Chapter 74
Chapter 74
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 74
Chapter Title: Westernization Reforms (2)
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I hadn't proposed the patent system because I wanted to develop some technology and rake in royalties.
I hadn't even taught my brother in Namji-do the method for sun-dried salt production.
I didn't know it myself. I'm a literary exam graduate, after all.
Who in the modern world, unless they're in the industry, memorizes something like the sun-dried salt method? If I hadn't read some web novels in the 21st century, I wouldn't have even known the difference between sun-dried salt and boiled salt.
I did know the basic concept: spread seawater thinly over large, shallow salt pans like fields and let it evaporate.
But that's no different from knowing that triggering nuclear fission can create an atomic bomb. Such result-oriented knowledge doesn't help you actually do it.
It's the same even for non-advanced studies. Everyone knows you can make a hand axe by chipping a stone. But is there anyone among modern people who could whip one up right now? I can confidently say there wasn't anyone in Noryangjin.
Besides, even if I knew, I probably wouldn't have done it.
If salt prices dropped, immediate revenues would plummet. Not just for me, but for all the vested interests who based their income on salt.
So, the Joseon-style ending would be to nitpick the taste or composition of sun-dried salt, fabricate witnesses claiming people died from eating it, punish me, drive me out, and seize my entire salt kiln operation.
Unless the world treated me like a hero, everyone cheering and shouting, "Salt this cheap? This otherworld is amazing!"—which they wouldn't—it was obvious.
Even if I overcame all those obstacles and succeeded in sun-dried salt production, problems would remain.
Assuming Joseon people accepted the technology without resistance, the royal family, local magnates, and military would copy it everywhere. No royalties, of course.
Even if "thin margins" were realized, I lacked the production capacity for "high volume."
I only had two salt kilns. In the end, only those with large-scale production would profit, and I'd go bankrupt.
This wasn't unique to sun-dried salt; it applied to all "technologies."
Without power, knowing many technologies just meant getting exploited. No benefits would come to me.
While science and engineering drive technological progress, the ruling classes throughout most of world history favored liberal arts and arts/physical prowess for a reason.
Europe was no different.
Among pioneers of steam engines, spinning jennies, and spinning mules, only a few who had government connections or timely investments made big money.
Most small inventors went bankrupt under mountains of debt or died miserably from alcoholism, thanks to industrial thieves copying their tech.
And this was with patent systems already in place. A law everyone ignores is as good as none.
So, we must look at the essence of patents. Technology patents are just a part of it.
From a purely "liberal arts" historical view, the true nature of patents is crystal clear.
Patents are a system where the king suddenly claims (and from now on, decrees) rights to something, then sells them to his subjects.
A European example is Elizabeth I issuing a privateering license to the pirate Francis Drake.
"(Not our people, but) here's the right to kill people, and (not our property, but) the right to plunder gold and silver treasures."
Of course, the Spanish victims were murderous bandits too, so it arguably reduced the world's total depravity.
Such European monarchs, especially post-Elizabeth English kings (French kings did it too, but they lost their heads, so let's not emulate), followed Henry VII's example and used patents like ATMs.
They created "sales rights" for things like alcohol, tobacco, cards, beer—items the king neither created nor bought but were abundant—and monetized them.
The king sold monopoly rights to merchants based on "divinely granted legitimate rights," and merchants extracted fees from the populace based on "rights bestowed by His Majesty."
Even in Europe now, without phones or computers, it's hard for the state to precisely tax items like modern governments do.
But merchants, with skin in the game, made it work. They'd sue to jail rivals, hire thugs to smash shops—whatever it took to extract money from pesky patent thieves.
Thus, they collected taxes on daily goods consumption without investing any state administrative resources.
This is the advantage of privatization, the core of Westernization.
Private hands lack morality? More than the British government?
Thermodynamically impossible. You can't go below absolute zero.
So, let's confidently apply this to Joseon.
I focused on how the salt and fish tax—a key funding source for the Equal Tax Law—was levied only on salt kilns and fishing boats, i.e., "means of production." Extending this, the same went for grain harvested from land.
In other words, Joseon lacked the capacity to tax "distribution channels."
Obviously. The state couldn't track it.
But taxing there is how to fill the Equal Tax Office warehouses, bloated like credit card statements from defaulters.
Here, the European "invisible hand" we just examined can work.
Key considerations: three points.
First, it must benefit me.
Second, it must benefit the king.
Third, for smooth acceptance, graft it onto concepts as familiar as possible to Joseon people.
Kim Unhaeng knew some things and not others, but in Joseon, selling monopoly rights wasn't a foreign idea. They just called it "grace" or "custom."
