Baek Clan Estate (1)

2. Baek Clan Estate (1)

The fiery liquor spread through my stomach as though setting it ablaze. It was harsh enough to make a man curse, but now that I'd gradually grown accustomed to it, I could savor the fragrant floral aroma that rose afterward. I could hardly remember what I'd ever found appealing about the soju I drank in my past life.

It wasn't only the liquor. I was gradually adapting to this world, and the inconveniences of living in a China centuries removed from twenty-first-century South Korea were beginning to fade from my awareness. My past life had offered a clean, convenient civilization and a stable social order where slaughter existed only in imagination or in news from abroad. I'd always thought that life miserably poor and perpetually unhappy, but after being reborn here, I realized that merely being born in twenty-first-century South Korea had been an immense stroke of luck.

Because I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠remembered that future civilization, my start in this world had been difficult. Even a wealthy house like this had an outhouse privy. Looking at humanity across the entire world, including the emperor who wielded absolute power, I was probably the only person who missed flush toilets and felt inconvenienced in the bathroom. I was only now beginning to grasp the meaning of the words the demon had spoken long ago, at the end of my past life—that it would be far better to discard my memories and be reborn.

But humans were creatures of adaptation, and happiness wasn't an absolute value; it came from comparing oneself with others. I'd already experienced that in the military in my past life. One day, I had been abruptly cut off from society and every piece of common sense and every value I had held had been disregarded. Yet, like most people, I adapted quickly. As time passed and my rank rose, even pathetic little freedoms—lying around in the barracks on holidays or wearing privately purchased underwear—were enough to make me feel superior to the junior soldiers. Contrary to the demon's concerns, I was now thoroughly enjoying my second life.

My request to be reborn as the son of a rich family had been the right choice. In any society, wealth fundamentally signified social success. In a class-based society, nobles were naturally wealthier than commoners; no slave could be richer than their master. The same would hold true in a theocracy, where the clergy would become both the ruling class and the wealthy.

Even if this world operated on the logic of a ridiculous wuxia novel, this was an absolute truth.

God damn it. It wasn't literally a world where apples didn't fall, but the physical laws of my past life were still completely useless here. It was a world very similar to ancient China, and at first I had briefly mistaken it for nothing more than an earlier era of my own world. But as I learned to walk, studied, and met people, I gradually realized that this world and my old one differed at the level of their fundamental laws.

This was a world where martial arts existed: humans shattered boulders with their bare hands, ran faster than horses, and launched ranged attacks merely by swinging swords that should have been close-combat weapons. Yet, in blatant contradiction, its social order still reproduced ancient China. Did city walls even mean anything in a world with lightness skills? It was no exaggeration to say that the people of this world and those of my past life were entirely different creatures. The world teemed with absurd martial artists who could cover a hundred meters in under five seconds using lightness skills, yet, comically, its history still unfolded much like the history I knew.

It was now the second year of the Chenghua era. The Chenghua Emperor had ascended the Ming throne as its eighth emperor the previous year. I knew little Chinese history, so I could not tell whether everything matched my old world's past. Still, I had heard that the Gyeyu Coup had occurred in Joseon about ten years earlier and that King Sejo had deposed Danjong, so history apparently followed much the same course.

I'd agonized over this bizarre world ever since I began toddling, but as I grew older, I realized those worries were pointless. Was I about eleven? I once met someone from Joseon. Hearing the Korean language I had missed so desperately nearly brought tears to my eyes. Then I noticed something strange. The Joseon language of centuries ago couldn't possibly have been mutually intelligible with the language of twenty-first-century South Korea. Even works written in Hangul, such as Gwandong Byeolgok and Hunminjeongeum, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠used language so different that reading them was almost like deciphering code. Yet the Joseon man and I had conversed without the slightest difficulty.

Even if I let all of that slide, why was a gentleman from Hamgyeong Province speaking in a Seoul dialect?

