The Paper Mill — Part 2
"The Prefect, I tell you. Not some minor official — the Prefectural Magistrate himself!"
Jeon Gilsan gaped at my declaration.
"I know. That's the whole point — I'm going to wring money out of him."
I had promised to prove it to the Mangeum Lord. Between the Imperial Inspector, the Censor, and the Prefect himself, no one would be able to argue with my record.
"That's not some family dog's name! A man like that could throw you in prison with a flick of his finger. He could invent a crime out of thin air and make it a hanging offense!"
"I know."
"No, you don't. You have no idea who the Prefect is. Hey — the Inspector staked her own official post just to take down one Division Governor. The Prefect only ranks a single grade below her. What exactly do you think a lowly bailiff like you can do? Even my grandfather has to beg for a personal audience when he wants the Prefect to pay back a loan! You don't touch officials like that, you idiot!"
Gilsan, my friend, let's keep the spittle to a minimum when you get worked up.
Still, he wasn't wrong. If a Division Governor is roughly a provincial governor, then the Prefectural Magistrate is more like a mayor of the capital. An Inspector might poke at him with an imperial mandate behind her, but a plainclothes bailiff like me? Yeah, that's not a fight you pick lightly.
"That's why I'm doing it — I've run the numbers. Even Jegal Sojeo agreed."
I had calculated every angle. When I glanced at Jegal Sojeo, she gave a small, composed nod.
"If all goes according to Young Master Kang's plan, it should be possible."
"Ha. I'm losing my mind. You two are serious. You actually think you can collect money from him? How? He won't even grant you an audience in the first place."
Fair point. Whatever identity I pulled out, if I requested a meeting with the Prefect, I'd be turned away at the gate. Worse — turned away by the very man I was chasing for money. Who knew what kind of treatment I'd get?
Which is exactly why—
"I'm going to make him beg me for a meeting."
"What?"
"There's a way."
A way to make the Prefect come looking for me.
***
"WHAT?! A raise? What nonsense are you spouting right now?"
At the paper mill in Wuhan, the manager sneered at the black-haired man standing before him, as if the very idea were beneath contempt.
"Manager. You told us that if we brought more Joseon workers in, you'd teach us the paper-craftsman's trade and raise our wages. Didn't you?"
The middle-aged Joseon man trembled with fear, but he gritted his teeth and forced the words out anyway. Some things simply had to be said.
"You think becoming a craftsman is that easy?!"
"I've worked at this mill for ten years now. The Central Plains men who came in after me have already started doing craftsman's work. Not a single Joseon worker has been made one. Doesn't that strike you as strange?"
"You can't even do your work properly, and you dream of being a craftsman? Look at that timber over there! I told you to stack it as it came in! Can't you barbarians even understand human speech?"
The manager waved a lazy hand toward the wood piled at the entrance.
"You specifically said to stack it once the next shipment arrived—"
"Now this mutt is talking back. Ten years of work and you think that earns you something?!"
The manager pulled an oil-soaked whip from his coat and lashed out in a single fluid motion.
"Aagh!"
A few strokes of the whip, and the courage he had barely scraped together was crushed, pathetically and completely.
"..."
Barbarians despised in the Central Plains had a hard time finding work. And because employers knew exactly how desperate they were, they drove them all the harder.
Not human beings, but livestock that understood speech — and for livestock, the whip is always too light.
They became easy prey for a master's rage. While an ordinary laborer might never once be struck, these men couldn't so much as raise a voice in protest against the lash.
Abuse and whipping unfolded right before everyone's eyes. The Joseon workers of the mill knew exactly what would happen to anyone who resisted, so they could only watch, burning with anger and helplessness.
"What are you all glaring about? Getting lazy?!"
Even after the collapsed worker was dragged off to one side, the manager kept shouting, his fury not remotely spent.
"We're sorry!"
"Shirking again. Damn useless barbarian dogs, every one of you. Lazy to the bone."
"That's exactly why those dogs are poor. Don't waste your temper on them — come have a cup of rice wine instead."
The deputy manager, the manager's bosom friend, held out a cup to his huffing companion.
"I took them in, gave them work, and they climb right up above their station!"
"It's not because you don't feed them and pay them dirt, though?"
"Oh, come now! Anyone overhearing would get the wrong idea! Those homeless, lazy barbarian dogs! I'm the one who turned them into proper human beings!"
The deputy manager laughed at that, patting the whip tucked inside his coat.
"True enough. Keep them under the lash, or they'll climb right over you."
The work at the paper mill was brutal.
Thousands of catties of timber arrived through Wuhan's waterways and had to be hauled out and dried; every day the workers steamed and boiled wood in scalding water.
The wood had to be beaten down to pulp, so it was stirred endlessly in the vats — and the eczema-like skin disease that came with it was simply part of the job.
Become a paper craftsman, and the treatment changed. But for the ordinary laborers, the work was too punishing, too grueling, and everyone avoided it if they could.
It was a job for people with nowhere else to go — people willing to silently endure even ill treatment. That was precisely why so many Joseon immigrants, treated as barbarians in the Central Plains, ended up working here.
"Brother. He says you should try it — go on, give it a push."