Even Yi Geum himself was protecting the market guilds' monopolies and the various privileges currently applied to the Five Armies Garrison.
Another example: the butchers in the Half Village, who supplied meat and operating funds to Sungkyunkwan in exchange for slaughter monopolies.
The ban on butchers entering the capital since early Joseon excellently protected those Half Village butchers' rights.
By now, calling the Half Village Sungkyunkwan's fiscal arm wouldn't be a stretch. Meat wasn't vulgar, nor were butchers; Sungkyunkwan's upright scholars happily lived off that money.
So Yi Geum had no major qualms accepting Kim Unhaeng's proposal.
Selling rights and taxing clear distribution channels like markets or guilds, or controllable means of production, was still feasible.
But fish sold in countless coastal markets, inns and brokers dealing with sailors, and the booming shadow industries in commercial hubs—these were tricky, as Kim Unhaeng noted.
Profits there just became pocket money for subordinates and soldiers acting as protectors-cum-predators.
Kim Unhaeng proposed turning that into official revenue.
But a moral state's pride: copying shameless Britons would undermine claims of Eastern rites and music.
Yi Geum's decree, ignorant of Britain, clearly reflected morality.
"Though his son (Jang Tae-so) inherited his father's prestige, I always regretted the death of former Patrol Commander Jang Bung-ik. Since then, murderers, robbers, and petty thieves have reared their heads in the capital again. Even with the alcohol ban, it only reduced commoners' drunken brawls; it couldn't rein in those who fear no law from the start."
Yi Geum, desperate to offset Equal Tax Law losses and etch his impartial policy in history, dragged in every issue.
"Moreover, with Junior Secretary of the Ministry of Military Affairs Kim Unhaeng's proposal abolishing local idle garrisons, reducing burdens on the people, rural praise is resounding. The increased soldiers in Seoul are unavoidable, but they too must be strictly controlled."
As seen in era-representative armies like the British or Chinese, pre-modern troops are little different from bandits. The king's concerns were valid.
"Thus, first civilize ferry points along the Han River like Mapo, Noryangjin, Songpa, and coastal fishing spots like Jemulpo. Appoint either court officials or reputable yangban descendants to establish Peace Market Virtue Offices (Market Peace Officers).
"Do not shun the lowly or perilous; go to inns, ferries, markets, and diligently teach cityfolk and merchants. If the people arrogantly disobey, expel them. None may unload and sell goods at ferries without the Peace Market Virtue Office's permission."
And that "permission" comes from paying a modest "monopoly sales rights fee" to the Peace Market Office—or Peace Office for short.
Thus, the more commerce booms, the more revenue flows to the Peace Office.
Yet the funds the Peace Office must remit to the Equal Tax Office are fixed absolute amounts, not relative percentages.
The difference stays with the Peace Office. In other words, performance bonuses scale with managerial prowess.
Emphasizing national fiscal urgency, Yi Geum effectively sold Peace Office appointments for upfront payments.
No money piled up in non-existent offices, so the Equal Tax Office got applicants' personal funds.
This lavish Emperor Guangwu-style act succeeded thanks to stellar precedents.
Like the fastest monarch's "time-traveling posts" perfected via fame coupons, or Yi Geum's recent preliminary military officer sales.
In Joseon or modern Korea, "We did it before" is the strongest legitimacy.
Yi Geum's strong royal authority wielded that legitimacy masterfully.
Since bookish scholars knew little of commerce and couldn't oversee multiple items at once, Peace Office posts were sold by product type.
For example, one for Songpa Ferry passenger services, one for Noryangjin fish markets, etc.
European-style "item-specific monopoly sales rights" auctions began swiftly by royal decree.
I didn't command the implementation.
I'm just a Junior Secretary in the Ministry of Military Affairs; meddling in markets violates authority. Joseon is strict on this.
The designer of the Peace Office system was Hong Daeyong, whom I'd recommended for Senior Secretary of the Ministry of Taxation after his stellar stint as my deputy in the Ministry of Military Affairs Records Office. The similar Market Peace Bureau falls under Taxation.
Unofficially, of course. Junior secretaries lack recommendation rights. I slipped it in when Yeongjo asked for talents in my policy memorial.
Every company dreads greenfield projects.
After burnout in Military Affairs, landing a new venture in Taxation left Hong Daeyong near death.
He came to me, saying,
"It seems officialdom doesn't suit me. I must resign. I'll just return home, read books, play the geomungo..."
This guy whining about strumming the geomungo.
"Heavens! How will you face your uncle (Hong Eok) who trusted you enough to come to Seoul, or the other family elders? Even my wife, a mere woman, speaks of grand dreams and ambitions. Will a true man abandon fame because work's tough?"
