April 13, 1942
On the train from Manchuria to Gyeongseong, Jeongguk fell asleep. Both he and Yoongi had grown beards or worn their hats pulled down low, obscuring their faces. Wanted posters had already been found in several places. Since their goal was to reach Gyeongseong safely, no conversation took place between them. Yoongi crossed his arms and stared into the pitch-black tunnel. The railroad of history had led them into this darkness. Uncertainty and distrust—that was what the times had bestowed upon them. Yoongi silently gazed at Jeongguk's round head, resting on his shoulder, and wondered how long it would be before the boy would trust him this much.
‘Anyway, I hope it happens later.’
Yun-gi also relaxed and closed his eyes, thinking that wherever the railroad took them, he would gladly live.
"hey."
Jungkook stopped dead in his tracks. Yoongi, sensing his presence, turned around and crossed his arms. Those innocent eyes staring up at Yoongi were especially difficult to decipher today. It was a little disconcerting, to be honest. Yoongi, who could read even beasts, couldn't read the eyes of a young boy like Jungkook.
“What are you doing?”
Jeongguk held a piece of paper in his hand. "Give it to me." Yoongi snatched it away. Then he burst into laughter.
“It’s a wanted poster.”
It was nothing. He looked ahead again and walked. Jungkook followed Yoongi with a visibly anxious expression. He looked exactly like a child. The two walked for a while without saying a word. Trains roared past, and rickshaws sped by, whipping the wind. Modern Boy and Modern Girl linked arms and laughed as they walked through downtown Gyeongseong. The Japanese military police were noticeably absent. It was almost strange. In the meantime, Jungkook fell behind several times, then caught up again, then drifted away. Yoongi, who had been watching Jungkook, finally turned his head again.
“What have you been doing since earlier?”
This time, a wanted poster was in his hand. Jungkook, face flushed, hesitated and handed it over. The crumpled poster had Yoongi's face, name, and the bounty amount in won written on it. "These bastards can't draw," he said. Frustrated, Yoongi crumpled the poster, depicting himself with a hooked nose and a hump, even smaller. Jungkook's eyes widened at this gesture.
“I… Captain.”
"why."
"Are you okay, Commander? These are all the faces of your comrades..."
Jungkook answered in a mosquito-like voice, then lowered his head. Yoongi chuckled, seeing that he looked like a fresh-faced seventeen-year-old boy, no matter who saw him. "I'm serious!" Jungkook shouted, raising his head. Yoongi's face became serious.
“Hey, look at this.”
Yunki picked up a wanted poster with his face and a ten won reward - it seemed to be an old one.
“You look much better in real life.”
“……”
“Oh, that’s not even worth answering.”
"no!"
Jungkook opened his eyes even wider and stood at attention. "Come on, come on, don't worry about such trivial things," Yoongi urged. Jungkook followed Yoongi, his face much more at ease.
April 15, 1942
After the pro-Japanese collaborator Gilbert Johnson was shot twice simultaneously, the streets became even more dangerous. The military police, though smaller in number, frequently resorted to violence against Koreans. There was a time when Japan treated Koreans this way, but the violence intensified, with even Japanese people mistaken for Koreans and beaten with clubs until they were on the verge of death. Yet, even in this bleak world, there are always those who bring a smile to people's faces.
“Come on, come on, you little ones! It doesn’t come every day!”
As the powerful eagle calls out to the crowd, his fellow tightrope walkers prepare for the tightrope walk. When a certain number of onlookers have gathered, a large, agile man leaps out and walks along the thin tightrope as if it were his own home. The sight is truly captivating.
“Hey, come here, hey, come here!”
Today, too, Suri's voice shook the author of Gyeongseong. Perhaps because it was his first time standing in a long time, there were far more people than usual.
“Hoseok, go away!”
Wearing a rainbow-colored robe and a scalloped hat, Hoseok climbed onto the rope, fluttering a fan as big as his face. Everyone clasped their hands and watched him as he walked lightly on the tightrope. He would occasionally stumble, sending the onlookers' hearts racing. People complimented him, saying his movements resembled a butterfly hovering over a flower. He had tucked colored paper into the sleeves of his rainbow robe, and with each movement of his arm, a cascade of colorful paper fell from his sleeves, like a hermit. Below, his colleagues were performing a mask dance. These masks weren't noble masks or bride masks, but masks made by this troupe, specifically for these turbulent times. At first, the people were puzzled by the unfamiliarity of the masks, but soon they understood what they meant. Through their performance, they comforted the Joseon people. Joseon, now swallowed by Japan, leaving behind its glorious 500 years of history, was embraced by the lowest of the low. It's strange, I've never seen those glorious days, yet I can picture Joseon so vividly. After the game ended, Hoseok hopped down from the rope hanging above, and onlookers whistled and tossed coins. Suri diligently picked them up and placed them in a can.
“Okay, now we have to clean up.”
At Suri's words, everyone was busy folding their ropes, removing their masks, and putting them in boxes. The colored paper they'd put in their colorful costumes for dramatic effect had blown so far away that everyone was having a hard time. It was then.
“Jung Ho-seok.”
A familiar voice came from behind me.
"master?"
Even though most of Gyeongseong had short hair, the hair that had been stubbornly long and braided was gone, and now, like a sheep's, his hair was cropped short. But Ho-seok seemed to be doing just fine. The young master had become a man of imposing physique. Yet, his face seemed unchanged. It was a strange feeling to find something that hadn't changed in such a changing era.
