Candle to the Devil : Chapter 10

Trains during the Walled Cities Period had a very different makeup than later models, as well as a different set of work personnel. The usual crew of conductor, fireman, and railwaymen were present, but there were also additions needed in so dangerous a time. 

            On each train there was one car that held spare track. And with it came track-layers. The Deadlands were far too dangerous to risk being caught in the wilderness when the line broke. Track-layers were often immigrants hired by Baggerby and Green

Armed train guards were placed at the junction of each class of cars, the engine, and two at the caboose. The name given to them was Fieldmen, due to the Enfield rifle-muskets they carried as issued by Baggerby and Green Railway Company. Most of these men were mercenaries, ex-military, or foreman for Baggerby and Green

            --excerpt from Transportation: Then and Now by Caroline Grabsey

Chapter 10

Haeju Train Station, Haeju

Wednesday, 9:30am, April 27^th , 1858

It was too loud.

Zitao remembered first arriving by boat at the Haeju docks and feeling entirely overwhelmed by the sights and sounds. This, however, was something else entirely. The station echoed with shouts, whistles, and the periodic huff of the green and gold engine that was to lead them to the capital.

It felt surreal, a pressure on his skull that wasn’t painful but quite uncomfortable. And every movement, every shout, had him grabbing for his brother’s hand. What if they were recognized? Surely it was dangerous to be out in the open here of all places. If someone from the railroad company saw them here…

Anxiety had settled itself comfortably in the pit of his stomach, a tightness that ached and throbbed with every pulse of his heartbeat. He wanted to run, and only his brother’s grip on his hand kept him from doing so.

“Here are our tickets!” Chanyeol held out a handful of paper, grinning brightly. “Jongdae said all the paperwork checks out. Come on Baek, stop limping.”

“If you tell me to stop limping one more time—” The other man was holding onto his luggage, looking ready to topple over at a moment’s notice. His face was pale with the strain of so much walking but his expression was determined.

The air was filled with the choking, thick smoke that issued from the engine’s twin smokestacks. People walked by with handkerchiefs pressed to their mouths, heads cast down to keep the ashes out of their eyes.

“Our carriage is this way.” Chanyeol slung a bag over his shoulder and glanced around the crowd. “The train leaves in fifteen minutes. We need to get to our seats.”

“How much was it?” Baekhyun grunted, gritting his teeth. His leg ached, and he was mentally tallying the price he would have to repay Doctor Do and Kim Jongdae. It seemed astronomical already. This charity would have to stop.

“5 shillings a piece.” Chanyeol answered briskly. “Jongdae is taking the price out of your first paycheck.”

It made it a little easier to swallow, knowing he wasn’t getting it for free.

“And the Chinese?”

“Yixing and Zitao?” Chanyeol blinked, not noticing that the two had turned at the sound of their names. “I believe he’s charging them too. Well, he’s charging Kyungsoo and Kyungsoo will take it out of their salary. Why?”

“It doesn’t make sense. People aren’t nice, Chanyeol.”

“Yes they are.” Chanyeol defended. He paused, “Some people are.”

“No one is just good for the sake of being good.”

“I think if you stopped looking for the worst in people you’d enjoy yourself more.” Chanyeol replied, “Here we are!” He pulled up to the train and flashed their tickets to the doorman, who nodded him through.

The corridor was small as Chanyeol ducked his head and ushered for them to follow. Baekhyun didn’t look to see if the two Chinese were following but he knew they were. There was nothing they feared more than being abandoned. They’d stay close. He stumbled a bit, once, and found Yixing’s hand reaching for his elbow. He quickly righted himself and kept his gaze forward. He didn’t need help.

Their car was a public one, the walls lined with hastily upholstered seats—cheap but clean enough. Chanyeol grabbed Baekhyun’s bag and threw it up into the luggage rack above their heads. He reached for Zitao’s but the younger man held fast.

“He isn’t going to take it.” Yixing whispered gently to his brother in Chinese.

“I want to keep it close.” Zitao answered back softly

Yixing patted him on the back and maneuvered him into his seat, taking the one next to him. Chanyeol and Baekhyun took the two opposite them. Outside of the train it was still loud, but the sound had become muted to an odd roar. Like Yixing had ducked his head underwater.

He knew that Zitao wasn’t happy they’d left their weapons behind; but they weren’t allowed to carry them on the train so there was nothing they could do. He understood his brother’s apprehensiveness though.

