Chapter 12
Chapter 12
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 12
Chapter Title: 7. Passing Scholar (1)
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A few days later, Go Bonghwan, whom I had summoned, couldn't hide his astonishment as he looked over the draft I had put together.
"Well now, there are exam prep summaries flooding the markets like hotcakes—collections of poetry for the literary exam or selections of prose—but those are just abridged answer templates. Mine added a bit by tailoring them to current affairs. But this... this goes a step further."
Go Bonghwan was just flattering me because ghostwriting exam papers was his trade. To be brutally honest, it wasn't a step forward; it was a step toward sheer audacity.
I grinned shamelessly in return.
This summary, in a certain sense, was something only a modern person could create.
Drawing from my modern experiences, I had packed it with the kind of information exam-takers thirsted for.
It wasn't curated excerpts or elegant poems and prose—there were already plenty of those.
What I had organized were non-academic matters: exam hall tips, how to push through crowds, what cheating you could get away with and what you couldn't, how to handle getting caught, and a bunch of other practical pointers that seemed trivial but were incredibly useful.
Of course, noble families passed down such knowledge orally.
But oral tradition is always vague, inaccurate, and full of gaps.
If it were that reliable, why would the markets be flooded with published summary guides?
This was a clear, step-by-step guide—like a "Monkey See, Monkey Do" manual—that eliminated all that ambiguity.
But clarity had to be handled carefully. Straightforward wording in a cheating exam guide would get the book burned and the distributor arrested.
So I used metaphors that any literate person could understand. That way, you could always deny it later.
Come to think of it, martial arts manuals are full of weird metaphors for the same reason.
Which society would tolerate a manual saying, "Swing the tool like this to gut a man's belly~"?
You have to go on about plum blossom petals and Mount Tai's energy so you can bluff if someone flips through it at home.
This book was, dare I say, a rare treasure worthy of a fated encounter.
It was wisdom so precious, I'd want to pass it down only as a family secret, shed blood and tears over sharing it.
But I needed money.
I'd considered going into business myself, but no matter how reform-minded my father or I might be, a scholar turning merchant wasn't that simple.
It's like a modern congressman or official running a nightclub or casino. That's the exact image. The treatment merchants got in Joseon—and their actual behaviors—were right on that level.
In the end, the only option was lending money to merchants like high officials do with proxies in Korea and collecting interest. But that took too long. The interest was ballooning at bullet-train speed even now.
So I needed a venture that profited me immediately.
And that left only this.
All I had to sell was my noble scholarship, vivid experience, and honed writing skills. Hmm. A scholar's pure talents really do feel good.
Why are lectures from big exam prep companies so popular?
High school curricula are public knowledge anyway, all the same. Top academies don't teach string theory to seniors.
Their edge is crafting the "optimal exam strategy" backed by vast data and capital.
In Joseon, it was even more pronounced. And there were tons of loopholes to exploit. The system was full of holes.
I poured my lifetime of talent into packaging this book.
"I just sat for the exam once, so I thought it right to record the merits and flaws for posterity. That's the true intent behind the sages urging us to keep diaries and letters: to document our experiences, reflect deeply, and glean universal truths. What's the value in mere years if we fail at that?"
"Your words ring true a hundredfold. How did I never think of this myself!"
Go Bonghwan enthusiastically endorsed my bullshit.
It couldn't be genuine, so he must have grasped his role and the profits involved. The deal was as good as done.
The simple reason I'd called Go Bonghwan was for his review of the book—but more importantly, to tap his secretive distribution channels.
Me hawking it in the markets? It'd be copied clean in half a day, leaving me nothing. Even 21st-century folks ignore IP rights; no way 18th-century people would care.
I needed a different strategy.
In Gangnam parent networks, they share everything from exam tutors and study abroad tips to dubious "brain-boosting" meds for kids.
But that stays within the elite circle. No leaks.
Everyone wants only their kid to pass. Admissions are relative ranking. Greed is the strongest lock.
Same with the Civil Service Exam. I'd hammered this point.
That's why I needed Go Bonghwan, connected to the sons of great houses I'd introduced him to.
He could peddle this secret manual under the guise of tutoring, no suspicions.
The pitch was simple:
"This is only for young masters of noble houses, like true gentlemen. Nothing for prying eyes, so if you want it... right here, cash on the spot..."
Books were pricey in this era, and this one even more so. It'd cover a ton of feast debts.