“Where have you been and why are you back now? Do you know that Eulmi was surprised when the young master left without even leaving a word?”
“Haha, I went to study abroad.”
"You've joined the party," Hoseok nodded, still holding a glass of soju, though he didn't drink it. It was a fairly expensive bar, so there were a lot of Japanese people there. "Don't worry, I'll buy the drinks," the young master added.
“I saw you earlier and you seem quite skilled. Is the gambler’s job fun?”
“Hamoye. It’s fun, isn’t it? If Madam hadn’t let me go, I wonder how I could have had fun.”
After that, silence fell. The young master, who had been pouring a few glasses of soju, soon stood up.
"Here, here's the bill for the drinks. It's more than the two of us drank, so if you want more, feel free to drink more. I'll give you the change, so you can keep it."
The master quickly left the bar. Hoseok was left alone, pouring his glass overflowing with the alcohol he wouldn't even drink. Just then, a man walked in. He was a mysterious man, no matter who saw him. His body seemed to draw graceful curves, as if it were radiating moonlight. The man holding a book glanced around, spotted Hoseok, and approached him. He pretended to drop one and handed it to Hoseok. "Sir! You dropped your book here!" But the man simply shushed Hoseok and gave him a playful laugh. Hoseok, always quick-witted, understood what he meant. He carefully counted his coins, paid for his drinks, and sprinted down the streets of Gyeongseong. He was looking for a school. Anyone who would read this would do. Hoseok simply entered the classroom, where the lights were still on late into the night.
“Excuse me.”
Wen Yang-i looked at him. "What the hell!" Ho-seok screamed and backed away. Then he immediately fell to the floor. "Oh, those damn straw sandals!" As Ho-seok continued to squirm, Yang-i seemed a little frightened. He was hunched over in a way that didn't suit his size, and he looked to be over eight feet tall.
“I’m sorry if I scared you. Are……you okay?”
“What are you talking about now?”
“…Pardon?”
The sheep man looked at Hoseok with a puzzled expression, then quickly picked up the book next to him. Hoseok watched Yangi with great caution. He had seen many sheep, but this was the first time he had seen them this close. Hmm… That’s mine… Hoseok muttered to himself. Sheep definitely had a habit of snatching other people’s belongings.
“Where did you get this?”
"to?"
“Umm…where did this little rat come from?”
It was Korean. It was awkward, but it was definitely Korean. A strange sense of joy welled up in me. If it weren't for the sheep, I would have hugged him right away. Hoseok jumped up and showed me the advertisement for the book, asking questions clearly.
“What does this say? I really want to read it, but my eyes are dark.”
“…Pardon?”
“Oh, here we go again.”
April 16, 1942
Beomgyu clenched and unclenched his hand holding the gun. The scar on his flushed face was still vivid. When Taehyun appeared at the end of the gloomy hallway, Beomgyu stood up and approached him.
"Would you just put it there without writing loyalty?"
Taehyun looked up at Beomgyu. After a moment of silence, he opened his mouth.
"If it dies, it dies. If you search for it, do you know if it's a loyal dog or just a blind man going crazy and raging inside his heart?"
Beomgyu let out a short laugh, “Ha-!”
“You can only know whether a dog is loyal or blind if you leave it to hunt.”
"It's unfortunate. I'm not in a position to take such risks."
“I didn’t see anything like that, but it was scary.”
"Think about it however you like."
Taehyun's hardened expression, worn daily, was now a hint of sarcasm. As if to demonstrate that Beomgyu's words held no weight. Beomgyu glared at Taehyun, clenching his fist. It was unclear when this country would finally trust him. The old saying goes that to achieve great things, you must humble yourself and bide your time, but the spirited youth was unlikely to truly follow that advice.
"If I kill my father with my own hands, will it acknowledge me?"
"Without any hesitation. Because I know very well that this is not the case."
It was disgusting. It seemed as if hope had been revived, but when Taehyun added, he lost the will to deal with it. Beomgyu only nodded formally and walked down the hallway first. And then, suddenly, the deaths of Gwandong came rushing back to him. They were illusions, things of the past, things he had resolved to erase before entering Joseon. Bamboo spears, crimson blood. The smell of blood reverberated throughout the village. And fifteen yen and fifty jeon. That damned fifteen yen and fifty jeon. Beomgyu tore his hair out. Perhaps he truly was a ferocious dog, driven mad by the smell of blood.
At the same time, Jimin sat in front of a photograph. Taehyung came in next to him, bowed deeply before the photograph, and sat down. Outside, a late spring rain was falling. A gentle breeze rustled through the candlelit room. Jimin stroked a worn book, its pages fluttering.
“Korean Language Society.”
Jimin said with a sigh.
“That’s what the Lord wanted to protect.”
“Is it Hunminjeongeum?”
"no."
Jimin smiled faintly as he looked at Taehyung.
"korean."
Taehyung stared at Jimin quietly. Something indescribable was deeply felt in his smiling face. If Mr. Joo were alive, would he look like that? Taehyung chuckled. It wasn't Hunminjeongeum, but Hangeul. The Korean alphabet, the vast (澖) script that embraced everything.
"taehyoung kim."
“……”
“Don’t come looking for me anymore.”
I'm going to be incredibly busy.