When I entered the house, my servant Jangbok opened the wicker gate for me.
Since the myeonsinrye was a custom even Joseon people were well familiar with, he must have been expecting this. I didn't even need to dig through Kim Unhaeng's memories about him—seeing him felt as comforting as meeting a sibling.
Jangbok hurriedly grabbed my sleeve, careful not to let anyone see.
"Ah, Young Master from the study hall. You've had a hard time. Madam hasn't awakened yet, so you should pay your respects after sunrise."
Still calling me by the title from my childhood, Jangbok took my torn gat and my ruined outer robe and broke into a wide grin.
"Looks like you went through it properly."
I almost complained to him—then stopped.
Running around in circles whining about causing trouble during the myeonsinrye to someone beneath me would only hurt my dignity. It wouldn't help at all.
Turning into a feudal lord and talking about "those beneath me" after only a few hours in Joseon—yeah, even I found that strange.
It was probably because I now possessed the eighteen years of experience and conditioning Kim Unhaeng had lived through. Structuralist philosophers who claimed that experience defines the subject would be thrilled to see this. Or maybe I'd just always been trash to begin with—but let's not think about that.
Still, there was one thing I absolutely couldn't assimilate into being a Joseon man.
"If I'm to see Father in the morning, I need to tidy myself up. Bring me washing water."
"There's already a basin in your room."
"It won't be enough. Bring hot water repeatedly. And clean towels."
Jangbok tilted his head, looking puzzled at my sudden fussiness, but didn't argue.
I soaked towels in the hot water he kept bringing and scrubbed myself until the basin stopped filling with murky black grime.
I knew perfectly well—even without Kim Unhaeng's memories—that hot showers were absurd in Joseon. This was the best I could do.
Fortunately, Jangbok seemed to interpret it as me purifying myself to steel my resolve. The formerly reckless "study-hall young master" had become a proper official—of course he'd go this far. That sentiment showed clearly in his movements.
"Then I'll come notify you if Madam awakens."
"No. You worked through the night. Get some rest."
"This is nothing, sir. I should've been at your side, but if I had, people would've called it insolence and blocked your path to success. I waited with my heart in my throat."
I felt sorry that he'd had such expectations.
I'd smashed the head of my own career path with a club just a while ago.
After Jangbok left, I lay down in my room.
It was still dim outside. But in Joseon, where most people began their day at sunrise, this hour meant morning was imminent.
If sunrise were 9 a.m. in modern Korea, this would be around 7—when people woke up and started preparing. Jangbok probably hadn't stayed up all night; he'd just risen early.
So I didn't fall asleep. I didn't even feel like trying. My body was exhausted, but if I actually managed to sleep now, I wouldn't even qualify as human.
Instead, I thought about what I had to do next.
They said Chief State Councillor. Then, like Jangbok said, I need to rise in Joseon.
I combined the status window's information with Kim Unhaeng's memories, reframing them in modern terms.
Joseon people didn't memorize kings the way Koreans studied national history—reciting "Taejo, Taejong, Sejong…" like a chant. That kind of orderly lineage was only really systematized around the time of Gojong, aligning with modern historical awareness.
Still, as a yangban family's son, Kim Unhaeng at least knew the temple names of recent kings.
The short-lived, ill-fated king the "unpredictable rabble" claimed had been "murdered by his younger brother" bore the temple name Gyeongjong.
Then the current king is Yeongjo.
I didn't care whether Yeongjo had really secured the throne through ginger and soy-marinated crab.
What mattered was that Yeongjo lived absurdly long—and made everyone around him suffer throughout that long life.
Who was Yeongjo?
A man who successfully rewired the collective consciousness of tens of millions of Koreans.
Thanks to him, Koreans believe eating crab and persimmons together will kill you, and feel instinctive dread at the mention of a rice chest. Ask any Korean what a chest is for, and most will say: "Uh… a son?"
