252.
Embers of Resistance — The Plot of the Darughachi's Heirs and the Signs of an Inner Revolt
Hwajuh at night was more somber than by day.
In the market alleys where lights had vanished, the smell of liquor mingled with the damp reek of firewood.
At the center of it, people gathered in the back room of a ruined tavern.
The door was shut tight, and inside, low and coarse voices passed back and forth.
"That jungnangjang now dares to meddle with taxes."
"He says we shouldn't even call it gongbi. As if changing a word matters."
"It matters."
Laughter, soaked in drink, crept into the old man's voice.
"One word can change an entire world."
A brief silence followed.
"There was a time when a peasant would be beaten for daring to change that word."
Someone spoke softly.
"And now an official leads the change. The world's turned upside down."
They had once been runners for the Ssangseong General Command.
Now they posed as the local grandees of Hwajuh.
Their family names had been recast in Goryeo style, yet the characters in their ledgers were still those of the Empire.
One man leaned forward.
"The rabble calls that jungnangjang a hero.
At this rate, even our children will end up serving under him."
"Let them," another sneered.
"In the end, he'll be the one held responsible.
When military grain runs short and taxes dry up, who do you think starves first? Us."
The air in the room grew thick and clammy.
The flame of the oil lamp wavered, and in its flicker the faces it lit twisted into something sly and dark.
"Have we forgotten," the old man said quietly,
"what this land once was?
When the Great Khan appointed us darughachi, whom did the people of this land serve?"
"The Empire."
"Yes. The Empire."
He struck the table with his fist.
"And now some boy with a few swords comes and overturns the order of the Empire."
Silence lingered.
It was not hesitation, but calculation.
"If he changes the law, we lose our hold. And if we lose our hold—"
Someone let the sentence trail off.
The old man finished it.
"The Empire calls us back."
A gust from outside snuffed out the lamp.
The room sank into darkness.
From within it, someone whispered,
"Then what do we do?"
The old man replied,
"We rekindle the embers.
Hwajuh has barely a hundred soldiers, and the western gate is still under repair."
His fingers tapped the table in the dark.
"First, we create chaos.
Set fires in the market.
Spread word among the people that 'the darughachi are returning.'
Then send a letter to Beijing.
Ask them to send the darughachi down again."
After a moment, another asked,
"And Park Jungnangjang?"
"We do not kill him."
The old man's eyes gleamed coldly.
"He must live to be shaken.
The people must see their hero collapse.
Dragging him tied behind a horse would do nicely.
A rumor that 'even a hero can be dragged away' travels faster than any blade."
At that moment, wind slipped through the window cracks.
The last ember flickered—and died.
In the darkness, the leader's voice came again.
"Begin quietly. From now on, the law is ours."
Days later, strange rumors spread through the streets of Hwajuh.
"They say the new jungnangjang abolished taxes."
"Then what will the army eat?"
"That's why the darughachi are coming back. They say the Empire will feed us again."
With each market day, the rumors grew.
Able-bodied men vanished one by one.
Near the western gate, weapons and grain went missing with unsettling frequency.
Park Seong-jin began an investigation.
Those who were caught all sealed their mouths.
It was not a silence of refusal, but a silence born of being unable to speak.
That night, a letter from Yi In-jung arrived.
The enemy is never far away.
The foes you fought before carried blades.
The enemies now hold words and money.
Embers are more dangerous than flames.
Flames burn and vanish; embers remain and flare again.
Look close to home.
Park Seong-jin folded the letter and slipped it into his robe.
Outside the window, spring rain was falling.
Park Seong-jin was quick of mind.
Study had ripened into understanding, and understanding into clarity.
He grasped at once what "close to home" meant—
the clerks he saw every day, the cooperating local elites, the lower officials who smiled and bowed.
His gaze hardened, quietly.