Before a local magistrate assumed their post, they were required to pay respects to the king and high officials.
This was called saeun sukbae (謝恩肅拜), a formal bow expressing gratitude.
The fact that greetings were extended not only to the king but also to high officials was significant—it strongly emphasized that appointments in Joseon were not decided by the king alone.
For my part, I only paid respects to the Ministry of Personnel and the Office of Inspection—and here I checked the figures in my status window. Those marked as disliking me were certainly not looking kindly in my direction. For the king (and the crown prince acting as regent), I simply submitted a sukbae danja (肅拜單子) through the Bureau of Protocol.
It was common practice; after all, it would be exhausting for the king to meet every newly appointed magistrate in person. My youth and low rank only reinforced this approach.
Good.
Each of us has our reasons, but for now, it spared me the trouble of meeting the king and crown prince in person.
Before departing, Jang-bok clung to his recently married wife and practically wept.
The servant was over the top.
I couldn't blame him—who would want to leave home just after their wedding?
Even if Jang-bok hadn't helped me much during the civil service exam, I had kept my promise.
My father supported Jang-bok's marriage, seeing it as a reward for his service in assisting his master's success in the exams.
Mr. Song, a scholar from Hwanghwabang, was also content that some connection between our households remained, even if I myself was beyond his reach.
Unlike noblemen like me, a servant's marriage could proceed swiftly if both parties were in agreement. In a way, it was closer to modern practice.
There was no need for the fuss of ceremonial gifts, elaborate arrangements, or auspicious date selection.
Neither the parties involved nor the master, who anticipated a quick generation of heirs, desired it.
Thus, Jang-bok had already taken his bride in the first lunar month. No wonder he dreaded the long journey.
But ultimately, wasn't it the dowry we provided that made the marriage possible?
Though it was more like purchasing a household maid, that contribution mattered.
And the man seemed to have already forgotten the day he had repeatedly bowed, nose almost touching his straw shoes, writing flowery words of gratitude. If I hadn't written The Principles of Mathematics, he would have remained unmarried.
And I am not the type to refuse credit when I am owed it.
Invisible consideration? That's only for those who understand.
So I painstakingly explained to Jang-bok just how shameless, ungrateful, and duplicitous he was.
A nobleman's primary duty is to educate and guide the common people.
The more he listened to my instruction, the more his expression crumpled—but if he wanted to keep some dignity, he would have to remain silent beside me.
"—That is the way it is, Jang-bok. Understand? A magistrate's term rarely exceeds five years."
Jang-bok, dismayed by my calm, logical lecture, exclaimed:
"F-five years in a foreign town?"
"Five at most. Usually one or two years, sometimes even a few months before being transferred. Don't worry. During that time, you'll have plenty of chances to see your wife. Who else would handle correspondence but you? Just stay put, and everything will be managed from above."
Legally, a magistrate's term was 1,800 days, though few served the full term.
Jang-bok simply scratched his newly tied topknot, too embarrassed to reply.
I let the matter drop. The constant talk of his wedding reminded me of my secondary objective.
Ah, must I get married just to earn coins in the status window?
It ranks second only to "childhood promise to a playmate" among the most absurd reasons for marriage I've heard.
I'd consider it properly once I took up my post.
"Anyway… it's been a while since we entered Seonghwan-do. If we endure today, we'll be able to sleep at the office tomorrow night. Evening is approaching, so Jang-bok, head ahead to the nearest inn or guesthouse to prepare a room."
"Yes, sir."
Even before he was born, Jeong Yak-yong wrote in Mokmin Simseo:
'A magistrate's traveling entourage needs only a few attendants, bedding, undergarments, and a single book to be considered modest.'
I wasn't sure about the exact wording, but the gist was correct.
I suspect Jeong Yak-yong himself didn't fully observe this.
And why would I, unable to afford lavish carriages or silk curtains, hide my status? Am I a secret inspector?
If I traveled like an ordinary scholar and were ambushed by bandits in a lonely mountain pass, no matter how strong my bodyguard, a blade could still reach me.
Declaring myself a magistrate was safer.
Joseon people didn't care for rank when provoked. Twenty years ago, a prince and princess had almost been poisoned, after all.
Sending Jang-bok ahead was for the same reason.
Could I mingle with commoners and feign humility, joking "I deserve no special treatment"? Certainly respectable.
But I couldn't do it.
Anyone who tries would quickly understand why.
February in Joseon was almost early spring.
But as the saying goes, even in the first month, frost can strike. Coming south made little difference—Seoul and Chungcheong were hardly that far apart in climate.
