Chapter 6: The Scholar's Gambit
The rage of my elder brother, Prince Tae-min, was a clumsy, brutish thing. It filled our quarters with the sound of his furious pacing and the sharp clatter of a teacup he hurled against a pillar. The aftermath of our visit to the Donggung was, in my estimation, a predictable disaster.
"That crone! That withered old bat!" Tae-min seethed, his face a mottled red. "And those dogs pretending to be guards! I should have had them cut down where they stood!"
"And been killed for your trouble," I murmured from my seat, not looking up from the scroll I was pretending to read. The encounter had been humiliating, yes, but more than that, it had been illuminating. We had tested the walls of my half-brother Hyun's fortress and found them to be made of stone and steel, not propriety.
Our father, Prince Dae-jung, was no better. When Tae-min stormed off to complain to him, I was summoned shortly after. I found my father not incensed on our behalf, but furious at our failure.
"Incompetent!" he spat, his gaze sweeping over both me and my brother. "You go to offer a hand of peace—my own brilliant idea to show our magnanimity—and you allow yourselves to be turned away by a servant and her thugs! You make our entire family look weak!"
"Father," Tae-min protested, "they were insolent! They threatened me!"
"They hold the authority of the Crown Prince!" my father retorted, his voice rising. "Did you think they would simply bow and scrape because of who your father is? Hyun has filled that palace with his own creatures, men loyal only to him! Your brute force," he jabbed a finger at Tae-min, "and your silent uselessness," his glare shifted to me, "achieved nothing but to expose our intentions and highlight our powerlessness."
I bowed my head, accepting the criticism without comment. Arguing with my father when he was in such a state was like trying to reason with a flood. He saw the world in terms of direct slights and overt power, a game of pushing and shoving. My brother saw it as a matter of martial pride. They were both playing checkers while, I suspected, my half-brother Hyun was playing a far more complex game of Go.
I retreated to the quiet sanctuary of my library, the scent of old paper a balm to my frayed nerves. My father's anger was fruitless. My brother's rage was a liability. Their approach—a frontal assault on Hyun's authority—was doomed to fail. A wolf is not defeated by a barking dog.
But perhaps it could be trapped by a finely woven net.
An idea began to form in my mind, a path that utilized my own strengths. I was not a warrior. I was not a grand political schemer like my father wished he was. I was a scholar. And the most powerful force in this kingdom, more so than any army, was ideology. It was the bedrock of the throne, the justification for all power. And I knew that Hyun's actions, his very nature, were causing tremors in that bedrock.
The next morning, I sought out Chief Scholar Park Yoo-shik. He was the head of the Royal Academy and a man of immense intellectual prestige, a bastion of Confucian traditionalism. More importantly, he was one of the men my father had mentioned held "reservations" about Hyun. I found him not in his official office, but in the tranquil gardens of the Academy, contemplating the precise lines of a centuries-old juniper tree.
"Chief Scholar," I said, offering a deep, respectful bow.
He turned, his aged face creasing into a faint, scholarly smile. "Prince Ji-hoon. It is a pleasant surprise to see you here. Have you come to debate the finer points of Mencius's views on human nature?"
"Perhaps another time, Honored Teacher," I replied, maintaining the formal humility of a student. "My mind, I confess, is occupied by more immediate matters. The entire capital buzzes with news of my elder brother's victory and his imminent return."
"As it should," Chief Scholar Park said, his eyes twinkling, though the light did not seem entirely joyous. "A great victory is a great cause for celebration. It has been many years since Joseon has felt such a surge of pride."
This was the opening. "Indeed," I agreed. "And yet, as I read the classics, I find myself wrestling with a question of philosophy, one that my humble mind cannot seem to resolve."
He gestured for me to walk with him along the gravel path. "A philosophical question is a worthy pursuit for a prince. Speak your mind."
I chose my words with the care of a calligrapher selecting a brush. "The texts teach us that a king's strength is rooted in his virtue, in his adherence to the rites and traditions that provide harmony and order to the state. His power flows from Heaven's Mandate, which is earned through righteous conduct."
"A correct summation," he nodded, encouragingly.
"My question, then, is this," I said, pausing as if struggling to articulate a complex thought. "If a leader, through methods that are… untraditional… and perhaps even disruptive to the established harmony, achieves a great material success for the state—such as a military victory—how does that weigh against his deviation from the traditional path of virtue? Does efficiency, however ruthless, become a virtue in itself? Can a man who breaks the old forms to forge a new order truly be said to possess the Mandate of Heaven, or is he merely a successful man of force?"
I did not mention Hyun by name. I didn't have to.
Chief Scholar Park was silent for a long moment, his gaze fixed on the twisted branches of the juniper. I could almost hear the gears of his formidable intellect turning, assessing my question, and more importantly, my intent. He was no fool. He knew this was not an abstract debate.
"You ask a profound question, Prince Ji-hoon," he said finally, his voice low and serious. "It is a question that weighs heavily on the minds of many who love this kingdom." He stopped walking and turned to face me directly. "The founders built this dynasty on a foundation of balance. The sword serves the throne, but the throne is guided by the scholar's brush. The rites, the traditions… they are not mere decorations. They are the ligaments that hold the body politic together. They restrain the raw power of the individual, be he a general or a king, and bind him to the common good, to the wisdom of the ages."
His eyes held mine. "Efficiency is a tool. It can build a house or it can sharpen an executioner's axe. It possesses no inherent virtue. A house built too quickly, with no respect for the foundation, will collapse in the first great storm. A kingdom is no different."
He had answered my question without answering it at all, and in doing so, had told me everything. He and those like him did not fear that Hyun would fail. They feared that he would succeed, and that his success, achieved through his "foreign" and disruptive methods, would prove their entire worldview—the foundation of their own power and influence—to be obsolete. They feared he would replace the scholar's brush with the general's sword as the guiding instrument of the state.
"There are those," Chief Scholar Park continued, his voice now almost a whisper, "who watch the Crown Prince's rise with concern. Not for his loyalty or his ability, but for the spirit of his methods. They fear we may win a battle against the Ming, only to lose the soul of Joseon in the process."
He smiled, a faint, sad smile. "Continue your studies, Prince Ji-hoon. Ponder these questions. A wise prince is a great asset to any kingdom, regardless of his place in the line of succession. Understanding the foundation is the first step to ensuring it does not crack."
He gave me a final, meaningful nod and turned back to his tree. I bowed deeply to his retreating back, my heart pounding with a quiet, fierce excitement. I had come seeking an answer and had found something far more valuable: an alliance of ideas. My father and brother saw enemies to be confronted. I now saw a vast, influential faction of the court that could be leveraged.
They were not traitors. They were not plotting a coup. They were far more dangerous than that. They were ideological purists, terrified of the change Hyun represented. They would not move against him with daggers in the night. They would move against him with ink and arguments, with bureaucratic obstruction and philosophical dissent. They would seek to bind him with the very traditions he sought to discard.
I walked away from the Royal Academy with a new sense of purpose. My father could rage, and my brother could sulk. I had found a better weapon. I would not challenge the wolf's strength. I would help weave the net of tradition and philosophy so tightly around him that he would be forced to either choke on it or tear it apart, and in doing so, reveal himself to be the disruptive force they all feared. And I, the quiet scholar, would be there to watch.