Chapter 37
Lee Woon and Choi Kang-ja were by the banks of the Songpa River.
Their eyes were fixed on a spirited brown horse.
Under a bare old tree, the horse lay on its back, thrashing its four legs tied to a rope toward the sky. A farrier was nailing U-shaped iron horseshoes into its hooves. The farrier focused intently to avoid mistakes, while the horse’s owner, wearing a cap, tried to soothe the struggling horse with gentle words.
Lee Woon was capturing the scene in his sketchbook. Beyond them, the Songpa Ferry came into view.
“If you darken the edges of the horse’s body and legs, the contrast in black and white will be better, and the three-dimensional effect will stand out,” Lee Woon explained kindly.
“Yes, my lord,” Choi Kang-ja replied.
He rolled his eyes to glance at Lee Woon’s drawing. The vivid scene of the horse being shod was perfectly captured in the sketch.
“I now understand why people say even the painters at Dohwaseo bow to your skill,” Choi Kang-ja admitted.
“Since when are you giving me compliments?” Lee Woon asked.
“Art is unmatched, unlike people…” Choi Kang-ja replied.
“I wish you wouldn’t add that last remark. Let’s see.”
Lee Woon leaned over to inspect Choi Kang-ja’s drawing. He covered his mouth with one hand and fell silent.
‘Judging by the four sticks stretching skyward, that must be a horse…’
“Haha, I’m flattered. Why so surprised? I’ve had a knack for art since I was young.”
“Art requires careful observation,” Lee Woon said.
“Yes, I’ve observed meticulously. Observation is my specialty. After all, I’ve spent my life reading the moods of the high-ranking officials,” Choi Kang-ja replied brazenly. He eyed the upside-down black horse, the farrier, and the horse’s owner before dipping his brush in ink.
Time flowed slowly but steadily like the waters of the Songpa River. Evening arrived; whether the sunset brought evening or evening brought the sunset, neither could say. But dusk and sunset had settled upon the world.
By then, Lee Woon had finished his painting.
The horse on the paper opened its mouth in agony, muscles taut with strain. Its neck muscles stood out prominently, and the mane and tail were depicted with astonishing realism and detail. The painting’s energy and tension made it seem as if the horse’s cry would spill beyond the paper. In the farrier’s movements, Lee Woon’s warm gaze toward the people was evident.
In his painting, the lives of past people lived on forever.
“I’m not bad either!”
Choi Kang-ja proudly held out his sketchbook, having completed his own drawing.
The drawing was so simplistic it could be mistaken for a child’s scribble, and it was difficult to recognize the shapes.
“I can’t comment on anything else, but your confidence is remarkable. The dark, trembling circle in the center is the horse, right? And the stick-like things behind it are the old tree?” Lee Woon asked in admiration.
“Haha! Can’t you feel the horse’s agony and anxiety? It’s all because of the contrasting old tree. I drew it as a straight line without movement to maximize the horse’s unease.”
“Your interpretation is surprisingly eloquent,” Lee Woon said, astonished by Choi Kang-ja’s audacity.
“It’s insight through careful observation,” Choi Kang-ja said proudly, chest puffed out.
“Who could stop you…” Lee Woon muttered, speechless at the absurdity.
At that moment, a woman’s voice came from behind them.
“Isn’t this going too far?”
It was Miyu. She held a rope, at the end of which dangled a container of white milk.
“You may be good at business, but you have no eye for art,” Choi Kang-ja said, nodding at Miyu as if he understood everything.
“What did you say? My eye for art is the best in the world,” Miyu replied, tilting her chin proudly.
“Who said you’re the best?”
“I did. Why?”
“You’re shameless, calling yourself the best.”
“Oh, who’s shameless? It’s not me—it’s the drawing you made that’s shameless,” Miyu retorted.
“Haha, enough of that. Did business go well today?” Lee Woon intervened, asking Miyu.
“Of course. The owner is smart and wise, so of course it went well.”
“If you ever need my help, just say the word. I’ll do my best,” Lee Woon offered.
“Then, please make me a traveling servant,” Miyu said brightly.
“No matter how casually you say it, that’s not possible,” Lee Woon replied.
“Fine, then just a clerk.”
“Same answer,” Lee Woon said.
“You said you’d do your best,” Miyu pressed.
“I’ll do what I can within my limits,” Lee Woon said.
“Fine. Then let me meet the lord of this country,” Miyu said.
At this, Choi Kang-ja chuckled. Lee Woon gave him a glance, then asked Miyu:
“Why do you suddenly want to meet the lord?”
“You said he has many good paintings,” Miyu answered.
“Ah, to see his paintings?”
