The Hwi-eon Newspaper
In the history Dang Hui-yeom knew, printed newspapers resembling the modern Sichuan Daily—rather than handwritten sheets sold as “Rosettas” or “newsletters”—first appeared in Germany in 1609.
Yet the profession of “reporter” did not emerge until nearly two hundred years later.
There were many reasons for that delay. What mattered most was this: even in the original history, when reporters first appeared, their investigative work was hardly welcomed.
People who prowled about digging up others’ secrets were treated like hyenas or vultures. Power-holders and the bourgeoisie mocked them, ridiculed them, beat them, and humiliated them.
…And exactly the same thing was now happening in the Central Plains.
Song Jeon-bin was a second-rank disciple of the Beggars’ Guild’s Beijing branch and belonged to the Blue Clothes Faction. After the Five Clothes Faction had been driven out and information production and processing had ground to a halt, leaving him with nothing to do but suck his fingers, a mission suddenly came down one day.
Pursuant to the Sichuan Dang Family’s outsourced contract, second-rank disciple Song Jeon-bin is hereby appointed “reporter” for a period of one month.
Because the assignment was something he had never done before, he asked,
“What exactly is a ‘reporter’ supposed to do?”
“Collect information, then write articles based on that information and submit them.”
“Uh… so it’s like combining the work the old Five Clothes Faction informants among the beggars used to do with what we Blue Clothes people did?”
“That’s right. Only this time they pay a fee per piece. The more articles you write, and the more those articles sell, the more money you make.”
“How do they know how many copies an article sold?”
“How should I know? At the end of the month they’ll either count how many articles you turned in or look at the circulation numbers of the issues that carried them.”
“Whoa… then how do we get the information?”
“They say you just go up and demand, ‘Hand over the information!’”
“What?”
Song Jeon-bin was flabbergasted by the sheer absurdity.
“And people will just give it to you if you say that? What kind of nonsense—”
“How would I know? That’s what the higher-ups ordered…”
“Haaah…”
Song Jeon-bin wondered whether the branch master had finally lost his mind. But soon he saw people actually carrying out that ridiculous method.
They were none other than the personnel Elder Lee Gyu-chan had brought up from Sichuan—veterans of the Sichuan Daily. Trained as reporters, they began to act exactly as they had been taught.
“Hello! I’m Reporter Hwang In-gyu from the Hwi-eon Newspaper. We’ve heard that Master Hong Ik-sang of the Great Ocean Trading Company has donated a large sum for the good of Beijing, and we’ve come to speak with him. Would you be able to spare a moment for an interview?”
They tracked down parties involved in heartwarming stories or rumors of business expansion and secured interviews. Or:
“Hold it! What exactly are you mixing into the dumpling filling right now?”
“Who the hell are you?! How did you get in here?!”
They hid in the kitchens of large restaurants suspected of adulterating ingredients and exposed the fraud. And then:
“Vice-Minister Han Min-su, there are allegations of irregularities surrounding your son’s success in the metropolitan examination. Would you care to comment?”
“What is this madman? Seize him at once! Drag him out of here!”
They conducted interviews so aggressive that one almost feared for their necks.
Until then, the people of Beijing regarded them as little more than “a bunch of lunatics who have shown up.” Moths who kept their heads only because they were under the protection of the Sichuan Dang Family, and because that family’s Young Master, Dang Hui-yeom, currently enjoyed the Emperor’s favor while advancing national projects.
That assessment flipped completely the moment the inaugural issue of the Hwi-eon Newspaper hit the streets.
“W-what is this?!”
For promotional purposes, the first issue of the Hwi-eon Newspaper was distributed free of charge to every government office and every household in Beijing. Naturally a copy also reached Han Sang-pil, the Prefect of Shuntian Prefecture who administered Beijing on the Emperor’s behalf.
