The Independence Activist's Grave (1)
The car Baek Hye-rin drove herself sped up the steep mountain road in Yongho-dong, Nam-gu, Busan.
Unlike the smoothly paved coastal roads, this path was narrow and winding, barely wide enough for a single car to pass.
Through the window, old houses stained by time flashed by. Even those looked abandoned—red paint scrawled across walls reading “Scheduled for Demolition” or “Vacant House” in crude, ugly letters.
The neighborhood, emptied of residents and left with nothing but skeletal buildings, carried a desolate chill even in broad daylight.
No way a top star would bring someone to a decent place like this.
“Is it really okay to drive up here?” Kang Tae-san asked, gripping the passenger-side handle tightly.
“It’s fine. This car’s got plenty of power.”
“That’s not what I meant. Whoa!”
The jolting road sent every bump straight through his seat.
She’s not actually taking me to dig up a grave, is she?
Tae-san shot Baek Hye-rin a sideways glance, half-joking, half-serious. Her profile looked resolute, almost hardened with purpose.
The car screeched to a stop at the mouth of an alley too narrow to continue. The slope was so steep it felt like the vehicle might slide backward at any moment.
“Get out. We walk from here.”
Baek Hye-rin opened her door with practiced ease. She tightened the laces of her sneakers over comfortable training pants and took the lead. Tae-san followed, still clueless.
“Huff… huff…”
After roughly twenty minutes of climbing the steep hill, even Tae-san—who prided himself on his stamina—found himself gasping for air. Endless stairs and slopes left him winded, sweat trickling down his temples.
Baek Hye-rin’s steps ahead never faltered. She navigated the cracked cement stairs with familiar agility, avoiding broken sections as if she climbed this path every day.
Watching her back, Tae-san finally understood why they called her “Muhee.”
“Just a little farther.”
Baek Hye-rin glanced back, her eyes strikingly clear between strands of wind-blown hair.
They climbed higher until they reached the crest of the hill.
“Whew… We’re here.”
She stopped and pointed. Tae-san caught his breath and followed her gaze.
A wide, barren hillside stretched out before them. Given how narrow and deserted the path had been, the open space came as a surprise.
A communal cemetery?
Scattered across the yellow earth were rows of modest gravestones. Some plots looked regularly maintained—grass neatly trimmed, almost no litter—confirming his guess. Below, the full panorama of Busan Harbor and Gwangandaegyo Bridge spread out like a scenic vantage point.
“Where are we? A communal cemetery…?”
Baek Hye-rin walked slowly toward one of the front-row gravestones and answered calmly.
“Say hello. He’s my great-grandfather.”
“Your great-grandfather?”
Kang Tae-san’s eyes widened. He checked the name carved into the stone. Weathered and faded, the epitaph still held three characters:
[The Grave of Dansaeng Baek Geun-su]
“Yes. Independence activist Dansaeng Baek Geun-su. My great-grandfather.”
“Ah… So your great-grandfather was an independence fighter, sunbae.”
Though the name wasn’t in any history textbook Tae-san remembered, countless such unsung heroes existed.
“I didn’t expect him to be buried somewhere like this. I thought independence activists were all laid to rest in the National Cemetery…”
Baek Hye-rin crouched before the stone and began pulling weeds by hand.
“Grandfather left a will. This wasn’t his hometown, but he wanted to be buried here in Busan, where he settled after leaving Seoul. He hoped to rest with his comrades, overlooking the open sea of Busan.”
She chuckled softly as she yanked out a handful of weeds.
“When I was little, my grandfather told me stories about Great-Grandfather until my ears hurt. How remarkable he was. How fiercely he lived…”
Her hand gently brushed the top of the gravestone, filled with deep respect and affection.
“People call me ‘Muhee.’ Good at using my body, strong mentally, full of grit. I think it’s all because I inherited Great-Grandfather’s blood. His fiery spirit still flows in me—that’s why I am who I am today.”
Tae-san finally understood why she had been so obsessed with that role, why she could portray such resilient characters so convincingly.
The descendant of an independence fighter…
He had tried to run from a role citing a lack of historical awareness, yet she carried certainty and pride in her roots.
Tae-san felt solemn.
“Are all the graves here those of independence fighters?”
“Yes. Some don’t even have proper names carved on their stones. But every one of them gave their life for independence.”
Setting aside his shame, Tae-san stepped closer to Baek Hye-rin.
“You’re going to help tend the grave too?”
“I may not know much else, but when it comes to cleaning, I’m practically a pro.”
“Then wait here a moment? I’ll grab the supplies I brought from the car.”
“Sure.”
While Baek Hye-rin went to fetch the equipment, Tae-san rolled up his sleeves and began tidying around the gravestone. He carefully wiped moss and grime from the weathered stone with a handkerchief and cleared scattered pebbles from the plot.
Scrape, scrape.
