Dawn of the 20th Century
During night duty, there was truly nothing to do.
And when it came to killing time, nothing beat a good novel.
Among the stories I read were plenty where someone got hit by a truck, was sent to another world, possessed someone else's body, or went back to the past.
But I never dreamed that would become my story.
****
It's truly bewildering, but when I—who had died—opened my eyes, I found myself over a hundred years in the past, living as a completely different person.
Kim Yujin. Born in 1893.
That was the starting point of my second life.
My parents had left the three thousand ri of the Korean Peninsula and crossed the Pacific, determined to do something—anything—for a homeland flickering like a candle in the wind.
My father had sold off all the family's fields and paddies to board a third-class passenger ship to San Francisco, determined to study modern learning for the enlightenment of Joseon.
My mother, in a woman's body enduring countless hardships and trials, had caught the attention of a missionary and come to the unfamiliar land of America.
The two of them had dreamed of learning whatever they could and returning to their homeland—but on American soil, which was endlessly cold toward "yellow monkeys," they became husband and wife. And as a result, I was born.
I became aware of my previous life when I was about five or six years old. From then on, I worked myself to death.
America, the land of freedom.
But in reality, a white man's country.
Born as a nobody from some tiny Eastern nation that most people couldn't even place on a map—less visible than even Black Americans—I was overwhelmed at first.
And given the era we were in.
From the perspective of someone who knew the future, how was I supposed to survive in a place where people of color weren't even properly treated as human?
At first, I thought I'd use my knowledge of the future to make a fortune—become a titan like Carnegie or Rockefeller.
But the 20th century was far more ruthless than I expected.
"Hey! Chink!"
"Whoa there. We're all yellow monkeys here, aren't we?"
"Monkeys are you damn Chosŏn bastards!"
San Francisco was never the "melting pot of races" Americans liked to boast about.
White people despised anyone whose skin wasn't white—equally.
Black people banded together among themselves, and even breathing was a struggle for them.
The Hispanics who came up from Mexico weren't slaves, but their lives were just as miserable.
And the Asians.
Pitiful Asians were split into Chinese, Japanese, and the very few Koreans—and busy fighting among themselves.
But what infuriated me the most were those damn Japs—no better than the rest of us, yet growing more arrogant by the day.
The more Japan flaunted its prestige after winning the Russo-Japanese War, the more insufferable my Japanese neighbors became. At some point, they had even started deluding themselves into believing they were "honorary whites."
"Hey, Jap."
"What is it, Chosŏn bastard?"
"Clench your molars, you son of a bitch."
"You think you can act tough just because you did well on a test? Get him!"
The older I got, the more my bold dream of becoming an Asian tycoon leading the 20th century faded from my mind.
No matter how I thought about it, the moment I built a major business, the KKK in their white hoods—or some gang—would come visit my house and turn me and my family into a beehive with bullets. Even Rockefeller, while building his oil empire, dealt with threats, arson, and sabotage as routinely as eating meals.
Instead, another ambition filled my heart.
"Kill Japs, Kill Japs. Kill more Japs."
Kill the bastards. Kill them. Kill even more of them.
Words left by Admiral Halsey—so satisfying to say.
The reason those damned bastards were running wild.
Because Joseon—the Korean Empire—had disappeared from this Earth.
With news from the homeland that Koreans had finally been reduced to a slave nation, even those idiots abroad were celebrating wildly.
I was now, horrifically, someone who would inevitably be labeled a "Japanese American."
Fine. I accept it.
Just wait thirty years.
In thirty years, Pearl Harbor—and the Pacific War—would come.
So I changed my goal.
I would enlist in the U.S. military.
I would sacrifice the Japs to the Pacific and rise through the ranks.
Asians can't succeed in American society?
Don't make me laugh.
As long as I knew the future, I would succeed no matter what.
This was the best choice—for myself and for my pitiful homeland.
And I was, after all, an officer once before.
Having crossed a hundred years, I was already prepared to put on a damn uniform again.
"So, you're saying you want to become a soldier?"
"Yes."
"You come home looking like a ragged beggar, and the first thing out of your mouth is that you want to be a grunt? Well done. Just wonderful."
My father clicked his tongue in disapproval, and I fell silent.
Sure, those Jap bastards had jumped me three against one without a shred of bushido—but I'd still managed to fix each of their crooked teeth one by one, so didn't that make me a fine dentist? My protest didn't land at all with my father.
"You must have your dreams. But being a soldier is never an easy path."
"I know that very well."
Too well, in fact.
"Simply because your skin is a different color, your future can be blocked. You understand that too, don't you?"
"Yes. I'm prepared."
"If you said you were going in as a simple enlisted man, I wouldn't even say this much. But an officer? That's different. You're confronting this country—a white man's world—head-on."
My poor father.
In this distant foreign land, he gained a family—but gave up his grand ambitions and willingly shouldered the burden of being its head.
These weren't just empty words meant to stop me.
