I Will Have Him

Yes. I had indeed built up enough of a reputation for the King himself to summon me. I had even founded evidentiary scholarship at the age of six.

"To think I would meet the famous prodigy! My son has built a wall between himself and his books—could you write just a few lines for him to study?"

"..."

But I never expected this. Guests came. A lot of them.

At first, I had smugly played the part, saying things like, "No portraits, please." But after repeating that about fifty times, my throat was raw.

"Ha, hahaha... My disciple is currently feeling unwell..."

"How can a scholar turn away guests who have come in pursuit of learning? Is that any way for the third son of Shin Jebu to speak?"

"..."

"Step aside."

Shin Sukju, who had suddenly been demoted to my manager, suffered immensely and collapsed a few times. Still, my mentor did his best. He even kept a smile on his face when old men insulted his lineage... He really wasn't the type of person who deserved to be treated like this. He was brilliant, lacking in absolutely nothing.

In the end, the master of the house personally chased the guests out. Only then did they apologize and disperse. Did they still have a shred of decency left? Surely they realized how absurd it was to keep a young child awake all night.

Or so I thought.

"Is the master of the house in? I have come from the residence of the Second Minister of Personnel."

Dawn broke. I had slept for exactly three hours. Not three sijin—three hours. These absolute madmen. Apparently, they had only agreed not to harass me during the night.

The master of the house, who had initially been thrilled to host a renowned prodigy, looked utterly soul-crushed now that his home had turned into a bustling marketplace. Feeling too guilty to stay any longer, we departed much earlier than planned—and in a far more... decrepit state. We made a straight run for Hanyang.

"It's Young Master An!"

"It's the seven-year-old master of letters, An Heon!"

"Please, just write my son and daughter's names once! I beg of you!"

And then, the streets erupted into pure chaos. Literally, a sea of people swarmed us like storm clouds. As I verged on a full-blown panic attack, my mentor grabbed me. And he took action.

"Hey there, Shin Beom-ong! You know my face. Just once, for just fifteen minutes, let me have a cup of tea with the boy..."

"He's running that way!"

"Catch him!"

"He's sprinting now! Beom-ong, how can a scholar run around so shamelessly while carrying a child?!"

...Then why the hell are you running?

Panting and wheezing, we ran. Only when my mentor's servants began swinging wooden clubs did a path finally clear. Exhausted, my mentor had to set me down every now and then. Then a servant would scoop me up, and when that servant grew tired, they would pass me to another, leaving me bobbing up and down like a ragdoll.

"Good heavens, is that child passing by not the seven-year-old master of letters? What a coincidence!"

"What do you mean, coincidence? I saw you crouching there since the morning star rose yesterday!"

"Shh! Quiet!"

It was a complete madhouse. Voices called out to me from every direction, using a dizzying array of titles. Child prodigy, young master, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Master An, the Wheat Grain Boy, the five-year-old filial son, the seven-year-old genius, the seven-year-old master of letters, the seven-year-old sage... They were all fine. I could tolerate them. But...

"The Aoji Boy!"

"Aaaaargh!"

Not that one. I absolutely, positively hated that one.

"W-what is it, Heon?"

"Please move faster, Mentor. Your unworthy disciple is suffering greatly."

Why? How? Why was no one stopping this madness? Was it because most of the people involved in this frenzy were of high status? Still, shouldn't the authorities intervene immediately when a riot breaks out in the capital? In a pre-modern society, what could be more serious than unrest in the capital? Why were they just standing by with folded arms? A sudden gathering of crowds was a direct threat to the regime. Especially when people gathered near the King—that was incredibly dangerous. No matter how high their status, were they higher than the King? If the King made up his mind...

...Wait, hold on.

"Mentor, is His Majesty intentionally letting this chaos slide because..."

"If you understand, then hold your tongue."

"..."

I knew it. I was a symbol of the northern frontier development. Having the children of high-ranking officials grovel like this could serve as political leverage against their families. Conversely, groveling like this was also a way for them to prove their loyalty to the King... The sheer volume of political calculations made my head spin.