The chest part is especially damning. Starving your only biological son to death—no matter who you are or how you do it—is no small feat.
In short, with Kim Unhaeng's abilities alone, rising to Chief State Councillor under the world-class lunatic Yeongjo would be nearly impossible.
If talent wasn't enough, I'd need family backing—but that didn't seem promising either. I'd always thought the Andong Kim clan dominated late Joseon, but either the time hadn't come yet or I was mistaken. In any case, we didn't seem particularly powerful.
Which meant that to successfully pay this worthless "tuition," I'd have to rely on future knowledge I possessed as a Korean.
To make that compatible, I needed to "translate" Kim Unhaeng's ingrained memories into something usable. It felt like organizing an exam's wrong-answer notebook as I sank into thought.
History I'd only vaguely understood on a macro level was being reconstructed microscopically through the memories of someone who'd lived it. The sensation brought a strange intellectual pleasure. For a moment, I even forgot my grim fate.
Ask an average person what happened during Yeongjo's reign, and most will tilt their heads.
Even history buffs would struggle to name anything besides the chest incident. Mention Yi In-jwa's rebellion, and you could call them well-versed in Joseon history.
Which meant, from a macro perspective, this was a period of relative stability.
The twin invasions that nearly destroyed the country were now distant memories. The Japanese invasions had ended in victory, and the humiliating defeat of the Manchu invasions was quietly swept aside by simply not thinking about it. The Tale of Lady Park was the Joseon populace's collective attempt at psychological reality correction when actual correction was impossible.
Of course, not everyone bought into that mental victory.
During Yeongjo's reign, figures like Kim Yakhaeng—judging by the surname, a distant relative of mine—still occasionally submitted memorials advocating imperial titles and a northern campaign.
According to Kim Unhaeng's knowledge, the Qing dynasty was currently dealing with a "Mongol rebellion." After some mental arithmetic, I realized this was the Qianlong Emperor's war against the Dzungars.
Whenever a Chinese dynasty struggled with rebellions or foreign wars, it usually spelled opportunity for the Korean Peninsula. That was where the northern-expedition advocates drew strength.
But Yeongjo and Jeongjo weren't idiots—which was precisely why their reigns were considered periods of restoration.
Qianlong made a simple decision regarding the perpetually defiant Dzungars.
No people, no problem.
He decided to erase the Dzungar people entirely from the face of the earth.
Any sane person would argue that ending the war through negotiation would've sufficed.
Qianlong decided to erase those people too.
Forgiving rebellious elements would prevent him from achieving the lifelong achievement he'd bestowed upon himself: the "Ten Perfect Accomplishments."
As someone who also needed to clear achievements, I couldn't laugh at Qianlong outright.
More importantly—he succeeded.
Two hundred years before Hitler, and unlike Hitler, he carried out a complete genocide.
This wasn't lukewarm tolerance of war crimes or passive complicity. Qianlong officially promoted the slogan: "Kill them all and cleanse everything."
Considering that even Hitler used euphemisms like "Final Solution," one could only marvel at continental audacity. Then again, being compared to a man lacking a certain vital organ would probably insult Qianlong.
Generals who captured or accepted surrenders were punished; those who killed everyone and burned everything were rewarded. Whether intentional or not, smallpox—later used by Anglo-Saxons against Native Americans—played a significant role here.
Through this process, the Dzungars disappeared completely long before Qianlong's reign ended.
The empty land that remained became a "new frontier"—Xinjiang. Though now called Xinjiang Uyghur, the region was originally dominated not by Uyghurs, but by Dzungars.
It was the same logic used when Anglo-Saxons colonized America or Slavs moved into Siberia: claim it as virgin land by killing whoever was already there.
So suggesting we strike Qing from behind while they were at war was absurd.
The metaphor of hunting a wounded beast sounded nice—but it depended on the beast.
