April 30, 1942
“What should I call you now?”
“…”
“It would be disgusting to call them comrades, and it would be unfamiliar to call them by their names.”
“…”
“This is why I can’t trust you.”
Taehyun said. His eyes held a clear contempt, perhaps even a murderous intent. Beomgyu stared at the floor, his eyes unfocused. Taehyun's voice trembled.
"Did we really look like such a rabble? Did you think someone like you would lie so brazenly without a trace of suspicion? You kept hiding everything, your expression unwavering. How ridiculous we must have seemed to you…?"
Taehyun let out a laugh. It was only a year, but he trusted him anyway. He didn't trust him enough to send him on a mission, but he secretly trusted him. Wasn't it true that something born in Japan shouldn't be trusted? Taehyun clenched his fists. Even as he resented himself for trusting this man, he found it disgusting that he was recalling even the slightest flaws he'd covered up. It was pathetic and amusing. If he was going to resent him this much, he should have just never trusted him in the first place. For a moment, everything around him seemed like an illusion. His comrades felt like they could leave him at any moment, accusing him of having a pro-Japanese father. What if that were so? What should he do? Taehyun glared at Beomgyu, who stood silently. His rage surged at his refusal to deny it, but at the same time, he felt weak. It was an age of distrust, an age of accusations. Hadn't he known that all along? Taehyun grabbed Beomgyu's arm. His hands shook as did his voice. He wanted to shake him violently, but he didn't have the energy.
“Tell me.”
"Please, give me some excuse!" Taehyun shouted. He was begging. He was begging for some excuse. Was your desire for independence also a lie? Those words, your gaze, your voice, when you stamped your seal on the Taegeukgi and said you wouldn't hesitate to suffer anything for Korea's independence—were they all fabricated? Were you acting like that for me, or rather, for Korea? I believed you. Even if it wasn't trustworthy, at least your desire for independence seemed genuine. Was I perhaps too harsh on you? Was it because I pressed you and criticized you so much that you no longer wanted to look in the same direction as me?
“I hate Japan.”
“…”
“I also hate you so much, for being born and raised in that Japanese womb.”
The corners of his eyes turned red and his eyes sparkled with some kind of liquid.
"Who are you to weigh lives? Who are you to kill a thousand people to save one! Do you know how many precious lives, like Comrade Choi's, were lost protecting the data at our base? How can you decide what's more important and what's less important? Who are you to judge yourself when you can't even speak Korean properly?"
Trembling, his emotions intensified. Taehyun knew he had to stop before he crossed the river of no return. His waning sanity barely stopped his trembling body. "I'll decide the punishment later." Taehyun's voice echoed through the streets. "I'll decide," he said, but it was undoubtedly a final favor. Article 10. Those who betray the group are condemned to death. It was a rule everyone knew. Therefore, Beomgyu didn't kneel and beg for his life. Taehyun shook off the awkward feeling squeezing his throat and walked ahead. Only then did Beomgyu look up and see himself weary in the closed hotel window. His stylishly styled hair, his flawless suit, his gold-chained watch dangling down his sleeves… He looked unmistakably Japanese. He ran straight home. Leaving behind the curious stares, he buried his face in the toilet and tried to vomit everything out. He stuck his finger down his throat and bitter water flowed out. But that didn't help. He gulped down water, then spat it out, frantically washing his entire body. His pale skin flushed red, but he didn't care. He went to the toilet again, dipped his head, and dug into his throat. He pushed his finger in so deep that his eyes rolled back. He even considered inhaling the lye. He wanted to vomit out Japanese, his own language he didn't want. He wanted to erase the traces of Japanese imperialism that coated him like oil. How could he be so Japanese? He screamed in the bathroom. Finally, impulsively, he poured hot water over himself, revealing the black bird tattoo on his wingtips. Beomgyu collapsed and sobbed. He wanted to cut that flesh out. This design was too much for him. He grabbed the nearest razor. Without hesitation, he plunged the sharp object into his shoulder blade, and a scream escaped him. Then he fainted.
