Bandits Called Officials
"Ahem! You know, my throat's getting a bit dry."
The moment my forced cough faded, the space outside the cell burst into activity.
"Hey! He says he's thirsty. Move it!"
At the barked order of a man who looked like a senior bandit, a junior scrambled to fill a bowl with water and thrust it toward me.
I gulped it down in great swallows.
"Ahh! That hits the spot!"
I was a hostage, yet a single well of stories had handed me a scrap of power. If anyone asked how that was even possible, the answer was simple: Im Seha's words.
Yeom Gilsan won't harm us.
Of everything I'd heard since arriving in this world, that had been the most welcome sentence of all. Trusting it, I'd spent the past five days carefully testing the waters whenever the bandits came around to hear my tales—probing just how far I could push things. And this was the result.
I set the empty bowl down, stretched my legs out, and leaned my back against the wall. It was the sort of posture that could easily look arrogant. Not a single bandit moved to stop me. If anything, they accepted it as perfectly natural.
"Ahem… now, where did I leave off…"
As I murmured, I leisurely surveyed the bandits clustered outside the cell. Every one of them was watching me with bright, eager eyes, waiting for the next installment of the story that had cut off the day before.
"Hong Gildong rose to office, but an assassin sent by Hong Sangjik's principal wife struck him down and he fell off a thousand-foot cliff! So hurry up and tell us what happened next!"
One of the bandits blurted the answer to my muttered question, eyes glittering with anticipation.
"Ahem. You remember well. Very well—then let me begin."
"Damn it, the curiosity's killing me! Just spit it out already! He fell off a cliff—so is he dead or alive?"
"Come on, no way he died."
"It was a cliff, though. He probably croaked."
They muttered among themselves.
In martial arts novels, the cliff is the classic setup for the protagonist's fateful encounter. The enemies never bother to confirm whether the hero who plummeted off a thousand-foot drop is still breathing—they simply leave. The surviving hero then stumbles into a stroke of fortune.
The trope has been used so often that modern wuxia novels sometimes skip it for being stale. But this was the Ming Dynasty. The cliché hadn't even been established yet.
Which was why, even though a modern reader would have shut the book muttering that it was too predictable, these bandits were pricking up their ears and hanging on every word.
"Whether Heaven itself lent a hand, there happened to be a river flowing at the foot of that cliff. Hong Gildong fell into those waters and, for the moment, his life was spared.
But wounded, and stunned by the impact of the fall from such a height, he collapsed unconscious. Without someone's help, he would not have lived much longer."
"What?! Why's Hong Gildong gotta die?! That son of a—! Why does a poor bastard like that have to die?"
One of the bandits erupted as if a personal acquaintance had just been killed.
"Yet Heaven did not desire Hong Gildong's death. A Taoist who happened to be passing by at that very moment rescued him."
"What—a Taoist? You mean those Wudang bastards?"
One of them muttered. The reaction was familiar. In every single telling so far, someone had said the exact same thing.
"A Taoist is—"
I was about to open my mouth and clear up the misunderstanding when a sudden low, heavy voice cut the story clean off.
"Hmm… looking at this scene, you must be the one spinning the entertaining tales."
I turned toward the voice. A man of enormous build was striding in from the mouth of the cave. The moment he entered, the atmosphere in the chamber shifted completely.
The bandits who had been listening shrank back a little, naturally clearing a path for him. From that alone, I could tell this man held considerable rank here.
"B-Big Brother? What brings you here? Did you come to hear this guy's stories too?"
The most senior among the listeners spoke up at the newcomer's arrival.
"Is this some place I'm not allowed to come?"
"Heh heh, no, it's just—you don't usually come all the way out here, do you?"
"Enough. Drag that one out. The Bandit Chief wants to see him."
My mind went blank. Terror-laced thoughts whirled through my head.
What did I just hear? The Bandit Chief? That hulking bandit who carries that ridiculously huge blade? Why? Why? For what reason?
All I had to do was wait out my release in this comfortable little cell—and now this out of nowhere.
The Bandit Chief wanted to see me.
My chest plummeted at the unexpected summons, and my heart began to hammer. Regardless, the cell door swung open and a rough hand seized my collar.
Hauled out like cargo, I stole a glance at the bandit who had called for me. Annoyance was written plain across his face. Speaking up in a situation like this was dangerous enough to cost a man his life.
But being dragged off without knowing why was even more dangerous. If I at least understood why the Bandit Chief wanted me, I could prepare somehow.
"Ah… suddenly the Bandit Chief… why does he wish to see me?"
As carefully and harmlessly as I could manage, I put the question to him. The bandit gave me a sidelong look, then opened his mouth.
"Tomorrow's the day we agreed on, isn't it? Once you're free to leave, we won't get to hear any more stories. So before that, the Bandit Chief wants to hear one for himself. Word is you're quite the storyteller."
At those words, the chill that had been running down my spine began to fade. The frantic pounding of my heart shifted from terror to relief.
"R-Right! Of course! Do you have any idea how well this mouth of mine works? I'm the kind of man who'd keep floating by the lips even if I drowned."
