The Memorial Ceremony
The people of the Dang Family did not enjoy Dang Hwi-yeom’s absences.
It was not that they loved him too dearly. It was that whenever he was gone he always left behind an enormous mountain of work as homework before vanishing into thin air.
This time, however, Hwi-yeom had left no assignments at all, and everyone was left thoroughly bewildered.
“There’s… no work?”
“Haha, I see. This is a dream. Please don’t let me wake up!”
Suddenly gifted with free time, the clan members paced about in restless confusion. They had finished every task, yet the sun was still high in the sky. Was such a thing even allowed?
“Uh, what do we do? I feel like I ought to be doing something…”
“R-right, how about we use the chance to completely reorganize the warehouse?”
“I’m going to standardize all the record formats. If I don’t do it now, there’ll never be time later!”
Pitifully, the Dang Family people—thoroughly colonized by Hwi-yeom-ism—had begun to display extreme anxiety at the mere thought of leisure. They could no longer enjoy free time as free time. It was much like soldiers who, after prolonged exposure to the crushing stress of war, found themselves unable to bear peaceful life.
And so they set out of their own free will to invent work for themselves.
There were exceptions, of course.
Dang Un-sang, for instance, had been entrusted with a matter of genuine importance and burned with a powerful sense of mission. At this very moment he was attending, as guest of honor, a joint memorial ceremony being held in Yunnan Province.
A memorial ceremony.
It was a rite held to honor those who had given their lives in service of the state. In the modern world such services were usually reserved for fallen police officers, firefighters, or soldiers.
Dang Un-sang had come to take part in the memorial for the people of Yunnan and the staff of Noksan who had lost their precious lives in the war against Chagatai.
It was a day as clear as it was sorrowful.
Beneath the pure sunlight Dang Un-sang climbed onto the platform. With a tense expression he looked out over the crowd gathered below, then down at the script he had spent the previous night memorizing—and set it aside.
The words that left his mouth were rather different from the prepared text.
“The Dang Family began as a small household of physicians in Sichuan.”
The unexpected opening caused a stir among the listeners.
“That tiny, impoverished Dang Family has become the great clan of today. Though our main house has made many enemies, it has also made just as many friends. And today I stand here not as the head of a great family, but as a man who has lost precious friends and neighbors.”
Because he spoke from the heart, his voice carried an authenticity nothing could surpass.
Quietly, he recited the names of the people he remembered.
“Lee Jong-jik and Jeong Yun-gu, commanders of the second outpost at Bosan, were friends who rather liked their drink. After sharing a cup with them I once found myself crawling on all fours the next day, rendering decades of martial training utterly useless. I used to warn them to drink in moderation, fretting over their excess… Now we can never share another cup.”
“Kh-hhnk…”
Someone swallowed a sob.
Dang Un-sang continued.
“Lee Tae-gyu, Jang Tae-sam, Son Pal, Yang Chil, Hak Gae-dong, Hong Mal-dong…”
With each name he called, he recalled some small, ordinary memory shared with them. Eyes throughout the crowd grew red.
“…And the sons of Yunnan whose names I never even had the chance to learn. We have lost good friends, brothers, sons. Who would dare measure that grief? I have no words that are enough.”
Someone broke into open weeping. People stared ahead with bloodshot eyes or wiped at their lids.
“Because friends fell yesterday, we stand here alive today. Those who left first, defending the mountains and rivers of their birth and the people they held dear—we miss them so terribly, and we are so proud of them. The Sichuan Dang Family will remember everyone who sacrificed in this fight. We will never look away. Any bereaved family in need has only to knock upon the Dang Family’s door. We will take full responsibility for the families of our brothers until the end.”
That last part had not been something Hwi-yeom asked of him. It was simply the burning sincerity of the martial artist named Dang Un-sang—courage born of a single pure impulse rather than any careful calculation on an abacus. He honestly did not know whether the promise would saddle the family with heavy financial losses. It might be irresponsible. It might be conduct unfit for a family head. Yet Dang Un-sang had to do it. The six characters of the Dang Family motto—Never Forget Grace or Grudge—had been the pillar that sustained the clan until this day.
I’m loading a heavy burden onto my son.
