251.
The Shadow of the Empire That Still Remained
Spring rain quietly soaked the land of Hwajuh.
Soil hardened through the long winter loosened its breath as it took the drops.
Shallow channels formed between cracked ridges of the paddies.
The sound of rain was not loud, yet it did not break.
It seeped in as if waking something deep beneath the ground.
Mist rose like a thin veil over fields not yet green.
Earth once steeped with old blood and ash was slowly changing its color.
Above the gate, the newly raised Goryeo banner sagged under the rain.
Yet whenever the wind stirred, it moved again, slowly, as if remembering how to fly.
Inside the walls, it was quiet.
Not the stillness of death, but the silence of a breath just about to be drawn.
In that rain, Park Seong-jin's body was undergoing the same change.
The wounds remained, and strength had not fully returned.
Yet life had to continue.
Like rain-soaked soil, recovery came by loosening itself.
The winter in which he had fallen was passing.
Park Seong-jin sat on the wooden floor of the newly prepared magistrate's hall.
Local reports and grain ledgers lay spread across the table.
Numbers filled the pages—numbers that did not yield to the hand.
His eyes were open; his hands were still.
"Where is part of the military grain leaking out?"
His voice was low.
No one answered.
It was the kind of silence long accustomed to not answering.
Then Jong-hui cautiously presented a ledger.
He commanded the elite Signal Guard Yi In-jung had left behind.
Even after Park Seong-jin's promotion to jungnangjang, he remained punctilious.
Though Park Seong-jin had once been his subordinate, he did not overstep a single measure.
"It is this entry. It is listed as 'gongbi (貢費).'"
"Gongbi?"
Park Seong-jin echoed.
"A tax category of the darughachi.
A term used back in the days of the Ssangseong General Command.
They siphon part of it off under that name for their own expenses."
Park Seong-jin studied the ledger for a moment.
"Why is it still being used?"
"That is the problem," Jong-hui said, drawing a breath.
"The people still use the word.
'If you don't pay the gongbi, you'll be beaten'—it's etched into their bodies."
Park Seong-jin closed his eyes.
The remnants of the Ssangseong Command did not survive only in documents.
They lived on as habits of rule carved into people's minds and flesh.
Deeper than letters, longer-lived than paper.
That night, a council was convened.
Local officials of Hwajuh, military captains, and several merchant representatives gathered.
A peculiar smell lingered in the room—
silk and perfumed oil, mixed with the odor of old corruption.
The moment we accept what should not be accepted as normal, the mind begins to rot.
The stronger the fragrance, the clearer the stench beneath.
An elderly official spoke first.
"We know Your Excellency's wish to protect the people.
But this land has been governed by imperial law for a hundred years.
To withdraw it overnight will invite chaos."
Park Seong-jin raised his head.
"Chaos already exists.
The people starve, and women are sold to meet tribute.
Is that the law of the Empire?"
As his voice rose, the air in the room cooled.
Those called the descendants of the darughachi exchanged glances.
They had changed their Mongol names into Goryeo forms, but not the wealth in their grasp.
One man spoke quietly.
"You do not know reality, Excellency.
The Great Khan's law is strong.
This land's people have lived beneath it.
If the law changes, will their lives truly improve?"
Park Seong-jin stood.
"They will. From now on, it is the law of Goryeo."
A snicker escaped.
"The law of Goryeo?
If the Khan's command is cut off, troops will come down from Liaodong.
Can a jungnangjang stop that?"
At that moment, Jong-hui sprang to his feet.
"Say such words only if you stake your life on them!"
Park Seong-jin raised a hand to stop him.
"Very well."
He drew one breath and spoke more softly.
"What you fear is not the Empire's army.
It is a changing world."
He continued, slowly.
"Let us change things one by one.
We begin with the smallest.
The name 'gongbi' will be abolished.
From now on, it will be called 'gongnap'—official tribute.
The elderly and infirm are exempt."
The hall murmured.
Resistance and silence mingled.
Gongbi had been their private purse.
Yet that night, for the first time, the word gongbi was struck from Hwajuh's ledgers.
Days later, Park Seong-jin walked the fields himself, listening to the people.
"They say the taxes were reduced."
"Yes, thanks to you, Nangjang. But the higher officials won't listen."
"Why not?"
"Their money stream's been cut off."
Park Seong-jin nodded without a word.
It meant they had been pocketing part of the gongbi.
A chill ran through him.
Those who sell out a country always speak this way.
They say they did not sell it.
They say it was a rational choice.
They say it was a decision made with reality in mind.
But if the result drains the nation's blood, it is treason.
More frightening than an enemy in war is injustice among one's own.
And more dangerous still is a culture that accepts such injustice as natural.
A world where the bribe-taker claims he served the nation with devotion.
A world where the man who works only when paid boasts of decades of diligence.
Men who did not twitch a finger as people died before their eyes rise up shouting that the country will fall once their bowls are threatened.
Men who chase only what profits them dare to speak of the people.
It is laughable.
Seen through that lens, they all seem fit to be cut down.
That night, Park Seong-jin wrote to Yi In-jung.
"It is harder to change people's hearts than to defeat them.
Yet spring still continues here.
I wish, at least once, to build a country guarded not by blood, but by trust."
The rain had stopped.
But the shadow of the Empire still lay over Hw