Chapter 57
Chapter 57
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 57
Chapter Title: I've Heard the Rumors (1)
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If I wanted to launch an investigation as a secret royal inspector, I'd need to head to the post station and requisition some station runners. In this Gowon County, there's one called Aesu Station, named after an old local landmark.
But if I just showed up, flashed my inspector plaque, and said, "I'm here to punish this corrupt magistrate—runners, follow me," it wouldn't go smoothly.
There'd be excuses left and right: no one's available, there's an outbreak, all sorts of nonsense. While they dawdled, one of the magistrate's spies would sprint back to the county office with the news. By the time I arrived, the double ledgers and evidence would all be gone.
Of course, post stations aren't under the direct control of the magistrate. That's why secret inspectors can use them.
The problem is maintaining those stations.
Post stations do have legal rights to collect fees from the surrounding area.
But just like with my travel expenses, sticking strictly to those limits would bankrupt the station in under half a year.
So why not just shut it down? Easier said than done. In Joseon, jobs aren't chosen—they're assigned. Most station runners are hereditary station serfs or government slaves.
Especially up here in the north; the stations and their "assigned" workers are full of people dragged here from the southern three provinces during the old reign of terror.
So illegal exploitation is their only option. As they say, if you can't beat 'em, join 'em—and rake in some performance bonuses while they're at it.
In return, the stations have to stay on good terms with the magistrate.
If they pulled that without even a heads-up, the magistrate could call in the army—invincible against locals—and crush their corruption without mercy.
But secure a tight connection, and the station benefits too. Smuggling army horses, skimming budgets, even running sherpa and lodging services for yangban tourists connected through local power brokers—it's all easy money.
Ranting about "Joseon's barbarism" here is knowing one thing and ignoring the rest.
Joseon's post station system is far from crude. The fastest king who escaped using one versus Louis XVI, caught midway, proves it (though the two kings' competence was worlds apart).
Modern crosswalks and traffic lights would look bizarre to a Joseon person. Why wait inefficiently when you could just glance and go?
Yet if everyone follows the rules, modern traffic flows much faster overall.
Same here.
Most of what looks "primitive" about Joseon is because modern folks don't know the "Joseon user manual."
This post station works perfectly if used right.
And to do that, I needed to set the stage first.
Who was my archenemy when I was magistrate of Mokcheon County?
The local clerks and power brokers.
Same here. But the enemy of my enemy is my friend, so Gowon County's clerks would be my allies this time.
Plus, the magistrate, Yun Pilduk, is a military man.
In Joseon, magistrates handle critical local military command duties, so military officers often get these posts. They're common in supply roles, especially in this military hotspot of Hamgyong Province.
But armies punish harshly no matter the era—even the 18th century.
The clerks have probably taken plenty of beatings. They'd love a chance to take him down. There are success stories, like Song Jinheum of Jiksan County.
That said, I didn't suddenly reach out to these strangers for a conspiracy.
No telling if they'd trust me, and it wouldn't look good for me either.
I just followed standard secret inspector protocol: grab any passerby and ask for news.
"(Out of nowhere with politics) His Majesty enacted the Equal Station Tax Law, halving the military corvée— what are folks saying?"
"(In Seoul dialect) I'm originally from Hoseo Province; came up for the scenic northern mountains and rivers.")
"(To the slaves) Jangbok. Eoji. Why are you walking? We've still got 'five whole horses' left. Hop on. Oh, my apologies. Coming through."
The key? Do this on the road entering Gowon County, not in the bustling streets (which just means a couple more houses than elsewhere).
It's natural, and by the time we arrive, the effect I want will kick in.
When we entered Gowon County's main street, I peeled a notice off a house wall, pocketed it, and smiled smugly.
It was written in the font of 'No rumor of an inspector coming, but we've long been outraged by the magistrate's corruption.'
Plastered everywhere, it listed Yun Pilduk's horrific crimes in gruesome detail—suspiciously logical and uniform script.
As if organized by the clerks or higher.
I turned to Hwang Domyeong.
"Clerk Hwang."
"Yes, Inspector... er, my lord."
Undermining his efforts, I pulled out my plaque without hiding and handed it over openly.
"Go to Aesu Station and requisition thirty runners. We're deploying today."
"Me alone? Will they hand them over obediently?"
"They will."
Hwang ran off, tense-faced.
Of course they would.