Distribution cut? Of course. That cut would help settle my debts to him too.
Go Bonghwan lit up at the business plan.
"While those fools in office doze over rhyming doggerel, blind to whether the market stall holds seaweed or fish, yet claim to grasp the principles of things—your insight pierces the world deeper than an octogenarian's, your hands quicker than any twenty-year-old's. How could I not learn from you?"
Our intents aligned, no need for details.
"A friend who truly knows you"—that's the phrase for times like this. Go Bonghwan and I shared another cup in scholarly brotherhood.
As bosom comrades in the same boat, we spoke freely now.
Go Bonghwan asked me,
"So, what's the book's title?"
"Title? Well..."
It was a black-market secret manual. Did it even need one? Old underground fighters didn't title their club-room scribbles "Flame Alchemist."
But reconsidering, even those had cover titles like "Something-Bulb Cultivation Guide." Members need a name to call it.
Pretty drunk, I uttered words I'd regret forever.
"No need for me to say it myself, but this book is like go's Standard Strategy: follow its optimal moves, and things flow naturally. Thus, a Standard Strategy for scholarly cultivation—The Standard Strategy for Study."
Go Bonghwan tilted his flushed face.
"Standard Strategy...? Ah, like the game records those foreigners talk about?"
I realized too late the title sounded off as a book name.
Go wasn't a scholar's pursuit, titles weren't "XX of XX" yet, and wasn't that Japanese anyway?
I tried to gloss over it before it got awkward.
But Go Bonghwan, hardened by slights from his lowly house, tidied up better than I could.
"Then just Standard Strategy. Haha. Don't worry. I'll deliver this Standard Strategy to the great houses' sons for sure."
"I trust you alone. One more cup, then..."
"Excellent."
And so the lonely scholars' night deepened.
Thanks to Go Bonghwan's savvy, Standard Strategy sold well. Enough to pay off debts—at least the ones with sky-high interest.
But it wasn't enough.
This ordeal taught me clearly: Joseon folks live for today—I knew that, but failing to apply it to my family was my mistake.
No one in the house but me had financial sense. Stockpile cash before the next goal pops up.
I eagerly awaited unemployment benefits—or any scrap of power to rake in money.
Integrity? Austerity?
Anyone preaching that to my face gets a taste of Eoji's fist.
Save that crap for when they pay civil servant wages.
My father's salary made mine predictable. This wasn't a "job."
Like me, history buffs think Joseon stipends were quarterly salaries.
They're all fooled by the kings' sleight of hand.
Stipends stem from the Great Learning: "Ample offices, ample appointments" and "Generous stipends for loyalty and trust."
From feudal land grants to cash payments, Joseon's career bureaucracy drew from Confucian classics.
Of course, that doesn't matter.
The key word "generous"—Joseon had no money to spare.
Post-wars, they adopted scatter allowances for lower officials.
From quarterly stipends to monthly rice and beans.
Unlike Korea's bundled pay hurting workers, this was far less annually than stipends.
Even stipends were meager; this was unlivable.
If they just paid on schedule, fine. But cuts for queen's birthday bashes, new troops, Chinese envoys—ministers' pay was fair game.
Records say officials left families behind in Seoul to starve alone.
Furious, they petitioned en masse.
What did the kings do?
Raise pay? Hardly.
Renamed scatter allowances "stipends."
True story. It's in the latest Sequel Compendium of State Rites.
This clever move let kings spend less while pretending generosity—the term "stipend" implies it.
Kids' play?
Know how "subcontractor" became "partner" in Korea?
Or startups ditching hierarchy with English team names?
Human cunning is timeless, just different knowledge.
Didn't change a thing.
Primes don't say, "Oh, partners now—no more bullying, prompt payments!"
Team leads named James don't go "Listen, James—shove that idea up your ass. Jimmy, you agree?" (Even Americans can't.)
Joseon same. Ministers stayed broke, stipends or not.
Thus, bribes, gifts, exploitation ramped up. More shameless now.
Not full extortion—Seoul clerks have slim pickings—but I'd take gifts without scruple.
I'd steeled myself for corruption, but as winter deepened, no word from court.
Even unemployed, top scorers get appointed immediately.
I'm an incumbent (albeit dismissed) who passed. What gives?
"You do this, no wonder. Government's rotten—who follows law?"
I justified my graft even more.