"The Aoji Boy? Is that the Aoji Boy over there?"

"Aoji Boy! Stop right there!"

"The Aoji Boy is here? Where?!"

My head throbbed even harder.

"He's here!!"

I hung limply like a semi-liquid puddle on Shin Sukju's back. When I finally managed to open my eyes, we were standing in front of a noble family's estate. The moment we crossed the threshold, sturdy men blocked the main gate and began patrolling the walls. Finally, quiet descended. We practically collapsed onto the nearest veranda.

"Heave... gasp... M-Mentor, I think I'm going to die..."

"Me... too..."

What? "Me too"? Is that something you should say to a child? A man who has eaten three times as much rice as me? No, putting that aside... I really felt like I was going to die. I was only seven years old. In 21st-century terms, that made me barely six. Overworking a body of this age like this... was simply unsustainable.

"Gasp... wheeze..."

"Third Young Master! Oh my goodness, pull yourself together!"

"F-first, the boy... give the boy some water..."

"What in the world is this nonsense about Aoji! Why on earth did a promising scholar like you go to such a place?!"

"Quiet... just bring some water for the boy and me first..."

Of course, my mentor was equally exhausted. ...But looking over, it seemed his ordeal was far from over.

"Sukju."

With just that one word, my mentor sprang up like a mechanical toy. I sat up too. I had no choice. In this world, calling someone by their given name was considered rude, which is why they created courtesy names, and even calling them by those was rude, so they made art names. In such a society, there were very few people who could call a noble man by his birth name.

And the person who had just called my mentor by his name—a middle-aged woman glaring at us with eyes burning with unmistakable fury—was...

"Sukju, you're back."

"..."

Even if I looked at her upside down, she was clearly my mentor's mother. Beside her stood a crowd of elders, all wearing similar expressions. The only young person among them was ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a woman around my mentor's age, holding a small child. She, too, looked absolutely furious. The only person present who didn't look ready to commit murder was the toddler in her arms. As I clicked my tongue at the child, who innocently asked, "Grandma, what's wrong?" my mentor's mother spoke.

"Your son, Shin Ju, is now four years old."

"...Ju, you've grown so much."

"Grandma, Mommy, who is that mister?"

"..."

"..."

"..."

The child's innocent question dragged the atmosphere straight down to the depths of hell. My mentor's mother looked up at the sky as if her neck had gone stiff, then lowered her gaze again. ...She looked as if she were mentally calculating whether it was still a crime for a parent to slay their own child.

"Your unworthy son greets you, Mother."

My mentor shifted his stance with a speed that made me wonder if this was how he would later betray his colleagues. Judging by his expression alone, there was no greater filial son under heaven.

"I am well aware that you went to the northern frontier on a grand mission for the state."

"The most noble and sacred sovereign also knew that you, Mother, would understand the greater purpose, and thus..."

"But surely even the King did not forbid you from sending a single letter home."

Whoa.

"..."

"..."

...No, why are you looking at me? You brought this on yourself, Shin Sukju. Did anyone tell you to leave your newlywed wife and four-year-old son behind and never visit once? Why the resentful glare? Instead of getting so obsessed with me that you babbled about how "nothing is more delightful than discussing the principles of the universe with you," you should have paid attention to your own kid.

"..."

"..."

Seriously, why are you sending pleas for help to a seven-year-old? Didn't you just hear? I'm only three years older than your son.

"...I-I have heard much about you. I am An Heon of the Juksan An clan. Having been left a helpless orphan, I have received great grace from my mentor."

Ah, fine. I'll help. You pathetic excuse for a teacher.

"My mentor has repeatedly told me that without his wise mother and virtuous wife, he could never have achieved such high scholarship..."

"I am sorry. My son's learning is so meager that I fear he has only let your talents go to waste."

"..."

"Your young body must be exhausted from the long journey. There is warm water in the room, so wash up and rest."

Um... uh... Retreat. This is beyond saving.

"...Thank you."

"Heon!"

"Your disciple shall take his leave. I hope you, Mentor, will fully enjoy the family warmth you have missed for so long."

