Chapter 201

In the wake of the Gye-hae Restoration, a heavy silence of deliberation settled over the royal court. For years, the prevailing sentiment had been to restrain the bloody tide of purges for the sake of political stability. However, the bitter reality proved that such hesitation only invited more bloodshed—and the current situation was no different.

Left unchecked, the King and the Great Northerners risked being branded with the “unjust” reputation of monarchs who delighted in the slaughter of scholars. Yet, a firm consensus permeated every level of the administration: mercy was not an option.

These were not minor offenses; they were crimes of high treason and violations of the fundamental laws governing human morality. In this era, attempting to be “generous” by punishing only the individual families instead of exterminating the three related clans was a recipe for a knife in the back. Modern people often view collective punishment as a symptom of primitive cruelty or the weakness of individual rights, but pre-modern societies operated on a logic far more “rational” than many assume.

No individual existed in a vacuum. In an age where people were bound tightly by the intricate webs of blood, marriage, and rural community, the stakes were shared. If a relative’s rebellion succeeded, one could cling to their robes and feast on the scraps; that was considered a legitimate right. Consequently, one had to accept that if the rebellion failed, they would be bound in line to meet the executioner’s blade.

Ignoring this law of high risk and high reward was a luxury afforded only by the legal systems of Westerners—those who sat comfortably atop wealth plundered from colonies while dismissing the age of imperialism as a “closed chapter” of history. Moreover, only the looming threat of collective punishment forced families and communities to police their own, ensuring that no one invited ruin upon the whole. It is the same reason why developing nations with overstretched police forces still maintain similar systems even into the twenty-first century.

Joseon, by any modern standard, was a nation where the rule of law was a fragile thing. Thus, the choice was binary: kill them all or forgive them all. King Yi Hon agonized over how to strike a balance—how to maintain the pose of a “benevolent monarch” without inviting the catastrophic risks that such mercy usually entailed.

It was then that Lee Yi-cheom, acting as the King’s most intuitive advisor, approached and whispered into his ear.

“Your Majesty, the entire court is aware of your benevolent heart, wishing to lighten the sentence even for those who carry the seeds of rebellion. However, if we retreat now, the discipline of the state will unravel. The social order will be upended, and subjects will lose their fear of the sovereign. How shall we proceed?”

The very fact that Lee Yi-cheom had raised the question meant he already possessed the “answer”—and one safe enough for the entire Great Northerners regime to rally behind. When the King turned his gaze toward him, Lee Yi-cheom presented the solution his sovereign had been waiting for.

The King was delighted, rewarding Lee Yi-cheom with a bounty of cotton cloth from the Covenant. It was a conclusion that theoretically made everyone happy: the King, Lee Yi-cheom, the scholars of the Great Northerners, and even (presumably) the traitors who deserved to die. Furthermore, it provided another opportunity to show off their leverage to the Continental Covenant.

***

“The traitors Ja-jeom and Myeong-gil are guilty of unrestrained greed and arrogance, and their crimes are indeed great,” one official argued during the staged debate. “However, there is a clear difference between them and Prince Neungyang. For that reason, it would be righteous to spare their lives.”

“Is not disloyalty the same regardless of the subject?” the King countered. “How can there be a hierarchy in treason?”

Ryu Hui-bun then interjected, “The ringleader of the wickedness must be executed, but the rest were merely lured by the promise of rank and led astray by their own greedy hearts. How can we put them all to death?”

“Hmm,” the King mused, his voice carrying the weight of practiced deliberation. “Hearing Ryu Hui-bun’s words, I see the logic. I shall take pity on their foolishness and commute their sentences to exile.”

It was a transparently rigged performance, but for those lucky enough to have survived, there was no room for complaint.

“Your Majesty’s grace is immeasurable…”

In another world, perhaps they might have maintained their integrity by spitting in the tyrant’s face and demanding death, but such honor only matters when there is someone left to witness it. If they were to be remembered as men “led astray by greedy hearts,” they would rather keep their heads and wait for a future opportunity.

With tears streaming down their faces, Choi Myeong-gil and Kim Ja-jeom watched from their prisoner carts as the gates of Hanyang receded into the distance. They saw their extended families, tied together like rows of dried fish, following behind them. They were grateful to be alive, but…

“Why are we heading west?”

“Silence! How dare a traitor under house arrest ask questions!”

“Listen, surely we have a right to know where we will spend the rest of our days?”

“You are going to Ganghwa Island,” the guard barked. “I can tell you no more.”

The faces of the two men hardened. It was obvious that the court would never send SSS-rank traitors to a military stronghold like Ganghwa, so close to the capital. That wasn’t generosity; it was stupidity. They were clearly being moved to “somewhere else” from Ganghwa.

Probably by ship.

An island!