I've always admired Joseon, though my father was deeply ashamed of it. Raised in a foreign land by a nanny since I was a baby, my parents never once visited me. My nanny would try to soothe me by telling me my parents were preparing all sorts of wonderful things for me in Joseon. So Joseon, a country I'd never even set foot in, felt like a fantasy to me. It was a place with electricity, a vibrant, bustling place where people—Japanese, Americans, even Spaniards—were everywhere. Fearing it was a phantom, I waited for it every day until I came of age. Finally, on New Year's Day, a letter from my father arrived, inviting me to Joseon. I took the fastest train and the fastest ship, and arrived. I wanted to escape Japan anyway. Upon setting foot on Joseon soil, servants from my father's house called my name and told passersby to get out of the way. Even then, I felt like I was king. That childish notion was shattered by a man. Isn't that the man who came up to me, calling my name, that damned Endo Yamato, grabbing me by the collar and saying this?
“Abby is a traitor who sold out her country.”
May 1, 1942
The auction hall was filled with noise. It was a rather sophisticated banquet hall, filled with Japanese people. However, as soon as the auctioneer stepped onto the stage, everyone applauded. Seokjin applauded out of courtesy. The man with the stylish mustache, a Korean, was about to immigrate to America and was selling all his valuables. Perhaps he wanted to make some money, so he held the auction. Uninteresting items were brought up, and Seokjin calmly observed them. He applauded quietly when a bid was made, and secretly snorted as the prices rose. The auctioneer, having sold fewer items than expected, seemed to be growing impatient. He immediately signaled to the people to bring new items onto the stage. Everyone in the auction hall held their breath. Seokjin's eyes lit up with a fervent gaze. He held his cards and told the host to
"This is the last item. Let's start with 1,000 won."
I heard that. I checked the item that had been brought up again. It was a celadon piece from the Goryeo Dynasty, beautifully inlaid with cranes and clouds. Seokjin muttered to himself.
“Celadon vase with inlaid cloud and crane design…”
A man shouted, "Two thousand won." The price had doubled, and most people were licking their lips, while those with bigger hands looked at each other and fiddled with their cards.
“Four thousand won.”
“Four thousand three hundred won!”
“Five thousand seven hundred won!”
“One million won!”
The Japanese man who'd shouted "10,000 won" looked around triumphantly. Judging by his attire, he seemed to belong to the Governor-General. Seokjin let out a laugh. He remembered the words of a history professor at an American university where he'd studied abroad.
Joseon will achieve freedom. Historically, my friend, there wasn’t any time that a country with the higher cultural level has been governed over by the lower one forever. So when you go back, Japan will try to steal as many artifacts of Joseon as possible. Because that will be a good reason for their rule over Joseon.
(Joseon will definitely become independent. Never in history has a country with a higher cultural level been permanently dominated by a country with a lower cultural level. That's why, when you return to Joseon, Japan will have its eyes on our cultural assets. That will be a justification for ruling Joseon.)
No more prices were offered. The host surveyed the attendees and then opened his mouth. Then Seokjin raised his card high.
“Twenty thousand won.(Two thousand won.)”
The man who'd shouted "ten thousand won" stood there, dumbfounded. The host's mouth gaped open, as if his jaw was about to hit the floor. Finally, after the suffocating silence, the host spoke.
“Your bid is successful. (낙찰입니다.)”
"You're crazy, you're crazy! How can you pay the price of twenty tile-roofed houses for a piece of pottery like that...!" The man, who had dropped the pottery right in front of him, shouted. Seokjin approached the man. The man, who had noticed Seokjin, wore an arrogant expression and spoke with a look of great generosity.
“I’ll give you twice the price. Give it to me. You can’t believe you paid 20,000 won for yourself. Are you ready to go out on the town?”
Seokjin smiled faintly.