People began to file in around them—men and women in hanbok and a rare few in ragged waistcoats and frocks. The cabin was full of Korean smells and Korean voices and all Zitao could do was look out the window and hope that they left soon.

He pressed his forehead against the dirty glass window and watched the people outside. The station had begun to clear as those leaving had boarded the train and all that was left were the ones seeing them off.

And then a tall figure walked past his window, talking to a Fieldman. The low voice seemed to echo through the glass. “…ge…” Zitao gasped out, turning his face from the window. “It’s Foreman Wu Fan.”

Yixing had been glancing down the walkway when Zitao had spoken. He stiffened, quickly looking out the window. “I don’t see him.”

“He just walked by.” Zitao insisted, swallowing. “Ge, what if he gets on the train?”

“What’s wrong?” Chanyeol gazed at the two brothers. “Did something happen?” He wracked his brain and his limited Chinese. “Are you alright?”

Yixing gave a slow nod. “We are fine.” He turned back to Zitao. “He isn’t looking for us. No one is. He won’t remember us.” We were just workers, remember? He won’t remember. We were nothing to him.

            Zitao wasn’t convinced, but it was at that moment that a whistle tore through the station. The engine roared to life and the overhead luggage racks shook. Zitao gripped his burlap sack tightly to his chest, eyes trained on his shoes. The last time he had been on a train they’d been shoved into a cargo hold and they’d wound up stranded in the Deadlands, fighting for survival. What if the train broke down? What if the tracks were broken somewhere further out?

“Don’t think about it.” Yixing whispered into his ear, slipping his fingers into his brother’s loosely clenched fist. “We will be fine. We are going to Hanseong.” The capital rolled uneasily off his brother’s tongue but Zitao found comfort in his words nonetheless.

He would have his brother. That was all that mattered.

Haeju Weekly Press, Haeju

Wednesday, 11:29am, April 27^th , 1858

Jongdae glanced at the front page and gave a slow sigh. 

In his hands he held the first copy of tomorrow’s paper. The paper that would most likely ruin his career within Haeju—and possibly outside of it.

There was also a very high chance that Baggerby and Green would send someone to kill him. He still wasn’t sure who would get to him first: the railway company or the police who were trying to cover up their mistake in letting the two Chinese through the gates.

He’d put this off for too long…

The good die young, the bad die painfully, and the cowardly inherit the earth. He breathed out a mouthful of smoke and closed his eyes. He tilted the chair back, resting on the back two legs as he tapped his pipe rhythmically against the desk’s edge.

What’s the use of inheriting the earth if there’s no one to see it? He felt the edges of his lips tilt into a smile. While Jongdae had a strong preservationist streak, he certainly wasn’t a coward. It was difficult to be a coward as well as a journalist; his thrice broken ribs could attest to that.

In truth, the entire scenario had been a fluke of luck. If Kyungsoo hadn’t demanded they go to Baggerby and Green to gain some answers about the attack…if Chen hadn’t been there to translate…if the police hadn’t been so spooked…if someone had shot the two boys before they’d reached the gate…if the police had taken them all into custody…there were so many flaws that it had to have been by chance. Some would call it divine intervention, though Jongdae just called it luck.

Jongdae was a man who lived on luck. He thrived on it. But still…if he published this…

He reached under his desk for the bottles of brandy he placed there for just these occasions. “Fuck it.” He muttered against the rim.

House of Lords, Hanseong

Wednesday, 2:13pm, April 27^th , 1858

            Surprisingly, Joonmyun had woken without a headache. He’d even made it through lunch without so much as a twinge. Headaches had become his constant companion these last few weeks, as well as the congratulatory messages for his impending marriage.

            His mother was kept busy enough. He’d taken to allowing her to answer the calls of well-wishers. It had not helped that his mother and Lady Oh had begun meeting regularly in the parlor to begin planning the wedding. He had no intention of marrying soon. This was merely an engagement and nothing more. It could be broken off at any time.

            But it wouldn’t be. He couldn’t afford to lose the support of Lord Oh. They both knew that.

            And so here he sat beside him in the House of Lords, ignoring the not so subtle glances of his peers. Everyone had heard of the engagement by now, and several of the other lords were none so pleased with the arrangement—whether because they disliked Lord Oh, wanted his daughter to marry their sons, or had planned on gaining the Kim family wealth through a marriage with Joonmyun was uncertain.

