prices—who complains?
Perfect. Retired generals cleared—
Expected to take longer than other merit sects.
What now?
Right after, a bizarre report jumped out.
Shaolin. Paramount orthodox sect since untouchable temple days. With Wudang, the twin pillars of the righteous factions. Active in the founding war, upholding prestige to this day.
Why them?
Report implying issues at this top merit sect—in Zhili near the capital, no less.
Prisoners' realms may have risen since before winter solstice; need to open Repentance Cave.
Suppressing my trembling hand, I read on—more bizarre still.
Repentance Cave is for... temporary sinner confinement, right? Minor offenders release soon; irredeemable scum needn't be tallied.
And why suspect realm rises post-solstice? Realms don't jump fast.
How long have they been stewing to advance in there?
Something's up.
Shaolin's quiet types—no fuss, no attention from me. But clearly something I don't know. Or the report's nonsense.
Days at Song Mountain are the best.
Not that Giwangjeo life discomforts—staying long risks unwitting nomination to office.
Better embrace nature than that peril.
Song Mountain: one of the Five Sacred Peaks, Shaolin's headquarters. War-scarred but swiftly rebuilt unlike Hang Mountain, reclaiming glory.
Studying leisurely amid peaks, bonding with bounding beasts—pure joy.
But that bliss started shaking.
Jin-ah. Heading to Shaolin soon.
Since you're studying there anyway, might as well drop by. Tell me your spot; I'll come first.
My brother's messenger bird, no less.
Visiting Shaolin HQ means seeing me on Song Mountain too—a flat notice.
Irrefusable. I closed my eyes in dismay.
Brother knows I shun the capital for Song Mountain. Convenient visit to see his sibling? Refusing raises suspicions beyond concern—exposes my time-buying "studies."
Be careful.
Brother's Deputy Right Censor-in-chief. Young, fast-promoted via Giwang lineage, but experience is real—traveled Central Plains, myriad incidents. Spots sibling schemes easy.
...'Eagerly await your visit, brother...'
Sadly, I penned reply.
Pray some snag cancels it.