I realized it at that moment. This place was an entirely different world that merely resembled ancient China on the surface. And a world like a third-rate wuxia novel with a clumsily constructed setting based on absurdly flimsy historical research. The spread of chili powder in Joseon was supposed to be a story for after the Imjin War, but for some reason, napa cabbage kimchi already existed as a matter of course in King Sejo's time. Around then I decided to give up and enjoy myself. What harm could the existence of kimchi do me? I'd welcome it with open arms. Anyway, even if it did harm, it wasn't like I could do anything about it. Agonizing was meaningless. I was not a twenty-first-century Korean. Having become a member of this world, I had no choice but to live in accordance with it.

I rose from my seat and stretched my stiff body. One genuinely good thing was the clean air. This was an age without fine dust, and the yellow dust blowing from Inner Mongolia didn't reach this far north, so the air could hardly be anything but clear. Clean air in China—what a ridiculous notion that would have seemed in my past life.

I opened the window to air out the room, poured myself another cup of fiery liquor, and slowly drank it. Its sharp fragrance spread through my chest. No wonder it was so good: one bottle cost as much as half a month's living expenses for an ordinary farmer. I truly was fortunate to have been born the son of a wealthy house.

The training ground was visible through the window. It was reserved for the Baek Clan Estate's retainers and barred to ordinary martial-academy trainees. The household members—the steward who managed the estate's affairs, the White Horse Unit, and the rest—were again shedding blood and sweat as they trained. Their occasional booming shouts had become little more than background music to me. One thing bothered me, however: the trainees had clearly split into two factions and were openly snarling at each other. I'd put the matter off until the last possible moment, but it was time to end it with my own hands.

"Young Master. The Clan Head is looking for you."

A servant's voice came from outside the door. Was my father starting to think the same as me?

"I'll be there shortly. Clear away the liquor table."

"Yes, Young Master."

The servant opened the door with a respectful bow and swiftly cleared the drinks table. So what if this world's civilization lagged far behind the twenty-first century? So what if there were no dishwashers or washing machines? None of it mattered as long as you had enough money.

Cutting straight across the training hall would have been much faster, but since there was no rush, I took a slightly longer route and walked slowly toward the Head's Hall. The white flags of the Baek Clan Estate placed here and there caught my eye.

Baek Clan Estate.

There were just as many Chinese bastards around in this era as ever, so the Central Plains probably contained dozens of estates called Baek Clan Estate. That was why we introduced ours to outsiders as the Jilin Baek Clan Estate. Unless a clan was genuinely famous, like the Nangong or Murong Clan, people needed the regional name to recognize it. What was funny was that clans with two-character compound surnames—Nangong, Murong, Gongsun, Zhuge—were called simply by their clan names, whereas those with single-character surnames, such as Tang or Peng, were always paired with a region: Sichuan Tang Clan, Hebei Peng Clan, Jinju Eon Clan. Was it just another habit of Chinese bastards who loved four-character phrases?

Well, anyway, our Baek Clan Estate was a small family martial sect beyond the wall that couldn't even be called a prestigious clan. On the scale of the entire Central Plains, if looked at generously, it was at the tail end of the second-class; if judged strictly, it was an excellent third-class. That was about its level. But this place was Jilin Province. The Jilin Province where Yanbian, the homeland of the Joseonjok, was located. No, to be precise, it was just Jilin. This wasn't the Central Plains, the territory of Ming, but a region belonging to beyond the wall. Jilin becoming Jilin Province was a story for after the Qing Dynasty.

Jilin was Jurchen territory and a remote backwater close to Joseon. This place was a real hick town. Not even the vaunted Nine Great Sects and the Beggars' Sect or the Five Great Clans entertained the thought of advancing here. The land was barren, winters were brutal—a truly unappealing neighborhood. Though it was close to Joseon, no one tried to trade across the rugged Baekdusan mountain range. The hub of trade with Joseon wasn't here, but Shandong Province. A center of maritime trade, actively exchanging with Incheon, the port city beside Hanyang. Unlike Shandong, which had flourished brilliantly, this place, Jilin, had truly nothing. Or why else would even the Ming Imperial Family not have incorporated it into their territory? This Jilin being incorporated into China would happen after the Ming Dynasty was finished off by the later-rising Manchus and the Qing Dynasty was established.

