Chapter 35: School Life

In Romance of the Three Kingdoms, Liu Bei, Guan Yu, and Zhang Fei became sworn brothers over three cups of wine.

Unfortunately, we weren’t quite at that level, but still, with three bottles of liquor, we grew rather close.

After all, liquor after hardship could intoxicate a man even if it was only a single cup.

“Ondal, no wonder you were limping earlier! I thought the seniors beat you up.”

“Come on, even if they had fists like cotton, it wouldn’t hurt.”

“For that, you look pretty bruised… By the way, are these really the only three bottles?”

Even so, three bottles of liquor were far too little for ten sturdy men to drink.

Besides, liquor in this era was weaker than beer, which only had about three to four percent alcohol. There was a reason why the generals in dramas always drank by the jug.

“Damn it, this doesn’t even whet the tongue….”

“Really? I do know of another place.”

“You should’ve said that earlier! Where is it?”

“Go Jaemu, Maeng Sap, Daewon. Just the three of you, follow me.”

I took the three of them to the third oak tree, the one Yeon Taejo had mentioned earlier.

“There should be something here….”

“Hey, I smell liquor around here!”

It was Maeng Sap who found it. Like a truffle-sniffing dog, he dug into the ground and uncovered a large box. Go Jaemu frowned when he saw it.

“How did you know liquor was here? Looks like the seniors hid it….”

“I found out by chance. So, are you not going to drink?”

I shouted, “Chol!” and Go Jaemu gave the expected reply.

“Of course we’ll drink. Why wouldn’t we? This stash probably came out of our own pockets anyway.”

We boldly raided all the bottles and brought them back to the dormitory to enjoy.

“Only two bottles and you’re already drunk? You call yourself a man? This is why Silla bastards….”

“What did you say, Turk bastard? You’re the one whose legs are wobbling.”

“In our Western Division, we drink horse milk wine every day and still stand tall… gah! My toe!”

Maeng Sap had been stumbling around drunk and stubbed his pinky toe.

Go Jaemu gave him a dumbfounded look.

“Why were you flailing around?”

“This doesn’t hurt one bit… argh! It hurts so much!”

Apparently, even a manly Goguryeo warrior couldn’t withstand the pain of a stubbed toe. Go Jaemu quickly covered Maeng Sap’s mouth.

“…Damn it, quiet down! What if the professor comes? Here, use this willow powder.”

And so, we drank deep into the night and, surprisingly, bonded quickly.

Especially since private liquor was forbidden here, and the liquor we had stolen was the seniors’ stash. Naturally, the easiest way to grow close with someone was to break the rules together.

‘Still, the alcohol content is disappointing. Once I get the chance, should I get a brewery going and make some soju… or even beer?’

I knew the rough process for both, so it wouldn’t be too bad.

And then, the next day.

Cold water poured down on our heads as we lay passed out.

“Pfaugh!”

“You bastards, didn’t you hear me say gather?”

The one scolding us was Taehak Scholar Lee Shin (李信), the professor in charge of our dormitory.

This year, Lee Shin turned thirty, and he had a three-year-old son named Lee Mun-jin (李文眞).

Back during King Yeongyang’s reign, he had served as a Confucian Scholar of the Five Classics and compiled Sinjip (新集), the history of Goguryeo.

His father, also named Lee Shin, was currently a Taehak Scholar as well—truly an academic family, generation after generation.

In this era, whether noble or commoner, it was more common to inherit one’s father’s occupation than to choose a new one.

“Ventilate this room. Open the doors! What are you, hermits hiding in a temple cave?”

So, even this cliché existed in this age. Lee Shin glanced around the room and sighed deeply.

“…You fools don’t even know how to cover your tracks?”

He pointed at the few liquor bottles still rolling on the floor. Hm, I thought we cleaned them up, but apparently some remained. We could only give an awkward laugh.

“We’ll clean it up.”

“Good. Do it quickly, then assemble at the training ground.”

That was all Lee Shin said. Professors knew students sneaked drinks at training camps, but the proper way was to quietly let it slide.

We showered, rinsed our mouths, tidied up, and assembled at the training ground. Once Lee Shin confirmed everyone was present, he began the day’s schedule.