To a Joseon man, being sent away by ship was practically a death sentence. As their wives and children wailed beside them, Choi Myeong-gil and Kim Ja-jeom hung their heads in sorrow. The guards, perhaps moved by their plight, began to speak more softly.

“Look, don’t be so despondent. You aren’t being sent to your deaths.”

When Choi Myeong-gil gave him a skeptical look, the soldier shook his head. “They say you’ll be boarding the very ships the Covenant people arrived on. Do you think those massive things will just capsize? You might be heading to some rugged island in the south, but you won’t die on the way.”

“He’s right, Jagyeom,” Kim Ja-jeom whispered. “Those barbarians saved the King’s life; he wouldn’t dream of damaging their ships. Besides, I’ve heard their vessels are like floating islands. They won’t be easily tossed by the waves.”

Could it be?

“As long as we are alive…” Kim Ja-jeom muttered, “there will be a chance.”

Choi Myeong-gil took heart from his comrade’s words. Even on a desolate, far-flung island, surely there would be at least one scholar of principle? Even if there weren’t, if there were but ten righteous commoners, an opportunity would arise.

An opportunity to escape. And then, an opportunity to raise a righteous army once more.

With those silent vows, the two men exchanged a fervent look. That tyrant’s greatest mistake is sending us all to the same place instead of scattering us. To throw hundreds of our kin onto a single island just to show off his ‘mercy’… his arrogance and stupidity will be his undoing. When the time comes…!

Lost in their delusions of grandeur, they boarded the Covenant ship. They began their journey south.

“Seong-ji,” Choi Myeong-gil vowed, “I shall never forget the humiliation of this day, nor your steadfastness!”

“Do not worry. The day will come when we enjoy our prosperity once again!”

South they went.

“That is Wando over there. Are we disembarking?”

“It doesn’t seem so. There’s no sign of the anchor being dropped. Perhaps Jeju?”

“Hmph. It seems that mad king isn’t entirely blind. But he truly doesn’t realize that sending us to a large island is only inviting trouble.”

South they went.

“Is… is there an island south of Jeju?”

“I’ve heard rumors… of an island called Marado.”

“That wicked monster…!”

South they went.

“Wait… isn’t that Marado?”

“…”

South they went.

Farther south.

By the time they finally sighted land again, more than a week had passed, and the silence among the prisoners was absolute.

“Everyone out!”

The guards, their tempers frayed by the long voyage, barked their orders. Choi Myeong-gil and Kim Ja-jeom scrambled off the ship without looking back. Overwhelmed by the simple, profound joy of treading on solid ground again, the two men embraced and wept.

And then…

“I know those faces. Old… colleagues.”

The familiar voice sent a shiver down their spines. They lifted their heads to see a man standing before them.

“Welcome… to Kitadaitojima.”

Oitotan stood there, holding a sign written in Hangeul that read: A HEARTY WELCOME TO OUR NEW MIGRANTS.

The strength left their legs, and they collapsed into the dirt.

***

In the original timeline, Kim Ja-jeom was destined for a life of meteoric success, enjoying the favor of King Injo and drowning in wealth and power. Injo had loved him so much that his final testament instructed his successor to treat Ja-jeom as he had. He should have married his grandson into the royal family and become the minister who held the entire nation in his palm.

Instead, he was now on an island more than a thousand kilometers south of the Korean Peninsula.

Escape? A future uprising?

Impossible.

And the man responsible for his current state was standing right there, smiling broadly and waving a welcoming placard. As the cold reality sank in, the emotions that surged within Kim Ja-jeom were far from ordinary.

“You… you bastard…!”

“Good to see you, too,” Oitotan replied. “It has been… a long time… since the Restoration…”

“Aaaaagh!”

“Hey! Calm down, man! You’ll kill yourself at this rate!”

“I’ll… I’ll take that man to the afterlife with me even if it’s the last thing I do…!”

“Brother! Please, calm down!”

“Whoa, whoa. Take it easy. It’s not good to fight after such a long time.”

“Guh… cough… wheeze.”

While Choi Myeong-gil and the family members struggled to hold him back, Kim Ja-jeom flailed wildly, trying to get at Oitotan, but his strength finally failed him, and he sank back to the ground.

As his vision cleared, he noticed a Westerner standing next to Oitotan, his eyes unnervingly bright.

“This is Thomas Archer,” Oitotan introduced. “He will… look after your needs… from now on.”

Kim Ja-jeom wanted to scream that he didn’t want any “needs” looked after—he just wanted to be left to live or die in peace.

“Oh, by the way,” Oitotan added helpfully, “this was a desert island until recently. There are no houses except the ones we built. Good luck.”

Having delivered his cheer, Oitotan withdrew, looking like a man who had foreseen every single detail. Kim Ja-jeom found he didn’t even have the energy left to be angry.

As he sat there in a daze, the man named Thomas approached them.

