Chapter 9: Aim for the Top (1)
It seemed that Jang Bok, who had practically done nothing in the civil service exam hall, was anxious about the results.
He darted off as if carried by the wind, eager to deliver the good news home. From Changgyeong Palace to Jang-dong, it was barely a stroll by Joseon standards, but I couldn't understand the rush.
As for me, I had no such urgency.
My mind was already full of other thoughts.
With Jang Bok going berserk and Go Bong-hwan offering heartfelt congratulations, and Eoji—who I couldn't quite figure out but seemed happy just because others were—I couldn't react properly to any of it.
Walking home, I focused on what the status window had said.
"Crown Prince and Park Mun-su?"
Ah, familiar names.
Starting with Park Mun-su… yes. Standing vividly before me, the Inspector Park Mun-su, I couldn't say I was entirely uninterested.
But was this really the time for me to indulge in the fun of being a history enthusiast?
If I didn't become Chief State Councillor before I died, I wouldn't even know whether I'd end up as fuel for the fires of hell or a means to reduce the universe's entropy.
In the Noron family I had grown up in, Park Mun-su's reputation wasn't exactly stellar. Leaving aside the fact that he was aligned with the Soron faction, the criticisms I remembered were surprisingly harsh.
The most generous description called him "mad but righteous," but in informal settings, he was often compared to a beast. Even King Yeongjo, when calming other ministers frustrated with Park Mun-su, said his temperament was like "a fierce horse".
It wasn't political loyalty or ideology that people quibbled over. Mostly, it was clashes in practical governance.
Park Mun-su particularly stood out in military and tax reforms, local finance management, dismantling useless offices and units, eradicating systemic abuses, and overseeing large-scale construction and production. One could almost wonder if he had been reincarnated himself.
From a modern perspective, most of his policies were correct. But those who had to implement these arduous and precarious reforms didn't exactly share the same enthusiasm.
It was like having a perfectly functional team, and suddenly a new manager comes in insisting on overhauling everything.
He also had a stubborn streak. He would stiffen his expression and speak sharply even before the king, interrupt other ministers, and dismiss their words in a harsh tone.
Enemies were inevitable. Reports from other ministers often described him as "ignorant,""radical," or "mad."
I didn't exactly want to meet him either, especially not as a superior.
"And Park Mun-su probably isn't interested in me personally. His attention comes from the king, I bet."
From a bureaucratic perspective, it was just "VIP monitoring". Tool-like and likely temporary. His rank and station made any further entanglement unlikely. I had no need to worry about him.
Instead, my focus should be the Crown Prince.
Yes. Even in the 21st century, his tomb at Suwon Hwaseong serves as a tourist gimmick where descendants mock him—this is the very same Sado, the Crown Prince.
In terms of rank, the Crown Prince far outweighed Park Mun-su. So why did my attention gravitate the other way?
Because this Crown Prince didn't seem to have political reasons to notice me.
I realized that in Joseon, the Crown Prince was four years younger than me—perhaps around the age of Park Ji-won, twelve or thirteen.
An age where dark impulses surged and sleep at night could easily be elusive. Predicting his next action was impossible.
I had no idea why he was paying attention, but I trusted the status window. That much was clear.
If so, he might petition the king to assign me to the Crown Prince's royal instructors or staff.
King Yeongjo might even comply. The Crown Prince hadn't yet spiraled into extreme abuse or psychological distress that would require a modern psychologist's intervention.
It was standard statecraft: place a promising young talent next to the heir as a playmate, advisor, and future policy partner.
Yeongjo would have known this technique. Even Hong Guk-yeong had been placed similarly.
In his case, the effect was so excessive that Prince Jeongjo once joked about regretting that he, being a man, couldn't bear the king's child. Only a BL manga could have scripted it.
Yet this Crown Prince would eventually meet a tragic, irreversible, and utterly dreadful downfall.
If I got entangled with him, I'd have to worry about not just becoming Chief State Councillor, but also potentially a second rear coffin.
"Should I just refuse the post and lie down?"
In Joseon, scholars sometimes simply didn't show up if a post displeased them. My father had twice refused minor posts before reluctantly accepting a position as an assistant censor. Accepting too eagerly could make the king think, "This one's getting too full of himself."
But royal appointments weren't something one could easily dodge. Refusal could be interpreted as slighting the royal family.
No better solution occurred to me. Avoidance was all I could do for now.
"I'll think about it when the time comes."
If necessary, I could claim my parents were ill and flee to my hometown. Being the youngest child, there was always some minor ailment among elderly parents. I even suspected some neuralgia.
Yet upon arriving home, my plan had to be revised.
My parents had suddenly become ten years younger with joy upon hearing about my success. Seeing them so vigorous, it was unlikely they would fall ill anytime soon.
Filial piety was irrelevant here. I stared helplessly at the sky.
"Magnificent! Truly magnificent!"
Even at dusk, no one in the household had gone to bed. Jang Bok, sent ahead, must have delivered the news efficiently.
Even if he always seemed a bit lacking, Jang Bok's presence was reassuring. Whatever scolding he administered, the mood resembled a victorious sovereign receiving his ministers' congratulations.
As I entered the main room, receiving the enthusiastic greetings of the servants, my mother wiped tears with her clothing, welcoming me.
"Now our family will shine again. It's all thanks to the ancestors' blessings…"
My father, sitting beside her, hid his joy behind a stern expression—the weight of being the head of the household.