I roughly grasped Yeongjo's game around New Year's.
My rumor mill, Park Jiwon, still brought court gossip.
"Next year, first month, the Crown Princess will come of age and join the prince."
"Hoho, a national blessing. The Crown Prince's wisdom, plus the lady's health—state security's on bedrock. As a subject, I can't contain my joy."
Channeling my inner North Korean, I auto-praised the royals and pondered.
Crown Prince marrying next month?
Technically, selection and rites were done; it meant living as husband-wife after her rite at fifteen next year—1749.
Ah, so even after Hong Bonghan's humiliation, he couldn't defy the king outright. Marriage unregistered yet.
Park Jiwon chimed in.
"Of course. The Crown Prince spotted his brother's scholarship instantly. Remember? Writing sixty Thousand Character Classic chars at two."
Yeah. Kim Jong-un shot rifles at three, rode horses at six. Couldn't let my party loyalty show.
Mid-banter, Park Jiwon slyly shifted.
"Speaking of which, brother, why aren't you married? Study kept you busy till now, but you're a top graduate. Word is matchmakers from great houses are swarming."
And your grandpa's leading. Park Pilgyun sent you. How's that "speaking of"?
Matchmakers were coming, from name houses.
Joseon noble marriages often favored wealthier brides.
Strategy: "Low-buy promising son-in-law to boost the house." Good for grooms' careers too.
Like commoners snagging young exam-passers or prosecutors. Plus, saves daughters from bad matches.
Our house—prestige bloodline (we judge character, tradition, not power/money), not quite elite—prime pick.
Hey, I wasn't against marriage.
But no burning urge either. Problem.
No urgency.
You need to see women to think marriage or romance.
Post-regression, only faces: lifelong maids Maewol and Kkeutsoon.
Family aside, Joseon's sexual morals block sources cold.
Crucially, I had a big issue now.
"Ahem. As you know, house is broke—might need to peddle wares. No time for marriage. Brother and sister wed; no rush for heirs."
This era's weddings cost way more relative to wealth. Not exaggeration—feasts bankrupted houses.
Ours nearly did. Sick of banquets.
But Park Jiwon smirked like "bullshit."
"Wealth in marriage is barbarian ways [Marriage and Wealth: Way of Yi and Lu, Master Wen's Central Sayings]—how can you say that, brother? And which matchmaker's house is poor? Maybe you've a secret lover. But even if chasing beauty, marriage demands house and parents first."
Listen to this twelve-year-old.
"Sweetheart—yours, maybe?"
"M-me? At this age, h-how could I indulge in debauchery?"
Gotcha. Kids these days mature fast.
Did Yanam Park Jiwon have a concubine? Can't recall. Jeong Yak-yong did—got chewed by wife, whined to son in letters.
I won't meddle in kids' privacy.
Not a boomer. In Korea, I'd be hip with MZ gens.
So I pivoted to another's woman troubles.
"Anyway, with the Crown Prince in delicate times, how could royal favor not turn there? Once done, the king'll eye court affairs."
Got it. My hiring delayed for palace events. Recall Yeongjo doted on his daughter-in-law.
"Lowly me can wed post-appointment. Worry career first, not wife-less."
Sounded cool, even to me.
But Park Jiwon neither admired nor scoffed "Who're you, Zhao Zilong?"
He hesitated, then whispered—inaudible beyond paper screens.
"That 'court affairs' bit... it's fishy lately."
"What?"
"Tell anyone, my head rolls. Yours too."
"Tch. Think I, with office rank, don't know? Torture me—I say nothing. Speak."
Park Jiwon wavered long, then:
"Crown Princess rite: first month, twentieth. Joining: twenty-third..."
Where's this kid get sleaze intel? Rites Minister Park Pilgyun—spilling to grandson?
I stayed silent, heard him out.
Then, stunned.
"...Likely commanding Crown Prince's proxy regency that exact day."
I was wrong.
About Yeongjo's character.
Even 21st-century trainwrecks play host at kids' weddings for optics. He's king?
This wasn't dumping endless weekend work during a marriage week.
First off, prince begs on mats while wife awaits deflowering alone. Plus unknowns snapping nerves.
Unlucky premonition hit.
Won't end with prince couple eating shit.
Transcendent instinct.
Observer Yeongjo fixed prince's state.
Mine too, accordingly.
When prince finally summoned me to East Palace, my mind spun like quantum spin.