“If I know what paintings he has, I can identify copies and maybe even buy some. Can you do it?”
Lee Woon looked at Miyu, expressionless.
“Tough, right? Well, I didn’t really expect it anyway,” she said lightly.
“I can do it,” Lee Woon said, surprising even himself.
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”
“I don’t think you can,” Miyu said skeptically.
“I… even if I can’t do it alone, I might be able to through my family elders,” Lee Woon said.
Miyu stared at him intently, then finally spoke:
“No, that’s not necessary. No need to involve your family elders.”
She pointed to a long, low-lying island on the Songpa River.
“That’s Jamsil, right?”
“Yes. Jamsil too. There are mulberry fields.”
“How the world changes. Jamsil has mulberry fields?”
“What do you mean?”
“That land is supposed to be very expensive.”
Lee Woon eyed her skeptically.
‘Nonsense. She’s not a trickster, maybe just crazy…’
“You think I’m crazy, don’t you?” Miyu glared sharply.
“Jamsil is low-lying and floods with even a little rain. It can’t be expensive land,” Lee Woon said firmly.
“You don’t know how valuable it will become later,” Miyu said.
“Those mulberry fields… how can they be worth anything?”
“They will. A huge fortune,” Miyu insisted.
“Money-obsessed,” Choi Kang-ja muttered quietly.
Miyu slowly turned her gaze from the Jamsil Island toward Choi Kang-ja.
“Do you know the answer to 99 out of 100 problems?” she asked.
“What is it?”
“Money.”
“That makes sense. These days, money matters more than honor. But, miss, if you don’t mind me asking, what’s the answer to the remaining one?” Choi Kang-ja asked, shoulders rising.
“Curious?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know. The answer to the last problem.”
“Hmm?” Choi Kang-ja frowned.
“What is it?”
“What if one problem remains unsolved while 99 are solved?” Miyu replied nonchalantly, chin raised.
Choi Kang-ja had no response.
“Why so quiet?”
“I’m deeply impressed by your simple philosophy. It’s true. Really true,” Choi Kang-ja admitted, sniffing respectfully.
“That’s what I’m saying,” Miyu said happily.
At that moment, Lee Woon, looking at Jamsil Island, muttered to himself:
“The lord… I’ll arrange for you to meet him.”
Night. Clouds swallowed the moon.
All living things shrank and crouched in the darkness.
A thatched house halfway up Camel Mountain, and a cave hidden behind the bushes.
Inside the cave, a massive shrine glowed brightly.
Built in a hipped roof style, 25 sections wide and 15 deep, hundreds of people knelt in neat rows. They wore sky-blue robes and white pointed masks covering their faces. Each held a candle made of expensive beeswax—a rare offering to show reverence to the gods.
“Cheon-deuk-do, Ji-deuk-do, In-deuk-do, General of Heaven, Child Commander!”
The second-in-command of Cheonsang-gyo, the Heavenly Taoist, chanted an incantation, and the worshippers repeated it in rhythm.
“Cheon-gaeng-saeng, Ji-gaeng-saeng, In-gaeng-saeng, Celestial Jade Mirror, Child Commander!”
The chant flowed endlessly. As time passed, the voices grew louder, competing with each other. Eventually, some began to sob. The hundreds of beeswax candles flickered with their breath.
The shrine had become a frenzy of devotion.
The chants ebbed and flowed like tides through the cave.
After nearly half a day, the voices abruptly stopped, like hitting a cliff.
Men holding torches appeared at the cave entrance—ten strong men in brown robes, faces masked, standing in formation.
They entered the shrine, forming two lines.
Then, the leader of Cheonsang-gyo appeared. He slowly walked to the platform knee-high, wearing a falcon mask and the emperor’s ceremonial robe—not yellow, red, or blue, but white, embroidered with five golden dragons, trailing about a hand’s length on the floor.
The worshippers’ eyes glowed fanatically.
“General of Heaven, Child Commander!”
“Celestial Jade Mirror, Child Commander!”
“Long live! Long live! Long live!”
They raised their arms to the sky, welcoming the Child Commander with fervor, tears and snot streaking their faces by candlelight.
On the platform, the leader scanned the worshippers carefully.
“General of Heaven, Child Commander! Celestial Jade Mirror, Child Commander! Long live! Long live!”
They pressed their foreheads to the floor, shouting toward the Heavenly Taoist.
“Have all the workers of the world remained safe?”
The Child Commander, as he was called, stretched his arms toward them. His voice was that of the young scholar Choi Jae-seo, who in his youth reported to a tiger-like heavenly general and a middle-aged man with a weasel’s face.