"Given your incomplete studies and youthful age, this is an undeserved stroke of luck. Do not become arrogant; remain cautious and continue to strive…"
"Is that all you have to say to a son who's just passed the civil service exams? One might think you yourself were a nine-time top scholar!"
My mother scolded him, and my father, who had never passed the exams, coughed awkwardly.
In Joseon, surprisingly, the main wife had significant influence—not due to gender equality, but because wives often came from higher-ranking families.
Thankfully, both were pleased.
How I passed, I would never reveal.
Officially, I had passed on my own.
Eoji and Jang Bok were completely unaware of Daebyeok's involvement. Go Bong-hwan, of course, had to keep the secret to survive.
Jang Bok might have guessed something during our trip together, but fortunately, he had been unconscious in the hands of the Gwidu-seo, so he hadn't witnessed Go Bong-hwan's proxy writing.
Anyone helping me—whether a mentor or advisor—was not a serious offense. Eoji? She could see if she wanted.
After all, gaining good companions was a skill in itself. Liu Bang didn't unify the world solely because he was a genius commander.
My embarrassed father changed the subject.
"When will the examination be held?"
"Since those who passed the exams cannot easily return home, I heard it will be conducted in a few days to avoid inconvenience."
"Indeed. Truly a wise king."
Joseon people always made such comments, lest any nearby ears overhear.
"Although you originally held an eighth-rank post, if you pass the higher-level exam (Gapka), you will be promoted to sixth rank. That is the rank of Chamsang-gwan."
My father's mention of Chulryuk (sixth-rank promotion) is easy to understand even for modern Koreans. In public service, sixth-grade positions are critical thresholds. In Joseon, those passing Gapka—first place—jumped directly to sixth rank. Those already in office received even greater promotion.
"Yes. I will devote myself fully to ensure I enter Gapka."
Unaware of my circumstances, my father warned me about youthful arrogance.
"Pride invites envy. Even in the lower exams, be grateful. The sharp stone gets struck."
"Yes, sir. Wise words indeed."
Yet I needed the coins—or whatever this Maze-un was—for my own purposes.
I remembered the rewards mentioned in the status window after the hidden secondary objectives.
The optional objectives had granted coins. Essential objectives seemed to give skills.
I still didn't know what these coins could do, but resources must be accumulated. In games, I knew the gap between heavy spenders and free players. Here, I couldn't just buy power with cash. Only completing the optional objectives mattered.
The exhibition itself, meant only for ranking, had little value to me before. But now it did.
Unlike the earlier Chundangdaeshi, this exam would be personally overseen by the king.
Security and supervision were unlike anything before. Few candidates meant no room for trickery. No raiding parties this time.
So I spent the preparation period almost living with Go Bong-hwan. The town praised us as diligent scholars.
The tutoring fees were modest, meant as celebration, yet Go Bong-hwan seemed unconcerned. Likely he anticipated helping me in ways beyond money once I reached high office.
Sitting across from him, Go Bong-hwan spoke with the professionalism of an expert.
"This is the real civil examination. Forget the usual rhetoric about moral governance or ethical administration. We will ask about practical plans that ministers proposed but failed to implement."
Like a logo contest when internal resources fail and outsourcing disappoints, this was so Korean.
"By paying attention to reports and listening to ministers' proposals, you can predict likely questions. Some may even require revisiting Tang poetry, as in King Gwanghae's era. I can prepare a few examples."
"I will study diligently."
Two weeks later, supported by relatives, I entered the Injeongjeon Hall of Changdeok Palace.
It was called a jeonsi because it was held in the royal hall. And everyone addressed the king as His Majesty because all looked up at him from below.
Thirty-three candidates waited on scattered cushions, bowing in preparation.
The king was slow. Had he skipped again? Luckily, an officer announced his arrival.
Even the faintest sound of leaves dropping seemed audible in the tense atmosphere.
Any accidental glance at the king was forbidden. Only favored ministers could meet his gaze. Even high ministers needed permission.
Soon, the chief exam officer arrived.
Following his commands—bow four times, straighten posture—candidates saluted the king.
I couldn't resist a peek.
The king didn't sit like in dramas—directly before the candidates. Surrounded by officials and armed guards, even raising my head, I couldn't see him clearly.
From a security perspective, it made sense. Who knew what lunatic might hurl a rock, shouting, "You usurper!"
Yet for a moment, something seemed off. The arrangement of those attending the king looked unnatural. It seemed as if someone else, a noble nearly equal to the king, was present.
"Could it… be the Crown Prince?"
My suspicion was confirmed when the king's announcement introduced the Crown Prince.
"His Majesty, in his grace, has brought the Crown Prince to encourage the candidates and review the examination. Though young, he has excelled in the literary arts since the age of three. All must do their utmost."
At this moment, I'm sure every candidate, including myself, shared the same thought:
"Why?"
The civil service exam symbolized the king's authority and control over the aristocracy. No one else should be privy to it. Hence, the king's personal presence.
I had seen Yeongjo use the Crown Prince for pretense of regency, but this was different.
I glanced briefly at the king. Yeongjo reclined comfortably with a pillow, while the Crown Prince stiffly sat beside him—a clear display of power hierarchy.
Even if the Crown Prince wanted to assert authority, the message was clear: I, not him, am in charge.
I pushed thoughts of the royal family aside. Whether Yeongjo was scheming to strengthen the monarchy using his son was none of my concern.
It seemed the Crown Prince was looking in my direction, but I chose to ignore it.
Securing coins through Gapka was the priority.
Until I understood all the rules of this devilish dice game, the best way to gain advantage was to secure resources.
I turned my attention to the exam questions being announced.