The atmosphere of Jeonghan Palace was as chilly and silent as it had been the first time I came here.
Unlike the lively officials bustling through Ungyeong Palace, the figures moving about with their faces muffled in black cloth and their presence reduced to a whisper seemed to lower the very temperature of the palace.
Come to think of it, Gamcheon Hall was said to be the coldest building in the palace.
When I first visited, I could feel that bitter cold seep deep into my bones. Yet now, it didn’t seem quite so frigid.
If anything, the air in Jeonghan Palace, on the sunlit southern side, felt colder to the bone.
Was it because there were no bustling palace officials lighting fires and chattering all day?
“This way to the Department of State Archives.”
Tightening his collar, Sahyeon followed closely behind Beom Heeryang.
They walked through the central courtyard of Jeonghan Palace—heart of civil affairs, jewel of the court scribes—until the walls of the Department of State Archives, the department through which the wealth of not only Pasa but the entire continent flowed, came into view.
***
At the very back of the Department of State Archives was the office of the Senior Archivist.
Even before opening the door, Sahyeon couldn’t help but feel a sense of foreboding.
From the moment he stepped into the department, it had begun: piles of bamboo scrolls stacked like mountains, hollow-eyed officials scribbling endlessly on worn stone tablets, couriers from other offices bowing deeply as they handed over stacks of scrolls—the entire place was in chaotic disarray.
And to make matters worse…
“Aha! Ahahaha! Damn it, I found it! I finally found it!”
A middle-aged official, seemingly of fourth rank or higher, leapt from his seat and began swinging a tablet wildly in the air as he shouted hysterically.
No one paid him any mind.
“You bastard! Why the hell did you report 128,344 silver nyang when it was supposed to be 128,342?! I—I spent all this damn time just to find this!”
It felt like some kind of catastrophic event was unfolding here.
“Mother, as you ordered, I’ve brought the Chief Archivist!”
Sahyeon desperately wanted to flee this madhouse, but Beom Heeryang’s booming voice left him no choice but to enter the Senior Archivist’s office.
A dim room.
Only the space around the desk at the back was lit by a single lamp.
Amidst a towering mountain of bamboo scrolls sat a lone shadow.
She must be Hee-gang, the Senior Archivist and head of this chaotic department.
“I greet the Senior Archivist.”
Clack!
Instead of a reply, a sharp clatter echoed through the room. Sahyeon glanced toward the sound.
Amidst the scrolls lay a thick, flat board, black and white stones placed upon it. A Go board.
“Baek Munhak.”
With a voice like a blade, the Senior Archivist raised her head. Though smaller than expected, her narrow, fierce eyes and deeply furrowed brow made her seem more intimidating than anyone.
Even Sahyeon, who rarely flinched, felt a chill run through him when their eyes met.
She glared at Sahyeon for a moment, then turned her gaze back to the scrolls.
“That commentary you sent was a complete mess.”
It was an even more direct rebuke than he’d expected.
“I thought perhaps you were waiting on the draft, so I—”
Clack!
The placement of a Go stone cut off Sahyeon’s explanation. If she disliked the commentary so much, why hadn’t she just sent it back?
Summoning someone only to scold them—what was the point?
Frustration simmered inside him, but Sahyeon had no choice. He was the weaker party.
He closed his eyes tightly and suppressed the irritation.
Clack!
If only that damned stone-clicking sound would stop, he might be able to focus better.
“If it’s abstract commentary you wanted, there’s no shortage of such texts in the world. But I believed you wanted something different from me.”
The Senior Archivist tapped the board lightly with her long fingers, then raised her gaze once more.
“You’re saying what you wrote is what I wanted?”
“No. It’s what I wanted. And I assumed the reason you entrusted me with this commentary was to understand what that might be.”
Click, click, the quiet sound of her selecting another stone.
“‘To eat coarse rice and drink water, and to rest with one’s arm for a pillow—therein lies contentment. Wealth and rank obtained unrighteously are but fleeting clouds to me.’ (Analects, Book VII)”
As if ignoring her entirely, Sahyeon softly recited the passage he had written.
“This is the way of the people, the path of the scholar. But the way of the sovereign is to care for the table of those who eat coarse rice, and to guard even those sleeping in the wilderness with their arms as pillows, so they are not trampled by chaos.”
“If benevolence and righteousness are not enough to accomplish this, then it is the duty of the sovereign to endure disgrace.”
“A disciple of Master Chae defiles the very principles the master spent a lifetime preaching. How do you expect me to accept this?”
