In the modern world, there are tools everywhere to kill ti.
If I'm being honest, the work I used to do often involved long stretches of waiting, too—endless hours spent doing nothing but holding my breath until a target finally bit the bait.
On days like that, I'd sotis watch dramas on streaming platforms, or read web novels.
And among all the plotlines I'd seen, the most ridiculous were always the sa: soone gets into an accident, dies, regresses, possesses a body, or reincarnates.
The destinations were varied, at least.
So went back into the past. So were born into entirely different worlds. So even woke up inside the very book they'd been reading—at which point you started wondering if there was anywhere they couldn't go.
Plenty didn't even co back as human. Sotis they'd be reborn as animals.
And once the reincarnation trend had been wrung dry, it got so absurd people started coming back as objects—literal inanimate things.
Back then, I'd scoff. Death is death. What's with all this regression-possession-reincarnation nonsense? I'd deliberately avoid stories that leaned on that gimmick.
I never imagined that ridiculous case would beco my life.
And if that were all it was, maybe I could've lived with it.
Unfortunately, the world around wasn't nearly so accommodating.
"Ghk—!"
I jolted awake again, dragged out of sleep by the sa dream.
It had been years since my mories returned in this wretched place, yet I still relived that day on a regular cycle—like a curse I couldn't shake.
The mory of being murdered in a foreign land, without even understanding why.
Every ti I repeated that horrific mont—the anesthetic flooding in, my consciousness slipping away—an icy shiver crawled up my spine.
It was still early dawn. So early even the chickens hadn't begun to crow.
The sun hadn't risen yet, but I sat up anyway.
On days I had that dream, there was no going back to sleep.
If I was going to be awake, then hauling water early was the best way to make the morning even slightly bearable.
I pulled on clothes that had been patched a few tis but hadn't yet worn through to holes, then stepped outside.
Before leaving, I glanced back.
The solgeo slaves I lived alongside were still snoring, not a single sign they were about to wake.
Yes. Solgeo slaves…
Slaves who lived in the master's household and provided labor directly. So called them yangyeok slaves, or simply house slaves—but the essence was the sa.
It was a ridiculous situation, but my own status wasn't any different from theirs.
By the ti my mories returned, I was already long dead—so I'd never once seen the people who gave birth to in this era—but the person who bore was a slave in a noble household.
Under the law of inheriting status from the mother, a slave's child was a slave.
aning: I'd been a slave from the mont I was born.
If I'd at least been the master's child, I might have lived as a slave in na only—an illegitimate child, perhaps, but still not the worst fate.
But I wasn't even that.
My na was Yoo Seok. A slave boy of about ten. Parents unknown.
That was the label stitched to my second life.
At first, I'll admit, I was scared—because I had the dia image in my head.
In dramas, masters beat slaves to death whenever the mood struck. I kept thinking, What if that happens to ?
But after actually living here, I realized dramas were dramas. Reality was different.
The reason wasn't hard to find.
Over ti, the number of slaves had decreased drastically.
When demand stays high and supply drops, value rises. It's the simplest rule in any market.
Even the master of this household couldn't function without slaves. Who would maintain the house? Who would manage the land? Who would run errands, lead horses on outings, deliver letters?
And the more powerful the household, the more they wanted slaves who were sharp and capable. With so few to go around, "high-grade talent" was treated exceptionally well.
Seok-san—snoring like he owned the world—was the perfect example.
That man was clever enough to teach himself to read, and because of it he enjoyed enormous favor. He'd even been granted farmland of his own.
He didn't just write letters for the master—he could draft petitions, handle tasks at governnt offices, even act as a proxy for official errands.
A slave like that wasn't comparable to so modern limited-edition luxury watch. He was worth more than that. Masters took pains to keep such assets healthy.
Just last winter, when Seok-san burned with fever, they turned the village upside down—even in the dead of cold—hunting down dicine to keep him alive.
Of course, no matter how well you were treated, a slave was still a slave.
If you wanted to break through the ceiling and climb, you had to make yourself visible.
After I awakened to my past life, I pulled every mory I had to pinpoint what era this was.
Fortunately, back when I'd needed to pose as a history professor, I'd built enough broad knowledge that it wasn't particularly difficult.
The current king was still alive, so people didn't use his posthumous temple na—but the previous king was famous enough that any Korean would recognize him.
They called him King Jeongjo.
That alone made it easy to estimate the ti.
Joseon in the nineteenth century.
That was where my second life began.
I heard the current king had been on the throne for around thirty years. That placed sowhere in the 1830s.
aning: the turbulent, collapsing late Joseon era was already looming ahead.
If it was that close, then even soone born a slave might have a chance to flip the board.
At first, I'd entertained ambition. Use future knowledge. Buy freedom. Build connections. Beco soone important.
Push even further—open Joseon successfully, change the grim future, beco a figure carved into history.
But unfortunately, the environnt I'd been thrown into wasn't rely "difficult."
"Hey—there goes a goblin!"
"His eyes are blue again today. What do you even have to eat to grow up that creepy?"
"It's not what he eats. It's because he's got barbarian blood. Western barbarian blood, they say."
"But Westerners eat people. What if he eats us soday?"
I wasn't like everyone else—pure Joseon blood, through and through.
I was a foreigner's bloodline.
