Since becoming the magistrate of this town, I’ve come to understand why King Sejong made corrupt ministers like Hwang Hui and Jo Mal-saeng pay for their crimes with lifelong servitude.

When I turned a blind eye to the bribes the clerks had been taking and declared I’d decide whether to let them live based on their work, they started bustling around like fish in water.

Watching them, it all makes sense.

“Stop it, Hobang! We’ll handle carrying these goods!”

“You lot are so slow it’s driving me crazy. Back in my day, I could carry two sacks of rice at once and still move like the wind!”

Imagine that—a Hobang, equivalent to a county office director or a corporate executive, doing menial tasks like carrying goods. What a rare and precious sight.

I didn’t even order them to do this—they’re just scrambling to impress me.

No, it’s more than that. They’re desperately pleading for their lives with their actions, knowing I could send a report to the king at any moment. It’s a tearful, desperate show.

I can almost see a comedian’s face behind them, saying, “Let me show you how it’s done.”

Who told them to collude with those monks and fleece the system?

As the saying goes, when the loach stirs, the crab dances too. The military officer (Gungyo), chewed out by Hobang, started barking at the soldiers below him.

“If you don’t finish today’s quota, I’m dead, and so are you! Forget military law or any law—my fist is closer, so don’t you forget it!”

“Yes, sir!”

“Do you think I’m a joke because I’ve been going easy on you? If not, then run like your life depends on it! Make your feet a blur! Hey, Jangbok! I told you not to put that there! Did you hear me with your toes instead of your ears?”

“I’m sorry, sir!”

“Sorry doesn’t finish your military service! Move it over there, now!”

To be honest, I didn’t chew out Ibang or Hobang before starting this. I just said I’d have no choice but to report them if I wasn’t satisfied.

But the lower you go, the harsher the scolding gets… Should I tell them to tone it down a bit?

The clerks may be guilty of skimming, but what crime have the soldiers and slaves committed, getting worked to death like this?

They’re just doing what the higher-ups ordered.

Having been ground down for two years in the military myself, I know their pain and sorrow. It’s about time to rein things in and show some magistrate’s mercy—let them have some makgeolli and good food.

“My lord, my lord…”

Kim Ibang came rushing in, calling for me. Did something bad happen?

Right now, the town is buzzing with cries of “Long live the magistrate!” and the people are better off since the tribute burden was reduced.

“My lord, my lord! We’ve finally sorted out the market regulations!”

Ibang’s eyes were bloodshot, with dark circles so deep it looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

In an era without fluorescent lights, he must have been working on documents by candlelight—no wonder his eyes are wrecked.

That’s what happens when you commit petty corruption for a living.

When you’re guilty, you have no choice but to work like a dog. Me, on the other hand?

Even the devilish professors who work grad students to death would applaud how ruthlessly King Sejong drives his ministers (slaves). I’m making sure not to do anything illegal that could get me in trouble with him. Poor, pitiful me? Not at all.

“Good work. Tell me the details.”

“Yes, my lord. First, merchants who want to trade in the market will pay a monthly stall fee of two doe of rice, and the people will pay two hop. As you instructed, if someone trades without paying the fee, we’ll confiscate their goods and expel them.”

“…Confiscation? Isn’t that a bit harsh?”

“It’s necessary to prevent thieves from sneaking into the market, pretending to be poor to cause trouble. Those who pay the fee, even if they’re thieves, will at least know to fear the government.”

In dramas set in late Joseon, you often see peddlers lingering at taverns for days. It’s not because they’re lazy.

The mountain paths are genuinely dangerous—tigers, leopards, bears, wolves, and plenty of desperate people turned bandits.

Bandits can’t survive on stolen goods alone, so they sell their loot at markets.

Distinguishing all that would overwhelm even Joseon’s entire administrative capacity, so this is a realistic solution.

“But there’s one problem.”

“Yes, my lord?”

“Many of those running makeshift stalls—selling firewood, herbs, or straw sandals—are so poor they can barely afford food. Two hop of rice is too much for them. If their household is registered in Jinhae, exempt them from the stall fee.”

