(Chapter 12) 7. Passing Scholar (1)
A few days later, when Gobonghwan was summoned, he couldn't hide his astonishment at the draft I had compiled.
"Ah… this is a Chojip (抄集, a concise summary for the civil service exam). There are plenty of them in the market, of course, but those only condense Gasi (科詩, exam-focused poetry collections) or Seonryeo (選儷, exam-focused prose collections). Mine merely added commentary aligned with current affairs. But yours… this goes a step further."
Gobonghwan, whose profession involved taking exams on behalf of others, spoke politely, but if he were completely honest, he would have said it didn't just go further—it got brazenly bold.
I smiled brazenly in return.
In some sense, this Chojip could only have been made by someone from the modern era.
I had drawn on modern experiences to include the information past examinees would have craved.
It wasn't carefully chosen literary excerpts or elegant poetry—those were already everywhere.
What I had compiled was outside the realm of scholarship: exam strategies.
How to behave in the exam hall, how to navigate crowds, which shortcuts were permissible, which weren't, how to respond if caught, and other trivial yet invaluable tips.
Of course, such knowledge could be passed down orally in noble households.
But oral tradition is always vague, inaccurate, and incomplete.
If oral tradition were enough, why would so many Chojip summaries exist in the market?
I had eliminated ambiguity, arranging everything clearly and in order—essentially a book that "even a monkey could follow."
However, one must understand what I mean by "clear." If I wrote these clandestine exam tips bluntly, the book would be burned and the distributor arrested.
So I expressed everything in metaphorical language that anyone literate could understand, leaving room to deny any wrongdoing later.
Come to think of it, the cryptic metaphors in martial arts manuals probably have the same reason.
Which society would tolerate a guide that openly said, "Swing this weapon this way, and you can stab someone's belly easily"?
One must couch it in talk of plum petals or the energy of Mount Tai, so anyone casually picking up the book could explain it away.
I dared to think this book could be obtained only by those with extraordinary fortune.
The wisdom in it was too precious to give away freely, something I would have preferred to pass down only through genuine family traditions.
But I needed money.
I had considered running a business, but no matter how progressive my father and I were, it wasn't easy for a scholar to run a shop.
Imagine a modern politician or civil servant running a nightclub or gambling house—roughly the same image. The respect and reality of merchants in Joseon were exactly on that level.
The only thing possible was to lend money to merchants like a high-ranking official investing under a false name and collect interest—but that took too long. Even now, interest was compounding at lightning speed.
I needed a venture that would bring immediate profit.
And there was only one option:
Sell my noble scholarship, my vivid experiences, and my honed writing skill. Ah… the pure shame of a scholar is strangely satisfying.
Why do major prep academies remain popular?
High school curricula are known to everyone and are all the same. No academy teaches string theory to high school seniors.
Their strength lies in creating the "optimal exam strategy," backed by vast data and capital.
In Joseon, the stakes were even higher. There were countless ways to exploit gaps in the system.
I poured my lifelong skill into packaging this book.
"I merely sat an exam and felt obliged to pass down my successes and mistakes to posterity. The sages always encouraged writing diaries and letters. Without recording experiences and extracting universal truths from them, what value does age hold?"
"Your words are entirely correct! How did I never think of this?"
Gobonghwan enthusiastically agreed with my exaggerations.
Of course, he wasn't sincere—he was calculating the benefits for himself. But that meant the plan was practically complete.
I had called Gobonghwan for two reasons: to review the book and, more importantly, to secure a secret distribution network.
If I put this on the market? It would be copied in half a day, leaving me with nothing. Intellectual property rights, ignored even in the 21st century, were unimaginable in the 18th.
A different strategy was necessary.
Among the networks of Gangnam parents, private tutors, overseas study tips, and even dubious brain-enhancing remedies are shared—but only within the circle.
They want their own children to succeed. College exams are competitive, and greed is the strongest lock.
The same applied to the civil service exams.
So I needed Gobonghwan, who had connections with the children of various noble households.