The sheer relief of still being alive made unnecessary words spill out. Apparently they amused him—the corner of the bandit's mouth curled into a grin.
"Hmph. The bastard really does have a way with words."
I followed him up the mountain, and before long we arrived at a place where the bandits were holding a drinking feast.
"I've brought him, Bandit Chief."
Where the bandit indicated, Bandit Chief Yeom Gilsan and Im Seha—who had been summoned earlier—sat facing each other, drinking. Im Seha had been called out to the chief every day, and apparently he'd been sitting here alone eating meat and drinking wine the whole time.
So this is what he's been eating every time he got called away? No wonder he never touched the rice balls they gave us.
The thought made Im Seha seem thoroughly detestable. Meanwhile, the Bandit Chief, having heard the escort's report, looked me over with a long, measuring gaze and spoke.
"So. You're the one who's good at telling stories?"
"That's right. I do tell a decent tale."
If I could somehow earn their goodwill, then even if the agreement fell through, I might at least keep my head. With that in mind, I answered the Bandit Chief with enthusiasm.
"Haha! Full of confidence, aren't you? I've heard you tell stories about one of our Nokrim predecessors. Is that true?"
"You mean the tale of the righteous outlaw Hong Gildong. Of course. It's a story from a thousand years ago, nearly forgotten now—hardly anyone still knows it. But in an old text I read as a child, the life of Nokrim's hero, Hong Gildong, was recorded in full."
Claiming Hong Gildong had lived a thousand years ago was pure nonsense, but what did it matter? Most of these bandits were ordinary commoners who couldn't even read. Had any of them ever cracked open a history book?
They had no way to disprove a fabrication. And if someone who actually knew history tried to call me out, I could simply say the old text I'd read as a child no longer existed. Whether it was the confidence in my delivery or something else, Yeom Gilsan let out a snort of laughter.
"Fine. Then go on—tell me the story of this Hong Gildong fellow."
"Bandit Chief, before that, I have a request."
"A request?"
Yeom Gilsan looked at me with an expression that said he was curious what this fellow would dare ask for.
"Yes. The truth is, yesterday, the day before, and again this morning, I've been telling Hong Gildong's story continuously to the gallant men here. Because of that, I'm hungry and drained of strength. When a man is exhausted, his memory grows hazy, does it not?"
That was a lie, of course.
I wasn't drained, and my memory wasn't hazy in the slightest. All the leftover rice balls from the rations had been mine. But after days of nothing but the carbohydrates in those rice balls, my stomach was screaming for meat.
And the meat sitting right in front of me was a temptation I simply could not refuse.
"If I try to speak in this state, I might forget what I was saying and the story will suffer. Would it be possible for me to eat a little first before I begin?"
In the end, I couldn't hold out. I boldly asked the Bandit Chief for food.
"Gwahahaha! The bastard asks for a meal first, right in front of us?"
"I only wish to tell Your Lordship a more entertaining story."
"You've got nerve! Fine! Bring him a tray."
Shortly after the Bandit Chief spoke, a tray was set before me bearing several boiled chicken legs and a bottle of wine.
My first real meal in ages. Was it because I'd been eating nothing but plain rice?
These tough, completely unseasoned chicken legs tasted every bit as good as a neungi chicken stew eaten by a mountain stream. I was lost in the flavor when the Bandit Chief cleared his throat and shot me a look that clearly asked when I planned to start talking.
Snapping back to my senses, I rose from my seat still holding a half-eaten chicken leg with scraps of meat clinging to it and the wine bottle.
"Now then! Your attention, please! Attention!"
In an instant, I had every bandit's eyes on me.
"Then—the tale of the righteous outlaw Hong Gildong… beeeeegiiiiins!!"
I bellowed it out as if I'd been possessed by one of Korea's legendary casters.
It was nowhere near the roar of the man whose epithet was "the Left," but I'd done my share of vocal training as an actor, so commanding attention was no problem.
With every bandit's focus locked on me, I launched into a somewhat embellished telling of The Tale of Hong Gildong.
The relationship between Hong Sangjik and Yehwa. The child born of it—Hong Gildong. A boy of extraordinary talent from his earliest years, yet one who could never call his father "Father" or his elder brother "Brother." And still, a boy who struggled to have that talent recognized.
As the story progressed, the bandits reacted in their various ways, but every last one of them was completely absorbed. I could feel it.
And the most intense reaction of all belonged to Im Seha. His lips were pressed tight, and even his hands were trembling. Looking at him, it was clear these people had no resistance whatsoever—no tolerance for the dopamine that imagination, stories, and novels deliver.
In modern society, brains are tempered by the endless flood of dopamine pouring from every medium. People wouldn't focus like this.
But these men were different. Just as five- or six-year-old children will listen with rapt fascination even to a dull story, these bandits had pure, unpickled brains that had never been steeped in dopamine.
Even if they did go around killing people as bandits.
And for brains that pure, untouched by the dopamine of imagination—well, I almost felt sorry for them. Because right now the story was still in the rising action of the five-act structure. The real dopamine flood hadn't even arrived yet. Crisis and climax still lay ahead.