I did my part. Don't try to hold me back. I ignored Shin Sukju, who was looking at me like an orphaned kitten, and turned away. I'm the actual orphan here, so why is he looking at me like that?

Guided by a servant, I entered the room, and a dull thwack echoed from outside. Surely, it was just my imagination. The Goryeong Shin clan was a prestigious family, after all. A renowned noble house that had held immense power since the Goryeo Dynasty would never resort to such violence.

Right after that, a sharp, strangled squeak—which sounded suspiciously like my mentor—rang out. This, too, had to be an illusion. There was no way the Shin Sukju would be beaten by his mother and humiliated in front of everyone.

As I was resting, my mentor trudged into the room, sporting a fresh bruise from "tripping somewhere."

"..."

"..."

Seriously, why was a married man coming here instead of going to his wife's chambers? Lacking the energy to even stand, I merely nodded my head from where I sat. My mentor glared at me with a deeply aggrieved expression.

"In what country's etiquette is it acceptable to squat like that in front of your teacher?"

"You have neglected your study of ancient history, Mentor. According to the Book of Wei in the Records of the Three Kingdoms, the people of ancient Goguryeo sat exactly like this."

"You could be on your deathbed and your tongue would ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠still be flapping."

It was a free-spirited dynamic that defied the typical teacher-disciple relationship of this era. It was only possible because my mentor was young, and I was practically the one teaching him. In times like this, I was glad Shin Sukju was my teacher. As I indulged in these idle thoughts, my mentor let out a heavy sigh.

"Get up. We must begin preparing before today ends. We will be busy by the day after tomorrow at the latest."

"What do you mean by that?"

"What do you mean? Did the chaos make you forget the very reason we came to the capital?"

The reason I came to the capital?

"Are you not going to the palace?"

Ah. Just then, the door slid open, and a servant bowed deeply.

"A messenger has arrived from the palace. The date and time for your audience have been set..."

I had completely forgotten.

Today, there was no horrific chaos like before. As expected, the previous incident had indeed occurred under the King's silent complicity. ...My body stiffened of its own accord.

For the first time since being born in Joseon, I had been washed so thoroughly. My hair was freshly bound. It was also my first time wearing stiff, starched silk clothes. They even had embroidery. My hands trembled, wondering if I was even allowed to wear such garments. I recalled the days in Aoji when I wore whatever clothes the villagers had scraped together for me. We had all suffered so much. Everyone, look how far I've come... I'll definitely repay you... after I meet the King. The thought made me feel suffocated all over again.

Clean and dressed to the nines, I walked forward under the guidance of a eunuch. I wasn't the only one tense. Even my mentor, a son of Hanyang's prestigious beol-yeol nobility, was frozen stiff. Dolbi was also trembling, eventually spitting out a note.

Don't worry, Hong-wi. I can't even process any of this right now anyway.

Any 21st-century person would tremble at the thought of meeting King Sejong, but for me, it was even worse. Why? Imagine how a physics student would feel meeting Isaac Newton. And I was a Korean literature major.

Most Koreans only think, Hangul is scientific and convenient. We don't have to use Chinese characters or the Roman alphabet. That's because that is what they experience daily. But what about at the level of a major or a researcher? Why was Hangul called Eonmun? Contrary to popular belief, Eonmun was not simply a derogatory term. During Sejong's reign, there was even an agency called the Eonmun-cheong (Bureau of Eonmun). If it were a mere derogatory term, it would be like establishing a "Bureau of Cops" instead of a Police Department, which makes no sense.

Eonmun. A script (mun) to write the vernacular (eon). In other words, it allowed the proper transcription of the "non-standard vernacular"—the Korean language. To use a musical analogy, musicians used to talk like this: "Hey, play it like mi-sol-re, sol-do-fa, mi-mi. You get the vibe, right? Just keep the beat lively." And then Sejong created the five-line staff. Notes, rests, time signatures, and dynamics. From start to finish. It was a musical revolution.

...Come to think of it, Sejong actually did invent a musical notation system. Seriously, what kind of monster was this man?

