I'll Become the Heavy Machinery
The Caffe the One in Beijing had been planned for a site where two large buildings provided by the Sama Clan would be torn down and the ground cleared for new construction.
Beijing forbade any structure taller than the Forbidden City, so the only way to gain space was to spread outward. Even that was no simple matter, given the capital’s ruinous land prices and the residents already living there—but the Sama Clan had thrown every scrap of political influence and wealth they possessed into making it possible.
Perhaps they had gotten a little too enthusiastic in the process.
The design Hui-yeom remembered no longer matched what he now saw.
“Why is the site so… vast?”
What had been intended as the footprint of two buildings had swollen until, with only a mild exaggeration, it occupied an entire city block.
Are they building a soccer stadium?
That was how large it looked to him.
The man who answered was Construction Section Chief Han Min-su of the Sichuan Dang Family’s Architecture and Construction Second Section—a man who had not set foot in his hometown for more than half a year. He offered a soul-dead smile.
“When the power of our in-laws joins that of the Gongjonggol Clan, this is the sort of result you get. And though I can’t say for certain, it seems His Majesty the Emperor lent quiet support from the shadows as well.”
Hui-yeom wanted to slap his own forehead.
These people think bigger automatically means better.
A grand, imposing storefront? Fine, he could work with that. The real issue was profitability. Build something larger than necessary and fail to generate matching revenue, and the upkeep alone would become a burden.
Caffa was still classified as a luxury drink. Even in a city as rich as Beijing, the people who could enjoy it daily were limited to officials and merchants who had already made their fortunes.
In the space of a heartbeat he ran the abacus in his mind and reached a conclusion.
If the entire sprawling site were turned into a single café, one kitchen and one counter would never cope. Exactly like the mega-cafés of the modern world, it would have to become a complex of multiple kitchens and counters. The moment that happened, the number of employees required would leap. And how many people would it take simply to clean and maintain a place this size?
Revenue will never cover the expenses.
Of course, jacking the price of coffee sky-high would make the numbers work. Beijing’s high officials and merchant princes—men who had money to burn and pride even higher—would laugh off sums that would make ordinary folk scream and pay them anyway…
But letting the price gap with Sichuan grow that wide would be a problem too.
More importantly, it would kill the mass popularization of coffee that Hui-yeom was aiming for.
So what then?
If café profits alone can’t carry the place, just create other revenue streams. I need to see His Majesty sooner rather than later.
Deciding to accelerate one of the business ideas he had been nursing, Hui-yeom stepped into the single building whose construction was already finished.
And there he was astonished all over again.
“…What?”
A separate world had been unfolded inside.
The buildings filling the vast grounds were still under construction, so he had already guessed that this finished structure must be Michelangelo’s workshop. He had not guessed what he would find within.
“How on earth…?”
Without thinking he reached out and brushed a leaf. It was carved with such precision that it looked like a living leaf, and the leaves formed an entire forest. A forest of white marble and plaster, and inside it animals frolicked as if they were truly alive.
The Seven Sages of the Bamboo Grove sat scattered about—playing go, plucking the geomungo, reciting poetry. Had the statues not been pure white, it would have been impossible to tell them from living men. Every wrinkle of skin, every texture of flesh, had been rendered in merciless detail.
That was only the beginning.
Beyond the Seven Sages, Confucius and Mencius debated; Liu Bang and Xiang Yu glared forehead to forehead; Zhuge Liang and Sima Yi discussed strategy; the three sworn brothers Liu, Guan, and Zhang charged on horseback against Lü Bu, weapons clashing. The First Emperor stood atop Mount Tai receiving the Mandate of Heaven. Farther still, at the very end of the path, the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors themselves appeared.
Every figure looked as though a living slice of history had been cut free and set down in this place.
He’s grown.
Hui-yeom sensed at once that Michelangelo—already a master—had climbed still higher. Even so, the sheer speed of the work defied physics.
How is this even possible?
While he stood dumbfounded, the secret of that impossible pace revealed itself. Michelangelo was not working alone. Dozens of apprentices labored with him. They hauled large blocks of plaster or marble and rough-hewed them into approximate poses and compositions; the master then approached and finished the delicate carving. A full division of labor had been established.
And the reason he had not simply said “Michelangelo” was that there was more than one master.
“Who are those people?”
The Construction Section Chief answered.
“Artists from the Western Regions whom Master Mi invited. The man working up on that ladder is Hans Holbein of Augsburg. The one lost in thought is Tiziano Vecellio of Venice. Master Mi sent out a great many invitations; among those who accepted, these two are considered true giants.”
Hui-yeom knew little of art history, so the names meant nothing to him. In truth, Hans Holbein the Younger and Titian stood only a half-step below the absolute first tier of Renaissance masters—Michelangelo, Raphael, Leonardo—in both reputation and achievement.
“…There are people from our Great Gyeong as well, not just the apprentices.”
“Ah—yes. The man painting colors onto the sculpture is Wen Zhengming. The one painting the hanging scroll on the wall is Tang Yin—same Tang surname, but not of the Sichuan line. And the fellow swinging a chisel over there is Qiu Ying.”
