The Test in 18th-Century Paris
18th-century Paris, near the Seine River, a man lay sprawled on the ground.
"Hé, toi, ouais toi, tu es enfin réveillé." A passing Parisian, mistaking him for a drunk, shook him awake.
"Gah! What the— Who are you?!" He jolted upright like he'd just met his first foreigner, blurting out in Korean.
"Qu'est-ce que tu dis? Ils ressemblent à des colons ou à des esclaves." The Parisian couldn't make heads or tails of it. "What the hell are you babbling? You look like some colonial or a slave."
"Uh, um... Excuse me, I'm not sure why I'm here. Do you know where I am? And why I'm here?" Fortunately, he knew some English.
"English? British spy! Police! Police!" But this was 18th-century France. To the locals, the British were just "annoying pirate bastards." Grinning at the thought of a spy bounty, the passerby called for the cops.
"Embassy! Take me to the embassy! Damn, they said K-culture was trending these days... Is this French racism? Anyone speak Korean? Can you speak English?!"
Naturally, sensing the hostile vibe, he tried to bolt. "What the hell? Why does this look like medieval times? Some folk village?"
By the time he'd sized up the situation, the police had arrived.
"Pourquoi as-tu amené l'esclave?"
"On ne peut pas communiquer. D'abord, je te jette à la Bastille."
Gagged and helpless, he was thrown into the Bastille.
*
August 15, 1779, the king's office.
France was peaceful as ever today. The Lorraine steel mills had gone up faster than expected, and reinforced concrete factories and iron buildings were sprouting across the country. There wasn't much left for me to do. In time, France would kick off its own Industrial Revolution. Britain clung to key figures like James Watt, but the rest of their industry was practically disarmed. No need to even nudge the National Intelligence Agency—talent and industry were flocking to France on their own.
Sure, there were issues like urban overcrowding and slum poverty... but public works programs were patching those up well enough. A scream from one of Rousseau's followers echoed faintly in the distance... too far to make out. Anyway, beyond that, the American front was steamrolling ahead, and domestic affairs seemed sorted—no more tinkering needed. There weren't any pressing matters left for me to grab hold of.
"Your Majesty, we've caught a British spy disguised as a Qing merchant."
Stuff like this popped up occasionally, but nothing major. Did they think different skin color meant we'd let them slide?
"Use the detained spy for propaganda. If Britain admits it, ransom him back for a hefty sum. If they deny it, barrel him up and dump him in the Arve River."
A Qing merchant, huh... We'd have to address the trade deficit with the Qing someday. But not yet.
*
Two days after capturing the gibberish-spouting Eastern spy, a man in a sharp, glossy suit strode into the cell.
"，，?"
"What're you saying?"
He'd opened with Chinese. "Hey, if you understand me, answer up?"
"No, I don't speak Chinese..."
Of course, the Easterner didn't know Chinese. Seeing the blank look, the suited man pulled a notebook from his pocket and switched languages.
"Then, do you know Joseon-ese?"
"What? You speak Korean? Er, do you?"
"Ahem. Speak slowly. Slowly."
Finally figuring out the Easterner's tongue, he unpacked a massive dictionary—at least 800 pages thick—from his bag and began conversing. It was awkward as hell, sometimes trailing off like Chinese, other times lilting up and down like a Southeast dialect, but the Easterner chalked it up to typical foreigner clumsiness. Just like the agent's earlier Chinese slip, he assumed unfamiliar words were Chinese loanwords.
"First off, allow me to introduce myself. I am an agent of the France—er, France National Intelligence Agency."
"National Intelligence Agency?"
"His Majesty often shortens it that way, but the full name is the French National Intelligence Agency. You're being held here on suspicion of espionage."
Joy at finally communicating was short-lived. Hearing the spy charge, the Easterner gaped in disbelief, then dropped his gaze in despair.
"I don't know why I'm here either. I woke up and suddenly I was in this place."
Regaining his wits, he pleaded earnestly. But it was no use.
"Standard excuse. You are a spy. Admit it."
"No, I'm not! Why do you keep calling me a spy?!"
The agent's ironclad stance had a simple reason.
"Joseon is isolationist, with limited tribute missions. Therefore, you must be a spy."
This era's Joseon had zero ties to Europe. Plus, the Easterner wasn't some Qing official from an Eastern powerhouse or a Mughal noble from a famed realm— no reason for the Agency to lend him an ear.
"Your homeland has abandoned you. England denies your existence."
"Of course they do. I'm not British!"
"Then where the hell are you from?"
Moreover, European powers of the time knew their local currents inside out, so shipwreck excuses wouldn't fly.
"Anyway, write your name here. Below that, your mission, affiliation, numbers, and placements of British spies in our lands. The blank at the bottom is for Britain's top-secret ops."
"I told you, I'm not British..."
"Expect a lot from you by tomorrow."
And so, the Easterner's sudden drop into France was summarily dismissed.
*
August 16, 1779, the king's office.
"The confession from yesterday's British spy."
"Let me see."
Spies, huh. Normally, low-level ones were handled by Terray, the National Intelligence chief. But with my schedule wide open, I poked into anything vaguely important. Everyone was competent, but I always spotted tweaks to make. This case drew me in too... and then...
"Hmm, Terray. Did Britain have inland Asian colonies? Any at all?"
Such an obvious plant.
"No, Your Majesty. If you count the East India Company's reach, maybe, but..."
Oh, Lord.
"Amusing. Maybe not a spy—just a bit unhinged."
Is this Your way of testing my resolve?
"Catacombs job?"
"No, bring him to me first."
Time to pass the test. I'll prove this world is real—and that I own it.
*
That late afternoon, the Eastern spy was dragged to the king's office. Louis XVI held a book—its cover emblazoned in Hangul with "Hunminjeongeum"—and addressed him.
"Who are you?"
His "modern" Korean was crisp, leagues beyond the agent's.
"I'm Korean."
"There is no nation called Korea. You speak the Joseon tongue."
Louis XVI deliberately simplified his phrasing, punching each word to feign archaic clumsiness.
"The country on the peninsula south of the Yalu River, next to the Qing."
"Understood. One of the nations from that war the Papal See once mentioned."
"Yes. The Imjin War, probably."
"Wa, Hwa, Yamato. I know a bit of the Geobanggu language too."
To hide his modern origins, Louis XVI stuck to 18th-century knowledge.
"That... I don't know much about. I'm a STEM guy."
"STEM? Neo-Confucian studies?"
His eyes lit at the prospect of a timely expert, but he quickly pivoted.
"No. Hard to believe, but I'm from the future."
"Spare the bravado. Don't spin lies that'll unravel anyway."
"It's not bravado."
"Prove it."
To craft an alibi—and test the claim—Louis XVI challenged him to demonstrate his futurity. Simple reason: he was certain the man couldn't. Knowledge built cumulatively; modern proofs needed modern tools, and anything provable in the 18th century was already doable then.
As expected, the Easterner was scribbling calculus proofs.
"Leibniz did that one. That's L'Hôpital's. Fine applications, but any diligent math student could manage those tricks. So, self-proclaimed futurist—got more?"
The Easterner dropped his quill in silence.
"Back to square one. Who are you? Name first."
"I'm Korean. I-Myeonghun from Seoul."
"Joseon's Seoul is Hanyang. No dodging."
Silence lingered. Louis XVI chuckled dryly.
"A touch mad, then. We'll make him court jester. Perfect—I've been bored."
Louis XVI closed the stack of blank "Hunminjeongeum" sheets.