He could enter incognito as a writing tutor and sell this secret book.
The method was simple.
"This is for the esteemed young masters of noble houses only. Not visible to others, so if you wish to purchase, it must be done here…"
Books were extremely expensive at the time, and this one even more so—enough to help pay off a feast-related debt.
The distribution fee would naturally go to Gobonghwan, which would also help settle the debt I owed him.
He was delighted by the plan.
"People busying themselves with petty poetry, unsure whether the stuff on the shelf is cabbage or fish, claim to have learned investigation. You surpass the wisdom of the aged and the agility of youth how could I not follow your example?"
With mutual understanding established, there was no need for further discussion.
This was what the phrase jigi-jiu (知己之友, friend of the heart) seemed to describe. Gobonghwan and I once again drank in the scholar's spirit.
We had become the closest of friends, speaking freely as comrades-in-arms.
He asked me,
"So, what will the book's title be?"
"Title? A title… hmm."
Did a secret manual really need a title? Scholars of the old revolutionary era hadn't exactly named their records with flashy titles.
Still, even such books had some cover name to use among insiders.
Slightly drunk, I said something I would later regret.
"I'd say this book is like a go manual: if you follow the optimal techniques, things flow naturally. So, a foundational book for learning—'The Fundamentals of Study' (≪修學의 定石≫)."
Gobonghwan raised a puzzled, flushed face.
"Fundamentals…? Ah, like a kibo (棋譜) the Japanese talk about?"
I soon realized that my title was a bit odd as a formal title.
Go wasn't something scholars pursued obsessively, and this wasn't the era of "X of X" titles. And was that Japanese?
I wanted to brush it off before it got complicated.
Yet Gobonghwan, seasoned from enduring countless humiliations for his mediocre family, handled the wording more deftly than I.
"Then let it be ≪Fundamentals≫. Haha. Don't worry—I'll make sure it reaches the young masters of the noble families."
"I trust only you. Now, another drink…"
"Very well."
And so the refined night of scholars deepened.
Thanks to Gobonghwan's skill, the book sold well. Debts, especially the high-interest ones, could be partly repaid.
Yet it wasn't enough.
I realized that while Joseon people lived for the moment, I had failed to apply this knowledge to my own family.
I was the only one with financial sense. I needed money before my next goal emerged.
I hoped for immediate dismissal so I could exploit even the tiniest power to amass wealth.
Integrity? Frugality?
Anyone preaching that in front of me would soon feel the taste of a fist.
Those words can be said once you pay proper salaries, at least the level of Korean civil servants.
Looking at my father's salary, my share would be predictable. This couldn't even be called a "job."
Historians may know that Joseon salaries were paid seasonally. Those who didn't know were fooled by Joseon rulers' tricks.
The salaries were meant to be generous according to Confucian classics, but Joseon had no money to spare.
After wars, the method shifted to Sanryo (散料), paying lower-level officials in rice and beans monthly rather than full salaries.
Even that wasn't enough for survival.
Yet if regulations were followed, no one complained. The king could cut pay for festivities, new military units, or visiting envoys—the officials were easy targets.
Did kings then increase salaries?
Of course not. They simply renamed Sanryo as Nokbong (祿俸), implying generosity.
It's the same principle as changing "subcontractor" to "partner" today. Names carry the illusion of generosity, but reality remains.
Joseon officials were still poor and had to accept bribes. I too would not refuse gifts.
I was ready to become a corrupt official—but as winter deepened, there was no word from the court.
Even if I were unemployed, legally, a top-ranking graduate should have been appointed immediately.
Having already taken the exam as a serving official, this delay was inexplicable.
"If even the government behaves like this, who will follow the law?"
I justified my own path toward corruption further.
I would only understand why King Yeongjo acted as he did when the year changed.
My trusted informant, Park Ji-won, brought news.
"Next January, the Crown Princess will hold her coming-of-age ceremony and then formally join the Crown Prince."
"Ah, a blessing for the nation. With the Crown Prince so wise and the princess healthy, the state's stability is rock-solid. As a minister, my joy is boundless."