“First, I will assign your military duties.”

Taehak students were not only scholars but also soldiers.

If war broke out, they would be drafted immediately. Naturally, each was assigned to a specific duty.

“Daewon. You will take care of the horses in the stables.”

Crown Prince Go Daewon was placed in charge of the stables.

The Go royal family had started out as horse thieves, so it was a fitting assignment.

“Maeng Sap, you will manage the carts.”

“Leave it to me.”

“Go Jaemu, you will raise the chickens.”

“I am confident in that.”

Others were tasked with making jerky and dried fish, fermenting kimchi and jeongukjang, digging wells, sharpening blades, and so on—each job essential for war.

“Lastly, Ondal. You will command the soldiers to work the Taehak’s farmland.”

My duty was the Dunjŏn (屯田)—farmland cultivated by soldiers to provide self-sufficiency in military provisions.

‘Especially in Goguryeo, dunjŏn were considered vital.’

The capital had been burned down twice, so now Goguryeo always included a pond and dunjŏn (屯田) for self-sufficiency inside fortress-scale structures.

I was certain this arrangement also bore the touch of Grand King Go Yangseong.

In other words, it was an instruction to spread the Dispute Law (時比法) while managing the dunjŏn here.

In this era, if one wanted to spread something, rather than “pilot cases” or “gradual expansion,” the fastest way was to strike the nobles. After all, the land and the people belonged to them.

Go Yangseong, too, was attempting to spread both the Dispute Law and ginseng among the nobles by using the people of Gomchon… but it didn’t seem to be working very smoothly.

‘The response is lukewarm, or so I heard….’

Ginseng was one thing, but the problem with the Dispute Law was more severe.

It was understandable. Even if yields increased, wasn’t it essentially the act of throwing feces into one’s rice?

Would you willingly drink urine every day if told that doing so scientifically extended life expectancy by one year?

Besides, innovation usually correlated with age.

The older one was, the more success data they had accumulated in life, and thus they tended to trust those results and prefer the existing ways over risky new ones.

But the Taehak was different.

“Ah… I want to go to war.”

“Don’t mutter that, idiot. Shout it loud so the professors can hear.”

“AHHHH!!! I WANT TO GO TO WARRRRR!!!”

The place was full of hormone monsters with nothing to lose but their lives, desperate to throw themselves at anything before worrying about failure.

‘Three years may not be enough to spread ginseng, but I can spread the Dispute Law.’

Goguryeo was a class society.

Getting into Taehak meant your parents had power.

In other words, the hormone monsters before my eyes were future leaders of Goguryeo.

Spreading the Dispute Law here would be quite effective.

Through this, I could also secure a political foundation.

‘But farming alone isn’t enough.’

Otherwise, I would be branded as “a commoner in noble’s skin.” In the 21st century, being called a “politician of the people” might count as a compliment, but in this era, it was just an insult.

No one wanted to associate with such a man.

That was exactly my current predicament.

By now, they must have known about my Agricultural Light Law, yet few dared to approach me.

Thankfully, among the first-years, there were some I bonded with over drinks. But the second-year seniors of the Pyeongyang Faction treated me as though I were the son of an enemy (which wasn’t entirely wrong).

In such circumstances, it was difficult to spread the Dispute Law. Stick too close to someone with a bad reputation, and your own reputation would sink as well. That meant I had to raise my standing first.

That meant not only excelling at farming but also achieving high academic results in Taehak, proving my martial prowess, demonstrating military talent, and making many friends… I had a lot on my plate.

Honestly, I was confident. I had already experienced military life and the grueling life of a test-taker. Surely, life at Taehak—which combined the two—would be manageable.

Or so I once thought….

“Now. Since the assignment of duties is complete… I will give you your first task.”

After facing Taehak’s first assignment, I had no choice but to reconsider.

“Do you see these books?”

Lee Shin rolled in a cart stacked with books.

In this era, each page could only hold about 300 characters at most, so if a 21st-century book were transcribed into the format of this time, it would turn into around ten volumes.

Even accounting for that, the load of one entire cart was an overwhelming quantity.

Lee Shin grinned.

“This is your first assignment. Transcribe three times the number of your heads.”