He scraped away lichen and brushed off accumulated dust. After crouching for a long while, beads of sweat formed on his brow. The cool breeze quickly dried them, leaving him oddly refreshed.
“Tae-san, I’m back.”
Baek Hye-rin came running from a distance.
“Take it slow! You might trip—”
Just then—
Bzzt—!
The phone in his pocket vibrated violently. At the same time, the familiar app notification chimed.
♬ Ding!
Independence activist ‘Baek Geun-su’’s grave cleaning complete.
Huh?
Before Tae-san could even react, a crimson system message appeared before his eyes.
From this moment, you will experience the life of ‘Borderlander’ Baek Geun-su.
“W-wait a second…!”
His vision warped violently. Tae-san staggered. Baek Hye-rin’s startled face blurred like a watercolor in water, and the world began to spin.
***
With a throbbing headache, Kang Tae-san opened his eyes.
“What… is this…?”
His head hurt worse than usual, heavy and splitting. He reflexively looked around.
Moments ago he had been on a hillside in Busan—now the scenery was completely different. A dirt road kicking up dust. A street lined with low tile-roofed and thatched houses. The people passing by looked unfamiliar too: an old man in white cotton clothes and straw sandals, children with pigtails, and Japanese soldiers in khaki uniforms striding arrogantly between them. Bayonets on their rifles glinted in the sunlight.
Japanese soldiers?
Tae-san instinctively looked down at his own clothes. He wore a stiff black gakuran school uniform with gold buttons and polished leather shoes. A heavy bookbag hung from his hand.
“Hey, you! Quit blocking the road!”
Someone shoved his shoulder as they passed. In Japanese.
“Huh? Oh—sorry.”
Strangely, Tae-san understood and replied in the unfamiliar language as if it were his mother tongue.
At the same time, countless pieces of information flooded his mind.
Tae-san—or rather, the boy Baek Geun-su—stood frozen in the middle of Gyeongseong during the Japanese colonial period. He was now experiencing the life of Baek Hye-rin’s great-grandfather, Baek Geun-su.
But the emotions he felt were not the burning patriotism or pride one might expect from an independence fighter. Instead, a sticky, unpleasant feeling rose from deep in his chest—shame and bitter self-loathing.
Baek Geun-su had been born into a country that no longer existed. The year of his birth came after the annexation of Korea; to him, Joseon was not a nation but merely a Japanese colony called the peninsula.
And in that colonial land, Baek Geun-su occupied a position far more special than most—painfully so.
“Oh my, isn’t that Secretary Baek’s son? Off to school, are we?”
A passing village woman bowed deeply in greeting. Baek Geun-su turned away, uncomfortable.
His father, Baek Il-han, was a powerful local figure and right-hand man to the Japanese owner of a military factory—a Korean who had clawed his way up from a poor tenant farmer’s son. Though barely educated, his sharp mind and natural talent for numbers caught the Japanese owner’s eye. Fluent in Japanese—more so than many natives—and exceptionally skilled at squeezing labor from Korean workers, he quickly became the owner’s most trusted aide.
Thanks to that, Baek Geun-su, despite being Korean, attended an elite higher common school reserved for Japanese residents’ children.
Growing up under such a father, Baek Geun-su had always carried one question: Am I Korean, or Japanese?
The school gate came into view. Strict disciplinary teachers stood watch beneath a fluttering Japanese flag, their eyes sharp as blades. Baek Geun-su took a deep breath and straightened his posture. The nameplate on his left chest gleamed in the sunlight.
Shirakawa Takeshi.
His Japanese name. His father, Baek Il-han, had forced the name change, insisting he live more Japanese than the Japanese themselves.
Yet Baek Geun-su belonged to neither name.
“Ohayou.”
He forced a bright greeting as he entered, but none of the Japanese students returned it. They only shot him sidelong glances of open contempt.
No matter how expensive his uniform, how fluent his Japanese, or how Japanese his name, dirty Joseon blood still ran through his veins.
Baek Geun-su ignored the stares and headed for his seat—only to stop short.
A rotting fish head sat on his desk, flies buzzing around it.
“Pfft…”
Suppressed laughter erupted from the back of the classroom. Japanese boys. They couldn’t stand that a Joseon kid competed for top grades and monopolized the teachers’ praise.
“Hey, Joseon rat. Didn’t your dad used to sell fish before he started working at the factory? Isn’t that your dad’s lunchbox?”
Kenji, the class leader, sneered.
Baek Geun-su silently pulled out a handkerchief, picked up the fish head, and dropped it into the trash. His expression never changed. This was routine by now. Reacting only encouraged them.
“Stinking Joseon bastard. No matter how much you wash, that fishy smell never comes off.”
Baek Geun-su opened his textbook without a word. The resentment buried deep in his heart had accumulated from years of being treated as an outsider—someone who could never truly be Japanese among Japanese, yet could never join the Koreans either. A person of ambiguous roots. That was seventeen-year-old Baek Geun-su.