He leafed through it without much thought—until he saw the article and his own portrait printed right after the lead story “Long Live His Majesty the Emperor! The Hwi-eon Newspaper Is Born!” His mouth fell open and he screamed.
— Allegations of improper solicitation surrounding the metropolitan examination success of Han Jun-hyeok (34), eldest son of current Beijing Shuntian Prefect Han Sang-pil (53), have come to light.
— According to an anonymous tipster, although Han Jun-hyeok never sat for the examination held last autumn, an answer sheet bearing his name was submitted.
— Information obtained by this paper through special channels includes multiple eyewitness accounts: on the day of the examination Han Jun-hyeok was seen drinking with courtesans at Beijing’s foremost pleasure house; while the examination was still in progress he nearly ran down a pedestrian on his way to a brothel and then beat the man for good measure.
— This paper requested an interview with Prefect Han Sang-pil to verify the facts. He refused the meeting, insulted our reporter, and had him thrown out.
— Is the Prefect truly without guilt? If he is so confident, why did he slam the door in our reporter’s face? The truth will come out in the end.
— Jang Seo-hee, Political Desk, Hwi-eon Newspaper
Cold sweat poured down Han Sang-pil’s face; his hands and feet began to tremble uncontrollably.
Of course the article never stated outright, “Han Sang-pil’s son received special favors!” It only said, “These suspicions exist; when we went to check, he stonewalled us as if he had something to hide.” Still, it was far from a worthless “deny it if you dare” hit piece. There were plenty of witnesses to the outrageous daylight crimes committed by his wastrel of a son. And when whispers that people had only dared mutter behind closed doors were printed for every citizen to read, the entire game changed.
What would happen the moment the Eastern Depot or the Censorate announced an investigation to clear up the suspicions?!
“Damn it—Steward! Stewaaard!!”
Han Sang-pil immediately summoned his chief steward and bellowed at the top of his lungs.
“Find the bastard who wrote this outrageous broadsheet and drag him here at once! Confiscate every copy scattered throughout the capital! Move!”
“Y-yes, sir! I already ordered the underlings to take measures and was just on my way back.”
The steward himself had been sipping tea and reading the paper at his own desk when he sprayed tea across the room in shock.
Enraged household servants of the Han family seized clubs and stormed toward the main gate of the Hwi-eon Newspaper offices.
Bang bang bang bang!!
“Open up! Open the door right now!”
The servants kicked and pounded as if they meant to smash the gate to splinters. After a moment the door creaked open and an elderly man and a young man stepped out.
The old man, looking rather tired, scanned them up and down with a crooked expression and asked,
“Who are you people making such a racket at the crack of dawn?”
“This is the place that printed that pack of lies, isn’t it?!”
The ringleader among the servants, a man named Eok-soe, flung the newspaper at them while panting with rage.
“Bring out the one who wrote this and the head of this outfit right now! His Excellency the Shuntian Prefect wants a look at their faces!”
Eok-soe fully expected the other side to turn pale and start shaking at the mere mention of the name. The authority of the Shuntian Prefect, who governed Beijing on the Emperor’s behalf, was so lofty that even high-ranking officials usually deferred to it. Until now, borrowing his master’s name to run roughshod over people had never failed, and Eok-soe was certain it never would.
He felt a faint unease when the scrawny man in front of him showed not the slightest fear despite the murderous air of the servants, yet he still believed the fellow would soon drop to his knees white as a sheet.
What came back instead was a cold sneer.
“If he wants to see my face, tell him to come himself. When we asked for a meeting he slammed the door in our faces; now he summons me? Am I someone who comes and goes at his beck and call?”
“W-what?! You ignorant fool! Are you seriously refusing an order from the Prefect?!”
“By what right does a prefect issue such an order? A prefect is not some rural county magistrate who holds both judicial and administrative power. There are separate offices and officials who hold authority over investigation and punishment. What right does a prefect have to drag a private citizen into a yamen whenever he feels like it?”