Half-blood.
And not just any foreigner—a Westerner.
Even being a slave was bad enough. What did people think of a slave with "Western barbarian" blood mixed in?
If you said "Yoo Seok from Old Man Kim's household," there wasn't a soul in this neighborhood who didn't know exactly who you ant.
In fact, I might have been more famous than the master himself—Old Man Kim, who had risen as far as a minor high official.
No—at least in this area, I was definitely more famous.
The problem was that my fa wasn't a positive thing. Not even slightly.
"Ugh. Fine, fine. Let's just go our separate ways."
This was why I'd tried to fetch water before dawn.
But those brats must not sleep at all. Wherever I went, a pack of them inevitably followed, chanting the sa lines they'd repeated for years—why was my nose so high, why were my eyes so big and blue.
If they were simply curious, I could've ignored it.
But our "kind and tolerant" Joseon society was never going to leave it at curiosity.
"Hey—can you shoot fire from your mouth?"
"They say Westerners don't even recognize their parents. Is that true for you too?"
"Yeah. Sure. Not just my mouth—fire cos out of my hands too, and I eat people whenever I feel like it. So how about you get lost? Want to start by chewing on your arm?"
"Aaaah! Don't co near , you goblin!"
"Throw rocks! Don't let him get close—rocks!"
The longer I stayed here—days, months, years—the ambition to "guide Joseon" lted away like spun sugar.
And honestly, I couldn't even muster real anger at those kids.
Even the slaves in this household looked down on . No matter how clever I proved myself, no matter how capable I tried to be, I wasn't given opportunities in the first place. What was I supposed to do?
If it had been anyone else, maybe. But a slave with Western blood being smart didn't inspire respect—it offended people.
And even if I displayed ability, all I got back was a sneer.
There was no answer.
It felt like I could sprint the mont I stood on the starting line—only to be thrown out at the gate before I could even enter the track.
A slave? A butcher? I'd wager you could scour all eight provinces of Joseon and still not find soone lower on the social ladder than .
If there were a grand contest for the most miserable life on earth, I wouldn't just win—I'd take the trophy by default.
They say what matters is not being broken…
But no. I could feel myself breaking.
Even so, I kept moving.
Not because I had hope—because I had desperation.
If I truly gave up, then this sewage of a life would be my forever.
No matter how rigid Joseon was, maybe—just maybe—soone with an eccentric taste and an open mind might listen to one day.
They said even sincerity could move heaven.
If I kept trying, maybe there'd be a chance—
"Ha! A thod to double my wealth? What a joke. Only soone with the blood of a filthy Westerner would dare speak such nonsense. Boys—drag him out!"
Right. Three years.
For three full years, I'd tried every day, and every day I'd proven the sa thing: there wasn't a single open-minded soul.
I'd been thrown out so many tis my body had learned the routine.
The mont I was flung to the ground, I rolled instinctively and sprang up. It barely hurt anymore.
The stares—half scandalized, half amused—from nobles and slaves alike no longer pierced . My skin had grown thick enough to let them slide off.
They said even a village dog could recite poetry after three years in a classroom.
? I seed to have improved only one skill—getting rejected.
"Haa… Still, if I keep knocking, surely one door will open eventually. Where should I try tomorrow?"
I was about to steel myself again when a voice behind answered—unasked, uninvited—trampling on my resolve.
"You truly spend your days doing sothing hopeless. It's empty struggle. Why not give up and go back to sleep?"
It wasn't the first ti soone had offered smug "wisdom" while I lay in the dirt.
If it was another slave, I could ignore him and walk away.
But if it was a noble, refusing might provoke him into sothing worse.
So I turned politely—first assessing his clothing.
Not lavish, but undeniably the air of a noble household.
He looked about my age as well. I kept my expression carefully controlled and bowed.
In situations like this, the best approach was to agree just enough to soothe them and send them on their way.
"Still… there may be an elder sowhere who likes oddities like . Hahaha."
"No. I can say this with certainty. There isn't a single one in Joseon. You should quietly give up. Or perhaps cross into Qing instead."
"Ah, is that so? If you say it, sir, then you must have your reasons."
"Indeed. But tell —are you foolish, or rely stubborn? How can you not grasp such a simple truth, and yet spend years seeking people out? I grew curious and ca to see what face you had. As they said, you speak Joseon tongue fluently… and yet your eyes are blue. Curious."
"As I said… there might be at least one gentleman who enjoys such strange things. By the way, sir—my na is Yoo Seok."
The young nobleman studying like so exotic animal wore a smile that was half curiosity, half mockery.
"My clan is Yi. My na is Ha-eung."
"Yes, Young Master Ha-eung. Th—"
I cut myself off mid-sentence.
A sudden sense of familiarity washed over .
Ha-eung… Yi Ha-eung…
I'd heard that na before. Many tis.
A boy of around ten, in the early nineteenth century.
And the na Yi Ha-eung.
He was better known by another title, so my reaction had co a beat late.
Was this coincidence?
Or fate?
—half Western blood, branded "yang-i," shunned like a disease.
Standing before was the man who would one day lead the charge for isolation, the figure who would stand at the forefront of anti-Western policy—
The storm-tossed giant of history who would later be called Heungseon Daewongun (Prince of the Great Court).
And he was looking straight at .
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