The Poison-Bearing Reporter (2)
On the first day of the newspaper’s switch to paid subscriptions, Hwi-yeom’s eyes went round when he was handed the total for a full month of subscription fees collected along with the contracts.
“Is that number even right, Vice President Yi Gyu-chan?”
“Not a single digit off. Perfect tally.”
Yi Gyu-chan beamed as he delivered the report; Hwi-yeom could only stare in disbelief.
“No… this much?”
At this rate, every person in Beijing who could so much as read a line of text had bought a subscription.
A figure he had thought possible only in theory had just materialized in the real world, and even Hwi-yeom found it absurd.
Yi Gyu-chan answered with a grin.
“Seems the scandal over a high official’s son buying his way into the civil-service examinations really seized the interest of everyone in Beijing.”
“Ah.”
Even in the modern world, rumors of preferential college admissions for a politician’s or senior bureaucrat’s child—or of a pre-arranged corporate hire—drew every eye. In the East, where the civil-service examinations had long been a lifelong ambition for scholars and the one great gamble on which parents staked everything, the pressure was second to none.
People who would shrug off news that some chaebol chairman had embezzled hundreds of millions with a curt “Well, if you’re going to steal, at least do it right” would foam at the mouth and swarm any headline that read “Chaebol heir admitted to Korea University on special privilege!”
So of course every parent in Beijing with a child, and every scholar grinding away at his books, had bought a copy. And the topic was juicy enough that even people without children wanted to tear into it and savor the scandal. Unrelated parties signed up for subscriptions as well.
Nor was that the only sensation.
“Restaurants caught playing games with the ingredients people put in their mouths—and one of them a large, famous establishment in Beijing—have whipped the public into genuine fury. Opinion is already starting to turn not just on punishing the kitchen staff, but on asking what the authorities were doing while they let it happen.”
“Oh-ho…”
Hwi-yeom gave a sly smile.
“Things are about to get busy. How are the Clean-Robe disciples of the Beggars’ Sect coming along? Are they starting to get a feel for how to work as reporters?”
“Yes. More and more of them are diving into the job in earnest.”
“Impostors will appear. How do we handle that?”
“I’ve ordered the smithy division to craft high-precision ‘Reporter’s Badges’ to prove a journalist’s identity. We’re also establishing a Media Management Department under the Dongchang and stamping its official seal on every badge. About a week.”
In short: not just anyone could call himself a reporter. Only those certified by the Dongchang could operate as such—and anyone who broke the rule could find himself dragged into Dongchang custody.
The scheme was so obviously the product of a certain mind that Hwi-yeom could only twist his lips in a wry smile.
“…His Majesty the Emperor really is far too skilled at rowing when the tide comes in.”
Guarantee the reporters’ status so they can dig aggressively, and at the same time expand the Dongchang’s reach. From the throne’s perspective, no extra money or time had been spent, yet an external oversight apparatus had simply appeared—like wiping one’s nose without lifting a finger.
A sort of media-regulatory commission, I suppose.
Of course the already overburdened Dongchang would never find the manpower to staff such a thing properly… so it would be a paper tiger. Still, even a ghost of an agency under the Dongchang—an organization people already feared—meant reporters would no longer be turned away at the door the way they once were.
As long as their swagger doesn’t get so high that we start mass-producing hack journalists…
In truth, the modern “gutter press” was the product of cutthroat competition that drove some reporters into darkness. Here, where the number of people who could even become reporters was effectively capped, true hacks would be hard to breed. By the 2020s the meme “reporter = trash” would be common, but in earlier ages many still looked up to journalists as men who risked their lives to expose society’s rot and the powerful’s corruption.
“Enough of that. From next month we may see a wave of cancellation requests, so set up a dedicated desk in advance. And arrange bulk sales through general stores inside Beijing so people can just buy a single copy instead of a monthly subscription.”
“Yes. We’re looking at releasing them around noon, after the morning edition window has passed, on a staggered schedule.”
“As always, you read my mind.”
Hwi-yeom smiled.
His analysis was that the current flood of sign-ups was a temporary spike that would not last. Even so, for those who found a monthly subscription burdensome but still wanted to read whenever some event caught their interest, newsstand sales would open a new stream of revenue—and a handsome one.
And…
“Founding a newspaper company in Beijing was never solely about giving His Majesty Emperor Sungui a political weapon. How is the real purpose progressing?”
In truth, the Hwi-eon Newspaper had been established in Beijing because they needed a channel to promote the stock market and carry news about shares.
Yi Gyu-chan answered with a smile.
“As it happens, we’re writing it up right now as a special feature for the one-month anniversary issue.”
“Hold it a little longer. Wait until the day after the Beijing Railway Joint-Stock Company is founded and the trains start running through Beijing. Announce the company’s launch together with the stock offering—that will hit hardest.”
If they broke the story early, public interest might go cold by the time the shares actually went on sale.
Yi Gyu-chan nodded.
“As you command!”
A neatly dressed middle-aged man strode boldly up to the government office without the slightest hesitation.
He wore neither official robes nor any mark of rank—just a commoner. The guards at the gate eyed him with puzzled suspicion and blocked his path.
“Halt. This is the Censorate. What business brings you here? If you have a grievance to file, you want the Surveillance Commission, not this place.”
The words dripped with quiet contempt.
