A Master of Social Navigation

For the past few days, there had not been a single day that Kim Jong-seo, the Military Commissioner of Hamgil Province, did not wake up in a cold sweat. He flinched at the slightest sound, and even the simplest words failed to register properly in his ears.

It was only natural. "Something" kept flickering before his eyes, in his dreams, and in his ears.

—"W-when the mourning period began, I was five years old... which means I received ample grace from my parents... How could a child not repay that?"

—"I, too, followed the teachings of the sages, studying various books and passages in turn... and so, learning came naturally to me..."

—"From... what I recall, the sprouts began to emerge this past winter. I remember seeing them then."

How could he possibly forget?

A five-year-old orphan, completely alone in the world, had stepped forward on his own to conduct the three-year mourning rites for his grandfather and parents. An entire village had gathered grain and sewn clothes for that single orphan.

But that wasn't all.

That five-year-old orphan was actually a once-in-a-generation genius who had long since mastered reading without a hitch and had thoroughly digested the Reflections on Things at Hand.

And even that wasn't the end of it.

Because the orphan tended to his parents' graves daily, ears of wheat—bountiful beyond anything ever seen before—had grown around the burial mound.

Wheat that had pierced through the brutal cold of the northeastern frontier to grow.

Even now, the seeds of that wheat lay quietly asleep in Aoji.

He had dispatched men multiple times to send gifts and check on the condition of the seeds.

...They were still robust.

This was news that could easily turn the entire country upside down. If they managed to cultivate those seeds successfully, it wouldn't stop at merely shaking the nation.

As the Military Commissioner of Hamgil Province, Kim Jong-seo should, by all rights, write down this beautiful tale in an official report and send it flying to Hanyang. To do otherwise would be to deceive the throne.

No, rather than just sending a report, he might have to travel to the capital in person and declare it before the entire assembly of civil and military officials.

That was Kim Jong-seo's duty. He knew this well.

However, if there was one problem to consider here, it was this:

When should he report it?

"M-Military Commissioner, My Lord!"

"If this is about the movements of the Jurchens, I will not hear any more of it today—"

"The Left State Councillor has sent a letter!"

"Bring it to me at once."

In a flurry, Kim Jong-seo unfurled the letter sent by his "friend."

On the surface, this letter was sent by Choi Yun-deok, the Left State Councillor—the very man to whom Kim had entrusted the ears of wheat.

And then, a single line caught his eye.

It was written in a hand that was absolutely not Choi Yun-deok's.

Kim Jong-seo immediately dismissed all the hangers-on and bowed before the letter. Then he stood up and read the next passages.

There was no honorific register or formal court etiquette in the letter addressing him, a high-ranking official. How many people in this country could write to him like that? And who else would Kim Jong-seo kneel to receive a letter from?

He summarized the brief contents of the letter in his head.

If it were a lie, it would be a capital offense.

But if it were true, it would determine the direction of the northern development.

All the bickering over the development of Hamgil Province, "the land where our ancestors rose," would vanish, and this would become an immense political asset.

Yes. It was an issue massive enough to shake the nation.

The great works currently being undertaken by the state, the public consensus of the scholars—all of it could be overturned by this single story.

Naturally, such a matter could not be reported publicly out of the blue. It was too important.

Because it was too important, because it could be such a powerful weapon, it had to be delivered in the utmost secrecy and unleashed at the most opportune moment.

So, for now, everything was put on hold.

He had to keep it firmly in his grasp, always keeping in mind that this was a card capable of upending the entire board.

Kim Jong-seo breathed a sigh of relief, seeing that his own judgment aligned perfectly with the King's royal decision. Yet, goosebumps still prickled his skin.

The King had accepted the card he had sent. And now, Kim Jong-seo would be the one to manage that card and present it to the world.

...That card.

Before it was an important card, it was a young child who had lost his parents.

As a Confucian scholar, he had to look after him. As a human being, he could not turn away.

When he thought of this, the next passages caught his eye.

"He told me he's leaving it to me. So, don't even think about coming down to the capital using excuses like 'Your servant, too, has not fully completed his mourning rites...'"