I automatically praised the royal family, but my thoughts wandered.
The Crown Prince would marry next month?
Strictly speaking, selection and ceremonial rites had already concluded; the princess would become a wife after the coming-of-age ceremony.
The princess, the same age as the Crown Prince, would be fifteen in the lunar year 1749.
Ah, this explains why Hong Bong-han couldn't confront the king directly despite humiliation—marriage wasn't finalized yet.
Park Ji-won added praise for the Crown Prince.
"Of course. He could recognize his brother's scholarship. Isn't it said he memorized sixty characters of the Thousand Character Classic at two?"
Right… even Kim Jong-un supposedly shot guns at three and rode horses at six. That boy couldn't match my fervent diligence.
While exchanging mostly trivial chatter, Park Ji-won's expression shifted subtly.
"Brother, why are you still unmarried? You've passed exams with top rank—yet here you are. I hear matchmakers from noble families are flocking to you."
Indeed, many matchmakers had arrived, as expected.
In Joseon, marriages often favored the wealthier family to invest in a promising son-in-law—similar to modern strategies for upward mobility.
It also prevented daughters from suffering abuse.
Our family, though still respectable, wasn't the highest tier, so this was the best choice.
I didn't particularly want to marry either.
But I also didn't feel a strong urge.
I hadn't seen any women besides Maewol and Kkeutsuni, household servants, since my return. Joseon's sexual morals were strict.
Crucially, I had urgent financial matters.
"As you know, our family fortune is declining. Marriage is impossible until I secure income."
Marriages cost far more than today, sometimes ruining families entirely. Our household nearly suffered the same fate. Feasts were exhausting.
Park Ji-won just smiled as if to say, "Stop nonsense."
"Discussing wealth in marriage is barbaric, yet some households sending matchmakers are hardly poor. Perhaps there's a mutual affection involved, but beauty aside, marriage should consider family and parents."
The twelve-year-old sounded precocious.
"Could your 'true love' be something hidden by you, brother?"
"I, I at my age, how could I indulge in such pleasures?"
Kids these days are unusually mature.
Did Yeonam Park Ji-won have concubines? Not that I recall. Jeong Yak-yong did, but his wife would expel them and complain in letters.
I had no interest in interfering with children's personal lives. I wasn't a prude either; in modern Korea, I'd be a young MZ adult.
So I diverted the conversation from my personal love life.
"The Crown Prince must act cautiously for now. Naturally, his attention would be elsewhere. Once concluded, the king will resume court affairs."
I understood why my appointment was delayed due to royal events. Yeongjo, as I remembered, was fond of daughters-in-law.
"My marriage will be discussed after I am formally employed. Better to worry about family achievements than personal matters."
Even I found that line stylish.
Yet Park Ji-won neither expressed admiration nor scoffed.
He approached me quietly and spoke so no one outside the main gate could hear.
"The 'court affairs' you mentioned are… suspicious."
"What do you mean?"
"If you mention this elsewhere, I'll lose my head. And yours too."
"Ah, you doubt I, a current official, would not know?"
He hesitated, then spoke.
"The princess's coming-of-age ceremony is on the 27th day of the first lunar month, and the formal joining on the 28th…"
Where does he get such grim information? From Minister Park Pil-gyun?
I remained silent, listening.
When it was all revealed, I was shocked.
"…I believe His Majesty intends to order the Crown Prince to act as regent on that exact day."
I had misjudged King Yeongjo's nature.
Even modern parents fake appearances at their child's wedding. He was a king, yet he planned to force the Crown Prince into official duties during his wedding.
This wasn't just a week-long task; it was an impossible project overlapping the couple's first night.
I sensed a foreboding.
The Crown Prince alone wouldn't suffer.
It was some sort of transcendent intuition.
King Yeongjo, the observer, had determined the Crown Prince's state and in turn, mine.
When the Crown Prince summoned me to the East Palace, my mind began spinning as though with quantum-like rotation.