            He’d made enemies, and he only knew about half of them. That was the most troubling part.

            One enemy he knew clearly—the most powerful one—and he currently stood at the front of the room with a stern face and cold eyes. Lord Kim, Cabinet Secretary of the House of Lords, and the largest proponent for a Joseon free of foreign influences.

            “Our next order of business is the amendment to the Enslavement and Ratification Partition 7.” Lord Kim cleared his throat and unraveled the scroll. It was such an antiquated picture—Lord Kim in his dalryeongpo reading complaints from a scroll. He stood in the middle of a room full of tailcoats and fountain pens and for some reason, Joonmyun felt as if Lord Kim was the only one that truly belonged.

            “What kind of amendment could the people possibly be griping about now?” Lord Jang muttered, “Is this something that came up from the House of Commons? They haven’t gotten Sunkyungkwan involved have they?”

            In earlier times, the student body of Sunkyungkwan held great weight in regards to laws and petitions. Now it was a formality, but they could still be used to sway public opinion with the commoners. The House of Commons often tried to get them involved where they could not act.

            “The petition states that the current Ratification Partition does not properly address the needs of former slaves. They are asking for repatriation.”

            A ripple went through the room, as if someone had thrown a large rock into a still pond. Joonmyun knew that several of these men had built their fortunes on the backs of slaves and former slaves turned serfs.

            As a restless murmur began to fill the room like a swarm of bees, Lord Oh stood. “The poor say the only good the British ever did was to end slavery. I say the only mistake the British made was outlawing it.”

            And for once, it seemed like the entirety of the House of Lords was in agreement. Something foul and acidic churned in Joonmyun’s stomach and ate its way up his throat. He swallowed with a wince as the room erupted into laughter.

            Some things never change. No matter which side they’re on, power is the most important. Joonmyun settled back and cracked a smile as he caught Lord Oh’s gaze. And I am no different. The world turns and I turn with it.

Hanseong Train Station, Hanseong

Thursday, 4:43pm, April 28^th , 1858

           

            Hanseong was louder than Haeju. 

            Zitao’s grip on his brother’s hand was crushing; Yixing was losing feeling in his fingers. But he didn’t try and let go because he could see the terror in his brother’s eyes even though his expression was impassive. And truthfully, he was just as scared. 

            They were nearly separated in the crowd and almost lost sight of Chanyeol, who was shepherding a limping Baekhyun toward the exit while carrying their luggage. Zitao pressed his bag against his chest and swallowed. He was glad that Chanyeol was tall, it made him easier to spot.

            By the time that Zitao and Yixing managed to free themselves from the crowd and escape the station, Chanyeol had already hailed a carriage and was bartering with the man over the price.

            Across the street a crowd had begun to gather. Someone was shouting in Korean and pointing at a paper that had been plastered to the side of the building behind him. Zitao couldn’t understand what they were saying but the voices were angry. It made him uncomfortable.

            Baekhyun paused, wincing at the pain that shot up his leg. He hadn’t walked this far and for this long since the surgery. He could already tell that the next day would be a miserable, sore one. As he stopped to catch his breath he heard bits and pieces of conversation from the crowd around him who were watching the group on the far side of the street. It seemed to be a protest of some sort.

            “…those students are at it again, aren’t they?”

“They’ve given themselves an odd name.”

“But they want to kick the Chinese out, isn’t that what we all want?”

“They want to kick everyone out. The British too. And don’t be daft, without the Chinese they’ll have us digging graves and building railroad tracks.”

The group to his right began to laugh at that, but Baekhyun’s gaze turned thoughtful. A Korean Purist Movement? “What are they called?”

One of the men was about to answer when Chanyeol shoved past him, pulling Yixing and Zitao behind him. “Keep moving.” He hissed. “And keep your heads down.” He glanced at the protesters once more.

Once he was satisfied that Yixing and Zitao were out of harm’s way—the crowd hadn’t noticed them, and he was thankful that Jongdae had given them Western clothing to wear on their trip to the capital rather than their changshan--he remembered that their was a fourth member to their group.

He looked back and noticed that Baekhyun had stopped and was watching the protest. “Come on, Kyungsoo gave us the address.” Chanyeol waved a piece of paper under Baekhyun’s nose. “He said he’d meet us at the house. He has the key to the tenant rooms next door. Let’s go.”