"You are absolutely not coming down."

"Hang in there."

"..."

Suddenly, his stomach burned fiercely.

For some reason, tears welled up, but they didn't feel like tears of deep emotion or sympathy; they felt like tears of pure, unadulterated sorrow.

Of course, it had to be a misunderstanding.

The King trusted Kim Jong-seo so much that he told him not to even dream of leaving the northern frontier for the next several years.

The King had even said that his late mother would be delighted to see Kim Jong-seo working himself to the bone, his hands and feet trembling, in Hamgil Province.

What reason could there possibly be to feel sad? Why would he be sad?

He couldn't understand it at all. Hahaha.

...He must not be sad.

Wiping away the tears that were surely flowing from sheer joy, Kim Jong-seo pondered the final passage.

There was indeed a threat—no, a royal command—embedded there, telling him to focus on his work instead of using the child as an excuse.

But that wasn't all.

The child truly had no teacher.

The King was clearly asking for his opinion on whom to send as the child's mentor.

The King had laid out several conditions.

First, the candidate had to be a scholar of outstanding literary talent. This was, without a question, the most important condition. To avoid wasting such raw, gifted talent, an exceptional man of letters had to accompany him.

Furthermore, a scholar who had personally observed the three-year mourning period would be even better suited as a mentor. If they had only recently completed it, even better. They could help the child navigate the difficulties of mourning, and no one would be able to find fault with the disciple through the teacher.

In addition, they had to possess both character and scholarship to guide the child well. In other words, the teacher's family background and academic lineage had to be robust enough to support the child when the state eventually "lifted him up and employed him greatly."

Above all...

—"Since raising a good disciple ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠is a scholar's greatest joy, it must be someone who has no qualms about seeking such joy."

...They had to be willing to come all the way to Hamgil Province just to teach a single child.

It was an incredibly demanding set of conditions. Especially the last one.

He knew many highly learned scholars, and many of them belonged to powerful noble clans, but who among them would willingly come to this remote borderland?

At the same time, to maintain this "top-secret matter," the candidate could not be too prominent, ruling out high-ranking officials or elder statesmen.

"Hmm..."

A scholar of outstanding literary talent, who had observed the three-year mourning period, and was a descendant of a prestigious clan.

Kim Jong-seo agonized over it for a long time. Then, he picked up his brush.

Come to think of it, there was a perfect candidate.

"Are you alright, my friend?"

"I am fine. It is just that these fine clothes, which I have not worn in a long time, feel unfamiliar."

"How many scholars are there like you these days?"

"Indeed. There is no filial son quite like him. How proud your late father must be in the heavens!"

A scholar who had just turned twenty ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠had completed the three-year mourning period for his father. He had spent a long time in mourning clothes during the prime of his youth, but he had no regrets.

The effort he had poured in would return to him as the respect and admiration of many. That respect, in turn, would serve as the foundation for him to bring glory to his family's name.

To observe the mourning rites with utmost devotion, and then to go forth, achieve success, and make his family proud—was this not the greatest form of filial piety?

Yes. The young man's future was bright.

As the son of a prestigious noble clan, he had made a name for himself as a prodigy since childhood, and now he had even earned a reputation as an exceptionally filial son.

No one could block his path to success now.

This young scholar was brimming with confidence that he would pass the civil service examinations within the next three years.

Moreover, if he spent the next few years cultivating himself, living in the capital, forging deep ties with friends from various families, and making a good impression on high-ranking officials?

The young man was highly confident in his social navigation skills.

He would not stop at merely walking a guaranteed path to success.

His lofty dreams of rising to the blue clouds would cease to be mere dreams.

He imagined himself in the future as a state councillor with a long, flowing beard.

This, too, was no mere fantasy. It was a future that would soon be realized.

Unless some bizarre, unprecedented event occurred, that is.

What obstacle could possibly stand in his way?

"Third Master? Someone gave me a letter to deliver to you."

"Oh? Who did they say sent it?"

"They said it was from the Military Commissioner of Hamgil Province..."

Huh? The Military Commissioner out of nowhere?

A man hundreds of miles away in the northeast?