“The people will be moved by your compassion, my lord.”

“Didn’t His Majesty send me here to care for everyone as a loyal subject?”

When I first became magistrate, my only thought was to crush the rotten system, normalize the town, and avoid disappointing Hwang Hui and Heo Jo.

But seeing the people rejoice and hearing about village feasts held because their lives improved under my governance…

Somewhere along the way, a sense of care for the people started growing in my heart.

Instead of being like corrupt politicians who only care about their own gain, shouldn’t there be at least one magistrate who genuinely cares for the people?

“And as you instructed, we’ve differentiated between merchants and farmers in the market. Merchants will set up stalls closer to the government office, while farmers will be on the outskirts. Merchants can trade daily, but farmers can only sell on the 5th, 15th, and 25th of each month.”

Law firms, tax offices, and accounting firms tend to cluster together. You might think that’s a disadvantage, but it’s actually beneficial.

People know where to find professionals, so they go there when they need an accountant, and the standout shops get the business.

Since farmers sell predictable items anyway, it’s better for them to cluster together.

If someone comes to sell straw sandals and sells out, they can use the earnings to buy herbs and go home—how great is that?

“Well done. One thing to watch out for: make sure merchants don’t collude to sell goods at outrageously high prices or scam people. Crack down on that immediately.”

“Of course, my lord.”

Ibang spoke confidently, as if determined to do well.

Well, if he doesn’t want to die, he’ll work hard… or so I thought.

Once someone does something bad, doing it a second or third time isn’t hard.

I’m no Confucius—how could I reform corrupt officials?

First, you beat them down. If that doesn’t work, you have a conversation with a sword in hand.

“If I hear you’re slacking off even a little, things will get very interesting.”

In Joseon, clerks are like local government officials in modern Korea. Even the lowest-ranking ones have a status comparable to lawyers or doctors in a pre-modern society.

In a country that doesn’t properly pay them, stopping them from taking personal “gifts”?

Unthinkable chaos would ensue. So, completely eliminating corruption is impossible.

All I can do now is keep it within controllable bounds.

“…That won’t happen, my lord.”

“Kim Ibang.”

“Yes, my lord.”

*

“I took the civil service exam and topped it to become a minister with grand ambitions. But if I can’t uphold my principles, I’d rather retire to the countryside.”

In the military, the scariest person is an officer who’s given up on promotion. Why? Simple.

If a lieutenant or sergeant who’s abandoned promotion hands over incriminating documents to the military police, everyone from the battalion commander up is done for. It could even affect a regimental commander’s chance at a star.

A magistrate who’s given up on promotion? Just thinking about such a boss is terrifying.

“….”

“If I can’t stay loyal to His Majesty, am I a loyal subject or a traitor?”

In Joseon, “traitor” is a polite way of saying “rebel.”

And in Joseon, the default punishment for rebels is the execution of three generations of their family. This is me declaring I’m willing to risk my family’s lives to do my job.

“I’ll be watching. One more thing: don’t just work endlessly—go rest a bit. But first, ensure the soldiers and slaves working all day get a bowl of makgeolli, rice, soybean paste, and plenty of vegetables for wraps. I can’t stand seeing them work on empty stomachs.”

“Of course, my lord.”

“If I hear the workers are going hungry, I’ll be very disappointed.”

As I returned to the government office, an unexpected visitor appeared.

I thought it might be local scholars complaining that my policies were nonsense, but…

It wasn’t a scholar or a wronged commoner—it was a merchant.

“I’m Kim Mandeok, a humble merchant dealing in anchovies and dried persimmons. I’ve come to make a request of your just and honorable self.”

…His eyes don’t look like he’s here for a bribe. What’s he here for?

And if the clerks allowed him to meet me, he’s likely a big shot with significant wealth in the town.

Obviously, he knows I could punish him harshly—flog him or worse—for a lowly merchant daring to request a meeting with the magistrate.

“Let’s hear your story.”

People like this usually bring something beneficial…