A Countenance That Could Shake the World
"So you read his face as well? I never had the chance to look properly myself, not in that sudden chaos."
"Hm. Well, it hardly lent itself to careful study."
Jeong Ho-chan furrowed his brow, sorting through the impression he had received only moments ago. Strictly speaking, no one could read a face from far away, in the space of a fleeting glance. To do it properly, one needed far more than the face itself — bearing, manner of movement, a dozen other things that had to be taken in and weighed. And yet the feeling that had seized him in that brief instant had been anything but faint.
"And yet that very brevity is what tells me he is no ordinary man. A common face leaves nothing behind in so short a moment. This one — this was a rare and precious countenance indeed. A face fit to move the world."
Cha Gyeong-yeon stood tall and studied Jeong Ho-chan for a long moment. Under the afternoon sun, both of the scholar's eyes were burning with an odd, fervent light.
"Is that so...? I've only ever picked things up over Master Cheosa's shoulder, so I can't claim to know much, but today the King's face — and that Grand Prince Suyang's as well — struck me as more than ordinary. And to speak frankly, the Grand Prince was remarkably bold before that tiger."
"Yes, they too are extraordinary men. But neither matches the Crown Prince. Of that I am certain."
"If you ask me—"
Cha Gyeong-yeon broke into a sly smile.
"It seems Master Cheosa came away from that young prince with a stronger impression than he did from Grand Prince Suyang, the very man he'd come to see."
"You noticed that, did you?"
Jeong Ho-chan smiled as well.
"Well, how could it be otherwise? Show me anyone who wouldn't be struck by a child that turns a tiger away. Such things are hardly everyday occurrences."
"True enough... and yet something about the Crown Prince's face troubles me."
"And what might that be?"
"Hm. As a countenance, it is beyond reproach — a noble face through and through. But as I watched him quietly beside his uncle just now, I saw a shadow falling across it. He is young, of course, but as things stand, his face seems easily eclipsed by Suyang's. If only I could study the prince's face again, even for a moment... Still, if my reading is not mistaken—"
Jeong Ho-chan paused for a beat.
"Judging only from what I glimpsed today, the Crown Prince's allotted span of years would run to seventy. But pressed down as he is by his uncle's countenance, I fear he will find it difficult to escape a violent death in the Sinhae year — 1451 by our reckoning. If some way exists to slip past that fatal year, the road will open before him little by little, and before long he may shake the very foundations of the world. Not that it matters much, I suppose..."
As he spoke, a faint, distant smile crossed Jeong Ho-chan's face.
"No one can know in advance how the Mandate of Heaven will turn."
"Is that so."
Cha Gyeong-yeon tilted his head.
"But that Crown Prince — he stands to inherit this country without lifting a finger, doesn't he? If even such a one cannot escape a violent death, then what in the world is anyone to do?"
"The Mandate of Heaven may sometimes be moved by human hands, and sometimes not."
"That is... maddeningly vague."
"Is it, now."
At Cha Gyeong-yeon's grumbling, Jeong Ho-chan only smiled.
"Let's reason it through. Children's faces often look alike, don't they — yet depending on how they live and grow, by adulthood their features have diverged. Isn't that so?"
"It is."
"Then the underlying countenance may be said to shift, at least in part. Seen that way, the old saying that a man can change his own fortune with his own hands is not far wrong. It's only natural, after all. However splendid the face one is born with, what success could come to a man who idles his days away and never cultivates himself? He rots his own countenance — is that not a thing to be mourned?"
"Indeed it is."
"So individual effort matters, yes. But consider it further: is not a single man's fate, in the end, the sum of the dozens, hundreds — perhaps thousands upon thousands — of lives he becomes entangled with over his lifetime?"
Jeong Ho-chan gave a casual shrug.
"And there is the current of fortune governed by the spirits of heaven and earth besides. Seen from that vantage, a man's fate is a great confluence — heaven, earth, and man, tangled together with the multitude of all living beings. Which is why the overturning of Heaven's Mandate may lie within one man's will, or may lie utterly beyond it."
"Master Cheosa, forgive my ignorance, but — if that is so, is the Mandate not simply too difficult to change?"