Of course, since he had just finished his three-year mourning, elders of his own clan and other prestigious families had been sending him words of blessing. But this was rather unexpected.

It wasn't as if he had sent a servant to deliver casual greetings, nor was it sent alongside others' letters. Out of the blue, a letter like this?

With a bewildered expression, he accepted the Military Commissioner's letter and opened it.

"..."

"M-Master? Are you alright? Your hands are suddenly shaking."

"Leave me."

The young scholar immediately dismissed the babbling servant. He quickly stepped into a nearby room and hastily bowed.

As he stood up, his trembling hands held the letter. Only a few characters were written at the very beginning.

This was a passage from the Analects, Chapter "Wei Zheng," comparing a king who rules by virtue to the North Star that keeps its place.

A passage symbolizing the "King."

And the handwriting was somehow familiar. It was not the Military Commissioner's handwriting.

...But they said the Military Commissioner sent it? Why? How?

The moment he realized this was practically a secret royal decree transmitted through Kim Jong-seo, the young scholar found it hard to breathe.

Yet, his eyes did not stop.

In that state, the young scholar rapidly scanned the lines of text.

There is a filial son in Hamgil Province... observing the three-year mourning rites at the age of five... mastering the Reflections on Things at Hand, a prodigy indeed...

—"...Therefore, how would it be if you, with your great talent, were to become the boy's literary mentor and guide him?"

Of course, it was not a question.

It was not a recommendation, an advice, or a proposal.

It was a "command." One that could absolutely not be refused.

And naturally, it was not the Military Commissioner's command either. It came from higher up.

As mentioned before, this young scholar was highly confident in his social navigation skills.

Therefore, he knew all too well that "refusing" was not an option. He had known it from the very first line.

But he still ran the calculations.

The next few years. The time he could have spent in Hanyang building connections with friends and winning the favor of high-ranking officials.

The opportunity to focus on his studies in a comfortable environment right before the civil exams.

And...

The chance to carry out a "royal command" and place the Military Commissioner—whom the King cherished deeply—under an immense, undeniable debt of gratitude.

Furthermore, the contents of the letter seemed, well, a bit exaggerated, but that didn't matter. If the King threw his weight behind it, he could make all of it "fact."

To be precise, it would have to become fact.

In that case, as a prodigy himself, he would become the mentor of a prodigy.

Come to think of it...

It might not be so bad.

Though his thoughts didn't really matter since he had no choice anyway.

He sent a reply to Kim Jong-seo. Of course, the ultimate recipient of that reply would be someone "higher" than Kim Jong-seo.

As a descendant of a prestigious clan, possessing outstanding literary talent and having observed the three-year mourning period, he made his decision.

Since he was confident in his social navigation skills anyway.

For now, he would have to play the schoolmaster to some local official's kid in Hamgil Province, but...

Somehow, a path would open.

"I... I have long heard of your illustrious literary reputation, scholar. It is an honor to meet you..."

"Hahaha! I know it is flattery, but it is quite amusing. I have not even taken the civil exams yet; where could my literary reputation possibly be so illustrious?"

In countless movies and dramas.

"Perhaps the Military Commissioner spoke of me beforehand. But there is no need to raise me so high, when I am barely twenty. How could you have known of me?"

I told you, no.

By the way, your grave gets a lot of hate comments too. Probably even more after that movie hit ten million viewers.

Still, they say a person only truly dies when they are forgotten. Isn't that a form of eternal life in its own way?

But... what was my goal again?

Aside from immediate survival.

Preventing the Gyeyu Reconstruction.

And ensuring Danjong dies of natural causes.

Usually, in these kinds of novels, it's implied that a terrible price awaits if you ignore those goals.

Right. So I have to stop the Gyeyu Reconstruction and keep Danjong alive.

"Indeed. Though I am lacking, I have decided to become your teacher, so I must properly introduce myself. I am Shin Sukju of the Goryeong Shin clan. My courtesy name is Beom-ong, so when ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠you tell others who your teacher is, speak of me thus."

And the person standing before me is probably the worst possible connection for achieving that goal.

Gosh, that... ugh.

...Amusing.