This confluence of sheer necessity, pure coincidence, and blind luck had, for the most part, solved the crippling talent shortage at the research institutes and other centers of higher learning. But where there is light, there is always a shadow. A new problem had been born from the solution.

The very language of science was becoming a tower of Babel. Advanced mathematics, statistics, and any field requiring symbolic notation were suddenly flooded with ancient Greek letters and a bewildering, impenetrable array of personal ciphers and sigils that only the original creator could understand.

This chaos stemmed from two simple truths: first, that scholars are only human, and second, that a great many of them were mystics.

The academics who had arrived from Europe and the Middle East all shared a similar, deeply ingrained pride.

“The rational inquiry into the nature of the universe began with Greece!” 

“The ancient Greek sages are worthy of our utmost respect!”

This pride led them to use the ancient Greek alphabet for nearly all of their variables. The scholar-monks from Europe were the worst offenders, as they were still deeply marked by the habits they had formed back home—the subtle art of preserving and transmitting classical texts in spite of the Vatican’s most conservative and watchful eyes.

The mysticism was an even bigger problem. While many “pure” scholars had come, a disproportionate number of the new arrivals, especially in the fields of chemistry and Neo-Confucianism (physics), were alchemists. And alchemists were, by their very nature, mystics.

Their entire world revolved around things that defied simple, open explanation: the hunt for the Philosopher’s Stone, the creation of the Elixir, and other pursuits that were inseparable from a an air of secrecy.

The massive influx of Jewish scholars was, to use the common phrase, like “frost on top of snow.” A great many of these new arrivals were Kabbalists, scholars who studied and followed the deep, complex traditions of Jewish mysticism.

In both Europe and the Middle East, mystics were a persecuted class. This had forced them to develop their own secret symbols and codes to protect their knowledge. This old habit of self-preservation was now creating a public disaster.

And then, there was the final ingredient: raw academic arrogance.

“You think you, an ignorant fool, could possibly comprehend the equations forged by my superior wisdom?” 

“This equation only needs to be understood by me and my disciples!”

It had reached a point of pure absurdity, where the footnotes explaining the meaning of the symbols in a paper were often longer than the actual equations.

“I am at least generous enough to provide a key. You may now praise my brilliance.”

As time went on, the problem only festered. It finally reached a tipping point when the same scholar began using the exact same symbol to mean different things in different papers. The senior, original Joseon scholars, at their wits’ end, finally went to Emperor Hyeon for help.

“Can’t you handle this yourselves?” Hyeon asked, already weary.

The senior scholars bowed low, their faces grim. “Your Majesty, their pride… it pierces the heavens. If we say anything, they’ll just accuse us of being jealous, of lashing out from our own insecurities.”

“In fact, Your Majesty,” one added quietly, “they already are.”

Hyeon understood immediately. ‘So that’s the game. Their pride is too big? Then I’m supposed to crush it with an even greater authority…’

“I see,” Hyeon said, his face an impassive mask. “I will… think of a solution.”

“Your Majesty’s grace is boundless!”

After dismissing them, Hyeon let out a long, frustrated sigh. “Haaa… Easier said than done.”

From his decades of experience, Hyeon knew this wasn’t a simple fix. Pride, especially the pride of a man who had reached the pinnacle of his chosen field, was an immovable object. (Humble masters were rare, which was precisely why they were so universally respected.)

If he used the blunt instrument of Imperial authority, it would only cause a massive, unified backlash.

“The only real answer is to beat them with skill,” Hyeon muttered, “but when I look at this stuff, it’s all Greek to me… literally.”

He was listlessly flipping through the offending papers, his head beginning to throb, when… “Oh?”

He’d noticed something. Even the most arrogant, most poetic of the new scholars, with all their cryptic runes… they were all using the standard arithmetic symbols—plus, minus, multiply, divide. The ones Hyang had standardized.

Hyeon stroked his chin, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Wait… If it’s the Empire Emeritus…”

No matter how high their pride, all of them bowed—no, prostrated themselves—before Hyang. His personal knowledge, his track record of world-changing results… it was unassailable. No one could “show off” in front of him.

Hyeon stood abruptly. “I’m going to Sugang Palace. Inform the Empire Emeritus I am on my way.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

***

After Hyeon explained the situation (and Hyang got a few more, juicier details from his own sources), Hyang just… laughed.

“Hah! ‘Everything from Greece’? What’s this, ‘Everything originates from China-ism’ The Egyptians would rise from their graves to throttle them.”

Hyang let the 21st-century memory of nationalist internet arguments fade and turned his attention to the papers Hyeon had brought. His amusement vanished.

“Hooo… Mysticism is one thing, but to write a paper like this… Is this a thesis or a book of poetry? No wonder this kind of crap led to all those Freemason and Illuminati conspiracy theories.”

Hyang had heard enough. He summoned all of them.

The wide, expansive courtyard before the Myeongjeongjeon Hall at Sugang Palace was filled with massive tents, sheltering the rows of chairs. The invited scholars sat, nervous and whispering, waiting for the man himself. A moment later, Hyang appeared.

“I have called you here today,” Hyang began, his voice warm and pleasant, “because I have something to say. First, I am truly pleased with your results. Your hard work is obvious, and because of your tireless efforts, the people have learned many new truths. This is all your merit.”

