Young Master, I'd Honestly Like to Ask You Something
"The Green Forest hero Hong Gildong?"
The moment a Green Forest tale involving someone like himself came up, Cheoldu's ears pricked forward.
"That's right. Hong Gildong — the hero who ruled this land a full thousand years ago, back in the Han Dynasty."
"Ha! A Green Forest hero? I may be Green Forest myself, but we're bandits, plain and simple. I've never once heard a man call us heroes! Is this bastard trying to mock me?"
He seemed well aware of how the world regarded bandits. Taking my talk of Green Forest heroes as an insult, he snatched up a wooden club lying behind him, his face dark with anger.
If I backed down now, that club would be aimed straight at the top of my skull. So what was the right move? The answer was already clear. This was the moment to push forward without flinching.
"Easy, easy. Calm yourself. Why shouldn't a bandit become a hero? A hero, after all, is simply a figure who draws a single stroke across the blank page of history — a man who leaves his mark on the world.
Hong Gildong was just such an extraordinary man. Why shouldn't a brother of the Green Forest be counted among the heroes? And judging a story before you've even heard it? Listen first, and you'll understand why they call him the hero of the Green Forest."
"Hmph. Fine. Let's hear this Hong Gildong fellow's story, then."
Cheoldu, who had risen from his seat, settled back into the chair he'd first occupied — a little interest stirring in him after all. Relieved, I began piecing together the overall plot of The Tale of Hong Gildong in my head.
Born to a nobleman and a slave, Hong Gildong was of low birth in an age that despised such origins. Gifted beyond measure, yet barred from everything by his station, he could not even call his own father "Father." In the end he founded the Hwalbindang — no, the Green Forest. The kingdom tried to crush him and failed.
It was a novel that criticized the contradictions of the class system of its time. But as a work written by the ruling yangban class, it never quite managed reform — Hong Gildong simply crossed the sea, founded the kingdom of Yuldo, and the story ended there.
For the people of this era, it was certainly a masterpiece worthy of the name. But for a modern man like me — who'd spent the tail end of his military service devouring every genre novel he could get his hands on, already pickled in dopamine and adrenaline — it felt distinctly lacking.
Which was why a little creative revision seemed perfectly reasonable.
Besides, The Tale of Hong Gildong hadn't even been written yet in this world. Who was going to stand up and shout, "That's not the real Hong Gildong!"?
"About a thousand years ago, in the Han Dynasty, there lived a gisaeng named Yehwa. She played the zheng — the Chinese zither — with such mastery that she rivaled Fuxi himself, the god who first taught music to mankind. And her painting? She painted flowers so lifelike that honeybees came to them, just like the legendary master Zhang Sengyao."
Hong Gildong's talents were absurdly over the top.
Yet for all that brilliance, his father Hong Sangjik — though he would eventually rise to a respectable post — was ultimately just an ordinary official. A Hong Gildong who had mastered sorcery and martial arts to their absolute limits under such a father didn't fit the classic novel trope of an "extraordinary birth." So I decided to fix that by making his mother extraordinary instead. If his impossible gifts came from her, at least they would make a little more sense.
"And there was a man named Hong Sangjik — the son of a local magnate — who sought to claim this gisaeng for himself."
"You said this was Hong Gildong's story. Who the hell are Yehwa and Hong Sangjik? You better not be messing with me."
"Every story needs a beginning, a middle, and an end, doesn't it? He'll appear soon enough — just be patient a moment longer."
"What? Beginning, middle, and end? Ahem… well, yes, of course that's important. Go on, then."
He didn't know.
This bandit clearly had no idea what "beginning, middle, and end" meant. Still, he bluffed his way past it rather than admit his ignorance — and that little bit of face-saving bought me the calm I needed to keep going.
"Hong Sangjik fell for Yehwa's brilliance and resolved to have her. But Yehwa was a gisaeng of the arts — a yeogi who sold her talent, not a changgi who sold her body. She would not give herself to him.