Clack!
Another Go stone landed on the board.
“The sovereign is a parent to the people. And as children honor their parents because their parents have sacrificed for them, so too must a sovereign sacrifice for their people in order to deserve honor.”
“Thus, if upholding benevolence hinders the protection of the people, then it must be set aside. Humans have human decency. Those who forget it raise not people, but beasts.”
“Even beasts, if given safety and food, will tame their wild natures. If you raise beasts but tame them into people, they become human. But those who die as humans can never return.”
“And when, exactly, should one begin to tame these beasts?”
These were questions with answers already predetermined. She wasn’t criticizing him—she was simply confirming his conviction.
The great Senior Archivist hadn’t summoned him here out of boredom. What she truly wanted was to hear the real reason behind the commentary that had gone unwritten.
Perhaps.
Sahyeon took a deep breath.
Today, there were many things to decide.
As though the grace period afforded by his pretense of teaching Danija had finally run out.
But this was the right moment. Sahyeon’s life had always been a string of choices—not between right and wrong or good and evil, but between the lesser and the greater evil.
And he always had to choose one.
Clack!
The sound of a Go stone snapped him back like a monk’s bamboo staff.
It was time to decide.
“The age of chaos must end.”
Drawing a breath from deep within, Sahyeon let the words in his chest fall from his lips.
“My teacher didn’t preach a mistaken truth. The times were mistaken. What he spoke of was the way of the Empire. But neither Yugang, nor Hahyeon, nor even Pasa ever fully accepted his teachings. What does that tell us?”
“That none of the three kingdoms intend to remain where they are. Pasa may have stepped back from the flames of war, but Yugang and Hahyeon will not stop. This is truly an age of chaos.”
“My teacher, a scholar, may have spoken of foundational principles, but I must speak of survival in chaotic times.”
“Then Baek Munhak, you are no scholar.”
Clack!
The Senior Archivist placed her final stone on the board and dusted off her hands.
“So you want to become a tactician?”
Eyes narrowed in deep suspicion locked with Sahyeon’s once again.
“If what the Venerable Monk meant by ‘tactician’ refers to someone who navigates the chaos of troubled times, then… perhaps I do.”
With a disapproving click of the tongue, she folded the bamboo scroll that had been laid open before her.
“A tactician is said to be like a Go stone in the ruler’s hand. They may overturn the tide of war with a single brilliant move, but their worth exists only on the board. The moment they’re cast off the board, they’re nothing more than a common pebble.”
Yes, in the end, they’d be discarded.
But that was fine. Sahyeon had always been just a stray pebble rolling about in the streets.
That pebble had chosen to roll into a rough field of stones, scraping itself again and again, smoothing its jagged edges, pretending to be a Go stone, and sneaking into a fine, polished Go box.
“When Wi Su, the tactician of the State of Eop, brought down the Kingdom of Shin and was rewarded with the title of Lord of Gyeryeong, the very king she had served grew afraid that her power might someday threaten him.”
“So he sent ten thousand troops to Gyeryeong to kill her. Wi Su, with only a thousand soldiers, shut the gates and resisted, pleading with her lord to take back his command and trust her once more.”
“But in the end, they all perished—frozen and starved. The world now calls her ‘a pawn discarded by her master once her use was up.’ But if Wi Su was merely a Go stone, then what of the thousand soldiers who died alongside her? What were they?”
Even if the end was cruel and meaningless, Sahyeon would still rather be a Go stone cast aside than a grain of sand trampled beneath the board and swept away unnoticed.
“Is that truly your wish?”
“Yes.”
Sahyeon nodded firmly, without a hint of hesitation.
“Is that so? Then there’s no helping it. Off you go.”
And with that, the Venerable Monk—without so much as blinking—set aside the neatly rolled bamboo scroll and opened a new one as if nothing had happened.
“…Excuse me?”
The person sitting across from her could only blink in utter confusion.
“Didn’t you say you wanted to be a tactician? But Pakyungbu doesn’t need tacticians. You just seemed bright enough, so I was going to teach you accounting. Hmph.”
So in the end, she’d only considered using Sahyeon like one of those poor souls outside, with sunken eyes and madness creeping in. Wasn’t that even worse than treating someone like a Go stone?
“Then why did you assign me to commentary writing?”
“Because understanding accounting requires basic logical thinking. You also need a grasp of how the world works. And there’s no better test for that than writing commentary.”
Damn it. She could’ve just scribbled something quickly, but instead, she wasted all that time and effort for nothing.