The only reason the likes of you would come to a government office is to whine about some injustice. You don’t even know where you’re supposed to go, so clear off and try the other place.
That was the subtext. The man, however, showed not a flicker of intimidation. He simply lifted the bronze badge hanging at his throat and held it out.
“Song Jeon-bin, political desk, Hwi-eon Newspaper. I’m here to cover the progress of the investigation into Prefectural Governor Han Sang-pil of Shuntian. This is a Reporter’s Badge issued by the Media Management Department under the Dongchang.”
“Wha—?!”
The two characters for “Dongchang” carried roughly the same terror as the word “plague.” The scorn vanished from the guard’s eyes as if swept away by a sudden gale; his hand trembled slightly as he opened the gate.
“P-please, come in.”
“Thank you.”
Song Jeon-bin smiled. He could feel the pure, heady rush of professional pride rising so high it seemed ready to punch through the crown of his skull.
The Reporter’s Badge was a window that simplified the way one looked at the world. Flash it, and an honest, clean-handed official would lift his chin high—while the corrupt officials who treated commoners like dirt, and all their lackeys, would bow and scrape before its authority like dogs desperate to relieve themselves.
I can chastise the corrupt officials who mock the law, who play the saint in public while stuffing their own bellies behind the scenes. With the articles I scribble, I can cast a great lord from the clouds down into the abyss.
That knowledge delivered a pleasure as potent as any drug.
Yet Song Jeon-bin was not the sort of man to get drunk on press power and swing it like a club. For he was a disciple of the Beggars’ Sect—specifically of the Clean-Robe Faction, men who had devoted their entire lives to one principle: honor righteousness.
Compared with the Dirty-Robe Faction who lived by begging, the Clean-Robe beggars—who insisted on wearing spotless clothes—were sometimes mocked. In truth their path was no easier. Like the countless gifted men who, though capable and high-minded, found the world distasteful and withdrew into rural obscurity to live in pure poverty, the Clean-Robe Faction clung to the pride of being Beggars’ Sect disciples. Even while refusing ordinary work and remaining poor, they were bound by destiny to keep their appearance clean and dignified for the sake of their faction’s dignity.
Such a life was impossible without complete immersion in their sole guiding value: honor righteousness.
When that iron sense of mission fused with professional pride, the reporters who had come out of the Clean-Robe Faction of the Beggars’ Sect threw themselves into the social and political desks and performed with the force of a hundred men each.
The official who faced Song Jeon-bin was already sweating coldly. He leaned in with a confidential murmur.
“M-money—I’ll give you as much as you want. I’m not even asking you not to write the article, all right? Just say the investigation is currently under way. That’s not a lie, is it?”
Song Jeon-bin regarded the official in silence, then rose from his seat.
“Understood.”
“Y-you’ll go along with it?”
“‘When this paper’s request for comment reached Yi Si-baek, Compiler of the sixth rank in the Hanlin Academy, he attempted to bribe our reporter into fabricating the contents of the article. As a result, the transparent progress of the investigation can no longer be ascertained, and therefore…’”
“S-stop!”
The naked threat made Compiler Yi Si-baek bite his lip. As a bureaucrat steeped in privilege, the rage boiling up inside him felt ready to scorch his chest black. But for the moment he had no choice.
“…Fine. I’ll tell you everything about the matters currently under investigation. I’ll bring the prepared materials—wait a moment.”
“A wise decision.”
Yi Si-baek stood and left the room. On the way back to his office a subordinate fell into step beside him.
“Sir… what do you intend to do?”
“…What else? I already made bait documents for exactly this kind of situation, didn’t I?”
“But those were prepared so that if the Dongchang itself pressed us, we could sacrifice the flesh to save the bone.”
“…That bastard has to get something.”
Yi Si-baek snarled under his breath.
“I’ve always prided myself on reading people, and this one is just… a lunatic drunk on fanatical conviction. If we send him away empty-handed he will definitely blow something huge. Better to feed him this and get him out of here.”
“Haa… governing this country is getting harder by the day.”
“Tell me about it, damn it! The sons of good families are educated, well-bred—of course they’re going to become officials. We just want to make the path a little smoother, and they roll their eyes like that… You feed them pretty lines about the people being the foundation of the state and they start strutting around as if they really are the center of the nation…”
Muttering about the end of days, the two officials walked on. The office was only a couple of rooms away, so Yi Si-baek soon returned with the materials. He held them out to Song Jeon-bin with a genial smile.
“Here you are.”
“Thank you.”
“And… this is confidential, so just… keep quiet about the fact that it came from me, all right? A little protection for the whistle-blower—surely that’s not too much to ask…?”
Song Jeon-bin studied him for a moment, then gave a short laugh and nodded.
“Understood. I’ll take my leave, then.”
“Yes, take care. Ahem.”
Song Jeon-bin withdrew so cleanly it was hard to believe he had just uttered a threat. Yi Si-baek watched the departing back with a smiling face and then spat curses at it.
“Still, once the newspaper makes a fuss through that fellow, things might stay quiet for a while.”
He never dreamed, however, that Song Jeon-bin—Beggars’ Sect disciple and martial artist—had mastered the Thousand-Li Hearing Technique, and had already overheard every word of the two officials’ conversation.
“…I’ll need to request a meeting with the Vice President.”