            “Did you hear that?” Baekhyun continued to stare, even as Chanyeol shoved their two Chinese companions into the stagecoach.

            “I try not to listen.” Chanyeol shrugged. “It makes me uncomfortable.”

            “It’s true though, isn’t it? We’d be better off without all the immigrants and Westerners.”

            Chanyeol’s expression hardened as he looked from Baekhyun, to the protesters, to the stagecoach with Yixing and Zitao. “I really don’t get you.” He said quietly, before turning to the driver. “We’ve got one more trunk, sir.”

Sunkyungkwan University, Hanseong

Friday, 10:31am, April 29^th , 1858

            It was just his luck that their fencing course was a group exercise with the seniors. Sehun and his group walked in to find the seniors present—and an all too familiar figure was putting on a plastron in the far corner of the hall.

Sehun gave a small smirk and strode toward him.

            Luhan looked up as Sehun and his group approached but didn’t spare him a second glance as he continued putting on his outfit. Some of the other students had stopped to watch the encounter. Ever since the last one there had been a tense atmosphere about the school, like a taut bow waiting to be released. Many were wondering if today it would be.

            Sehun undid his jacket and gave it to Hyun-ki, then held out his hand. In Su handed him his plastron and gloves. “You’re close with that professor.”

“Dr. Do?” Luhan shrugged, pulling off his cravat and throwing it to one of his Chinese friends who caught it deftly. “What does it have to do with you?”

“Relationships between students and professors are forbidden.” Sehun’s eyes narrowed slightly in disgust. “And relationships between men is a sin.”

Luhan tsked. “Are you sure you aren’t made out for theology? It would suit you much better than law, since you don’t seem to understand the basics.”

            “And what basics are those?”

            Luhan sneered and bent to lace his boots.

            “I challenge you to a match.”

            There was a moment of silence before Luhan gave a small laugh. “Are you sure you can handle the humiliation?”

            “Luhan is the best fencer in our year.” One of the Chinese boys boasted.

            Sehun scoffed, “The seniors must be lacking in able fencers then.” The Chinese group bristled, but Luhan held up a hand to quell their anger. “I accept your challenge.” He turned to the directeur who had been watching the exchange with a blank face. “We would like to begin the class with a match.”

            The directeur looked as if he would protest. He was strict with his classes and didn’t like such interruptions, but even he could sense that the entire crowd was restless with anticipation. “Clear the piste.”

            Sehun slipped on his gloves as he walked to his designated spot. The students had begun to line the strip, 1^st years on one side and seniors on the other. Sehun wiggled his fingers.

            “Your foil.” Hyun-ki handed it to him. Sehun tested the weight for a moment, letting his fingers go lax and his wrist take the brunt. Then he snapped it up cleanly. The group nearest him began to murmur appreciatively. The foil had been a gift from his old fencing master, a true work of unparalleled craftsmanship. He doubted that Luhan’s would be anywhere near the same caliber.

            The directeur was explaining the rules of the match, designating the red flag for Luhan and a blue for Sehun. No one was paying attention to him, however. They were focused on the two men sizing each other up across the piste.

            Sehun grabbed his helmet from In Su and slid it on.

            “En garde.”

            Sehun nodded his head at the Chinese man, eyes narrowed as he straightened his back and locked his feet in place. Luhan’s smile was easygoing as he lowered his mask, and his stance was relaxed. He isn’t taking this seriously, Sehun thought with a surge of annoyance.

            “Pret.” The directeur looked between the two. 

            The moment the directeur shouted “Allez” Luhan’s demeanor changed. His loose stance seemed to become charged, like a coiled snake waiting to strike.

            Sehun wondered how his own stance looked to the spectators. Did he seem relaxed or tense? His stance had always been rigid; mechanical. He had learned to fence from a Frenchman who had drilled every step into him from the age of six.

            How long had Luhan trained to look so natural? It didn’t matter. He knew he had trained harder, more diligently. An Oh would never be second best to anyone. Especially not to the Chinese.

            Luhan lunged, then quickly retreated as Sehun parried and followed suit.

            He was fast. It was only instinct that had kept Luhan from scoring. He needed to be careful. Just because Luhan was Chinese he was not to be underestimated.