Qing wasn't a limping leopard. It was an African elephant, enraged after a crocodile bit its trunk while drinking water, now stomping that crocodile into a bloody paste.
Unless you wanted to commit mutual suicide with the crocodile, a supposedly intelligence-specialized species like Homo sapiens should probably use its brain rather than its scales.
You couldn't give the ruler of the world's strongest empire—Britain would need another century—the achievement "Dzungar Slayer (600,000 kills)" followed by "Joseon Slayer (10 million kills)."
So I reached the same conclusion as most sensible Joseon people.
I completely discarded my earlier thoughts about Manchuria. Unfortunately, I didn't have the guts of King Injo, the man who knew no fear.
Instead, I turned my attention inward.
Thanks to wise foreign policy, Joseon's internal situation was peaceful. The economy—meaning agriculture—was tolerable.
A long, devastating famine would strike during the reign of the 23rd king, Sunjo Yi Gong—something I remembered thanks to the Hong Gyeong-nae rebellion—but for now, harvests were generally good.
Given that nothing good had happened to me lately, I decided to treasure this fact as one of my few positive motivators. Stability was a prerequisite for advancement.
But the moment I thought about rising in rank, I felt depressed again.
Politically, it was hard to call the situation stable.
This was a turning point where factional politics after Jungjong transitioned into a new phase: power politics.
From here on, the information came from stories Kim Unhaeng had heard from elders. About ten years ago, Kim Chang-jip, Yi Yi-myeong, Yi Geon-myeong, and Jo Tae-chae were finally rehabilitated.
In the Soron faction, these four political giants were called the "Four Villains."
Not villainous martial-arts masters or demonic sect guardians—just four Noron ministers who effectively made Yeongjo king. (Hence why the Noron called them the "Four Loyalists.")
Reducing this to "Yeongjo ascended and rewarded his supporters" would grossly underestimate Joseon politics.
Those four ministers, immediately after Gyeongjong's enthronement, urged the young king to appoint a Crown Prince Regent—and when he agreed, demanded regency itself.
In modern terms: "Your Majesty, please die as soon as possible."
They were the ones who died instead.
An absolute monarchy wasn't as soft as they'd thought. Gyeongjong was Sukjong's son.
Do you know why Sukjong's temple name included Suk (肅)? Because he was the king of purges. Literally. Compared to his wide-area "regime shifts," factional squabbles were trash mobs.
The court trembled when Gyeongjong—whom they'd underestimated enough to say in front of Qing envoys, "Our king is impotent, so there's no heir…"—finally erupted in rage. (That line was spoken by Yi Geon-myeong. His punishment wasn't poison, but beheading. Frankly, a natural death.)
If only Gyeongjong had cared a bit more about food hygiene, he might've fully inherited his father's legacy as a purge king.
But he didn't—and soon followed the same four ministers he'd executed. The Soron faction, which had opposed Yeongjo's accession, immediately abandoned soy-marinated crab and resisted fiercely.
If Yeongjo had rehabilitated those four immediately upon ascending, it would've been equivalent to confessing, "Yes, I am the Crab King." And it would've made him a Noron puppet.
He had to prove his own innocence first.
That order mattered immensely.
They had to be rehabilitated because he was innocent—not the other way around.
Thus began over twenty years of intense tension and political maneuvering. Abdication scares and tearful performances flew around like confetti. The only real victim was Crown Prince Sado, who had to kneel on straw mats and beg every time.
Rehabilitation orders and reversals for ministers entangled in early purges crossed endlessly. This wasn't mere retrials or forgiveness—it was about the legitimacy of Yeongjo's throne. The entire court watched with bated breath.
Yeongjo's famed policy of impartiality functioned here as a tool to avoid openly favoring the Noron.
Legal judgments flipped morning and night, like Sukjong's regime changes. The great thing about being king? You can overturn your own rulings with a straight face, and no one can complain. It's just blamed on "wicked ministers clouding royal judgment."