"That's because Se-hwa takes after her brother-in-law, coveting power and wealth..."
"Anyway! I'll help, so don't quit. I watched closely when I was demoted before. His Majesty favors you like Sejong trusted Prime Minister Hwang; he won't accept your resignation. And... he's watching you suspiciously. It's true. Have you spoken directly with His Majesty? No? Just trust me."
Hong Daeyong despaired.
But I helped as promised, giving him "proper guidelines" to avoid floundering.
Right or wrong didn't matter; with the king raging over empty Equal Tax coffers, finishing fast was priority.
Thus, turning Hong Daeyong into Kim Unhaeng No. 2 let me advance smoothly.
Court reactions split two ways.
One faction: "What outrageous sale of offices?"—the Exclusionists.
The other: reading the era's flow, jumping into Westernization waves—the Progressives.
Old scholars are hopeless. Textbooks say Exclusionists contributed to Joseon's fall with outdated thinking. Time for a future man's innovation.
To counter, I upheld His Majesty's will with "impartiality."
Under invisible pressure to repay past favors, Chae Je-gong leveraged his talent for a planning memorial.
Praising the king's wisdom in pushing the Equal Tax Law—and by extension, me as his aide.
The flower of impartiality. Proof of nonpartisan harmony. Yeongjo, delighted, made it court consensus.
The Small Faction wanted "impartiality" too... but their lead on this was Park Mun-su. Not someone gifts sway easily.
Having recently served as Equal Tax Inspector, Park knew the law's nuts and bolts. Shooting off his mouth carelessly would doom them.
Pretend ignorance. Thoroughly. Hard to build rapport with his type.
Plus, as incumbent Seoul Magistrate, he might thrash me for messing up the city. I avoided him entirely.
With Park Mun-su—a senior official, Yeongjo's favorite Small Faction national alchemist—even ten Eoji bodyguards wouldn't save me.
Thus, Small Faction stayed quiet, content with controlling the lone South Faction man (member count: 1)—a casting vote, positively spun.
Next: Progressives.
But so-called Progressives mostly small fry swarming for market scraps, not true insight-sharers. Regrettable.
Many sought Peace Office posts from me; I rebuffed most.
Those minnows lacked combat prowess. Entrusting them would spark chain mishaps, dooming the system before it rooted.
But in June that year, as summer waned, the visitor wasn't rabble.
Someone I least expected rapport with, rivaling Park Mun-su.
Kim Unhaeng bowed politely.
"For the Commander of the Royal Guard to grace the Ministry of Military Affairs in person... The Minister is inside."
The Royal Guard Commander, king's son-in-law.
Alongside Hong Gye-hui, Jo Yeong-guk, and even Park Mun-su, one of the Equal Tax Law's Four Heavenly Kings.
Currently the hottest powerbroker: Hong Bonghan.
This was their first meeting.
Even Kim Unhaeng, who viewed passing Rank 3 nobles like dogs, tensed.
True powerholders rarely flaunt stiff protocols or stern authority, and Hong Bonghan didn't.
He simply strolled into the ministry with three servants.
"You know why I'm here. To see you."
Kim Unhaeng suspected discovery of the royal heirs' medicine tampering.
Half-right.
The absurd fancy of burning a Status Window talisman into medicine naturally didn't cross Hong Bonghan's mind, but he'd caught that Kim Unhaeng somehow meddled in the "Crown Prince's prescription."
As pharmacy overseer during the Fourth Son's illness and now the Crown Princess's pregnancy, it was possible.
But it was hazy suspicion, like glimpsing in fog; he wasn't here to thank or probe.
Hong Bonghan coming to the ministry, not Kim's home, meant something.
As Royal Guard Commander, it was "military" business.
Han River patrol reorganization, Jangyong No. 2 Battalion creation, now Peace Market Virtue Offices.
To Hong Bonghan, Kim Unhaeng's capital-area proposals shared one goal.
Forced "impartiality"—flattening—the power-balanced capital.
And the force to control the flattened capital? Not his Five Armies Garrison, but the king's suspected new Praetorians: Jangyong Battalion.
As Kim Unhaeng thought, Five Armies had specialized revenues.
With nothing to share there, he birthed the bizarre Peace Offices.
New revenues to Equal Tax Office? Sure, but almost certainly reinvested in Jangyong. Markets and ferries won't sort without violence, no matter Peace Officers' efforts.
Crucial: Jangyong's quality as troops. Unlike predictions of ragtag surplus, reality—even to Hong Bonghan ruling Royal Guards—showed alarming potential.
Achieving all this via one memorial upgraded Kim Unhaeng from pesky upstart to notable thorn.
Thus, probe his political aims.
Hong Bonghan sat facing Kim Unhaeng.