“Did you eat something weird before you went into the game? Or did you mess with the machine you were wearing?”

“Eat something? I skipped lunch to work because you were in such a frenzy, yelling about how I had to get into the game right away. And how much do you think I know about machines to be messing with them?”

“True. Then what is it? It’s not like the data suddenly glitched. And I certainly didn’t mess up the initial settings. The only external stimulus was him.”

Strange. 

A deep weariness etched on her face, Euishin let out a low groan.

She had pulled an all-nighter analyzing an anomaly observed in the game. The problem was with the ‘Character Input Suitability’ rating. When she had first checked, Seo Jinwoo’s rating was clearly 87.2%. But at some point, the value had risen to 88.1%. The minuscule difference was enough to grate on Euishin’s already obsessive nature.

All Seo Jinwoo had done during his first session was look around Hanyang. He had wandered through the market after it had closed, picking up information about the state of affairs in this version of Joseon and the names of the princes. That was it. Did the rating go up just from talking to a few people?

She didn’t think the system’s initial calculation was wrong. She had run several tests before Jinwoo arrived, and the ‘Character Input Suitability’ rating, at least, had always been consistent…

And so, Euishin had no choice but to throw Jinwoo back onto the operating table. It all happened within a mere five minutes of him arriving for work. Oh, this is insane…! Jinwoo, who had been busy making his morning coffee, could only let out a final scream before being sent back to Joseon.

Thus, Seo Jinwoo opened his eyes in the warmest part of a magnificent hanok.[1]

A dim light flickered behind the paper-lined door. 

Somewhere, a rooster crowed three times. 

The cold air pooled at the tip of his nose before being warmed by his exhale. When he shifted, he heard the sound of silk rustling against the bedding. The texture, both coarse and soft, rubbed against his skin. It was foreign. The space, larger than his studio apartment on the outskirts of Gyeonggi Province, inspired a primal fear.

This room was filled with objects he had never owned in his life. A candle melted down to its stub and a low, wooden cabinet. A desk inlaid with mother-of-pearl and a vase painted with cranes. As he slowly surveyed the room, Jinwoo gently closed his eyes.

“Where am I now…?”

His head throbbed. He placed the back of his hand on his forehead and felt a slight warmth. It seemed that connecting to the game consumed a fair amount of energy. 

Ugh. 

A groan escaped his lips.

His back was sore. His shoulders were as stiff as boards, and his neck, propped up on a high pillow, was cramped. His body, accustomed to sleeping on a bed, was protesting the hard floor with a dull muscle ache. It was a good thing the room had ondol heating.[2] Otherwise, he wouldn’t have been able to soothe his abused body with its comforting warmth.

—Seo Jinwoo. Can you hear me? If you can, answer.

Just as he was quietly praising the merits of the ondol system, a familiar voice echoed from the empty air. With the back of his hand still covering his eyes, Jinwoo answered without even clearing his throat.

“Yeah, yeah. I can hear you.”

He had answered too quickly, and a cough burst out. The still-cool spring dawn had left his throat parched. He buried his mouth in the blanket and coughed a few more times, followed by the faint sound of a tongue clicking in disapproval.

—Why are you suddenly acting like a patient? You, the one with such outstanding adaptability.

“Just because my mental adaptability is outstanding doesn’t mean my body follows suit. My head is usually empty, but there are times my body just won’t listen. It’s surprisingly vulnerable to stress.”

As luck would have it, there was a bowl of water nearby. After taking a light sip to wet his throat, Jinwoo stretched and retorted. By now, he could let this level of bickering roll right off him. He opened his mouth wide and let out a long yawn.

—The only thing there is bitter herbal medicine, so if you don’t want to drink it, don’t get sick.

Jinwoo, who had been about to stand up and stretch, froze. The tension seemed to drain out of him all at once, his muscles going slack. He quickly opened his skill window and confirmed that [Recovery] was lit up. It seemed Euishin had seen his state and activated the skill for him.

Ah, so this turns off when you log out. Finding a comfortable position, Jinwoo rolled his shoulders. The movement was fluid, as if the stiffness had never been there. Is this the so-called developer’s privilege? Feeling refreshed, Jinwoo gave a thumbs-up to the empty air.

“So, where am I?”

There was no place in this Joseon world where Seo Jinwoo could truly relax. He guessed this must be a space he could occupy without issue. He slipped a hand under the bedding and felt the warm floor a few times.

—Where do you think? It’s your house. More accurately, your Joseon-version parents’ house.

