748.A soup-and-rice shop in Jeojeon
"There is a place I often go," Park Seongjin said.
"Shall I escort Your Majesty there?"
The king looked around for a moment.
The streets of Gaegyeong felt unfamiliar.
They carried smells and sounds wholly unlike the palace walls.
"Where?" the king asked.
"A place I always stopped by when I came to Gaegyeong as a child," Park replied.
"A soup-and-rice shop in Jeojeon."
"Oh. Gukbap."
The king's mouth lifted in a brief smile.
"Pork gukbap, I hear?"
"Have you tried it?"
The king shook his head.
"No. I was raised too finely. Gukbap should be beef—how can it be made with pork?"
Park answered evenly.
"It is the cheapest. Greasy, filling, and the best for the cost."
"Is it not heavy and slick?"
"It depends on the person. It is what commoners in Gaegyeong like most."
"Does it taste good?"
"It is cheap."
The king chuckled, then nodded.
"Let us go."
They headed for Jeojeon.
People flowed like clouds, yet not one recognized the king.
"Truly no one knows," the king said low.
"That is so."
"Once, when the Red Turbans invaded, I traveled in disguise as far as Andong. No one recognized me then, either."
"I beg forgiveness."
The king laughed.
"What is yours to forgive? You would have been a boy then."
"If I had been born a little earlier, I would have taught them a lesson."
"Have you not already taught enough lessons?"
At Jeojeon, the wooden bench before the familiar gukbap shop stood empty.
The owner recognized Park and greeted him warmly.
"You've come."
"Is there space?"
"There is. Please sit."
Park glanced toward the guards and shook his head.
"Please serve theirs as well."
The owner hesitated, but the king said, "It is fine. They can eat."
Watching, the king asked, "Are you always so gentle?"
"No," Park said.
"I am often told I am blunt. But this must be shared—especially food."
"Because you have lived long with the army?"
"Yes."
The gukbap arrived quickly.
Park piled generous scallions into the king's bowl.
"Please eat."
The king smiled.
"We share a table, then. You eat as well."
"Thank you."
After one spoonful, the king's expression changed.
"So this is a taste that can exist."
"Is it acceptable?"
The king nodded.
"Yes. It is the taste of a body standing upright."
"I am glad."
He ate meat, rice, and broth together.
Outside, footsteps never stopped.
No one knew that the ruler of the realm was eating gukbap on that bench.
—*
Two children sat at the next place over.
Their gukbap arrived.
Yet there was only one bowl.
White steam rose in soft waves.
The older brother pushed it toward the younger.
"You eat."
The younger lifted his spoon, then stopped.
He looked at the broth once, then up at his brother's face.
A small hand caught the rim.
"Let's eat together."
The older brother smiled—then checked himself and shook his head.
"I'm full."
The younger did not believe him.
He lifted a spoonful of rice and carried it toward his brother.
A few grains fell into the broth.
"Brother, too."
The older brother fell silent.
He took the spoon, sipped a mouthful of broth—only a little—then pushed the bowl back, as if that were enough.
Only then did the younger begin to eat with relief.
Broth clung to his lips.
The older wiped it quietly with his sleeve.
They did not speak.
Steam rose.
The broth made a small sound.
Between those sounds, the older kept watching the bowl so his brother's spoon would not run empty.
They shared the one bowl, yet the older wore a face that looked fed, and the younger wore a face that looked warmed.
Again the younger said, "Brother, eat too."
Again the older said, "I'm full."
He did not look full.
They had no money.
The older did not lift his spoon.
He only watched the younger chew and swallow.
The owner approached and poured in one more ladle of broth.
He said nothing.
The children did not say thank you.
It looked like something they were used to.
Park watched, then called the owner.
"Those children—two bowls, please."
The owner hesitated, then nodded.
Park held out money.
It was far more than the price of two bowls.
"This is for today. With what remains, feed them when they come again."
The owner could not take it at once.
"Will you… not ask the reason?"
"It seems I do not need to."
The owner swallowed.
"They come sometimes these days. Before, an adult came with them… lately, only the children."
That was enough.
Two bowls were set out.
Only then did the older brother lift his spoon.
He glanced once at his brother, then began to eat slowly.
Still seated facing Park, he lowered his head.
Yet in that gukbap shop of Jeojeon, someone was swallowing something heavier than the price of a meal.
—*
The king asked, "Is this how it has always been?"
Park answered, "I was like that too, when I was young. I wanted to eat but could not enter—only swallowed my saliva outside the door. When you are small, there is no other way. But that child came in to feed his younger brother. He must have wanted it just as much."
The king asked again, "You did not ask their story?"
"I did not," Park said.
"It is only one among countless griefs. Something happened at home. A reason they can no longer come with their parents."
"And yet it was visible," the king said.
"The older's wish to feed the younger first."
Park stopped mid-sentence and looked up at the sky.
It was blue.
So clear it felt cold.
He thought it might be better if it were cloudy.
The king said quietly, "You are a good adult."
Park replied, "I only try not to look away. I wish I could help, but more often I cannot. Still—if that heart can be warmed, even for a moment."
—*
The king took one more spoonful of broth and fell silent.