Post stations and county offices are tightly linked— but to the office as an "institution," not the magistrate personally.
The direct counterpart? Naturally, the local clerks.
Why post those notices? Because an inspector's coming.
To take down a magistrate? You need runners.
So these notices mean the clerks and station have already coordinated.
It's basically a memorandum of cooperation between the two.
Sure enough, soon burly, disciplined runners appeared— suspiciously so.
Matching the notices perfectly: 'We've always been fully staffed and diligent; of course we'll support the inspector as per law.'
Once you know how to work it, Joseon's sophisticated systems deliver tremendous results.
The county office looked normal at a glance, like business as usual.
But as a fellow insider, I saw more.
First, no signboard announcing the magistrate's attendance at the outer vermilion gate.
Means he's not "in." Not illegal, of course.
Yet soldiers guard the gate properly, errand boys bustle nonstop. Even the sub-officer (who has nothing to do without the magistrate) darts in and out busily.
So what gives? He's inside goofing off.
The clerks must be shielding him, delivering newspapers like to Yuan Shikai.
The soldiers looked like they'd heard something— eyeing every passerby, even beggars, as potential inspectors, on the verge of hysteria.
I decided to free them.
A scholar strode confidently toward the vermilion gate. Their faces twisted in dilemma.
Obvious, but yelling "Secret inspector arrived!" outright would embarrass him (saving face for the incognito), yet feigning ignorance risked backlash.
I stopped just short of the point of no return.
Then raised my plaque high.
I wanted to shout dramatically like in a drama, but stopped short.
No one taught me. But the blood of noble ancestors in my veins whispered it.
A yangban yelling like that lacks dignity.
Think about it: as absurd as a king shouting "His Majesty arrives!" on his own procession.
Other inspectors probably didn't bellow either.
That's what attendants are for. I glanced aside.
As I said before, Jangbok—well deep-learned—got it instantly.
Thrilled to wield authority, his face said "I've always wanted to do this," and he stepped forward briskly.
Then cleared his throat long and loud.
"Secret royal inspector—! Deployment—!"
The runners, waiting only for that shout, surged toward the government hall from all sides.
"Secret inspector deploying!"
"Secret inspector deploying!"
Even as soldiers scrambled aside, no one aimed for the door.
Like a siege textbook, they unleashed acrobatics worthy of a spectacle: when would they ever smash roof tiles so righteously?
Poison jars shattered, doors toppled, tiles flew— but few screams.
The inspector rumor had spread like wildfire, so everyone evacuated swiftly and quietly.
That's partly why we keep shouting it—like a police siren.
The runners, thrilled by the rare inspector raid and grabbing bowls, shoes, and junk as souvenirs; the office staff, getting petty revenge on their nagging magistrate—everyone happy.
Except Yun Pilduk, inside playing backgammon with clerks.
The notice suggested lavish parties with courtesans like Inspector Byeonhak, but he was frugal. Fair enough—that's for rich counties run by high officials like Namwon deputy.
I sat high in the government hall chair for the first time in ages.
This time as inspector, not magistrate.
With utter disdain, I tossed ledgers one by one.
"The rice in storage doesn't match records at all. Even the relief grain shipped at great risk from distant Yeongnam by His Majesty's grace—half seems vanished into thin air or sunk into the earth. What's going on here?"
I've been a magistrate; I know. This is like army supply logs.
Without prep like I did, they'll never match. If they do, it's 100% faked.
So no pointless worry about "What if Yun Pilduk's innocent after deployment?" I was right, as expected.
Joseon is a land of documents. Verbal excuses here mean nothing. Yun Pilduk just bowed his head.
"All my oversight, my lord."
I cleared my throat for phase two.
"Gowon isn't some podunk town; we need deeper ledger checks. Where's the sub-officer!"
"Yes, Inspector. Present."
Ibang flashed a conspirator's grin. I ignored it, cursing his stupidity inwardly.
"Escort to the guest quarters. I'll review all ledgers by tomorrow and decide on sealing the stores and dismissing staff."
"No question. We'll execute immediately."
Leaving, I glanced back at Yun Pilduk with a stern, rebuking gaze.
Not sealing the warehouse yet. 'Investigating till tomorrow.' Got it? I've done this much—now you know what to do.
That night, as our party settled in the guest house and clerks raised toasts, Yun Pilduk sneaked in disguised as a servant. Good—someone reasonable.