You said you wanted to meet your parents first, so I just put you in the house. Her words implied she had boldly skipped the tedious parts of the narrative. To be more honest, it probably meant she couldn’t stand to see him idle. As he nodded, the developer added another setting.

—By the way, the new backstory is that you’ve just returned after studying abroad in Beijing.

Jinwoo’s lips tightened into a thin line. He wasn’t flustered by the sudden addition to his backstory. He was just taking a moment to process the unfamiliar word.

Studying abroad? …Me?

A few seconds later, Jinwoo exclaimed with a sigh.

“Wow, I’m so capable. In reality, the only experience I have with Beijing is eating Peking duck at a Chinese restaurant.”

Beijing? 

The 29-year-old Seo Jinwoo had never even crossed the country’s borders. A sudden wave of relative deprivation washed over him. This young master, born and raised in a wealthy household flowing with gold and honey, had a past full of worldly experiences. He understood it was a necessary setting for a smooth narrative progression, but just because his head understood didn’t mean his heart was convinced. A sense of unfairness welled up inside him, and his face fell. Just the thought of having to describe a Beijing he’d never been to made his stomach ache.

—It’s not that you’re capable, it’s that I’m capable. Get your facts straight.

I’m the one who made your Joseon-era parents nouveau riche. 

He had no comeback. Everything Kim Euishin said was backed by clear logic and premise. His gloomy mood instantly turned cold. This woman only ever says the damn truth. His lips sealed into a straight line, Jinwoo grumbled and crawled back under the covers.

—I’m going to have you start playing in earnest today, so I’ll give you a rundown of the basic political situation.

While Jinwoo was burrowing into the blankets to find a hiding place, the impatient Euishin pulled up a window. On it was a relationship chart centered on the royal family. It was filled with detailed and personal information, from the currently reigning king to the most influential ministers in the court.

Can’t you just give this to me to put in my inventory? There’s no way I’ll remember all this from a lecture. At least let me take a screenshot. Jinwoo sat up straight, pulling his body closer to see the tiny letters.

—The current king of Joseon is Yi Un. He has four sons: one legitimate son by the Queen, and three illegitimate sons by two different concubines.

“I know. I heard about the family relations at the market yesterday. The legitimate son, Grand Prince Shin-hyun, is the Crown Prince. Below him are Prince Seong-myeong and Prince Hyo-an, born to a concubine who was the daughter of the Chief State Councilor. And then there’s Prince Muwon, born to a palace-maid-turned-concubine, who unfortunately died while giving birth to him.”

—Correct. Yi Un’s clan origin is Jeonju. His courtesy name is Jaeseong. He’s not the kind of king who corrects the vices of the aristocracy or enacts innovative political reforms, but he tries to maintain a good image by implementing relief policies whenever a major disaster strikes the country. That said, he hasn’t left any major achievements. When he dies, his posthumous temple name will probably be something like Unjong.

“You’re really terrible at naming things. Don’t ever open a naming service, Noona. You have no talent for it.”

Jinwoo gathered the blanket and rested his chin on it. The rough part of the silk tickled his skin. After scanning the complex relationship chart, his eyes returned to the top. He could tell just from the brief explanation. He surmised that Yi Un…

“Is his position weak? To have no notable achievements after seven years on the throne suggests he’s easily swayed by his court ministers.”

—That’s right. He’s basically a puppet king.

“…It’s that bad?”

A sigh escaped him. The princes’ backgrounds were worse than he thought. Of all the possibilities, the king had to be this ambiguous character, neither a tyrant nor a sage. 

Are the game characters three-dimensional because they’re supposed to be people, too?

It would have been better if he were a flat character, clearly defined as good or evil. Then he would have had a better idea of how to use the current king to help Prince Muwon ascend the throne. The more he thought, the more his head ached. Rolling his eyes, Jinwoo asked a follow-up question to find a clue.

“Wasn’t he the previous king’s legitimate son? Is that why?”

—No, he’s legitimate. The second son, to be precise. He had an older brother who was appointed Crown Prince at birth, but he died in a fall from a horse while out hunting. Since his father, Yunjong, didn’t take any concubines, Yi Un immediately became the Crown Prince. And less than a year after his investiture, he ascended the throne.

“Oh my, what happened?”

—Yunjong died. He fell into a deep despair after losing his heir. He withered away and then one day, he just passed away in his sleep.

“What a tragic family history.”

—Yunjong adored his wife and his firstborn son. It seems he didn’t feel the same way about his second son, Yi Un.