Unable to simply buy her, Hong Sangjik used every means at his disposal to win her heart. In the end he succeeded. After a single night together, Yehwa conceived — and from Yehwa, Hong Gildong was born."
And right there, I added one more touch.
The classic hero-novel cliché of an extraordinary birth. Bak Hyeokgeose hatched from an egg; Dangun was the son of Hwanung, was he not? If you were a hero, your very birth had to be extraordinary. That was the rule.
"And the very moment Hong Gildong entered the world — the heavens thundered, and a rainbow of five colors unfurled across the sky, as if blessing his birth itself!"
"Ohh!!!"
I glanced over, half-worried I'd overdone it — but the bandit was more focused than before. He liked it.
"It was so strange an omen that Hong Gildong's mother knew at once her child was no ordinary boy. She gave up her life as a gisaeng to devote herself to his education. Lowly as the world might call her trade, she was still a mother. And with Yehwa's uncommon gifts, Hong Gildong learned a great deal at her side."
It wasn't just the bandit listening. From the far rooms, the porters and escort guards were murmuring among themselves — clearly hanging on every word.
"Young Hong Gildong had inherited his mother's talent. Even as a child, his learning was extraordinary — not only in scholarship, but in martial arts. At a mere fifteen years of age, a single swing of his sword could fell a tree thick enough to have stood a hundred years. But—!"
That single word flipped the mood and seized every ear in the room.
"Even with gifts so rare, Hong Gildong could not call his father 'Father.'"
"What kind of talk is that? Couldn't call his own father 'Father'? How do you turn your back on the sacred bond Heaven itself has given?"
Cheoldu stared at me, baffled, and demanded an explanation.
"Think about it."
I deliberately paused and looked him straight in the face.
The most important thing on any stage is the audience's reaction.
No matter how good the material or how fine the performance, if the audience doesn't respond, the stage has failed. On that score, Cheoldu was locked in — those bright, eager eyes sitting oddly on his rough-hewn face. Only after confirming that did I speak again.
"Say a young master from a high-born family takes a gisaeng as a concubine. What do you suppose people say? What becomes of his face? What becomes of his family's honor?"
Cheoldu snorted under his breath. I nodded and pressed on.
"And so Hong Gildong was never even entered into the family register. He could not claim so much as the name of his father's son. In time, the longing to know what it felt like to have a father — the way other children did — became more than he could bear. He went to find Hong Sangjik. And gathering his courage, he called him… 'Father.' Just once."
Cheoldu's brow twitched. I caught it and dropped my voice a register lower.
"But the moment Hong Sangjik heard that word, his face went deathly pale. He berated Hong Gildong savagely — and cast him out.
He threw his own blood-born son out into the street."
Cheoldu's fists clenched tight. Rage kindled in his eyes.
"…What kind of madman does that? Won't even let his own son call him Father!"
I nodded as if I shared every ounce of that fury.
"Isn't that how men of power always are? For the sake of authority and the face they show the world, they cast aside even the sacred bonds Heaven itself has bestowed."
I watched Cheoldu's lips tremble, let the silence hang a beat, then continued.
"But tell me — of all the teachings in the Four Books and Three Classics, what is held most sacred? Filial piety. Even those who've never opened a book know that much.
And Hong Gildong was brilliant. He understood filial piety perfectly. So he thought to himself: To fulfill my duty as a son, I must first be able to call my father 'Father.' And for that, I must rise high in the world.
He believed that if he achieved fame and rank, earned his father's recognition, he could stand tall and call him 'Father' — and at last fulfill his filial duty."
Cheoldu's expression shifted strangely. The rage that had filled his face melted into something like awe.
"A… a son like that! No wonder they call him the hero of the Green Forest."
Even a bandit who killed men and stole their goods still carried some feeling for his parents, it seemed. Cheoldu was genuinely moved.
"Well then — shall I continue the story?"
Glug…
A man built large enough to drain a wine jug in one pull sat with perfect composure, pouring tea into a cup. It was a scene that could easily have looked absurd — a giant performing a delicate tea ceremony.