On any ordinary day, this would have been a time to keep heads down, watch the manager's moods, and work like the dead to escape his wrath.
Instead, a strange current was rippling through the Joseon workers of the paper mill.
"Is that... true?"
"Trust him, brother."
"Good. When has that man ever once spoken idly?"
"What are you all doing over there, not working! Want the whip again?"
The worker who had just been whipped unconscious staggered to his feet at the manager's bellow.
"...I will not work."
In his eyes burned a resolve that no whip could erase.
"What did you say?"
"I said we're not working!"
The man's shout rang through the paper mill.
"Has this dog lost his mind?! Eh? And who are you?!"
Somewhere along the way, the Joseon workers had surrounded the manager, radiating a grim, dangerous energy. A hundred or more of them. For the first time, the manager felt a genuine flicker of fear.
"If you won't raise our wages, none of us will work!"
"Have you ALL gone mad? You want to be fired?!"
On any other day, a single shout would have scattered them. But today was different.
"All together? Fine. All together it is!"
If one is not enough, then two. If two are not enough, then three.
And if three are not enough — then all together.
"What is this?"
"Workers of the paper mill, unite!"
Fists clenched, the workers roared out a slogan handed down from somewhere.
"Unite! UAAAAAAH!"
"Unite! Unite! Unite!"
In a single instant, the Joseon workers of the paper mill erupted.
"Wh-what the—?!"
"Throw them all out! If they resist, beat them out with fire pokers!"
"Manager?!"
"GET OUT!"
The manager was subdued in a heartbeat, and the overseers were beaten one by one and driven out of the mill.
"What is the meaning of this outrage! Are you trying to incite a rebellion?!"
At the deputy manager's shriek as he was shoved through the gate, one Joseon man answered with a voice of iron. This was the answer of workers who had endured for too long — the last resort, brought out only because there was a man they could trust.
"No! It's a STRIKE!"
"A... a strike?"
"From this moment on, the workers of this paper mill are on UNLIMITED STRIKE!!!"
A strike, demanding the rights of laborers. The first Joseon strike in the history of Wuhan.
***
"A rebellion!"
"A rebellion has broken out! All bailiffs and constables, to the paper mill owned by the Prefect — now!"
"My, my. So a rebellion's broken out at the paper mill. The Prefect's own property, no less."
And it kicked off the very moment I asked for it. Gotta love the efficiency. I turned to Jeon Gilsan, who was sitting in the carriage with a thoroughly idiotic expression frozen on his face.
"You... you did this?"
"Who, me?"
The paper mill strike. The first thread in the plan to drag the Prefect out of his lair.
"Hey. Are you sane? The ringleader of a rebellion doesn't escape punishment!"
"That's why I'm here — to make sure it doesn't become a rebellion."
"What?"
Believe me, I'm opposed to becoming a rebel ringleader myself. Even if I woke up tomorrow a martial arts prodigy, I'd have zero interest in going toe-to-toe with that golden storm sitting in the imperial palace.
"Make way! It's Bailiff Kang's carriage!"
"Hard at work, I see. So — what's the situation?"
By the time I arrived at the paper mill, constables and soldiers had it surrounded.
"The mill workers have risen in revolt, sir. They've taken the manager and several of the overseers hostage, and they're demanding to see you."
"They're demanding me?"
I asked, feigning complete bewilderment.
"Most of the workers are Joseon men, so it seems they asked for you by name. The magistrate's office has vested you with full authority over this incident, Bailiff Kang."
The constable looked genuinely baffled even as he said it. Kang Yunho might have a reputation as a brilliant bailiff, but handing full authority over a rebellion to a newly appointed one? Of course it seemed strange.
It wasn't strange at all. There's a certain person sitting in that office who makes officials quake in their boots at the mere sound of a cough. One casual word from her, and there isn't a soul in Wuhan who'd dare nod the wrong way.
"Is there anyone who can explain the circumstances?"
I saw no need to explain the reason myself, so I simply nodded and asked.
"We'll bring you the deputy manager of the mill, sir."
"Bailiff! Thank heaven you've come! Those barbarian dogs—!"
The deputy manager, with his snakelike slitted eyes and crafty face, came rushing up to me, his face scarlet with rage.
"Those barbarian dogs...?"
Right in front of me, was it? I looked him up and down with an expression of profound indifference.
"Hmm... why is it that your hair is...?"
The moment he caught sight of my hair, the man's composure crumbled and he started mumbling.
"What. Do you have a problem with the color of my hair?"
The deputy manager shook his head so hard I worried for his neck.
"N-no, sir! It's, that is, those barbarians over there—"
"I'm listening closely to this barbarian right here. Do go on."
This bastard really can't stop saying it, can he.
"That is... well, you see..."
How deep did that word run into his mouth, that he'd say barbarian straight to my face? Panicked as he was, the man genuinely seemed to have forgotten the word "Joseon" existed.
Excellent. Just as my research predicted — the crack to pry him open is right there. I heaved a disappointed sigh, then spoke with the cool, measured face of an official.
"Have the workers of the mill choose a representative and bring him to me. I'll need to hear exactly why this happened."
The strike had begun. Time to move on to the next stage.