In the end, Yeongjo won.
The long struggle over the report accusing him of plotting Gyeongjong's assassination—the so-called Samsu Treason Case—ended with the documents being completely burned.
All four ministers were fully rehabilitated. In other words, the Crab King incident never existed. Yeongjo had legitimately succeeded his brother.
The Gyeongsin Resolution of 1740 sealed it. Kim Chang-jip, the last unreinstated minister, was rehabilitated, and his posthumous title restored the following year.
Kim Unhaeng's father—my father, a phrasing that already felt more natural—Kim Yong-gyeom, was Kim Chang-jip's nephew.
Which meant my granduncle had lost his head under Gyeongjong. Naturally, our family had been exiled as well.
After Yeongjo's accession, the family had high hopes—but due to all this, Yeongjo couldn't immediately restore us. We only returned to Seoul and reclaimed our status after the Gyeongsin Resolution.
Even so, seeing the light again was fortunate. Following my father's appointment as Inspector of the Seongonggam, I too entered service at the Seungmunwon. The household had been in a celebratory mood.
And then, ten days into my service—on the very day of the myeonsinrye—I smashed a senior's head with a club.
Just as that thought concluded, Jangbok called me from outside the door. His voice and expression were completely different from before—uneasy, tense.
I smiled bitterly. News had already arrived.
"Go somewhere so it doesn't splash onto you. Say I sent you on an errand…"
Jangbok had nearly twenty years as a servant. He understood instantly and disappeared quietly.
Of course, my father Kim Yong-gyeom was a refined and enlightened man. He wasn't the type to vent his anger on servants.
Still, not as venting—but as "proper punishment for serving the wrong master"—there was a very real chance Jangbok would get beaten a few times.
This was Joseon.
And I wouldn't get away unscathed either.
At least he won't tell me to get into a chest… right?
As expected, Father didn't order my binding while ranting about "my dead wife whispering from the starlight," like the future king would.
He simply stared at the pipe stuck into the brazier for a long time.
Then, abruptly, he spoke.
"Someone from the Gwoewon came. They made quite a spectacle of it."
Those bastards snitched at dawn.
At this moment, Kim Unhaeng couldn't argue or justify himself. That was what it meant to be a Joseon son.
And this time, even the Korean in me had nothing to say. In both Joseon and modern Korea, this was a categorical disgrace.
All I could do was kneel, bow my head deeply, and press my hands to the cold floor.
That was when the status window appeared before my eyes—right above the chilled floorboards.
I gathered every ounce of self-control I had not to scream. If I did now, combined with last night, I'd be certified insane.
My eyes bloodshot, I read:
[Tutorial completed.
Mandatory Objective: Return Home (Success)
Bonus Objective: Pass the Myeonsinrye (Failure)]
[Active Skill 'Han Seokbong's Calligraphy' has been unlocked.]
[Due to failure of the bonus objective, no bonus skill has been unlocked.]
Why the hell was this popping up now? Was this a joke? And why this skill of all things? If anything, I needed mass brainwashing or perfect hypnosis.
While spiraling into paranoia, I soon found a plausible explanation.
"Returning home" must be defined as greeting one's parents. Even the status window was faithful to the Joseon era.
I didn't have time to dwell on such nonsense. An unignorable message followed immediately.
['Seunggyeongdo' activation initiated.]
For the first time, something other than text appeared in the window.
A crude rectangular block—something like a yut stick.
But to me, it looked different.
No matter how I saw it, something eerily resembling a certain historically significant swear-word body part—perfectly symbolic of my situation—fell and rolled on the floor.
This is seriously fucked.
A refreshingly cheerful notification sound rang out.
[Origin: Namhaeng (advancement without passing the civil examination, such as through privilege)
Position: Confucian Student]
[Main objective for clearing 'Seunggyeongdo' has been activated.]
In the next moment, the first mission was engraved into the floor.