In the modern world, there are tools everywhere to kill time.
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 sometimes watch dramas on streaming platforms, or read web novels.
And among all the plotlines I'd seen, the most ridiculous were always the same: someone gets into an accident, dies, regresses, possesses a body, or reincarnates.
The destinations were varied, at least.
Some went back into the past. Some were born into entirely different worlds. Some 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 come back as human. Sometimes 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 become my life.
And if that were all it was, maybe I could've lived with it.
Unfortunately, the world around me wasn't nearly so accommodating.
"Ghk—!"
I jolted awake again, dragged out of sleep by the same dream.
It had been years since my memories returned in this wretched place, yet I still relived that day on a regular cycle—like a curse I couldn't shake.
The memory of being murdered in a foreign land, without even understanding why.
Every time I repeated that horrific moment—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 times 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. Some called them yangyeok slaves, or simply house slaves—but the essence was the same.
It was a ridiculous situation, but my own status wasn't any different from theirs.
By the time my memories returned, I was already long dead—so I'd never once seen the people who gave birth to me in this era—but the person who bore me was a slave in a noble household.
Under the law of inheriting status from the mother, a slave's child was a slave.
Meaning: I'd been a slave from the moment I was born.
If I'd at least been the master's child, I might have lived as a slave in name only—an illegitimate child, perhaps, but still not the worst fate.
But I wasn't even that.
My name 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 media image in my head.
In dramas, masters beat slaves to death whenever the mood struck. I kept thinking, What if that happens to me?
But after actually living here, I realized dramas were dramas. Reality was different.
The reason wasn't hard to find.
Over time, 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 government offices, even act as a proxy for official errands.
A slave like that wasn't comparable to some 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 medicine 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 memory 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 name—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 time.
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 me somewhere in the 1830s.
Meaning: the turbulent, collapsing late Joseon era was already looming ahead.
If it was that close, then even someone born a slave might have a chance to flip the board.
At first, I'd entertained ambition. Use future knowledge. Buy freedom. Build connections. Become someone important.
Push even further—open Joseon successfully, change the grim future, become a figure carved into history.
But unfortunately, the environment I'd been thrown into wasn't merely "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 someday?"
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 meant.
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 fame 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 same 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 comes out of my hands too, and I eat people whenever I feel like it. So how about you get lost? Want me to start by chewing on your arm?"
"Aaaah! Don't come near me, you goblin!"
"Throw rocks! Don't let him get close—rocks!"
The longer I stayed here—days, months, years—the ambition to "guide Joseon" melted 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 me. 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 moment 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 someone lower on the social ladder than me.
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—someone with an eccentric taste and an open mind might listen to me one day.
They said even sincerity could move heaven.
If I kept trying, maybe there'd be a chance—
"Ha! A method to double my wealth? What a joke. Only someone 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 same thing: there wasn't a single open-minded soul.
I'd been thrown out so many times my body had learned the routine.
The moment 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 me. 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.
Me? I seemed 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 me answered—unasked, uninvited—trampling on my resolve.
"You truly spend your days doing something hopeless. It's empty struggle. Why not give up and go back to sleep?"
It wasn't the first time someone 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 something 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 somewhere who likes oddities like me. 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 me—are you foolish, or merely stubborn? How can you not grasp such a simple truth, and yet spend years seeking people out? I grew curious and came 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 name is Yoo Seok."
The young nobleman studying me like some exotic animal wore a smile that was half curiosity, half mockery.
"My clan is Yi. My name is Ha-eung."
"Yes, Young Master Ha-eung. Th—"
I cut myself off mid-sentence.
A sudden sense of familiarity washed over me.
Ha-eung… Yi Ha-eung…
I'd heard that name before. Many times.
A boy of around ten, in the early nineteenth century.
And the name Yi Ha-eung.
He was better known by another title, so my reaction had come a beat late.
Was this coincidence?
Or fate?
Me—half Western blood, branded "yang-i," shunned like a disease.
Standing before me 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 me.