"Not necessarily. When a single pebble tumbles from a cliff and rolls down the slope, who can say what it will stir up on the way? Sometimes nothing more than a light touch to a man's heart is enough to turn the great affairs of the world on their head. Of course, for that to happen, the times — and fortune itself, in the truest sense — must align just so."
Jeong Ho-chan looked up at the sky.
"And I find myself thinking... such an opportunity may be close at hand. An opportunity great enough to overturn the affairs of the world, I mean."
"You do?"
"I do. I had always judged that Suyang was the man capable of turning the world upside down — indeed, that is why I came. But I confess I was a little disappointed; he fell short of my expectations. He is something, certainly, in his own way. Like hoping for a phoenix and finding a peacock. And then, quite unexpectedly, in a place I never thought to look — I stumbled upon a phoenix in hiding!"
"If that phoenix manages to escape the year of his violent death, that is."
Cha Gyeong-yeon appended his caveat, and Jeong Ho-chan nodded.
"Yes, that is the question... But wait — consider it. Depending on the hour, that may prove the better path after all. Adversity is what forges a man strong."
With that, Jeong Ho-chan turned his gaze to the sky. Somewhere along the way, the sun had begun its slow tilt toward the west.
"Hm. Later than I thought. We'll have to reach Hanyang before the city gates close. We're off to meet old friends — hardly any room for delay, is there? Let's hurry."
"Yes, Master."
While Jeong Ho-chan and his companion traded such talk, the King, riding in his palanquin, had seated the Crown Prince beside him. Now he looked down at the boy in silence. At merely twelve years of age, the prince was shedding the last of his childhood, and from time to time he revealed flashes of astonishing brilliance. His tutor, Yi Gae, had said as much — and Yi Gae was a man grave and unbending, who would never stoop to flattery or empty praise. His spare, unadorned assessments were worth more than a thousand honeyed words, and far more trustworthy.
The King marveled at his son anew. And it was precisely because of that marvel that what had just transpired had to be addressed.
"Crown Prince. What you did just now was dangerous. You knew that, did you not?"
At the King's stern inquiry, remorse was plain upon the prince's face. He was the precious heir who would one day carry the Great Line — and the King's only son.
"Yes, Father. I knew it."
"Look into my eyes."
The King gazed steadily down at him. His look was as gentle as ever, and yet beneath it lay a crushing pressure — the kind of gaze that had cowed even the most weathered of his ministers, even the most arrogant of foreign envoys.
The prince hesitated a moment, then lifted his head and met his father's eyes. A silence settled over the palanquin. He was a rare talent, true — but he was only twelve, a boy just barely throwing off the last of his childhood, and the silence might well have broken him. It did not. He bore it, and bore it well.
"A sovereign must preserve his own body. No prince as clever as you could have forgotten that. So answer me. Why did you stand your ground before the beast?"
"I beg your forgiveness, Father."
"That is not the answer I seek."
The King's tone remained calm, free of irritation, yet every word carried weight. The prince swallowed dryly. Had he been younger, more immature, he might have simply begged pardon — or fled from his father's gaze altogether. But he was a prince raised on rigorous lessons in kingship and self-cultivation; dodging a royal command was no longer permitted him. And so he chose his answer, carefully, from within.
"As I saw it, the tiger was greatly startled and thrown into confusion. A beast that roams the mountains had come out into an open field — into the very midst of a great throng of people."
"The tiger was confused... A strange thought for a man with the beast before him. Your own safety hung by a thread, and your first concern was the tiger's temper. Yes — and then?"
The King's voice was still calm, but curiosity had crept into it.
"I believed that if I had shown panic and fled before a beast that had lost its composure, I would only have startled it further."
"Hm."
That was all the King said. His face betrayed nothing. A silence passed. The prince considered adding more, then decided against it.
"Not bad, for the judgment of a boy of twelve."
At those words, something in the prince's chest eased.
"I am honored."