The creation of the Hunminjeongeum didn't just impact Korean linguistics. He had foreign languages—Chinese, Japanese, Mongolian, and Manchu—transcribed in Eonmun for the interpreters. Thanks to that, linguists worldwide rely heavily on the Hunminjeongeum to reconstruct the phonology of that era. For the now-extinct Manchu language, without these records, historical reconstruction would have been impossible. Because Sejong declared, "The current Chinese pronunciation is distorted!" and attempted to reconstruct the Tang and Song dynasty pronunciations, the Chinese phonology of those eras was preserved.

Yes. I was now on my way to see a legend—

"..."

"..."

Wh-wha... b-b-b-but... Wow, it's the palace. Wow, it's the sky. Wow, it's the royal dragon robe. It's King Sejong. My mind went completely blank. In my paralyzed state, I threw myself flat on the floor. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a somewhat familiar face. It was Heo Jo. As I lay there, still as death, a voice echoed.

"So you are An Heon."

It was the royal voice.

"You may raise your head."

With those few words, the eunuch's passionate lectures from yesterday—insisting that I "must absolutely never look directly upon His Majesty's countenance"—became utterly meaningless. Still, out of respect for his efforts, and out of a long-standing habit from my student days, I focused my gaze right on the space between the King's nose and upper lip. What I saw was entirely different from the portrait on the ten-thousand-won bill. A handsome, robust, and rugged build and face... albeit with quite a bit of extra weight. The DNA of King Taejo, who was practically a human weapon, had ultimately succumbed to a meat-heavy diet and a sedentary lifestyle. Indeed, human free will can triumph over genetic destiny. I couldn't help but marvel.

"Indeed, despite your tender age, your features are exceptionally striking. You possess a refined and elegant grace, truly the countenance of a beautiful scholar."

Fortunately, King Sejong, Yi Do, was also impressed by my appearance, so my slight daze went unnoticed.

"Upon hearing the tales of An Heon, I have once again reflected on the principle of resonance between Heaven and man."

The King, the Isaac Newton of linguistics, spoke again.

"The moral transformation has reached the northern frontier, bringing forth beautiful, auspicious signs. This is precisely why I sought to defend the lands of our ancestors. Furthermore, Heaven has bestowed such a brilliant talent upon us—how could I not rejoice?"

"Indeed, Your Majesty. Your servant humbly believes that this is a natural harmony that arises when the moral transformation of a sage ruler flourishes."

A familiar voice suddenly cut in. Rolling my eyes slightly, I saw it was indeed Heo Jo.

"Since Your Majesty has always prioritized customs and moral transformation while casting out heresy, loyal subjects and virtuous women have emerged. They followed Your Majesty's decree to the northern frontier, and though they met untimely deaths, their righteousness was passed down, allowing their brilliant child to observe the funeral rites of his own accord. How could this be anything but the virtue of Your Majesty's beautiful governance?"

"..."

"..."

"..."

I, I... uh... Heo Jo, that absolute madman. What did he just say? 'You should have stuck to customs and moral transformation instead of doing useless things.' 'Because of your useless meddling, this child's parents died in the north.' 'So do your job properly.' Why did he have to pick the exact moment of my audience to launch an attack on the King? Was he trying to drive me insane?

"Indeed. Though I am lacking, I strive to follow the teachings of the sages, and thus loyal subjects, virtuous women, and filial sons follow in turn."

But to my utter astonishment, the King didn't even bat an eye.

"It is because such loyal subjects reside in the northeast that we can defend the land where our ancestors established the royal foundation. Let all ministers bear this in mind."

He even countered with, 'Now, from this moment on, "loyal subject" means someone who defends the northern frontier well. Anyone want to object?'

From those chiming in with "Your words are indeed true, Your Majesty," to those nervously reading the room, the political dynamics were shifting in real-time. ...It was absolutely chilling. Not a single person in this room was a fool. From the high ministers over there to the eunuchs beside me, no minor players were allowed in this hall. My mentor was no exception. Even as he slowly stepped back to leave the stage entirely to me, he was exchanging subtle glances with several ministers. And I had been dropped right into the center of it all.