“A tragedy that’s not quite dramatic enough to be a melodrama.”

This was worse than some sordid affair. Finalizing his thought, Jinwoo leaned his head back. A troubled family history was a common cliché in prime-time family dramas. It was the best way to reveal a character’s fundamental flaws. Yi Un, being the son, would have known better than anyone that the amount of affection he received was different.

He would have been better off having an affair. It would have been better to have over a hundred concubines like King Uija.[3] It’s always less painful to blame external factors rather than internal ones. Why were there so many purely evil people in the world? Jinwoo, who had grown up in an ordinary family his whole life, dared to pity the supreme ruler of this nation for the privilege he himself had.

“Be that as it in may, it doesn’t make sense for a direct descendant of the royal family to be powerless just because he ascended the throne unprepared. There’s got to be more to it, right?”

At that, the periphery of the relationship chart began to glow. The names of the Queen and the concubines aligned with Yi Un were illuminated. They were the mothers of the Crown Prince and the second and third princes.

—The factions of the Queen and the Royal Noble Consort Cheongbin are so powerful they can suppress the king. Behind them are their fathers, who have been influential since Yunjong’s reign. When Yi Un was enthroned, they planted their daughters in his inner circle to control him as they pleased. In the process, the Queen’s faction and the concubine’s faction joined hands.

“What grand scheme were they planning to pull off that they needed such powerful people to team up? What a colossal waste of manpower.”

—Because consolidating power is the established way to achieve one’s goals within the palace. In that sense, their interests must have aligned. Since then, the two factions have reigned as a shadow power,[4] managing state affairs. But from what I can see, that alliance is on its last legs. Consort Cheongbin wants to put her own son on the throne.

To add a few more details, the Queen is weak in both body and mind, and Consort Cheongbin is a devout Buddhist. She’s so faithful that she often goes to a temple called Boheungsa to make offerings. It’s a common story of the queen’s maternal relatives gaining too much power, the kind you see all the time in Korean history. Having finished her explanation, Euishin took a drink of water. The sound of a plastic bottle crinkling and uncrinkling came through the headset. With that sound as his background music, Jinwoo thought.

“One wrong move here, and I might have to deal with not just factional strife but the inner court of the palace as well.”

A troubled look naturally spread across his face. Just thinking about the palace’s internal conflicts brought a wave of fatigue. Letting out a deep sigh, Jinwoo looked up at the empty air and spoke.

“This wasn’t your plan, was it?”

He didn’t say it to blame her. It was because the setup was surprisingly intricate, which made him suspicious. It was too well-crafted to have been created by Kim Euishin. As if she had correctly understood the intent behind his question, Euishin didn’t throw one of her usual fits.

—It wasn’t an area I could control. All I did was the setting and the basic character setups. I created their names, the number of children, their positions, and their approximate ages, but nothing else. The characters forming their own factions and fighting amongst themselves was not something I had anticipated.

It was a straightforward answer. Euishin, who had unexpectedly complied with his interrogation, concluded her explanation neatly. As he blankly listened to the story unfold, Jinwoo frowned.

Is she saying the characters in the game have their own consciousness? How can mere collections of data do that? 

If what Kim Euishin was saying was true, it meant this game existed beyond its creator’s domain. Just like ordinary humans, who shape their world to prove their own existence.

It’s like they’re actually alive. Suddenly, Jinwoo mulled over the bizarre name of the ‘Kim Euishin Metacognitive Cultural Research Institute’.

—So. What are you going to do first?

The developer’s intervention cut through his thoughts. The voice pouring down from above was as heavy as the clouds before a storm. He lifted his head, and the full view of the large room came into sight. It was still filled with objects he had never owned in his life. A candle melted down to its stub and a low, wooden cabinet. A desk inlaid with mother-of-pearl and a vase painted with cranes. And a pair of talismans to ward off evil spirits.

“First, I need to eat, of course.”

His gaze, which had been fixed on the ceiling, lowered. The blanket slid past his legs, and the river-blue dopo settled over his shoulders. Jinwoo rose to his feet and expertly put on his gat before striding across the room. Koreans run on rice power. How would Joseon be any different? Shaking his head lightly to clear the distracting thoughts, Jinwoo stepped over the high threshold. If there was something strange, he could start investigating it from now on—how this world worked, and why it needed Seo Jinwoo.

He pushed open the door with its unique traditional iron handle, and the morning air, drenched in dew, washed over his cheeks. It was the air of a new world, one he just couldn’t get used to.