The only way to survive here was to excel beyond them all and silence their mouths with superior grades.
But his hardships weren’t confined to school.
After classes, the moment he stepped through the gate, another group waited.
“There he is—the Jap collaborator’s son!”
A stone flew.
Thud!
Pain exploded in his shoulder. Beyond the school wall stood Korean children in ragged clothes, rocks in hand, eyes blazing with hatred.
“Takeshi, you son of a bitch!”
“Traitor’s spawn! Jap bootlicker!”
“Because of you, my dad worked himself to death at the factory! You bastard!”
They called him Takeshi. Japanese students mocked him as Joseon scum; Korean students cursed him as Takeshi. No one called him by his real name—Baek Geun-su.
Without even wiping the blood from his forehead, Baek Geun-su lowered his head and hurried on.
Father… why did you throw me into this hell?
He bit his lip. He knew his father served as a Japanese lackey, squeezing the lifeblood of his own people. He knew the filthy money paid for his comfortable life and this expensive uniform.
“Takeshi-kun.”
Someone called out. His Japanese homeroom teacher clicked his tongue at the sight of him.
“Tsk tsk… Those barbaric Joseon brats again? You’re different from them. Excellent grades, rational thinking. I’ll write you a recommendation. How about studying abroad at Tokyo Imperial University? A talent like you shouldn’t rot in this backwater.”
Studying in Japan—the only lifeline left for Baek Geun-su. Leaving this wretched Joseon soil for a place where no one knew his origins, starting fresh. If he could just get there, he could be recognized simply as a capable intellectual, not a Joseon rat or a collaborator’s son.
“Thank you, sensei… I’ll go. Definitely.”
Baek Geun-su bowed deeply.
As the teacher left, a girl waited at the alley entrance. Fumiko—the daughter of a high-ranking Japanese official, the only one at school who showed him kindness without prejudice.
“Takeshi-kun… here.”
She held out expensive Japanese ointment.
“I saw… you got hit by a rock earlier. Does it hurt? This will help it heal without a scar.”
Her eyes shimmered with worry. She was the only friend who treated him without bias despite knowing he was Korean—perhaps more than a friend, and he knew it.
Her pale hand reached for his wounded forehead. The gesture felt like mercy from a Japanese master to an injured slave, stirring revulsion. Takeshi (Baek Geun-su) pulled away.
Fumiko bit her lip, eyes anxious, shifting her feet restlessly.
Baek Geun-su felt bitter.
At least the Japanese are better.
They kept you close if you were useful and fed you if you had value. His father proved that. Skill earned recognition; utility earned respect.
But Koreans?
They were the same race, yet they attacked him like demons simply because he attended a Japanese school and lived a little better. Ignorant, filthy, vicious creatures. They lived in the gutter and demanded he join them there, dragging him down like water ghosts.
This terrible country overflowed with poverty, ignorance, and the slave mentality of tearing each other down.
Baek Geun-su wanted to escape it all.
I’ll go to Tokyo. I’ll rank first and enter Tokyo Imperial University.
That was his sole goal.
“Takeshi-kun, please… you’re bleeding.”
Fumiko reached out again, voice trembling.
“Don’t touch me!”
He roughly shoved her hand away.
Clack!
The ointment tin fell and rolled across the ground. Tears streamed down Fumiko’s startled face.
“I don’t need your pity!”
Baek Geun-su shouted and ran without looking back. Her tearful calls of “Takeshi!” echoed behind him, but he didn’t stop. He fled the school, dodged the stone-throwing Korean children, and kept running until his lungs burned.
He arrived at a deserted embankment. Gasping, he collapsed. Before him stretched the Han River flowing toward the Yellow Sea. Several boats floated on the water.
Hoooo—!
A massive Japanese steamship bellowed its horn, belching black smoke as it displayed its grandeur. Its iron hull and modern cannons loomed imposingly. Beside it, shabby Korean ferryboats and rafts drifted pathetically. The boatmen’s backs were bent; their vessels looked ready to sink.
Baek Geun-su stared at the scene and felt certain.
There was no future in this country called Joseon. No matter how hard he struggled, he would never escape the fate of those rotting ferryboats.
Now he understood why his father had become a collaborator, serving under the Japanese. Without power, one was only ignored and despised.
Anyway, this country of Joseon has already abandoned me. It doesn’t acknowledge me as Korean. So then…
Staring at his reflection rippling on the water—Korean blood in a Japanese uniform, a grotesque hybrid—he made his decision.
I’ll leave.
He resolved.
He would become a perfect Japanese. Even if it meant discarding the name Baek Geun-su and his homeland, he would rise to the highest place and trample everyone who had mocked and scorned him.
I will never… never return to this filthy Joseon soil again.
The vow shattered sadly across the waves of the Han River.