Naturally Hui-yeom had never heard of them either. Yet even to his untrained eye the way they wielded chisels, hammers, and brushes radiated uncommon skill.
And the chief who had gathered them all, Michelangelo himself—
“Uwahahahaha!!!”
—had become a white cloud. Wherever he stormed past, madly swinging chisel and mallet, chips of stone and dust rose like fog, as though he were herding a cloud before him.
“…What is that?”
“That, my lord, is Master Mi.”
The Section Chief gave a bitter smile.
“He kept complaining that constant carving made his wrists and shoulders ache. Somehow word reached His Majesty, who sent over an elixir, a secret manual, and a martial instructor.”
“Hm?”
“Something called the Dragon Elephant Prajna Art—a Vajrayana technique, I believe. He took it from the imperial secret archives and even dispatched the Shaolin Temple’s own escort team. With a master teaching him day and night… well, Master Mi suddenly possessed enormous strength and endless stamina. Now he says his neck, shoulders, and arms never hurt, and every day looks like that.”
Only then did Hui-yeom remember the reason scientific progress had been so slow in this world—something he had almost forgotten.
Sculpture was brutally hard labor. Marble and plaster might carve more readily than other stone, but they were still stone. Striking them with chisel and mallet, hauling the heavy blocks—none of it was easy. Yet Michelangelo, having learned martial arts, had simply declared “I’ll become the heavy machinery” and driven his work speed into the realm of the insane.
Sama Yun offered a wry smile of her own.
“His Majesty chose a most suitable art.”
“Dragon Elephant Prajna Art, you said. Yun-mae, do you know anything about it?”
“It is a guardian martial art of the Tibetan esoteric school that once invaded the Central Plains. Its hallmark is extremely rapid early progress that grows far more difficult later. Those who master it gain bodies as sturdy as the Tower-Holding Heavenly Kings. Because it does not originate in the Central Plains martial world, it stirs no factional disputes. And because the early gains come so swiftly, there is no better art for quickly granting a man the strength to split rock—especially when he has no ambition to become a great martial artist.”
“Oh…”
Hui-yeom roughly translated her explanation as:
Congratulations! Michelangelo has evolved into Heavy Machinery Michelangelo!
“The real trouble started after that,” the Section Chief continued with another bitter smile.
“What sort of trouble?”
“The moment Master Mi felt the effects of the art, he turned around and taught the Dragon Elephant Prajna Art to every single craftsman and apprentice on the site.”
“Wha—?”
Sama Yun let out an uncharacteristically blank cry and clapped a hand over her mouth.
To any martial artist the news would have sounded less believable than the sky splitting in two. Michelangelo, however, was no martial artist, and Hui-yeom’s own roots lay elsewhere; he remained perfectly calm.
“So he raised the work capacity of the entire labor force. We should consider teaching martial arts to the ordinary laborers of our own house as well…”
“What kind of nonsense is that?!”
Even Sama Yun, usually praised for keeping pace with Hui-yeom’s mind, was aghast. She too had been born and raised a martial artist of a great family.
If one wished to make Hui-yeom understand how Michelangelo’s action felt to a martial artist, the closest analogy would be a businessman casually releasing to the public a patent or intellectual-property right that was still pouring in money and still had years of exclusivity left. Unfortunately Sama Yun possessed no such concept.
Meanwhile Michelangelo, having spotted them, came bounding over.
“Oh! My patron has arrived! Hahaha! Look at this! Surprised, aren’t you?”
“Yes, truly astonished, Director Buonarroti. An incredible achievement.”
Startled by Sama Yun’s earlier shout, Michelangelo had leapt down from the ladder and sprinted toward them.
“Magnificent! Even if I went back to my twenties I couldn’t feel more exhilarated! Uwahahaha! Is this that ‘aura’ or ‘or’ the knights talk about? My body is light as a feather, nothing hurts, and no matter how hard I swing the chisel and mallet I never tire—I can’t help getting carried away!”
“That’s wonderful, of course… but is it really all right to hand out a precious martial art bestowed by His Majesty to just anyone?”
“It’s fine! I got permission for everything! Well… that eunuch looked at me like I was an idiot, but still. Tch. The eunuch who was here before at least had some humanity. These Beijing eunuchs—all the blood that should go to their… you-know-what must have gone to their necks instead, they’re so stiff-necked—mmph?!”
Hui-yeom was genuinely startled to see the untrained Section Chief fly at a speed that would put even advanced lightness techniques to shame. The chief clamped both hands over Michelangelo’s mouth and roared,
“You crazy bastard! If you want to die, die alone!”
Hui-yeom gave a light shake of his head.
“Lord Baek Beon is still in Sichuan. He should be coming up before long, though…”
“When that guy gets here, switch my handler! If I’m stuck with eunuchs, at least give me one who can talk sense!”
Having finally shaken the Section Chief off, Michelangelo bellowed. Hui-yeom smiled and murmured under his breath,
“…Skill really is everything.”
Had Michelangelo been a man of letters rather than a craftsman, he would long ago have been dragged off somewhere by the Eastern Depot and become Michelangelo (the former).
That same evening, before his formal entry into the palace, Hui-yeom met Emperor Sungui at a quiet pleasure house.
The Emperor smiled.
“You’ve come, great traitor.”