            He hadn’t expected Luhan to attack first either. He glanced at the mask and wondered what expression he was making. Was he smiling? Sneering? Or had he been just as surprised at Sehun’s counter as he had been by Luhan’s attack?

            Watch his feet, Sehun mentally scolded himself. Luhan’s body relaxed and then began to tense again. An attack! Sehun hurried to parry only to have the attack never come. Luhan was reading him. Studying.

            Sehun was quick to react. And impatient. Had Luhan already seen that? Dammit, Sehun needed to end this quickly. 

            The next thirty seconds were a blur of foil and footwork. Sehun was unaware of the spectators or the directeur. There was only the two of them and the three feet between them that lengthened and shrank as they attacked.

            It ended with Luhan’s swift parry-riposte.

            “Touch!” The directeur called, “Arrêt.”

            The two stepped away from one another. Sehun had given Luhan the first point. That had been a mistake. He should have seen it coming. Why was he so careless?

“You look tired, Young Lord.” Luhan goaded boldly. “I heard there was quite a fuss on Hwangsaeg Street the other day.”

Sehun snorted, straitening his shoulders. “Immigrants should know their place. Concerned citizens just wanted to make sure they weren’t a threat.”

“Concerned citizens don’t hide behind the uniform of a university and their father’s name for protection.” Luhan snapped. “I wonder how your father will take it?”

“Allez!”

There was a brief pause after the directeur’s words before Sehun attacked. He lunged, glancing between Luhan’s feet and his wrist. Never look at the foil. The sword doesn’t control itself. The wrist controls it.

Luhan responded with a quick parry and a smile twitched at the corner of Sehun’s lips. He pressed two fingers quickly to the base of his blade, the tip slipping beneath Luhan’s and striking Luhan under the arm.

“Arrêt.”

The directeur glanced between the two and held up the blue flag that signified Sehun’s point. “Touch.”

Luhan rolled his neck and it cracked softly as he regained his stance. He adjusted his grip further down the handle of his foil. So he was posting? He must have realized that Sehun had a longer reach, but by doing so he would lose a little control of the blade. This match would end soon enough if he was going with that tactic.

Sehun relaxed his stance. And that was when Luhan’s stance went taut as the directeur called “Allez”. He lunged, and Sehun parried. Luhan followed with a riposte and their foils slid up to the hilt. Luhan’s forearm hit his chest and he stumbled backwards.

“Arrêt! No points. This is a no-contact bout!”

Whether the two heard him was unknown, because in that moment Luhan launched into a balestra in hopes of catching Sehun off guard. Neither listened as the directeur called for them to stop.

Sehun parried, and Luhan responded with a coupé, the blade pulled up and over Sehun’s foil. Sehun retreated.

“Arrêt!”

Luhan attacked again with a fleche, sprinting past Sehun and taking another point, though the directeur did not seem to be keeping score anymore as he continued to try and stop the match.

But Sehun turned on his heel and responded with a glide, the tip of his blade slipping past and hitting Luhan in the chest. Two points for each. Three to go. Sehun didn’t let up, even as Luhan retreated two steps.

“I said stop! This match is invalid. Have either of you ever fenced in your lives?”

Back, forth, lunge, parry, parry-riposte, opposition parry, pass backwards, pass forwards, Luhan’s point. Sehun blinked the sweat from his eyes. He could feel it accumulating in the creases of his gloves. His shirt stuck to him like a second skin.

Patinando, passata-sotto, back, forth, parry. Sehun’s fourth. His hands twitched, fingers itching to move forward and get the last, but in his haste Luhan scored his own fourth point. Luhan wasn’t as long-limbed but he was a little faster, bolder in his attacks. He refused to let up when Sehun advanced and even his retreats were a veil for an oncoming lunge.

But he couldn’t beat Sehun. Because Sehun was Korean. Sehun was the son of Lord Oh, Lord High Chancellor of the House of Lords of Joseon. And Oh Sehun did not lose to anyone.

 There was a current of grim satisfaction that ran down his spine as the fifth touch was made and Luhan lowered his blade. Adrenaline and his own rapid heartbeat were pounding in his ears and he’d almost forgotten where he was until he heard the shouts.

There was a loud resounding cheer as Sehun pulled of his mask. It was only then that he noticed that the crowds had shifted from age to race, with the Chinese students standing behind Luhan who had pulled off his own helmet. His bangs were matted to his forehead with sweat, and his gaze was full of humor.

