The Profit of Monopoly — Those Who Command Time and Space
It was a few days later.
Wang Pilsun summoned Seongjin into a carriage.
"Today, you will see another face of the guild."
They headed toward the southern outer harbor of Gaegyeong.
The rainy season was approaching.
Warehouses near the docks were piled high with silk and rice, stacked like small hills.
Porters moved the goods in sweat-soaked lines, their motion resembling the steady labor of ants.
All of it flowed in a single direction.
Every load was entering the warehouses of Wang Pilsun's guild.
Seongjin followed the movement with his eyes.
"All of this inventory is being gathered here."
Wang smiled.
"A monopoly."
He gestured toward the warehouse doors.
"The silk, the rice, the salt inside—every bit of it has been bought up by us.
We read the movement of prices and began collecting from early spring."
"But the people will need these goods now," Seongjin said.
"That is why we choose when to release them."
Seongjin's gaze deepened.
So did the weight in his chest.
Is this truly where I should be?
Wang continued,
"Trade is not the act of passing goods.
It is the act of handling time."
He opened the warehouse doors.
The smell of straw and grain surged outward.
There was a faint trace of spoilage—
the scent of time pressed and stored.
"If we release them now, the profit margin is small.
We buy when everyone sells, and wait until everyone needs.
That waiting forms the skeleton of monopoly."
Seongjin looked inside.
Time lay layered atop the grain.
This was not storage.
It was accumulation.
Wang went on.
"Profit grows from two directions:
the monopoly of time, and the monopoly of space."
"The monopoly of space?"
"Being the only one there.
We spend money to make that happen."
He led Seongjin behind the warehouse.
A large map hung on the wall.
Waterways and roads ran from Liaodong through Gaegyeong and down to Jingang, linked by red lines.
"This is a flow I refined myself.
Goods from the south move north, then reconnect to Liaodong.
Even if dynasties change, this route carries cargo."
Wang's eyes sharpened briefly.
"This is monopoly.
When war ends, soldiers return home—but roads remain.
I turn the traces of war into the arteries of commerce."
Seongjin stood silently before the map.
The red lines intertwined like blood vessels.
Nations connected, war and peace crossed, and human lives moved along them.
That was the power of merchants.
Wang spoke again.
"When war ends, trade routes open.
The sword yields immediate results; waiting yields lasting ones.
That is why the wise do not confront the flow—they seize it."
The words seeped in like a sermon from a mountain temple.
At the same time, a chill settled in Seongjin's chest.
He asked carefully,
"Sir… does the creation of profit also rest upon someone else's lack?"
Wang nodded.
"That is how the world works.
Lack creates flow; abundance gathers at its end.
Difference is what allows wealth to stand."
His voice was even.
That made it colder.
Seongjin understood.
At the edge of profit lay the question of what could be borne—
and how that burden was distributed determined the order of the world.
That night, the doors of the guild's warehouses were closed.
The sound of heavy gates locking sank into the darkness.
There, Seongjin accepted another lesson:
that the study of profit was a path of enduring—
enduring the grain of one's own heart and the grain of the world, all the way to the end.
The Discomfort of Awakening — The Pain of Knowing
As things he had never known before came into view, Seongjin's mind lost its calm.
The spirit and the Way of commerce that Wang spoke of wore a convincing exterior,
yet all flows converged into one shape:
the realization of temporary monopoly.
By holding time and sealing space, one placed the world briefly in one's grasp.
Profit surged in that moment of control, then faded—
and the flow turned again toward another monopoly.
To Seongjin, the form resembled grasping at empty air.
A single season's abundance.
A moment's monopoly.
A fleeting authority.
To his still-young heart, they all glittered briefly, then appeared as hollow wrongdoing.
For that brief shine, how many hands were worn down?
How many backs bent?
Wang often said,
"Profit is like the wind. Only those who seize it survive."
To Seongjin, it felt not like wind, but dust—
dust that seeped in when the eyes were open,
and accumulated with every breath.
One day in the guild courtyard, a porter was repairing a torn sack.
Inside was rice dampened by the last rainy season.
Grain on the threshold of decay.
In that smell, Seongjin saw the far edge of profit—
the residue of monopoly built through waiting.
Food that could have reached someone's table before spoiling.
He asked himself:
Is this the Way the spirit of commerce spoke of?
Another question followed.
Is secular study built upon bribing officials and standing atop the people's lack—
nothing more than corruption?
Seongjin closed the ledger.
Not because learning had run dry,
but because as knowing increased, bearing it became heavier.
Governing the grain of conscience proved harder than calculating profit.
The Boundary Between the Way and Common Sense
"Actions that violate common sense must be stopped."
Seongjin's voice was low and firm.
Wang closed his eyes briefly, then smiled.
"The world rewards those who step around common sense."
"Even so," Seongjin replied,
"I believe these acts are wrong.
There must be fair competition.
Gaining profit through bribing officials is wrong.
Using monopoly to exploit others' lack is worse."
He set down his teacup.
His fingers trembled slightly.
"Just because something isn't written into law doesn't make it acceptable.
People cannot write laws for every case."
Wang paused, then looked at him.
"So you believe common sense stands above law."
"Yes.
Law is made by people.
Common sense sustains them."
A long silence settled between them.
Outside, heavy rain poured down.
The room that once handled vast flows of wealth was now thick with damp air and the smell of old silk.
Seongjin's heart ached.
He had tried to learn the world through Wang's steady vision,
a man who had remained clear-headed even amid the chaos of military withdrawal.
What now stood before him felt like a gaze sweeping too closely along the dirtiest scent of money.
Seongjin rose.
"I have learned much. Thank you."
Wang did not stop him.
"That is how most worldly matters are.
Reality is always so."
Seongjin paused at the door.
"Reality does not always mean what is right.
I am grateful for all this time."
He bowed and stepped outside.
The rain continued.
Water ran along the sloped courtyard, carving a path.
As he followed that stream, the weight in his heart shifted slightly.
Suddenly, Song Isul's face came to mind.
He pulled his coat tighter and walked slowly along the rain-soaked road.