“What? You must be joking.”

“Do I look like the sort to joke with you?”

“So… you mean, we’re supposed to copy all of that by hand?”

As we stammered in disbelief, Professor Lee Shin explained.

“The Confucian scholars say, ‘There is no better way to learn than transcription.’ Thus, you too shall begin with it.”

“Th-then, is this all we’ll be doing?”

“What nonsense. Did you come to Taehak just to transcribe books? This is to be done in your free time.”

I bit my tongue to hold back the words, “And how is that free time?” In my unit, the company commander would always say, “It’s not free time, it’s personal maintenance time,” and order us to clean our rifles.

At that moment, Maeng Sap quickly raised his voice.

“I have never learned to read or write!”

“…What? Then why did you come to Taehak?”

“Xiang Yu once said, ‘A warrior only needs to know how to write his own name. When words are needed, monks can be hired to read them aloud.’ Isn’t that enough?”

…Good grief, were these future officials actually illiterate?

I had heard that many medieval knights were illiterate, but still… well, thinking of it that way, I could understand.

“So, you don’t know how to read?”

Lee Shin smiled as though he had been waiting for this.

“Then you shall wake one watch earlier than the others and study Okpyeon (玉篇), Jatong (字通), and Jarim (字林). If necessary, even the latest book, the Thousand Character Classic (千字文), will do.”

“…What?”

“In the morning, you shall learn the characters with your head, and in the afternoon, you shall copy books with your heart. What problem could there be?”

Thus, Maeng Sap and his friends, having spoken out of turn, ended up with an even harsher curriculum than before.

Go Jaemu snickered behind him at the sight.

“Maeng Sap, how could you come here without even knowing classical Chinese?”

“A warrior doesn’t need to learn such things!”

“Ondal may be a warrior, but he can read, can’t he?”

The Pyeongyang Faction students from Gyeongdang generally had all studied classical Chinese before. But that didn’t mean things were one-sided in their favor.

“Who rides a horse like that? How did you even crawl into Taehak? If this is all the Pyeongyang brats can do, then you’re pathetic.”

If the Domestic Fortress Faction was weak in literacy, then the Pyeongyang Faction was lacking in martial skills. They, too, had to wake early to train in martial arts.

“Ondal, are we the only ones left?”

“Looks like it….”

In the end, the only ones who could afford to sleep in a little were me—who could handle weapons fairly well and also knew how to read—and Crown Prince Go Daewon.

That didn’t mean we lazed about.

When everyone else was training, we couldn’t just lie in bed. Besides, the Taehak curriculum was demanding enough that every moment of time had to be carved out carefully.

Before sunrise, we trained in martial arts, military strategy, history, Confucianism, and more, in addition to our personal duties.

In my case, managing the dunjŏn was part of my personal duties—ordering the slaves to shovel manure, ferment fertilizer, teaching the soldiers farming… my body was breaking apart.

And if that wasn’t enough, even during our supposed free time, we were burdened with the copying quest.

‘From the Five Classics, to Records of the Grand Historian, Book of Han, Book of the Later Han, Records of the Three Kingdoms, Spring and Autumn Annals of Han and Jin… there are so many.’

Even if I spent an entire semester doing nothing but this, I still wouldn’t finish. The workload was enough to make us feel like we’d drop dead, and the Taehak students were grumbling loudly.

“Was the schedule always this tough?”

At that, Go Daewon shook his head.

“No. Copying has always been there, but before it was just one book at a time.”

“Then why suddenly three times as much?”

“Well, because there aren’t enough books? Actually, it’s partly related to you.”

What did I do now?

In the 21st century, books weren’t considered expensive.

But if you went back just a hundred years, books were a symbol of wealth. In Joseon, a single decent book cost about the same as an ox.

So, even in Joseon—where up to 100,000 people took the state exams and papermaking was fairly advanced—books were costly.

But here?

Forget 100,000 literates—even among the nobles, half of them, like Maeng Sap, couldn’t even read.

I would bet all my hair that even if you gathered every literate man from the Western Lands right now, Goguryeo still wouldn’t have half the literate class that Joseon did.