Sehun had expected a look of humiliation or anger. He didn’t like that at all. Luhan's easygoing nature irked him. 

Luhan gave a small smile. “For someone who hates the West, you’re quite good at their sports.”

            “I like to know my enemy.”

            “Then I suspect you are just as learned in kung fu. We’ll have to see next time.” Luhan nodded at the fuming directeur before walking out of the gymnasium, the rest of the Chinese students following despite the directeur’s order to stop.

            Sehun was left wondering what kind of an enemy he had just made.

Baggerby and Green Railway Company, Haeju

Friday, 5:12pm, April 29^th , 1858

           

Wu Fan had just begun to polish his boots when there was a sharp knock on his door. “Come in.” He muttered, not looking up.

            The door didn’t open, but Foreman Lee’s voice came through, muffled by wood. “Mr. Heath wants you in his office. Now.”

            The cat gave a small mewl but he ignored it, leaving the thing on his bed as he stood and reached for his coat. He’d just finished his rounds at the station and had sent Foreman Cho and the Chinese immigrants to unload the cargo they’d received.

            Had something gone wrong? Perhaps the cargo had been damaged. He knew he should have stayed behind to check it over but Auntie Han said the damned cat needed to be fed every three hours. That wasn’t possible unless he brought the thing with him everywhere, but he’d slipped back as soon as the cargo had been received to make sure it hadn’t starved in the interim.

            It had been fine and drank enough milk to make up for the few hours it had missed. Milk was expensive—he was going to have to ease up on polishing his boots for a few months. He had regretted saving the cat since the morning he’d woken up with a mouth that tasted like vomit and a kitten licking his nose, but the regret had slowly transformed into a weary acceptance.

            At least it didn’t mewl as loudly at night anymore.

            The hallway was relatively empty, and the door to Mr. Heath’s office was ajar. Wu Fan rapped his knuckles against the doorframe.

            “Enter.” Mr. Heath barked. “And close the door behind you.”

            The room was sweltering. The fire roared in the corner, stacked high with logs. Wu Fan could feel it blistering his cheeks. “You called for me, sir?”

            The paper hit the wooden desk with a loud slap. Wu Fan almost flinched. Atop the paper’s headline in bold, black print he could read:

BAGGERBY AND GREEN MASSACRES IMMIGRANTS IN DEADLANDS

A flush of anger had taken over Mr. Heath’s face, turning purple near the bridge of his nose and just below his eyes. “Did you know about this?”

Of course.

“No sir.”

            “The entire city is in an uproar over this paper. That damn Kim Jongdae…he’s been a thorn in our side for years. Didn’t you beat some sense into him last time?”

            “I thought so.” I broke his nose and a rib. I made myself quite clear. He still remembered the look on Jongdae’s face. The smirk of blood-stained teeth as he’d held his nose and slid down the wall. No matter how many times they beat him, Kim Jongdae was the type that would crawl back out of his hole to cause problems.

            Until they killed him he wasn’t going to stop.

            “The police knew about this—can you believe it? They didn’t report it because they were worried about a public panic. Dammit, Officer Kwang was supposed to inform me of anything like this.” Mr. Heath began to massage his temples. “How did the two get past the gates? Why were they let inside?”

            Wu Fan wondered if Mr. Heath had a reason for him here or not. Right now it seemed like he was just there to listen while Mr. Heath raved to himself. As long as Mr. Heath’s anger was directed at Kim Jongdae and the police then Wu Fan was safe. It meant he didn’t know that Wu Fan had seen the two.

            “Two Chinese rats make their way back from the sewers and I’m getting heat for it. If the heads in London find out that I let this happen…Baggerby and Green will not give up their position as the sole railway industry of Asia because of this. I won’t let it happen.” Mr. Heath paused. “You won’t let it happen.”

            Ah, so that was what this was about. Wu Fan didn’t care, so long as he could get out of this stifling room. “What are you orders, sir?”
            “Take care of it.”

Haeju Weekly Press, Haeju

Friday, 8:13pm, April 29^th , 1858

Jongdae had just finished packing his trunk when he heard the shouts. The click of the lid echoed in the deafening silence only to be swallowed by the pounding of boots against cobblestones. He could see flickers of light through the frosted glass. Torches?

Baggerby and Green had incited a mob. “You try and keep people informed and they decide to skin you alive. My god what kind of world do we live in?” He slurred.