He did not realize that Hwi-yeom, had he stood in the same place, would have done exactly the same. Nor did he grasp what results that act would ultimately bring.
“For the spirits of those who have fallen… a moment of silence!”
The people bowed their heads in mourning.
After the ceremony ended, clusters of people gathered here and there discussing the speech the head of the Sichuan Dang Family had given.
“A medal for disabled veterans? What’s that?”
“If you bring the household plaque of someone who died in this fight, or prove the family relationship, the Sichuan Dang Family will support a portion of living expenses.”
“Join the Sichuan Dang Family Disabled Veterans Support Association and they provide about half a tael of silver a month in living costs—roughly one and a half million won—for ten years.”
“They also help arrange jobs for those who survived but lost limbs.”
“And if someone wants to open a shop, they’ll look into low-interest loans?”
That was the treatment for ordinary Yunnan civilians. Compensation for the fallen of Noksan was even more generous: monthly living support of one full tael of silver (about three million won) for the families of Noksan staff who died in the line of duty, free tuition for their children at Hwieon Scholarship Schools, and priority hiring across the Hwieon conglomerate subsidiaries.
At a glance the outlay looked enormous, yet in truth there had been few true pitched battles against the enemy, and thus few casualties. Most of the dead had fallen at Noksan’s outposts or among the soldiers holding the walls during the final delaying defense. The numbers were smaller than expected—well within what the Dang Family could bear.
With that money, however, the Dang Family purchased something money alone could never buy.
“…I’m decided. I’ll bury my bones with Noksan.”
Seeing the Dang Family remember their sacrifices, Noksan’s former criminals—once mere “outside contractors”—rewrote their own identities as loyal partners of the clan.
“The world usually calls you ‘our son’ when it needs you and ‘their son’ when you’re dead. But they say even if you die they’ll take care of your family? Hahaha, why the hell is this actually real?”
“This is fucking incredible. They do what even the goddamn country won’t. How are you supposed to not be loyal?”
“I don’t know about His Majesty, but the Dang Family Head is worth being loyal to.”
“Shh, keep talking like that and the Dang Family will catch hell for it.”
Everyone clamped a hand over their mouths just in case, yet thought the same thing inside.
In this age the idea of “patriotism” was still hazy. Wars broke out whenever people began to forget the last one, and the occupant of the throne often changed overnight. People therefore tended to prize closer ties of region, blood, and schooling above the nation itself. After this affair, the already near-religious support the Sichuan Dang Family enjoyed among the people of Sichuan punched clean through the ceiling. So many people grumbled “Why am I not a Sichuanese?” that they outnumbered those who praised the Yunnan Provincial Commander for holding off the enemy or the Yunnan Provincial Administration Commissioner for keeping the supply lines intact.
And inside the Dang Family itself, another memorial was being held in secret.
A joint memorial ceremony for the members of the Dokwadae and Sakpungdae who had fallen in Qinghai and Yunnan was held at the Sichuan Dang Family estate.
The family comforted the bereaved and promised to take responsibility for the remainder of their lives. People of Sichuan attended of their own free will, laying flowers before the spirit tablets of the heroes and offering poems and songs to honor those who had died fighting for Sichuan and Yunnan.
In the old days, even when people of the Dang Family died in droves, there had been no money to do any of this. Now they could commemorate the sacrifice and promise a future for those left behind. Reflecting on how the Sichuan Dang Family had changed, Dang Un-sang felt pride mingled with his grief.
He appointed himself chief mourner and remained at the memorial hall for three full days. Eun Seol-ran personally consoled the families, checking whether they needed anything or were experiencing any inconvenience, and received the condolence guests. People felt that those of the Dang Family who had died fighting for the clan, for Yunnan, and for Sichuan would not walk their final road alone.
Even Baek Beon, left behind in Sichuan, muttered to himself:
“They don’t even care for the meritorious subjects of the state this carefully. Truly close-knit, aren’t they?”
After the public ceremony ended, there was also an unofficial memorial.
Dang Su-jeong lit incense before the thirty-two Green Dragon Badges laid out before her.