I greeted warmly.
"Sorry for roughing up your dignity in front of the underlings today."
Emboldened, he sighed deeply and vented.
"I held back in front of you, but as a military man short on scholarship, I can't read fast. I left gentlemanly grain and relief rice to the clerks—that's how it happened."
Sounds like you're claiming military prowess, but weren't your guns, swords, and arrows all non-lethal?
I didn't say it. I sympathize with love and peace too.
Instead, another hook.
"I know you're a brave warrior, sir. Rifleman in the Training Command, right? Heard plenty from Commander Kim Seong-eung."
Kim never mentioned him—irrelevant.
The fastest icebreaker—"You know so-and-so?!"—worked; Yun beamed.
"The commander was my direct superior. With your fame for hunting tigers in Chungcheong, it's natural you'd rub elbows. I showed off as lead vanguard before His Majesty, but I'm humbled before you."
Syncing, he yanked up his robe front vigorously.
I flinched. But he revealed a hefty bundle. Close call—not a beer gut.
"I owe the commander favors; hard to entrust to underlings. Shameless as a criminal, but if you could deliver this to Seoul..."
Not really from Kim, of course.
A guy on the brink of sealed stores and dismissal handing me a package? He'd sold his shame to the Jurchens (valuable commodity there).
Joseon folks aren't that immoral. Call it "100% handling fee" delivery.
For safe transit, I inspected carefully.
"Uiju merchants monopolize ginseng, but Hamgyong and the Tumen River are rougher. Dug from Six Garrisons or smuggled by raiders."
The bundle held six hefty roots.
Premium ginseng worth hundreds of yang of silver per geun.
Even cheap in the north vs. south—impressive. Time to rethink my "local collection inefficient" policy.
He wouldn't offer this for ordinary graft.
But I mentioned "relief grain."
His Majesty orchestrated a massive sea lift to save Hamgyong; embezzling that means no mere dismissal or exile. Maybe dumped in the East Sea with the drowned sailors.
Top vanguard with royal acquaintance? Crown Prince knew people too—got locked up. Acquaintances can be riskier.
Lightest punishment: military exile. Like nationalizing my Mokcheon relief grain youth squads. Forced labor at his age? Tough.
I nodded.
"I'll deliver this surely. By the way, you mentioned clerk schemes earlier?"
That cue lit his dialect like fireworks—Hamgyong twang mixed in; sounded like a faith healing rant.
Condensed: the crisis was all the clerks' fault—wicked, sly, greedy, deceitful scum.
"Heavens. I misjudged. Your words show those notice-posting wretches deserve punishment."
"Exactly! As you know, poster thieves never tell truth. Finally seen..."
Tears flowed. Probably true he's framed. But you're not spotless.
I feigned deep sympathy.
"Then I'll delay the probe. If ledgers are clerk tricks, what good are scraps of paper? You punish them under your authority, confiscate embezzled assets, fix the records—then we judge black and white."
I write the report. I'll "reopen" after he cleans house— no crimes found.
Clerks cry foul on inspector-magistrate collusion? From 21st century? Taste the ban on commoner lawsuits?
Yun knelt, moved.
"As expected of His Majesty's special envoy—beyond me! I'll obey at once."
I planned a double-cross from the start.
What use are Hamgyong clerks who'd live and die here? Even as civilian, ex-Training Command officer Yun beats them by miles.
Next day, I witnessed a sight stirring old Mokcheon and Jiksan memories in this far north.
And the "results" would match.
Author's Note
1. During his flight, Louis XVI deliberately used public post stations instead of private transport for disguise. Had to cover his face too. Dumb move.
2. Perfect secrecy for inspectors was tough for various in-story reasons, so locals often sniffed them out. They timed notice-posting to oust magistrates—common tactic by local powers and clerks.
3. Yuan Keding made fake newspapers for his dad Yuan Shikai, tricking him into thinking the public backed emperorship. Kid wanted throne two; ended up not even ruling a lake.
4. Big parties weren't easy in Joseon; real inspector logs rarely show drama like Inspector Byeon's bashes. Most magistrates were working during raids.
Minor catches were like in-story backgammon—office go-stop during hours, busted by auditors.
5. Strictly, 'hundreds of yang silver per geun' is red ginseng market price. Government fixed white ginseng at 100 yang per geun—real trades much higher. Kim Unhaeng didn't know precisely.