Steam rose hot.
After a breath, he looked down into the bowl.
"It is good. So this is why people come."
Park only lowered his head.
There was nothing to explain.
Rice, meat, and broth passed together.
The king lifted his spoon again.
This time he chewed more slowly.
Voices from outside, the clink of bowls on the bench, the breathing of the boiling pot—everything mingled.
"To think I have spoken of ruling while not even knowing places like this—
it is a little shameful."
"How can anyone know all the lives of the alleys?"
"Still. I should at least know the shape of how my people live. I was in Yuan too long."
"Too long?"
"Ten years, from the age of twelve. If I am honest, I was nearly a Yuan man."
Park looked down at the rim of his bowl.
He could not know what that decade had been.
He did not ask.
"I had to watch the line of powerful ministers—El Temür to Bayan, then to Toqto'a. My half-brother King Chunghye was caught in that gap."
"Yes… Toqto'a I know. I was with the first Jiangnan expedition then."
"My brother, favored under El Temür, became king of Goryeo. But when Bayan seized power, everything changed. He was deposed on false charges and sent away. Only after El Temür died and Bayan fell did he return—yet by then it was too late."
—*
A memory from the battle of Gouseong surfaced.
The siege had dragged on without taking the fortress.
Blood and stone dust piled beneath the walls.
Goryeo troops stood at the front.
Relentless urging.
At last, one section of wall collapsed.
Before the rubble's smoke had cleared, the Goryeo troops—late to join the larger host—pushed into the breach.
If they crossed that moment, the fortress would fall.
Then Yuan generals protested.
They could not allow Goryeo troops the glory of taking the wall.
The retreat trumpet sounded.
They feared their credit would be stolen.
They ordered withdrawal to prevent Goryeo from claiming the merit.
The one who gave that order was Toqto'a.
Their excuse was smooth.
Night had fallen; attack again at dawn.
That single night changed everything.
Gouseong repaired the breach.
Raised defenses again.
The fortress endured.
The chance vanished.
In the moment a campaign is finished, names change.
In the victory report, another name is written first.
Park could not endure that.
With one trumpet, the battle line loosened.
The course of war bent.
After that, in Yanjing, an impeachment against Toqto'a arose.
In midwinter, he was sent into exile.
A man named Hama—once denied promotion because of Toqto'a—framed him.
The accusation to Empress Gi was simple:
since marching in the third month, he had gained no merit and only wasted military funds.
It was not only that.
Yet he fell.
He lost office.
Bound in ropes, dragged away without horse or escort.
A mouth that had given commands closed without even a defense.
And Yuan—after that—
lost the strength to maintain an army.
Not a man collapsing first, but the system collapsing ahead of him.
A forced order bound by fear uncoiled.
Looking back, defeat had not been decided on the battlefield that day.
Perhaps it ended already in that trumpet's sound.
Grasping for credit before one's eyes, losing everything.
The memory resurfaced faintly—
inside the noise and steam of a gukbap shop, mixed with a wholly different smell.
—*
The king lifted his cup and drank.
The tea was cold.
"As Empress Gi's power grew, the board flipped again. In the end he was dragged to Yuan and died at thirty. That is the fate of kings."
Park frowned.
"And yet they depose a king of another country?"
"There were other reasons."
"Was he at fault?"
"Tyranny."
"Even so—"
"It was severe. Debauchery. Violations of kin. He squeezed the people dry. Even the great families here petitioned for his removal. Inside and out, all was rotten."
Park muttered, "Ah… why are they all like that."
"Do not 'ah, ah' at me," the king said.
"Now you understand why I chose the anti-Yuan course."
"When the power ministers changed, our throne shook as well."
"Yes. Many great landlords were bu-won bae ties to Yuan. So I struck them one by one."
"I understand."
"I cleared Gi Cheol's faction too. You helped."
"Yes."
"You have seen the end of Yuan."
The king nodded.
Park weighed how his own efforts had mattered.
"Yet you said you wished to preserve Yuan. Was it 'three kingdoms standing'?"
"I read too much Romance of the Three Kingdoms."
(We assume the Three Kingdoms tale exists in this period.)
"Hah. Three pillars."
"I heard that in the Song era, Liao and Goryeo stood like a tripod, and a hundred years of peace came."
"It was the brightest time."
The king's face slowly darkened.
"The problem is now. We reformed against Yuan, a new order rose. Yet the three legs that must hold are all unstable—especially us."
Silence passed.
"I believed I had reformed. Yet you say without land reform it is not reform—
and you even spoke of collapse.
I worked, and it feels vain."
"I beg forgiveness."
The king did not answer at once.
Only after he traced the last broth in the bottom of the bowl did he speak quietly.
"Still—words are words. They can become seeds."
Park said nothing more.
He could not say, the future I saw was so.
He left only, I believe so.
"I beg forgiveness."
"To be honest, I am tired of reform every day. Sometimes I think: is this not enough? But you say there is always another mountain."
Park began to understand why the king felt the demand so heavy.
"Your Majesty, then what brings you out today?"
"To meet you," the king said.
"After speaking like this, I feel lighter. If not you, to whom could I say such things?"