He was one of the first twenty Koreans to settle in San Francisco.
Only someone who had carved out a foothold through countless struggles could say something like that.
"It'll be fine. Whose son do you think I am?"
That's why I could answer like that.
It had already been over ten years since I fell into a world I'd only known through books and films.
And I had watched firsthand how desperately my 'father' had fought.
Having grown up watching a man who started with nothing, how could I—armed with the absurd advantage of future knowledge—ever give in?
"Good. That's my son. I figured you'd say you wanted to become an officer, so I've been preparing as well."
"Preparing…?"
"Yes. To become an officer in America, you must attend a military academy, mustn't you? You can't just walk in. Change your clothes. There's somewhere we need to stop by."
Without understanding, I changed and followed my father out.
The place my father took me was a shabby office on the outskirts of the city.
[Korean National Association]
The moment I was about to step inside, I froze at the sign telling me exactly where I was.
"Your admission will inevitably become a political and social issue. So we'll bring out every card we have and fight it out properly. Wouldn't you agree?"
Whether he knew what I was thinking or not, my father said to me,
"Greetings, elders!"
"It's been a while."
The people inside the office all rose and greeted my father at once. He went around shaking hands, casually exchanging news about how things were going in the world.
How long did that small talk go on?
"Yujin. Pay your respects."
"Hello. My name is Kim Yujin."
"Tall and handsome—there stands a fine son of Korea. You are truly blessed, sir."
"You think flattery like that will make me donate more to the activity fund? Hmph…"
Even as he grumbled, the smile never left his face.
"This young man here is Usung—Park Yong-man. I suspect the two of you think alike. He's been busy setting up military schools and youth cadet corps."
"Haha! Of course. The nation has fallen, so we must naturally build strength."
Then he introduced another man whose face seemed oddly familiar.
"And this is Unam—Rhee Syngman. Our Dr. Rhee, who earned his doctorate from Princeton."
Rhee Syngman!
Park Yong-man was certainly a notable independence activist, but compared to the weight of Rhee Syngman's name—who would leave such a massive mark on modern Korean history in more ways than one—it was hard to measure up.
"My name is Kim Yujin. I look forward to learning from you."
"I hear you intend to apply to a military academy. Admirable—and a grand dream… May I ask your reason?"
At Rhee Syngman's direct question, every gaze in the room turned to me.
"Boy. Why are you hesitating? Just speak honestly."
When I couldn't immediately open my mouth, my father patted my shoulder.
But I couldn't just speak carelessly.
Rhee Syngman.
Setting Park Yong-man aside, Rhee was the type who coldly calculated gains and losses. When Jang In-hwan and Jeon Myeong-un assassinated the pro-Japanese Stevens, he had refused to assist with their defense, citing Christian principles.
Yet if I were to receive support from the Korean community for my academy admission, the one who could likely help the most right now was probably Rhee Syngman.
If so, I needed to say exactly what would appeal to him.
"The Korean Empire has fallen."
"…!"
Perhaps my opening was too blunt—the mood in the room sank instantly.
"The blood of Korea runs through me, but the laws of the United States of America have granted me American citizenship. I believe this is a weapon that only I possess—one that you elders do not."
"So you mean to shed blood to prove your loyalty and live as an American?"
Park Yong-man shot back sharply.
"My point is this: as an American citizen, I have the right to speak about how this democratic nation should act."
"Go on."
"At best, I'm still just a yellow monkey. My voice alone will never reach the powerful men in Washington, D.C. For them to hear me… I would have to be an unimaginably wealthy man living in Manhattan, wouldn't I?"
"Ha! So a young man with nothing decides the easiest path to success is the military? Bold… but thoughtful."
Only then did Park Yong-man nod slightly.
Since he seemed interested, I decided to press him further first.
"I hear you are training soldiers in Nebraska, sir."
"That's right. Before hearing you speak, I was planning to invite you to join us."
Ah. That would be… problematic.
"Then where do you intend to find officers to command them?"
"Hmm… well…"
"If I enter the U.S. military and receive formal training, wouldn't the possibility of securing American assistance increase in many ways?"
"Haa. Young man."
Before Park could answer, Rhee Syngman cut in.
"So you too, like this Usung here, think you'll somehow persuade the U.S. Army to march on Tokyo? Is that the absurd idea?"
"No. That would be impossible."
"What?"
"Japan is an ally of Britain and shares interests with the United States. Surely, Unam, you know that better than anyone."
When I calmly stated that harsh reality, his expression brightened instead of darkening.
"You're a student, yet you have a fairly clear grasp of international affairs. All the more reason to resolve matters through diplomacy. Gaining the support of the great powers is the fastest and surest path to reclaiming a free Korea."
"Ha! There you go again with that nonsense—"
Park Yong-man immediately growled beside him, but Rhee Syngman ignored him as though he were a barking dog and kept his eyes on me.
"So then—what is your opinion?"