And yet there was nothing awkward about him. If anything, it looked entirely natural.
Perhaps that was why Im Seha felt a flicker of genuine disorientation watching this mismatched yet seamless figure.
"Please, drink."
Yeom Gilsan finished pouring and held out the cup. Im Seha collected himself and accepted it.
"I shall enjoy it gratefully."
Bowing his head, Im Seha rolled his eyes and studied the man across from him.
Yeom Gilsan — sworn younger brother of the Green Forest Grand Chief.
A full handspan or two taller than the average man, a mountain of muscle. And that mountain was daintily sipping tea — with flawless tea-ceremony etiquette, no less.
It was so hard to believe a bandit could behave this way that Im Seha took a somewhat flustered sip.
"Young Master — how is the tea?"
Startled, Im Seha took another careful sip.
The first time, tension had robbed him of any chance to taste it. Now, with his wits about him, he realized the brewing itself was no ordinary craft.
"…Better than expected. Far better, in fact. The brewing, the flavor, the fragrance — none of it is ordinary. Judging by the color and the finish, this is clearly a high-grade Wuyi rock tea… though I haven't tasted it often enough to be certain."
The near-perfect tea left Im Seha silently impressed.
The quality of the leaves, the method of brewing, the ceremony itself — it was almost impossible to believe a bandit had served this.
"Oh… you recognized it at once? As expected of a merchant group's young master — your discernment is considerable."
"You flatter me."
"I brought out the Da Hong Pao to mark today's occasion."
At the words Da Hong Pao, Im Seha's eyes widened slightly. Among the rare Wuyi rock teas, Da Hong Pao was the absolute finest — a tribute tea presented to the imperial court. And a mere bandit was serving it as casually as water.
…Did he plunder this?
That was Im Seha's first thought. Without plunder, no bandit could get his hands on such a thing. He smiled bitterly to himself.
Even if he'd drunk it in ignorance, consuming an imperial tribute item left no room for excuses. Imperial matters demanded caution — even unwitting consumption could become a problem.
If word of this ever leaked…
It was the kind of thing that could hand his enemies a weapon.
So Im Seha deliberately spoke first, probing why Yeom Gilsan had produced such a tea.
"I was under the impression that Da Hong Pao is a tea presented as tribute to the imperial court."
What came back was a reply edged with cold steel.
"Why? Do you suppose I plundered an imperial tribute item?"
As if the man could see straight through him.
The words made Im Seha wonder why this man had specifically invited him here and made him drink this tea. But no matter how he turned it over, Yeom Gilsan's intentions remained opaque.
"Hahaha! Don't be so tense! I bear no ill will toward a junior as green as yourself. This is Da Hong Pao, yes — but not the top-grade stuff presented to the court. So stop fretting and drink freely."
"Then I shall drink it with gratitude."
Outwardly Im Seha pretended to relax, but he still couldn't pin down Yeom Gilsan's purpose. He simply took another sip of tea.
A brief silence settled. Then Yeom Gilsan set down his cup and spoke slowly.
"As you well know, Young Master… so long as I hold this road, merchant traffic dwindles. This is the fastest route to Hyeongju, true — but because we've made our nest here, caravans naturally start taking the long way around. I don't want that."
Yeom Gilsan smiled — a soft smile that sat strangely on a man of his bulk.
"Which brings me to this. Young Master Im — I'd honestly like to ask you something."
He fixed Im Seha with a steady gaze.
Im Seha's stomach dropped. At last he understood the real reason Yeom Gilsan had called him aside. For a bandit, the man had a working brain.
He wasn't simply plundering at random — he was calculating a "moderate transit fee" that would keep merchant traffic flowing long-term. Im Seha turned his teacup slowly and answered with care.
"…That would depend on the type and quantity of goods, and on the size of the caravan. But in general…"
Having asked those questions, Yeom Gilsan summoned Im Seha again the next day — this time to inquire about the smaller details: which goods the merchant groups of Hyeongju primarily dealt in, and other such particulars.