At any rate, because this was such a backwater, even a second-rate power like the Baek Clan Estate held tremendous prestige, like a wolf on a mountain without a tiger. Like the owner of the only small company in an underdeveloped province, my father was the king of this region. Anyone who wanted to live here had to stay on the estate's good side. Since this wasn't a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Chinese administrative district, there was no proper government office. The Jurchens managed the region in their own fashion, but expecting meaningful public policy was impossible. Public order was naturally atrocious, with mountain bandits and mounted brigands alike everywhere. In a place like this, the Baek Clan Estate—an orthodox power that cleared out the thugs—was indispensable to both the common people and the surrounding merchant guilds.

While the Nine Great Sects, the Beggars' Sect, and the Five Great Clans fought viciously for influence in the Central Plains, my great-great-grandfather had possessed the brilliant foresight to come to this remote corner and make himself the local boss. Born to a small merchant guild, he trained at Shaolin as a lay disciple before leaving the mountain and founding the Baek Clan Estate here. He had ample money as the heir to a merchant family, but little martial strength or influence, and only barely established the estate in this wilderness.

At first, it was a tiny estate on the frontier, so weak that calling it a martial sect was embarrassing. Then, in my great-grandfather's generation, our family hit the jackpot: it produced a genius. Blessed with exceptional martial talent, my great-grandfather distinguished himself in countless battles and rapidly improved our humble family's martial arts. But genius was, by definition, a gift from heaven, and that gift did not pass to his son, my grandfather. Even so, my great-grandfather brought a former Mount Hua Sect ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠disciple into the family as his daughter-in-law—my grandmother. With her help, Baek Clan Estate continued to prosper under my grandfather and eventually passed to my father, the current clan head, who had inherited the talents of both his father and mother.

My father was an exceptional estate head, blessed with outstanding martial talent and remarkable political instinct. He always proclaimed the orthodox cause while subjugating mountain bandits, mounted brigands, and remnants of the unorthodox factions who had fled the Central Plains to hide here. The process brought the Baek Clan Estate not only public support, but every coin of the bandits' hidden wealth. The bandits robbed the people; we robbed the bandits. We were no righteous bandits. The common people were always robbed, and we were always the ones doing the robbing. Yet all we received in return was absolute adoration for the Baek Clan Estate.

Although the Baek Clan Estate lay on the frontier, my father made substantial offerings to both the Murong Clan, the nearest major power, and Shaolin, where my great-great-grandfather had trained, thereby cementing his position as this region's master. If an unorthodox faction ever attempted to establish itself here, we'd have to borrow their strength and drive it out at all costs. Our relationship with both powers was therefore quite good. We had bowed first, lacked the strength to advance into the Central Plains, and were content merely to keep rival forces out of our territory.

Orthodox independents occasionally tried to copy us and establish themselves here. Since we couldn't simply crush them as we did unorthodox factions, we first investigated their backing. If they proved manageable, we used gangster tactics to nip them in the bud—putting pressure on local commerce, inventing absurd grounds for a duel, and humiliating them publicly. If a group backed by a power such as Wudang or Mount Hua tried to settle here, however, we gave up at once and pressed a large sum of money into their hands so they would choose somewhere else. After all, this was Jilin, an empty backwater with nothing to offer.

My father was a remarkable man. He possessed outstanding martial arts and, contrary to his appearance, a sharp mind, but he was also quite violent. Perhaps decades of dealing with mountain bandits had made him resemble them. When he was in a foul mood, he beheaded people for amusement; when a woman caught his fancy, he seized and raped her—only women from the unorthodox factions, of course. To the unorthodox powers of the Central Plains, especially the Eighteen Green Forest Strongholds, the Baek Clan Estate was probably an infuriating nobody that constantly got in their way. But they were already hard-pressed in their struggles with the orthodox factions and had no strength to spare for coming here. Even if they became angry enough to send elite warriors to Jilin, a major orthodox clan such as the Murong Clan would never stand by and watch.

Though no one could know the future, up to my father's generation at least, our Baek Clan Estate would have no problems.

If there was a problem, it would be the next generation. That is, my younger sibling's and my generation.