Even paper itself was so precious that, at Taehak, students had to use birch bark to take notes instead of paper.

Books—handwritten by literates far rarer than paper—were bound to be staggeringly expensive.

That was why scholars throughout history poured themselves into transcription. Copying was both a method of education and the production process of books.

At Taehak as well, first-years were tasked with transcribing the textbooks, simultaneously learning and supplying the school with books. It wasn’t abuse, but an official part of the curriculum.

But until last year, transcription had been one book, not three.

Why had the quota suddenly tripled?

The problem came down to two things.

First, the admission of Domestic Fortress Faction students had sharply increased Taehak’s intake.

Second… the largest book workshop in Pyeongyang, which had been supplying books to Taehak, had seen a significant decline in output.

That workshop was the Lelang Wang Clan’s Wood Workshop.

Go Daewon explained:

“The Lelang Wang Clan traces its lineage back to the Four Han Commanderies. Naturally, they excel in Confucianism and literacy, and with their wood workshops, they were the most suitable for producing books. But now they’ve been stripped of office, haven’t they?”

“That’s true.”

“Losing office means losing their hereditary village allotments, and with that, free labor. On top of that, they squandered their wealth on the Pyeongyang people, so their family’s finances weakened.”

The rights tied to hereditary allotments included both tax collection and requisition of labor.

Wang Godeok had used this requisition right to maximize book production, but since he was removed from office, that was no longer possible.

This meant one of the major book suppliers had been cut in half. Thus, the Taehak Scholars concluded: ‘As long as we maintain paper production with nohwaji (reed paper) or magolji (hemp paper), we can just squeeze the students to make up the difference in books.’

I should have guessed the moment I heard their title was “Scholar.” No matter the era, professors always think of wringing their students first.

“So… because Wang Godeok was ousted over my marriage with Boknyeo, there’s now a shortage of books?”

“Of course, Ondal, this won’t affect your reputation. It is connected to you, yes, but it isn’t your fault. Besides, hardly anyone even knows his downfall is tied to you.”

“I know that much… but still, I can’t keep doing this damned transcription forever.”

Even young men had limits; we were on the verge of dying from overwork.

And dropping out wasn’t an option. Taehak’s standard curriculum was three years, just as a university was four years in the modern era. Those who failed to complete it properly were held back another year. To repeat a year just because I couldn’t copy enough books?

Impossible. That would ruin my plans for the Battle of Baesan in five years, and poor grades here would cause problems for my career later. After all, graduates were divided by rank: whether they started as Junior Elder of the 11th rank, or Small Elder of the 10th rank, depended on their performance.

If possible, I wanted to start my career as a Small Elder. I said to Go Daewon:

“In the end, the problem is simply the lack of books, right? If that’s the case, there may be a solution.”

“You have a way?”

Go Daewon’s eyes lit up.

“If you can solve this, I’ll see you as the reincarnation of Eulpaso. So, what’s your plan?”

“First, I need to meet Wang Godeok.”

“Hm… that sounds like a bad idea. If Wang Godeok sees you, won’t he try to kill you on the spot?”

Oh, come on. Surely it won’t come to that?

* * *

1. Cotton is often credited to Mun Ik-jeom for its introduction, but in fact, cotton already existed in this period. Cotton seeds and cloth have been discovered in Baekje. However, the cotton of this time was “upland cotton,” not “sea-island cotton,” and was difficult to grow in Korea. Thus, production was minimal and most was imported. Later, Mun Ik-jeom introduced the sea-island cotton strain, enabling cotton cultivation in Korea. (The tale of him smuggling seeds in a brush cap is of doubtful authenticity.)

2. According to the Annals of King Jungjong, purchasing a single copy of The Great Learning required 3–4 bolts of cloth, equivalent to 2–3 sacks of rice. In the Joseon era, that was about the price of an ox. Even in Joseon, this was expensive enough to warrant government subsidies for book purchases—so in Goguryeo, the difficulty was even greater.

3. While hanji is usually said to be made from mulberry bark, that was merely the highest quality. Other materials were used as well: pine bark paper, hemp-based magolji, reed-based nohwaji, straw paper, even pine needle paper. Essentially, any fibrous material plus starch paste could be turned into paper.

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