So I collapsed in the room, letting the ondol warm my body.
"Ah, this is wonderfully warm. Even Jang-bok and my attendant can share the lower floor."
They both grinned, enjoying the heat without hesitation. Slightly odorous, but perfect.
Besides the room Jang-bok prepared, the roadside inn had several other rooms, likely also warm—not from ondol, but human body heat.
No need to guess how Jang-bok handled it. I could imagine it. He probably strode in arrogantly, lifted the gate, and stomped through:
'The new magistrate of Mokcheon-hyeon has arrived. Clear this room and keep out outsiders and vagabonds! What? It's full? Must this fool be beaten under the Red Arrow Gate to understand? If I straighten everyone up, thirty people can fit easily!'
Well done, Jang-bok.
If he hadn't, I would have been crammed into a room like the other travelers, unable to breathe, worried about stolen luggage.
I wasn't doing this out of a sense of superiority. It was necessary.
Even as far as Gwangju-bu in Gyeonggi, I had slept mixed with others without thought.
But sometimes, personal connections in various offices determined lodging.
Resting randomly could create political debt. Not every office was conveniently located.
That night, after staying at a post station inn past Yangjae, my folly was punished:
The stench of a pestilential dung pit, decayed paper doors battered by blizzards, and legions of bedbugs lectured me harshly.
As a modern man, or a young aristocrat unused to leaving home, it was torturous.
On top of that, near Anseong, I encountered a thief sneaking into my room under the guise of a guest.
I shuddered. The thief was after official documents. Losing them would constitute a grave dereliction of duty; exile would be the mildest punishment.
Still, my attendant, though perhaps harsh, had good intentions in restraining the thief.
Thus, I stopped feigning weakness. Now in Mokcheon-hyeon, there was no need for caution. I actively coordinated with Jang-bok.
I wasn't in a position to play petty games with the innkeeper by showing official seals.
Eventually, the innkeeper cleared the largest room, herded the other guests elsewhere, and diligently stoked the ondol.
If this were modern Korea, I'd be an SNS star as the notorious motel guest. Joseon was no different.
The difference was that reputation could be preserved depending on behavior afterward.
I paid almost triple the normal fee. The innkeeper ignored the complaints, understanding why.
Some would get small portions as a token of goodwill. Guests might say:
"Considering their status, I suppose it can't be helped."
"Indeed. Official duties admit no delay, yet must the outsider be deprived? Another plate, please. Even early spring, this energizes one's spirit."
That's how society functioned. In modern Korea, a chaebol heir doing the same and handing out bags would achieve a similar effect.
Lack of money? That's why the party was small, keeping budget manageable.
Some of the payment was in gifts—stationery, paper bundles—from aristocratic acquaintances, given in hope I would study and perform my duties diligently.
Apologies, but maintaining health is key for study and work.
The innkeeper also brought a plate of boiled pork head, accompanied by rice wine.
It felt like an impromptu tavern prank, but I paid fairly.
The meat seemed fresh (surprisingly). Though I could handle it thanks to skills, the two servants—ever dramatic—required vigilance, lest they attract ghostly misfortune.
After eating and warming in the room, the two servants quickly dozed off. I felt drowsy myself.
Just as sleep was about to engulf me, a sharp, piercing sound—like a body blow forcing me out of slumber—cut through the quiet.
A woman's voice?
I sat up sharply.
It wasn't that I was obsessed with women; it was simply remarkable by the era's standards.
A woman wandering alone in Joseon?
Traveling vendors might be plausible, but normally, men accompanied women for safety, and men spoke publicly.
So I listened carefully.
"Please, don't make so much noise. This honored person has no choice. I know the mystical powers of the shaman trained on Gyeryongsan. It's not disrespect, but if offended unnecessarily, someone might be beaten. What can be done?"
The innkeeper lowered her voice, but I could hear perfectly.
"How honored? Even the king?"
"Outrageous. The magistrate of Mokcheon-hyeon, a young man, accompanied by a strange servant and a cunning fellow—still, the official seal is genuine. A powerless commoner must comply."
Ah, so the innkeeper thought of us that way. But what did this woman gain? Was it the room?
The woman, a shaman named Yeon, gained confidence, apparently unshaken by my official status.
"Even the king avoids the divine path; the magistrate has no right to seize ritual offerings. And if offered, will you comply? Who will stay longer in Mokcheon—Yeon or the magistrate?"
I never asked for it.
Ah, the boiled pork. So that was meant for the shaman.
Even though selling alcohol was lowly work, she still intimidated the innkeeper—a respectable commoner.
By her voice, she was far beyond her years in skill. Perhaps she had received her calling early in life.
