Hyang’s decision to entrust Da Vinci with this new task was not born solely from a cold-hearted desire to ‘squeeze him dry until the very end.’

It would be a terrible waste to let a talent of Da Vinci’s caliber burn out so quickly…

With that cunning calculation simmering beneath the surface, Hyang had initiated his ‘Recharge Plan’ to restore Da Vinci’s vitality. The first step of this plan was the ‘Recording of the Human Structure.’

***

Since the establishment of the Medical Academy during the Restoration, the Empire’s medicine had developed at a dazzling pace. While traditional Korean medicine, based on the principles of Yin-Yang, the Five Elements, and Qi, had also advanced considerably, it was herbalism and surgery that had grown at a rate best described as ‘explosive.’

The Empire’s study of herbalism had been built upon the foundation of the Zhenglei Bencao, a pharmacopoeia compiled during the Northern Song Dynasty that had marked a milestone in East Asian herbalism. To this, King Sejong had added his own revisions, creating the Hyangyak Jipseongbang Eonhae, a text on native Korean medicinal ingredients, elevating the field to a level that even the proud Ming Dynasty had to acknowledge.

But it did not end there. With Daeseoldo and New Frontier becoming part of the Empire’s territory, the knowledge of medicinal herbs held by the indigenous shamans and sorcerers was incorporated. This was no simple addition; they systematically compared this new knowledge with the herbs listed in the existing texts, discovering new substitutes and, in some cases, herbs with far superior medicinal properties. After completing this massive herbal database, the scholars began researching how to process these herbs for greater efficacy.

Their goal was clear: good medicine should be accessible anytime, anywhere within the Empire’s domain, which meant that methods of processing and preserving herbs had to be perfected. The herbalists experimented with various techniques. Beyond the traditional methods of drying and steaming, they tried pulverizing herbs into powders and forming them into pills. They even explored complex, multi-step processes like steaming and then re-steaming, or steaming followed by re-drying. They also delved into fermentation. Through these countless trials and errors, the Empire’s herbalism flourished.

As remarkable as this progress was, it was the field of surgery that experienced a development so profound it could only be described as ‘transcendent.’ The Empire’s surgical practice began with a combination of traditional tools and remedies, which were then augmented by a trove of European medical texts—especially from the ancient Roman era—and surgical instruments that Hyang had imported. This foundation prepared the field to grow into a veritable giant. The subsequent, active support and guaranteed autonomy from Sejong and Hyang acted as a catalyst, and on the battlefields that transformed Joseon into an Empire, surgery firmly established itself as a major branch of medicine.

However, the single greatest contributor to the Empire’s surgical medicine was Hyang himself. It was he who revived the principles of sterilization and disinfection, concepts that had existed in Roman times but had been forgotten by Europeans over the centuries. And he didn’t stop there. He introduced the use of honey as a natural antibiotic and succeeded in the mass production of penicillin—which they called the Blue Mold Liquid—bringing it to a level of purity sufficient for therapeutic use.

Yet, his most significant achievement was elevating the status of medicine and its practitioners. Before, being a physician was by no means a respected profession. With the exception of those who served the king and the royal family in the palace, most physicians struggled to make a living. The primary reason, of course, was that the majority of the populace they served was poor. It was a vicious cycle: unable to collect proper fees, the physicians’ own lives became difficult, forcing them to charge more for medicine and treatment, which in turn made it even harder for patients to pay. This downward spiral caused the number of people entering the medical profession to dwindle. Compounding the problem was the disdainful attitude of the ruling class toward medical practitioners. The most glaring example of this was the state examination to select the Royal Physician, the man responsible for the king’s life, being relegated to the category of japkwa, or miscellaneous technical exams.

T/N: The “miscellaneous examinations” of the Joseon Dynasty’s civil service system. It was a category for technical specialists like interpreters, physicians, and astronomers, and was considered less prestigious than the literary examination (mungwa) that produced the scholar-officials who governed the state.

Hyang, with Sejong’s help, aggressively tore down this old system. In fact, he did more than just tear it down; he demolished it completely and built something new in its place.

First, anyone wishing to practice medicine had to pass a state-administered examination to earn a license. Those who passed were granted a nominal Junior 8th Rank. While it was an honorary title without a salary or official post, it was a rank acknowledged by the king and the state. Furthermore, physicians who made significant medical breakthroughs, such as developing new techniques or treatments, were given a platform to publicly present their findings. If their work was officially recognized after a review by the Royal Physicians and other renowned doctors, the individual was promoted to a higher rank and awarded a substantial sum in the form of a pension. In return, their discovery became public knowledge, free for other doctors to learn and use.

The state’s rationale was simple: ‘This is to recognize the intellectual property of the physician. However, as this concerns human life, the state must intervene for the public good.’

The reforms didn’t stop at elevating the status of civilian doctors. Hyang and Sejong established a military medical school within the military academy. Graduates who became military physicians were commissioned at the Junior 8th Rank. With experience and achievement, they could continue to rise through the ranks, eventually attaining the rank of Manho (Commander) at the Senior 4th Rank.

Over time, these policies dramatically improved the social perception of physicians. Esteemed noble families began to see medicine as a worthy career for their sons, and it created a new avenue for social mobility, making the Empire’s society more dynamic.