The scholars beamed, bowing their heads. “You praise us too highly, Empire Emeritus!”

“To hear such words from you is the highest honor!”

To be praised by Hyang, the consensus-greatest mind of the era, was an honor they felt to their very bones. The atmosphere was warm, collegial.

And then the warm atmosphere vanished.

“However,” Hyang’s voice went flat, “I am more worried than pleased. You’ve all heard the complaints, so I will be direct. Your papers and your equations are the problem. Scholar A writes a paper that Scholar B and Scholar C cannot read. This must be fixed.”

The polite, grandfatherly Empire Emeritus was gone. His words now had the sharp, cold edge of a scalpel.

“Are you writing a thesis or a poem? A thesis is not a vehicle for your vanity! It is a document you submit for evaluation! What you produce is nothing but a hypothesis until it is judged valid, verified by others, and—through that arduous process—replicated! So what is the meaning of this? Publishing papers with your own private, incomprehensible symbols? Do you want your theories validated, or is this just a game for you to show off how smart you are?!”

The scholars’ faces hardened, their pride stung. Hyang pressed on, his voice rising.

“What is the duty of a scholar? To reveal the truths of the universe! And why do we reveal them? To teach the people who do not know, so they are not led down false paths! But if you reveal these truths in a language only you understand, how can the people learn?! How can they possibly avoid those false paths?! This behavior is a dereliction of your sacred duty! The place you work,” his voice was now thunder, “is for discovering truth for the people, not for your personal entertainment! If you are only here for your own satisfaction, then leave! Immediately!”

Hyang paused, taking a sip of water, letting the suffocating silence hang over the courtyard. He continued, his voice now dangerously quiet.

“Were the words of the ancient sages, the words of your own progenitors, Jesus and Muhammad, as complex and convoluted as the papers you write? Or… do you perhaps believe that you are greater than the founders of your own faiths?! Answer me!”

“N-No! Your Highness, of course not!” a few scholars stammered, horrified.

“From antiquity, it has been said, ‘Truth is simple.’ And those who truly know the truth are those who can explain it simply! Are you revealing the truth, or are you burying it in deeper darkness?!”

The “advice” and “rebuke” continued for some time. By the time Hyang was finished, the assembled scholars had, to a man, agreed to the immediate and total unification of all academic symbols and terminology.

***

Following Hyang’s… “mediation,” a new committee was formed at the research institute:

The Committee for the Standardization and Unification of Academic Terminology and Symbols.

Its mission was to bring order to the chaos. The moment the sign was hung and the members selected, the work began.

No, not the work. The war.

Every scholar who had ever published anything crawled out of the woodwork to insist, with religious fervor, that their symbol be made the standard. Debates and arguments were the baseline. Soon, there were reports of disciples forming gangs to have actual fistfights (paessa-um) in the hallways. Political maneuvering, backstabbing, and outright sabotage were rampant.

Exhausted and defeated, the committee members and senior scholars ran back to Hyeon, who immediately passed the buck to Hyang.

“Your Majesty, I am far too old for this kind of high-stakes work,” Hyang grumbled, putting on a show of being tired.

“Only you can do it, Empire Emeritus,” Hyeon replied, not fooled for a second.

“Hmph…”

“Imperial Grandfather, please!” Hyeon said, dropping all pretense and pulling out the final trump card. “That is an Imperial Command!”

“Aish! Fine, fine! I’ll do it!”

Hyang had to step in again. His method, this time, was simple, absolute, and non-negotiable.

• “First, variables. We are standardizing on the ancient Greek alphabet. Done.”

• “Next, all other symbols. We will group them by meaning. The creator of each symbol will stand before all assembled scholars and publicly justify its existence.”
• “After the presentations, all scholars will vote on the single best one. The rest are discarded.”
• “Repeat until all symbols are standardized. Any new symbols must follow this same public-justification and voting process.”
• “Terminology will follow the exact same procedure.”

And just like that, the problem was solved.

It was interesting as the committee had tried a similar process. But it failed where Hyang succeeded, for two key reasons: First, Hyang himself, an unassailable authority whose word was final. Second, the vote, which gave all the proud, arrogant scholars a sense of agency and participation, turning it from a top-down edict into a collective decision.

The final, standardized tables of symbols and terms were reported to Hyeon and Hyang.

“Heh,” Hyang muttered, looking at the finalized charts. “I recognize a lot of these… the same ones that gave me such a headache back in school.”

What Hyang didn’t realize, or at least didn’t fully appreciate, was that he had just created a massive butterfly effect. This single act of forced standardization had just, in one clean stroke, eliminated 100 to 300 years of trial-and-error, academic warfare, and scientific confusion that had plagued his original timeline.

But there was one thing Hyang was starting to see. Looking at the new papers landing on his desk, his expression turned… interested.

‘Well, I started all this, but… there’s a lot of knowledge and tech showing up way too early. If this keeps accelerating… am I going to see Newton discover the ‘Theory of Relativity’ and Einstein announce ‘Warp Drive’?’

A look of pure, unadulterated curiosity lit his face. He pulled out a hidden volume, his Miscellaneous Records, and picked up his golden pen.

“Relativity and warp, eh? Now… should I write this down?”