"While I am well aware of your beautiful integrity, I have also heard much of your outstanding literary talent."

Amidst all this, the King addressed me once more. Gulping, I opened my mouth to speak to the King for the first time.

"Words are naturally prone to exaggeration, Your Majesty. I fear my meager talents have caused an unnecessary commotion."

"How mature the words of a seven-year-old boy are. Indeed, many are curious about your talents."

...Finally. It was time for the prodigy test. The gazes of the most brilliant and powerful men in the nation converged on a single person. Me. There had to be at least a dozen famous historical figures I recognized in this room. This very moment would likely be remembered for centuries to come. As I swallowed hard and braced myself, someone spoke up.

"Your servant has one question he wishes to ask the boy."

Surprisingly, it was Heo Jo again.

"Since the child is exceptionally well-versed in the writings of past and present, let him compose a poem."

Oh?

"For instance... how about asking him to compose a verse using the character for 'old' (老)?"

...Wait, what? 'An old tree blossoms, but its heart does not grow old.' This was the famous anecdote of Kim Siseob. I immediately loaded the verse in my mind. Thank you, Left State Councillor. A principled minister really is different. Thanks to you, I can breeze through this crisis for free—

"Why does the Minister concern himself only with the talent for decorating words?"

...Ugh. Blocked. By the King.

"That is not what we should ask a child who has diligently studied the words of the ancients."

The King's eyes sparkled. This was strange. If this was the 19th year of Sejong's reign, his eyesight should be failing, and the Crown Prince should be taking over state affairs. Why... why was he so full of energy? The King opened his mouth. And I prayed. Please, please, an easy question. Just make it something simple...

"I shall ask you. What is filial piety?"

'Define filial piety and discuss its significance in relation to the lecture material.'

Argh! I absolutely hate essay questions!

Yi Do stroked his beard and rested his chin on his hand. Then, with absolute leisure, he waited for An Heon's response. At this moment, the King's heart was filled with pure amusement. To truly measure the depth of an answer, the question must not be precise. Rather, it must be broad, probing the very fundamentals. Only then could one see how he constructed his logic and framed his thoughts upon an empty foundation.

Nothing was easier or more tedious than a narrow, precise question. The direction of the answer did not matter; what mattered was how quickly, confidently, and structured it was delivered. Of course, this approach also had the benefit of requiring very little thought to ask. ...It was a mindset strikingly similar to that of a notoriously cruel 21st-century university professor, though the King himself had no way of knowing this. He simply took pleasure in watching his ministers weep like pitiful students.

Yet, reflecting on it, the child An Heon was self-taught. Though Shin Sukju had been assigned to him for a year, the boy seemed already complete. He had reportedly mastered the Four Books and Five Classics by the age of six. Thus, he would not be accustomed to such formal academic dialogue with a mentor. Surely, it would take him some time to—

"Among the deeds of a scholar, filial piety and fraternal respect are the root. Among the three thousand offenses, none is greater than unfilial conduct."

"...Oh?"

Unintentionally, a soft exclamation escaped Yi Do's lips. But the boy's tongue did not stop.

"One who serves his parents must obediently follow their commands, joyfully nourish them with food and drink, tend to their illnesses with anxious care, observe the funeral rites with utmost sincerity upon their ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠passing, and offer sacrifices with solemn devotion."

"..."

"Yet, none of this must end in mere formality; it must stem from the natural human instinct aligned with the Heavenly Principle—that is the heart of filial piety. To act upon this is what we call filial conduct."

Everyone was left utterly speechless.

"...Indeed, he is a seven-year-old sage," someone muttered, and no one could deny it. For those were indeed the words of a sage. The boy silently offered his deepest gratitude to Master Yulgok Yi I, the author of the School Model, who had provided the quote. Following the teachings of a predecessor (who had not yet been born), how could he not be deemed a sage? The entire palace fell silent.

"Indeed."

Except for one person. The King's eyes flashed.

"I see. I now know the depth of your understanding."

Curiosity flared in his eyes like lightning.