The man’s perfectly reasonable words left Eok-soe speechless. It was true. A prefect possessed no power of arrest; that belonged to the Beijing Surveillance Commissioner. But nothing like this had ever happened before. One word that “the Prefect summons you” had always been enough to make people tremble and follow like oxen to the slaughterhouse.
Faced with an unfamiliar situation, Eok-soe tried to cow the man by shouting even louder.
“You bastard! Looks like you’ll only cry when you see the inside of a cell! Let’s see if you can still stand so stiff after a good clubbing!”
The instant Eok-soe rolled up his sleeves and stepped toward the old man, a chilling killing intent erupted from the youth who had been standing quietly beside him.
Those ice-blue eyes, sunk deep and cold, were proof that the youth’s internal energy in the Explosive Poison Art—transmitted among the collateral branches of the Sichuan Dang Family—had reached a considerable level.
“I was watching quietly and it turns out you’re just a pack of thugs. Do you have any idea where you’ve barged into? Shall I break your arms and legs so you’ll crawl for the rest of your lives?”
Under the killing intent the youth released, Eok-soe and the servants froze like puppies before a tiger and very nearly wet themselves. Thugs who relied only on numbers and their master’s prestige always folded the moment a second-rate expert appeared. Of course an ordinary second-rate expert would never dare go this far for fear of the power behind the servants; this youth was different.
“Enough.”
At the old man’s word the youth clicked his tongue and withdrew the killing intent. The elder raised a bony finger and pointed at the signboard beside the gate.
“Can’t you see that?”
“Y-y-yes… yes?”
Trembling as if he had just been pulled from a winter river, Eok-soe found himself staring at the sign without meaning to.
“I-I’m illiterate, so…”
“Tch. No wonder you had the guts to pound on the door like that.”
The old man sighed and spoke in a tone that suggested he was explaining only out of pity for a wretched life.
“Listen carefully. I’ll read it just once, then you go back and tell your master.
‘Directly Authorized by the Imperial Household.’ This newspaper is operated under imperial sanction. Is that backer of yours greater than His Majesty the Emperor himself?”
Eok-soe’s face went from ashen to black as burnt wood. Elder Lee Gyu-chan clicked his tongue and turned away.
“If you understand, go tell your master: if he has a clear conscience he should present himself confidently to the Surveillance Commissioner and explain himself.
Ah, though by now the Commissioner’s office has probably already sent an investigation team to the yamen.
And if you’ve been doing this sort of thing often yourself, I suspect they’ll have a few questions for you as well.”
The newspaper’s great gate slammed shut in front of Eok-soe, who stood rooted to the spot, the sky spinning around him. Soft conversation drifted to his ears.
“Reporter Jang, write this little disturbance up as an article too. Understood?”
“I’ve already taken it all down.”
“Don’t just write it—remember their faces. Why did we hire expensive painters if not for this? Get those servants’ mugs down exactly; better yet, draw a scene of me getting beaten.”
“Uh… wouldn’t that be false reporting?”
“Does that matter, you fool? The fact remains that they meant to thrash us with clubs and drag us off. If you hadn’t stepped in, I’d be black and blue and hauled away by now, wouldn’t I?”
“When you put it that way, it’s not false reporting. I’ll prepare the draft at once.”
“Good. Pity tomorrow’s still a free issue—this one looks set to sell like hotcakes.”
“Free distribution lasts three days, correct?”
“That’s right. After three days we switch to paid subscriptions. With a scoop this big right from the start, the conversion rate should be quite healthy.”
Eok-soe had the distinct feeling that something had gone terribly wrong. Even when the family of a restaurant owner, faces purple with rage and clutching a crumpled copy of the article “The Ugly Face of a Famous Grand Restaurant—Dumplings or Garbage?”, came stomping up to pound on the newspaper’s door and hurl curses, he remained sitting there in a daze.
And the repercussions of the incident spread like ripples across the whole of Beijing.