"If you bring me something even more excellent than this, I will hand it over to you. Thank you for your concern. However, the man standing before you is the wealthiest man in Gyeongseong."
Leaving the man with his distorted face behind, Seokjin headed home. He felt relieved only after carefully wrapping the porcelain in several layers of silk and placing it in a chest. Rumor had been circulating among the servants that the young master had been going off somewhere every night lately, and now he had bought a piece of old porcelain. Instead of his usual friendly smile, Seokjin left the house with a stern expression. Everyone looked at him with puzzled expressions.
“You’ve worked hard.”
Seokjin said. He gathered all the important documents for the base relocation and stored them in boxes. And those boxes stood in Kai's small classroom. Among the stacked boxes, one marked "Malmoi" stood out. Kai quietly stood up. The boxes made it awkward for the two men to stand in.
“If he…really betrayed everyone…”
“There’s no time to feel sorrow of betrayal. (There’s no time to feel sorrow of betrayal.)”
Seokjin held out a piece of paper. Kai scanned the sender and recipient written on it. "It's for Manchuria," Kai said. Seokjin nodded.
“We will leave at midnight. I’ll meet you at platform 6-3.”
“Aren’t you angry? (Aren’t you angry?)”
Seokjin paused as he left Kai's small classroom. "I mean… we are not used to betrayal," Kai added. Seokjin gripped the doorknob tightly. His bloodshot eyes glistened with some kind of liquid. He glared at Kai.
"Where in the world am I not angry? Right now, my insides are rotten and decaying, and only my shell lives, babbling and babbling. You're not used to betrayal? Then how many times do I have to play you until I get used to it? Twice? No, five times? Maybe ten? At that cunning son of a bitch!"
Seokjin screamed. His strength drained from him. "Betrayal." Could there be a word more offensive? Seokjin covered his face with both hands. Daehan didn't even give them the time to writh in excruciating pain.
March 1, 1942
Taehyun loaded the ink into the printer. The printer whirred with age. As expected, ink marks appeared on his shirt. The eight-page newspaper was written in Korean, as expected. After dividing the newspapers into boxes, Taehyun sat down at his desk. There lay a crisp sheet of newly purchased manuscript paper. With a fountain pen in his hand, Taehyun poured everything into the nib, writing each letter. The sound of the rain falling gently sped up his movements. With a heart betting everything on the nib, he wrote each stroke as if he were carrying a bomb in his chest, and the letters he wrote calmly embroidered on the manuscript paper. The door opened behind him. Taehyun flipped over the manuscript paper and jumped to his feet.
“…Do you write poetry?”
It was Soobin. Taehyun calmed his startled heart. Then he sat back down in his chair.
“Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone.”
"Can I take a look?" Soobin asked. Taehyun nodded quietly. For some reason, he felt embarrassed, but Soobin was already holding the manuscript and reading it.
If the snow falls and covers me, will you come that night?
When the dry branches start to form whitish flower buds,
In the twilight of June, I was intoxicated by a strange fragrance in Im's arms.
Even though it rained heavily and I washed it away, I still couldn't bear it
I can't shake it off
Come, the fragrance of love that has stopped far away
I cry as I push through the gray, spreading flower clusters.
Go away, the warmth of love that has permeated me so deeply
I'll try to hang on to the collar of the person who was leaving.
No, what's the point of waiting so hard for someone to come?
Even if you break off the bottom branches
The scent greets you first
No, what can I do by keeping reminding myself that you are coming?
What if I never met you in this life?
If I don't meet you in this life
Because I loved you
Perhaps it was too hidden, perhaps too blatant. Subin, who had been glued to the poem for a long time, finally put the paper down. By the time the poem's lingering effect washed over them, it had already been half-covered by the drooping snow.
The time has come to realize my long-held dream.
I want to do a Q&A to commemorate the completion.
Actually, I wrote episode 4 early because I don't think many people will do it.
You might say that this person has been excited since episode 4.
Yes, that's correct.