Perhaps he shouldn't have finished that first bottle of brandy. 

“Come on out Kim Jongdae!”

“You were harboring Afflicted!”

“We know you’re in there!”

“Psycho!”

“Killer!”

“You’d think I’d just torched an orphanage…” Jongdae muttered to himself, grabbing his carpetbag. The irony of being called a killer after saving the lives of two men sentenced to death by the very railway company that had incited these civilians wasn’t lost on him but he didn’t have time to savor it.

He reached for his coat at the exact moment a rock shattered the front window. He ducked as several more followed, accompanied by angry shouts.

The front door didn’t look like a feasible escape route. Neither was the back. They’d have people watching for him. He didn’t want to think about what they’d do if they caught him.

Baggerby and Green would shoot him and dump his body in the sewers. These people would tear him apart.

There was only one way he was going to get out of this in one piece.

The basement.

But before that…

He reached under the desk and spared the bottles of brandy one forlorn look before he uncorked them and began pouring them all over the floor. One he threw up the stairs. He heard it shatter and watched liquid trickle down to puddle at his feet.

He grabbed the last bottle in one hand and his bag in the other as he ran toward the basement door. He threw it open and fished in his pocket for a match. The small light flickered weakly before he threw it in front of him and watched his office ignite.

The basement door closed behind him as the front door splintered.

He took the steps three at a time and almost fell halfway down. He caught himself, hand scraping against rough stone. He felt his palm split open, skin tearing as he continued downward. He could hear screams from upstairs and feel the heat on his back. Right. Next time he would refrain from drinking heavily the same day he released a potentially fatal newspaper article.

He pulled open the last bottle and poured a bit across his hand, ignoring the sting that flared at the contact. Then he threw the bottle atop the work desk in the middle of the room and ran to the furnace—and the hidden door to its left behind the charcoal.

He lamented the loss of his printing press but decided his own person was of far greater value.

The Blue Crane, Haeju Docks

Friday, 9:45pm, April 29^th , 1858

The boat rocked beneath his feet. He’d had hoped for a smoother ride, but discretion had forced him onto this smuggler’s ship and there he would stay. Truthfully, he’d found himself in more unsavory situations but none quite so out of his element. He could hear the creaking floorboard above him as the crew moved around on deck.

Their shouts drifted down to his cabin, a jumble of Korean, Chinese, and French. The French had “saved” most of Indochina during the beginning of the Afflicted outbreak and had built many walled cities there that they maintained. Now the entire southeast spoke French—something the British did not like. The competition between the two countries was fierce, and Asia had become the battleground.

He wasn’t sure what was the bigger threat, the Western powers or the Afflicted. It didn’t matter. Whichever his emperor told him to hunt, he would. It wasn’t his job to question who he bit, only how hard.

Still, he spoke only basic Mandarin and a few words of French. It was a bit disorienting to hear words and not know what they meant.

It was cold in the rooms except near the pipes, which were scalding. It was a miracle that none of the wooden components of the ship had caught fire—but he supposed that whoever had built it had kept the wood away from anything flammable.

He began pacing his cabin again.

            The letter in his pocket and the imperial seal upon it burned like a hot brand. It was to be his first duty that took him outside of Joseon. He wasn’t entirely certain if he was prepared—or if he was adequately skilled enough.

            But this was the task set before him and he would follow it through.

            “…this place looks as good as any…”

            He paused in his pacing at the voice. It had come from just outside his room. A stowaway? A thief? Or a spy? His eyes narrowed.

He pressed himself against the wall behind the door and waited, one hand reaching into his sleeve for the knife held there. The door opened and as the person stepped inside he moved. He grabbed the man and threw him over his shoulder and onto the floor, digging a knee into his stomach.

The intruder let out a wheezing groan and threw up his hands in surrender. The stench of alcohol issued forth from his open mouth.

“Who are you?”

It took the intruder a few moments to regain enough breath to speak. He coughed once or twice before giving a rueful grin. It was an expression that looked natural on the man’s face. “Forgive me for barging in, but there’s a misinformed lynch mob waiting on shore and this is a new coat.”

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[A/N: I'm sorry this chapter took so long. Work has been tiring, both physically and mentally. I haven't had much time to write. This chapter had a lot going on, but things are moving forward! And who could this mysterious man on the boat be? I think you all probably know, hahaha.]