The innkeeper quickly changed attitude.
"They only seek to avoid divine punishment. Otherwise, the corrupt official might claim it."
This guy.
"You must show sincerity. Offer apologies to the mountain spirit, even doubling the fee."
"D-double?"
"Originally, it would have been collected after leaving the ritual, but now you must pay again to appease the spirits. Save a few coins, and the spirit could claim your life. You decide."
All of it!
'Shall I execute a full blow?'
No, better to calm down. I canceled the energy forming in my trembling palms.
This is 18th-century Joseon, not some primitive pre-Qin tale where human sacrifice solved all problems.
Time to think strategically.
I had just assumed office. Being young, I expected petty local officials to test me.
The local elite hadn't greeted my arrival yet. But the existing three powers—the local Confucian school, six ministries, and the private academy—could be considered the "Four Kings" of Mokcheon.
If I could sway even one, it would greatly help with the perennial magistrate's issue: How to bypass petty clerks? I'd then have direct channels to commoners.
And what about the innkeeper's suffering? Let it be. According to local custom, divine punishment might occur. Not my concern.
Yet I cannot bow. I must assert authority with proper reason and decorum, then soothe and recruit.
Yes, by dialogue and negotiation.
'That skill' has no role here. I didn't incarnate into a porn scenario—such fantasy wouldn't succeed.
Yes, I know stories of Japanese office workers climbing to CEO through such tricks.
But this is Confucian Joseon. Morals are a different dimension.
If I entangled with a shaman, I'd lose my title and credibility.
Not an option. This card is precious.
Even ascending to prime minister is far away.
Every step the king promotes me, the Office of Inspector-General would replay this incident in high-pitched tones:
"The magistrate caused a scandal even before assuming office. Flirtatious behavior aside, what is the meaning of consorting with private sects?"
Particularly telling, as shamanic groups in Gyeryongsan were frequently implicated in rebellions during King Yeongjo's reign.
Ah, the "Thousand-Year Kingdom" of Jeong Doryeong. Jeonggamnok, indeed. He also trained at Gyeryongsan, right?
A slip-up could lead to multiple coffins. Yeongjo famously had a way of handling rebels.
Even if not that far, my secondary goal—marriage—could be disrupted.
A scandal here could estrange influential in-laws.
And even if men's indulgence was tolerated legally, reputation would suffer. In Joseon, reputation was paramount, spreading faster than official notices.
Misbehave, and influential families will mark me.
Therefore, "seduction" is off the table. I must proceed indirectly.
Yet, I can still offer many things as bargaining material.
No matter one's rank, formalities matter. In Yangbanjeon, even the rich had to formally purchase a scholar's favor.
The innkeeper would get a fair share; other grievances could be resolved.
Having organized my thoughts, I stepped outside.
The innkeeper and Yeon kneeled. Expected.
I am not bullying; this is proper Joseon protocol. Even a humble scholar must follow it.
Unfair? Tell the king.
I attempted mediation lightly:
"Although the meat was taken unknowingly, it's awkward to demand it back. Perhaps we return the money and call it even?"
The innkeeper trembled, realizing I had heard everything.
Yet Yeon, like a true local power, showed no fear.
She bowed slightly:
"Does the thief forgive if only the stolen item is returned?"
She rebuked the innkeeper but implied I bore some responsibility.
I was impressed. Not once did she mention divine punishment. Good.
This suggested she might work with me under the right conditions.
But first, discipline must be established.
Etiquette? Ha. Not your domain, heathens.
This is the realm of the Confucian scholar.
And who am I? The illustrious Kim Unhaeng of Jangdong, top of the civil service exam!
I raised my scholar's fan like a microphone, shielding my face.
Now begins the passing scholar's freestyle stage.
Notes / Historical Context:
In reality, a magistrate's appointment involved extremely complex formalities. Greetings to the king and officials were regulated, with strict deadlines. Without modern communication, scheduling visits across Seoul could be challenging, costly, and stressful.
Seonghwan-do is the name of the post road; the modern location still exists, housing a major military base.
Hwansaegolum refers to a haughty, exaggerated stride. Hongsalmun was the outer gate of government offices. Jualbongsu means a sly, cunning character. Bongnotbang is the inn's largest room, accommodating many guests.
In premodern Joseon, shamanistic and religious influences were stronger than modern assumptions. Shamanic figures wielded real social power in local areas.
References to Jeonggamnok (prophecy texts) and Gyeryongsan shamanic factions indicate historical awareness. Kim Unhaeng's caution reflects contemporary concerns about political instability and rebellion.