"I shall ask you just one more question."

The King paused to catch his breath and organize his thoughts.

"There is a son."

The royal voice flowed. It was a plain opening sentence.

"But his father intends to assassinate the King he serves."

With the very next sentence, the ministers gasped. They hurriedly cast glances, trying to stop the King.

"Is it righteous for the son to aid his father in assassinating the King? Or is it righteous for him to report his father to the King and stop him?"

But the King blithely ignored their signals. Here is the greatest prodigy under heaven. Let us see you answer this as well.

"..."

"..."

"..."

Of course, from the King's perspective, he was merely throwing out a light, interesting topic for debate. Even if the child made a mistake, it would make for a fine picture if the King personally guided him. Who would dare harm the boy? If the King didn't, no one could. From the King's point of view, this was all true. It was indeed. But to the frogs in the pond, the pebble thrown by the child felt like the end of the world. Disaster had struck. The King had just taken a full swing, the kind of move he usually reserved for destroying political rivals.

Heo Jo wanted to snap back, asking if the King was really doing this just because of a little sarcasm earlier, while the other ministers prepared themselves to protect An Heon. They had to shield the boy who supported the dynasty's core ideology, not to mention the northern frontier development. They were ready to defend him no matter what came out of his mouth.

"Forgive me, Your Majesty, but..."

And none of them could have predicted what would happen next.

"That is a bizarre question."

"Bizarre?"

"If a murderer buries the corpse in the mountains, is that righteous? Or is it righteous to throw it into the sea?"

Silence.

"For a father to attempt to assassinate his King means the son has failed to earnestly remonstrate with both his father and his sovereign. To ask of righteousness from one who has already committed the greatest acts of unfilial conduct and disloyalty—how could this not be bizarre?"

Silence fell once more.

Heo Jo stealthily examined the King's face. The corners of His Majesty's mouth were curving upward at an angle Heo Jo had never seen before. Heo Jo felt as if a thousand years of anxiety were being washed away. Now, it is settled—

"Those are the empty words of a scholar. If a murder has been committed, it is righteous to bury the corpse properly and report the crime to the local magistrate."

Uh-oh.

"Does committing an unrighteous act mean one can never seek a more righteous path again? Are your words truly in accordance with the teachings of the sages?"

At this point, Heo Jo seriously wondered if hurling profanities at the King might actually be in accordance with the teachings of the sages. But looking at the King, Heo Jo quickly changed his mind. ...You couldn't stop a wild horse that had lost its mind by swearing at it. You would only get trampled by its hooves.

To the King, who was currently enjoying a level of dopamine rarely experienced by a forty-one-year-old, An Heon replied once more.

"That is something I cannot answer."

"You cannot answer? Are you evading the question?"

"No, Your Majesty. Since you have not spoken of the most crucial matter, I dare not make a judgment."

"The most crucial matter, you say."

"If the father is Wang Mang of the Han Dynasty, then the son must report him to the King. However, if the King is King Zhou of the Yin Dynasty, then the son must aid his father."

Wang Mang was the traitor who assassinated Emperor Ping of the Western Han and established the Xin Dynasty. King Zhou was the infamous tyrant of the Yin Dynasty who was overthrown by King Wu.

"Only when we know where the Mandate of Heaven resides, and whether the father acts as a father and the ruler acts as a ruler, can your humble servant dare to answer Your Majesty's question."

"..."

"..."

"..."

Now, the court ministers stared at An Heon. A seven-year-old boy who had spoken without a single stumble, never once straying from the Way. His features were striking, his voice clear and elegant. And... ...just what kind of seven-year-old was this eloquent? Especially in front of the King?

They turned their gaze back to the other side. The King's eyes, which had not blinked once this entire time, were bloodshot. And in those bloodshot eyes, only one person was reflected. A smile, the likes of which they had never seen before, played on the King's lips. Goosebumps broke out on everyone as they froze in place. Somehow, they all knew exactly what was about to happen.

Just as everyone anticipated, the King was thinking:

Send that child... back to the northern frontier?

I... cannot have 'that' right this instant?

...Why?