"Yet even so — to read the heart of a stranger upon first meeting him, and to shape your actions to that reading, is itself beyond any man's power. Hong-wi, even if your judgment had been flawless, you must never pass final judgment on another by your own measure alone. Do so, and failure will follow. More than that — you are not some common fellow; you are a sovereign. Bear that in mind."
"I shall remember it."
The King smiled faintly.
"Courage that conquers fear and permits disciplined action — that is truly the virtue of a gentleman, and a vital virtue in a sovereign. Turmoil born of unmastered fear is the mark of a small man; like field grass bent by a raging wind, it robs a man of his calm and clouds his judgment. A sovereign watches over not merely his own person but the whole of his realm — a sovereign's turmoil endangers the nation he rules. And yet..."
The King broke off, fixed his son with a level gaze, and spoke with added force.
"And yet there is something more dangerous still — courage without restraint. Such courage is nothing but a common man's recklessness, and it consumes the man who wields it. Hong-wi, remember this well."
"Yes, Father."
The King let out a thin sigh.
"The road a sovereign walks will be lined with countless enemies. Courage alone will not suffice against them."
The prince looked up at his father. On that clever face, a thread of unease had surfaced.
"Father... are there enemies more fearsome than a tiger?"
"Far more. A beast like a tiger is, if anything, an easy enemy — for it does not beguile you with a fair appearance. The truly fearsome enemy is the one that comes to you concealing what it is."
For Hong-wi — cherished within the inner palace, and only twelve years old — the world's cruelty was not easily grasped, however clever he might be.
"Trust no one. You will have no royal elders to shelter you. Those to whom you gave much will betray you, and those you enriched will strike at you from behind. Even those who make no open show of enmity — many will still turn you from the sovereign's path. Never take the words of your ministers and attendants at face value. A sovereign's eyes must stay clear, and his ears must stay open."
Hong-wi bowed his head.
The King gazed for a while at the far-off fields, then suddenly raised his hand and halted the procession. When the palanquin stopped, he gestured for Hong-wi to descend. The farmers who had been tilling the soil froze at the sudden appearance of the royal column, at a loss what to do — and when the King and Crown Prince stepped down and came toward them, they fell to their knees and pressed their heads to the earth. The eldest among them, an old man with thin white hair, bowed low before their King.
"We beg your pardon."
The other farmers behind him cried out in unison and bowed to the dark, freshly turned ground.
Their clothing was ragged; the tools they called farm implements were wooden, and blunted at that. At the King's gesture, the kneeling farmers bowed once more deeply, retreated a few steps, then turned and scattered away in all directions.
The King watched their retreating backs, then turned to Hong-wi.
"Those men are the poorest of all who live in this land. They care little who sits upon the throne; they live according to their provincial governors, seeing to their household registers day by day, carrying on their livelihoods as best they can. Had today not happened, the King would be to them a figure that exists only in old tales. And yet you must not let that weigh upon your heart. A sovereign's task is to shelter such villagers so that they may live out their lives in peace."
"Yes, Father."
"Long ago, the Emperor Yao, having won the world, wished to learn how men knew of his rule, and so he went among them. He saw a farmer singing at his work in the fields and asked him whether he knew who his sovereign was — and the countryman's answer, it is said, was that he knew nothing of any ruler's governance."
The King sighed.
"That is the standard a sovereign must aspire to: to rule so well that the people scarcely know he exists. A sovereign must relieve the weak and the destitute among his people, protect the widowed, feed the orphaned, aid the filial son and the chaste wife, and bring help to any who need it. So that their humble lives are never shattered, a sovereign must keep watch by day and by night. And even then, he must seek no reward for it. He must never grow proud. Among a sovereign's duties, there is none nobler than this."
"I will remember."
"My son. Never drift far from the lives of common folk."
Father and son returned to the palanquin. As the King climbed in, he winced at the pain of the ulcers that had long since become a chronic affliction — but he made no sound. What a merciless burden the dignity of a sovereign was! A king must never show weakness before those he leads.
And yet — what an astonishing thing the courage his son had shown before that tiger today truly was! If only a little more time were granted to him, he could give his son Hong-wi the years he needed to grow into a vessel worthy of the kings who came before. Hong-wi had that potential in him — a seed waiting to break the soil.