“I have been learning… Joseon speech… for a short while!” he announced. “But! Let us… work hard!”

“Work hard?” Kim Ja-jeom spat. “Don’t give me that bullshit.”

“Bullshit? What does that mean?”

“It means… it’s nothing.”

And so began Kim Ja-jeom and Choi Myeong-gil’s heart-pounding life on Kitadaitojima.

“Did everyone… rest well last night?” Thomas asked the next morning.

“…”

“Good! Then… I will lead you… to the workplace!”

Thomas Archer was a Virginian from Croatoan. Originally a missionary, he had moved to this remote outpost with the grand ambition of establishing an “Industrial Monastery.” He had come to share the joy and fulfillment of labor with new people in a new world.

In short, the man was hopelessly naive.

“Ja-jeom! why do you look so down? Cheer up!”

“Do not call me by my name…”

“Is there a problem, Ja-jeom?”

“No… it’s nothing.”

“Ah, it was ‘bullshit’! That’s good!”

“Wait, what?”

Regardless, under his guidance, Kim Ja-jeom, Choi Myeong-gil, and the others who had been dragged to this desolate island began their lives on the sugarcane plantation.

“Ugh… how can a scholar be reduced to such base labor?!”

“Listen, if you have the energy to cry, use it to cut this cane first.”

At first, it was nothing but misery and gloom. The former aristocrats, who had never so much as dipped a finger in water, wailed as they performed physical labor, which didn’t exactly sit well with the slaves who had been dragged along as a “set” with their traitorous masters.

However, humans are creatures of habit.

“Ja-jeom, how is it today?” Thomas asked some time later.

“…Better than I expected.”

Under the tropical sun, Kim Ja-jeom’s skin gradually bronzed, and he found himself growing accustomed to the life and labor of this strange place.

“Haha! Doesn’t labor make one feel truly proud? Here, try these cookies made with the sugar you harvested!”

“It… it’s this sweet?”

“See, Ja-jeom? It’s delicious! If we filter out the impurities a few more times, it will become lighter in color and even more flavorful!”

Accustomedness soon turned into something resembling comfort. Most surprisingly—and contrary to Ja-jeom’s expectations—the “great traitors” were actually being paid “wages” for their labor. At first, he thought the shabby tents were meant to be their permanent homes, but once the sturdy brick buildings were completed, they were given proper bedding and a roof over their heads.

Furthermore, one might wonder what use wages were on an island inhabited only by themselves. The answer came in the form of luxury goods brought in by the monthly supply ships, allowing them to lead quite decent lives. The prices were even lower than in Joseon.

Naturally, people began seeking out extra work to earn “performance bonuses,” researching more efficient ways to harvest sugarcane. The labor that had once been grueling became manageable as people developed their own tricks and techniques, and injuries became rare. The slaves and servants even began to whisper among themselves that life here was far better than it had ever been back in Joseon.

But Kim Ja-jeom couldn’t bring himself to say it out loud.

“Seong-ji, what is the matter?” Thomas asked.

“So, you’ve finally stopped calling me by my given name,” Kim Ja-jeom noted. Instead of answering, he gazed longingly across the distant sea. “Our lives here are improving, but I cannot help but lament the thought that my descendants—even generations from now—will never be able to leave this island.”

Thomas Archer shook his head. “No. Your descendants will be able to leave. And perhaps… so will you.”

Kim Ja-jeom’s head whipped around. Thomas added cautiously, “I don’t mean you’ll be able to return to Joseon. You will likely never set foot on that soil again.”

“I don’t even expect that much. But to leave the island… what on earth do you mean?”

“Exactly what I said. When enough time has passed and trust is built, I will show you a wider world.”

“…”

“There are islands made of bird droppings far away. We have them on this island too—it’s a resource as precious as gold, used for making gunpowder and fertilizer.”

“Is that… truly so?”

“It is. And across the Pacific lies California, a land far larger than Joseon. There are gold nuggets mixed into the riverbeds there; you would be shocked if you saw it.”

“…”

“They say the Americans living there didn’t even realize how precious the gold was until recently.”

As he listened to these wondrous tales, a new dream began to take root in Kim Ja-jeom’s heart. He worked harder, more industriously than ever. He used his wages to have robes made of silk and adjusted his imported Joseon hat, holding onto a new sense of hope.

Before he knew it, he too felt the fulfillment of honest, sweating labor. Like the others, he followed the rules and regulations of the long work hours. He was transforming himself into a modern agricultural laborer.

“Hey, Seong-ji. What are you doing?” Choi Myeong-gil asked one day.

“I am preparing to go on a journey,” Kim Ja-jeom replied.

“A journey? Where to?”

As King Yi Hon had intended, the traitor Kim Ja-jeom was dead.

“I am going to Hawaii,” replied the General Manager of the Sugarcane Monastery, Kim Ja-jeom.