“…I’m sorry. If only I’d been stronger, I could have saved you all…”
Lee Jinmyeong, who had been watching quietly, drew out a silk handkerchief and gently offered it to her. For reasons that might have been the honeymoon excuse or something else entirely, he had not been dragged along on Hwi-yeom’s journey to Beijing; the omission had left him both puzzled and uneasy. Now the thought struck him that perhaps he had been left at the Dang Family precisely for this moment.
Dang Su-jeong’s lips trembled lightly as she took the handkerchief. She lowered her head and pressed it to her eyes while Lee Jinmyeong stood carefully at her side.
The Green Dragon Badge was originally an identity token granted only to the direct bloodline of the Dang Family. On this day, thirty-two nameless warriors received the badge of the main line.
Dokgyo, who had successfully led the guerrilla campaign in Qinghai Province together with Dang Su-jeong and had in practical terms preserved Qinghai, had been forced to lose their comrades. Even if no one else remembered them, even if the credit for holding Qinghai was given to the Qinghai Provincial Commander and the White Tiger Army’s general, Dang Su-jeong and the Dang Family—here in the Hall of Heroes that housed the jade plaques of nameless heroes—would remember them forever.
The Dokgyo, orphans who had grown up together in the same branch house, wept for the deaths of comrades who had been as brothers, and then wept again at the sight of the Dang Family that refused to forget their sacrifice.
Your sacrifice was never in vain.
Because they had been orphans, the family could not take responsibility for any remaining kin; yet the Dang Family showed the survivors that the Dokgyo who had died would never be forgotten. The living were given compensation large enough to change their destinies and opportunities besides. If they wished, they could even be adopted as sons into the direct line of the Sichuan Dang Family—everyone except the family head himself. Or they could leave the Dokgyo and, with the family’s support, begin businesses or martial careers as branch members.
Yet every last one of the Dokgyo refused the offers with proud faces. Without a single exception they chose to remain Dokgyo.
“Leaving already?”
At the call Yu-baek turned his head. With his characteristic vacant expression he blinked, then sniffed the air.
“Hwi-yeom’s getting farther. Have to chase.”
“Not staying with the Dang Family?”
“The Dang Family is… like a shell. A cast-off skin.”
“….”
“Hwi-yeom is the future of the Dang Family. As long as he’s intact… the buildings don’t matter.”
“Cold as ever. You really haven’t changed a bit.”
“You, though… you’ve changed a lot.”
“….”
“A whole lot. A whole, whole lot.”
“….”
“Because of him?”
“I don’t think that’s exactly it.”
“Then?”
“Side effects from staying too long beside ordinary people… let’s call it that.”
“Not a bad thing.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. It’s been a long time… since I saw you smile.”
“I wasn’t smiling.”
Yu-baek raised a finger to the corner of the expressionless mouth and tugged the lip upward.
“You were.”
“Hm.”
“Going to… come back? Anything… you want to say?”
“No. Just go safely.”
“Want to… come with?”
“I’m good. I like it here.”
“…Even if you’re not quite Hwa-hong level… you’re pretty shut-in yourself.”
“Comes with the origin, I suppose.”
“I’ll give you that one.”
The long-overdue meeting was pleasant, yet it also stirred a sharp ache of nostalgia. Yu-baek spoke again.
“One piece of advice.”
“What?”
“He isn’t Yeong-jeong.”
“….”
“If you project that onto him… he’ll just be pitiful, won’t he?”
“….”
After a brief silence the other exhaled a sigh.
“I know.”
“Good. Then.”
With those words Yu-baek vanished. The one left behind watched that retreating figure for a long time, then murmured without realizing it.
“I know… too.”
Progress on the Angang construction site was slower than expected.
That was only natural: every subsidiary of the Hwieon conglomerate under the parent company, the Sichuan Dang Family, had poured its entire capacity into prosecuting the war against Chagatai. They were busy stamping out cannons one after another and mixing cement for Musinpo molds; construction materials were never going to be released.
Thus Hwi-yeom, stopping by the worksite for an inspection, was treated to an absurd demand.
“Excuse me? What did you just say?”
“Ears clogged, are they? I’ll say it one more time, so listen carefully.”
A piggish man with a salt-and-pepper beard twisted his mouth into a nasty smile and raised his voice.
“This land has belonged to my family for generations. If you want to keep building, pay up.”