Later, when Hyang began his regency and assumed full authority, he implemented policies for the common people who needed medical care, establishing a primitive form of medical insurance through the Office of the People’s Welfare and the Ministry of Finance. This fundamentally changed the mindset of the Empire’s citizens. No longer did they resign themselves to fate and wait for death when they fell ill. Instead, they became more proactive.

‘Even if it’s my time to go, I’ll at least try one dose of medicine.’ This was the new spirit of the people.

As an aside, the staggering list of achievements produced by Sejong and Hyang’s collaboration became a source of immense frustration for future historians—regardless of their nationality.

“If I have to pick their greatest achievement, which one do I choose? Politics? Military? Culture? Education? Society? Damn it all! I can’t do this job!”

“Why did I ever choose to major in this period!”

It wasn’t just the historians. Students aspiring to become historians, those preparing for entrance exams, and candidates for civil service positions all ground their teeth in frustration.

“Unbelievable! They made this period a separate subject from National History!”

“Damn it! And it’s worth the most points!”

“I’m applying for a technical position! Why, just why!”

***

Despite the great strides made in every field, the Empire’s medicine still had problems to solve, one of the biggest being its textbooks. The traditional medical texts passed down through generations, for both internal medicine and surgery, were filled almost exclusively with text. While some illustrations were included, their quality was utterly abysmal. The same was true for European medical books. The drawings in these hand-copied manuscripts were, for the most part, useless as reference material. This was because the people who drew them often had no medical knowledge whatsoever. Perhaps the original artist had drawn from a place of understanding, but those who copied the work later lacked that knowledge and failed to reproduce it faithfully.

Naturally, a flood of petitions came from the Medical Academy and the Military Medical School demanding a solution. In response, Hyang sent artists from the Royal Bureau of Painting, into the dissection rooms. The results, however, were almost nonexistent.

For every ten artists sent, five would submit their resignation in protest. Even when threatened and cajoled with the weight of an ‘Imperial order,’ three of the remaining ten would resist to the end, leaving only seven who would actually go. These seven would manage to draw until the moment just before the dissection began. But as soon as a physician picked up a scalpel and made the first incision, three of the seven would vanish on the spot. As the dissection progressed, more artists would disappear, and at best, only one would remain until the end. The drawing produced by that lone, traumatized artist was of no academic value.

“It might work as a prop in a horror story, but…”

That was why Hyang had sent Da Vinci. He knew Da Vinci had frequented dissection rooms back in Italy. Still, Hyang couldn’t be entirely certain.

The butterfly effects I’ve caused are too numerous to count. I can’t be sure.

Uncertain of the outcome, Hyang had Hyeon push Da Vinci into the dissection room and decided to be satisfied with that for the time being.

I can only hope that this Da Vinci is the same Da Vinci…

And once inside the dissection room, Da Vinci proved himself.

“There’s a madman in the dissection room!”

***

Da Vinci, entering the dissection room as an observer, was quiet at first. He took a seat near the dissection table and calmly sketched the exposed bones and muscles. But as time went on, his behavior grew erratic, startling not only the medical students but also the instructing physicians.

“I cannot record this properly as it is! Stop for a moment!”

Halting the dissection, Da Vinci used various measuring tools to meticulously record the proportions of the skeleton and other dimensions.

“Wait, wait, could you lift that arm straight up? As if you were reaching for something.”

“Huh? Like… like this?”

“Yes! Hold it right there! Don’t move!”

After adjusting the pose of the physician holding the dissected limb, Da Vinci quickly sketched the position and appearance of the bones and muscles.

Considering the corpse is already stiff with rigor mortis…

Da Vinci’s eccentricities didn’t stop there. “I wish to dissect the body of this young man myself!” he declared.

“By what right! You should be grateful we’ve let you observe this far!”

Two days later, Da Vinci presented a document bearing the Imperial seal and was granted the dissection he desired. Wielding an array of scalpels, he proceeded to dissect the body with a precision so meticulous it bordered on obsessive, sketching every single detail. The physicians and students watched in horror.

“That is madness… sheer madness…”

However, as time passed and the senior professor-physicians of the Medical Academy saw Da Vinci’s completed sketches, they were the ones who ran to Hyeon, imploring him to publish a medical text based on the drawings. When Hyeon relayed the Imperial command to him, Da Vinci bowed his head deeply.

“I humbly accept the Imperial command. It is a true honor to have my drawings included in a text that records the truths of medical science.”

Though he had agreed readily enough, as he departed, a small worry gnawed at him. But will they be able to faithfully reproduce my sketches?

When he voiced this concern to an artisan from Area 51 who happened to visit his workshop, the man simply chuckled. “You clearly haven’t taken a close look at the banknotes you get on payday, have you?”

“Hmm?”

At the artisan’s words, Da Vinci took a banknote from his wallet and examined it closely. As he turned it over and over, he shook his head and muttered, “Beaten again…”

Staring at the intricate and precise patterns printed on the bill to prevent counterfeiting, Da Vinci asked the artisan, “I admire the craftsman who could create such a precise printing plate for so complex a design. The one who drew the design is just as praiseworthy.”

“The design was made by an artist from the Royal Bureau of Painting, and the plates were made by the master craftsmen of our Area 51 who came before us. But the one who created and taught them the technique itself…”

The artisan paused, then grinned and pointed to a portrait hanging on one wall. Staring at the nearly finished painting, Da Vinci let out a long sigh.

“Hah… It was him again, wasn’t it?”