Watching the bandits, I soon began to speak of Hong Gildong's crisis.
In that era, without a recommendation one could not become a civil official, so Hong Gildong abandoned the path and became a military officer instead. It wasn't quite a golden homecoming in a sedan chair—more of a silver homecoming on horseback. But he believed that much would at least earn him the right to call his father "Father."
On the road home, assassins sent by the principal wife ambushed him, and he fell from a cliff.
A Taoist rescued him and began teaching him Taoist arts.
Now came the crisis and the climax. In a single word: the climax.
This was where the dopamine needed to hit its absolute peak.
To stoke the excitement at this point, I recalled something.
Even the bandits of this era, when they heard "Taoist," thought of the Wudang Sect, didn't they? But could you really call a martial artist waving a sword around a Taoist?
I could guarantee no Korean would accept that definition.
So what was a Taoist? Ask modern Koreans that question, and nine out of ten would think of the same figure.
The Taoist Jeon Woochi!
The stirring, lively music. Jeon Woochi explaining what a Taoist was.
It was one of those unforgettable scenes that stayed with you long after the film ended.
My mind had already been branded so thoroughly that "Taoist" equaled Jeon Woochi that I couldn't summon anything else. In that instant, I became the Taoist Jeon Woochi.
"The Taoist who taught Hong Gildong—what is a Taoist?!"
I roared, seizing control of the hall.
Then I scanned the surroundings, located a wine bottle, and—building the atmosphere—casually approached and snatched it up.
"A Taoist is one who commands the wind and rain!"
I flung the wine high into the air, creating the effect of a sudden downpour, and struck a pose that looked reasonably dashing while the wine-rain fell on me. It was a thoroughly embarrassing stance—but cool and embarrassing are separated by a single hair's breadth.
Besides, theater is all about presence. The more embarrassed you look, the worse you seem. The more boldly you commit, the more it looks like skill. That's theater. That's acting.
"One who folds the earth and races across it~"
In that moment, as if I truly were Jeon Woochi, I dashed at full speed—scritch-scritch!—scooped up a discarded sword I'd spotted earlier on the ground, and at the same time snatched up a nameless flower and hid it inside my sleeve.
"One who wields a keen blade like the wind and cleaves the world in two!"
Memories surfaced—of my days as a stage actor, drilling sword forms with everything I had. I had moved the blade with flair before audiences and even earned applause for it.
I advanced, swinging the sword—and then, in a flash, realized I was in serious trouble. Drunk on wine and swept up in the thrill, I had been imitating the Taoist Jeon Woochi.
And in the next beat of that scene, Jeon Woochi presents a flower to a lovely woman.
But right now, in this entire hall, there was not a single woman.
Nothing but rough, dark-faced men!
Drunk, and so thoroughly immersed in Jeon Woochi's lines and movements, I had never considered how to resolve that final beat. Should I cancel the flower after the sword dance?
But no fitting action or line came to mind.
There was no time left. Dragging it out any further would only make things stranger. As I scrambled for a solution, one person entered my field of vision.
Im Seha.
His face was as fair and smooth as any woman posting selfies on social media, and his build was small and slight like a woman's too. If you asked ten people whether this person was a woman, all ten would say yes. That kind of appearance.
Even so, he was a man, and I wondered whether handing him a flower was appropriate—but my body had already danced the sword forms right up to Im Seha's side. If I hesitated now while fishing for the next line, the atmosphere I'd so carefully built would collapse.
"One who can handle that blade as if it were a flower."
I flung the sword to the floor and, in the same motion, offered Im Seha the flower I'd hidden in my sleeve.
And in that instant, I regretted it. Whether from anger or from the shame of being treated like a woman, Im Seha's face had gone red, and he was glaring at me. If he refused the flower and reacted violently, this wonderful atmosphere I'd raised would sour in a heartbeat.
"Young master. This is all acting—just a performance. Look around. Nothing but rough-faced men, is there? Whereas you, young master—you're different from them, are you not? Given the mood, you really ought to take this."
When Im Seha's reaction looked poor, I urged him in a low voice.
"Ahem… a-acting…? I… I understand, for now."
Im Seha reluctantly accepted the flower. The bandits erupted.
"Gwahahaha! Look at that red face! I'd believe it if you told me that young master was a woman!"
"A real man ought to know how to give a lady a flower!"
At those words, Im Seha—humiliated to the core—flushed red all the way to his ears, and the hand holding the flower began to tremble. It seemed I'd made a bad impression on him, but I didn't particularly care.
Once this caravan journey ended, he and I would have no further business with each other. And more than that—this was also revenge for all the meat he'd been eating alone.
"Hong Gildong followed the Taoist and learned the Taoist arts. And in time, he came to witness bandits who plundered the common people."
At the mention of bandits, the men's eyes turned sharp. But that was exactly what I'd intended. Just as driving only on straight roads makes a man drowsy, a story needs the occasional change of pace.
Like now.
"I speak of none other than—!!! the bandits who go by the name of officials."
The instant the words left my mouth, the atmosphere in the hall shifted violently.