Candle to the Devil Chapter 13

[A/N: I really am sorry this chapter took so long. I forgot to tell all of you that I was going on vacation, and after that I’ve been scrambling to look for a new job because my old one cut my hours and has been all around pretty horrid to me so…that’s what’s been happening. I might be moving within the next few months (if all goes well) so I’m going to be pretty busy this latter half of the year. And there’s the whole grad school anxiety and shenanigans as I try and flounder into a semi-stable adult life that is proving far less exciting than people give it credit. But I am going to try and update more than once in a blue moon. I tried to make this chapter a little longer to make up for it.

Enjoy!]

Throughout the Goryeo period, gisaeng held the status of cheonmin, the lowest rank of society. They shared this status with other entertainers, as well as butchers and slaves. Status was hereditary, so the children of a gisaeng were also of cheonmin status, and the daughters automatically became gisaeng as well. Gisaeng could only be released from their position if a hefty price was paid to the government; this could usually only be done by a wealthy patron, typically a high government official. It was not until Western intervention that slavery was outlawed during the Walled Cities period. While no longer slaves, the status of gisaeng did not change dramatically.

The best prospect most gisaeng had for long-term support was through becoming the concubine of a patron. However, even this was not an option unless their patron first purchased them from the state, which few men of the Joseon period could afford.

In addition, most gisaeng had a gibu, or "gisaeng husband," who provided protection and economic support, such as buying them pretty things or granting them social status in return for entertainment. Most gibu were former soldiers, government enforcers, or servants of the royal household. At times, there was friction between would-be customers and possessive gibu, although the gibu was not the gisaeng's husband and had no legal claim to her. The role of the gibu changed over time; at first, many gisaeng in government service had no such patron. However, by the late Joseon dynasty, the gibu system was more or less universal.

Prostitution saw a rise during the Walled Cities Period. Many were unable to afford the cost of living and turned to other, more lucrative methods of survival. The Red Light District of Hanseong was particularly famous, second only to Hong Kong.

            While the Tea House district of the haengsu was much sought after by the ability, the Red Light District provided comforts that the Tea Houses lacked, mainly in the diversity of merchandise.

            Hanseong’s Red Light District was famous—or dare we say infamous—for its male gisaeng houses. The haengsu refused to allow upper-class male establishments on the Tea House streets, but that did not stop those who wished to cash in on this ever-growing commodity. Several high-class male gisaeng houses sprouted up, interspersed between common brothels.

--excerpt from Silk and Saffron: Institutionalized Prostition in Asian Countries by Mei Won.

 Chapter 13

Hanseong Community Theatre

Friday, 9:00pm, May 13^th, 1858

            He hadn’t planned on coming. He’d gone out to pick up some parts that Chanyeol said they needed for one of Jongdae’s machines…and somehow he’d found himself standing in front of the theatre. The windows had been darkened by heavy drapes but the moment he’d walked in the place had been illuminated to the point of brilliance.

            Gas lamps aren’t Korean, he’d thought briefly, as the crowd surged around him and pushed him deeper into the throng. He stared down at the paper mask he’d been given at the entrance and noticed that everyone else inside was wearing theirs. He quickly placed it over his face, the smell of pain and ink overwhelming. He fumbled for a few moments with the hemp chord tie as the crowd heaved around him.

            He wondered how many of these people he’d seen on the streets before. How many had he passed on his way to get some bread the day before yesterday? Somewhere on stage, traditional music was playing. A troupe danced, and the people nearest to them swayed along, laughing. He could smell the faint hint of soju in the air, along with smoke.

            He briefly thought of Chanyeol, worried for him, wondering where he’d gone. Chanyeol wouldn’t think he’d gotten into any trouble, would he? No, Baekhyun had taken to late night walks, this would be normal to Chanyeol by now. He’d never suspect a thing.

            Baekhyun couldn’t stand being in that house. Chanyeol was too friendly with the two Chinese boys. They were different, they shouldn’t be so close. Chanyeol constantly asked him about his knee; Kyungsoo this, Kyungsoo that, medical nonsense and his aggravating optimism that made Baekhyun nauseous.

            And the Chinese…mostly the younger one. He was always watching Baekhyun, as if calculating whether or not he’d been worth saving. The elder one took everything in placid stride, though even he seemed wary of Baekhyun. The younger was always on edge around him. Baekhyun didn’t feel safe. He knew what they had done in the Deadlands. He’d heard Jongdae translating the story for the others. If that boy could crush the skulls of an Afflicted so easily, what could he do to a person?

            He’d have to tell Chanyeol that the sooner they found another place for the Chinese to stay the better. Doctor Do couldn’t possibly be safe living with the two of them.

            The atmosphere seemed to shift, drawing Baekhyun out of his thoughts as the music came to a halt and the crowd’s murmuring became more unified. Several men now stood on the stage, all dressed in traditional hanbok and wearing wooden, painted talchum masks.

            One of the masked figures walked to the center of the stage. He was tall and thin, and the mask he wore was white and green. It matched his hanbok. Good quality, he could see that even from where he stood, fighting to get a glimpse from behind the taller men and their gat in front of him.

            “Welcome, my brothers.” The man in the talchum mask greeted. His voice was lighter than Baekhyun had expected. Young. But it did not seem to lack conviction as he leaned against the podium of sorts they’d erected near the front. “I know it was not easy for all of you to come here tonight.”

            The crowd had grown quiet, listening. “But the life we now live is not easy either. Your bravery in appearing here tonight shows me and my compatriots that there is some fight left in our people. You know that the only way we can reclaim what belongs to us is through our own actions and for that, I commend you.”

            The crowd murmured in agreement.

“For too long we have allowed ourselves to be invaded and ruled. Our military is weak. Our government is weak. Our emperor is weak. Our country is weak.”

            The crowd rumbled in agreement, a single churning mass of suppressed rage. Baekhyun moved with it, throat tight and skin prickling. His chest constricted and he wasn’t sure if it was pride or terror.

            The murmuring quieted as the figure on stage held up his hand.

            “A weak country cannot survive the perils we face. We will fall either to the hunger of the West or the Afflicted.”

            “The immigrants bring the disease with them!” Someone shouted somewhere to Baekhyun’s left.

            The crowd yelled their agreement.

            “Kill the Chinese dogs!”

            “Send them to face the Afflicted!”

            “Let them die in their own country!”

            The speaker nodded. “Brothers, I understand your anger. The Chinese are an open sore. One that will continue to fester until we find a way to stop it. Joseon’s lesions are many. The Chinese. The British. Our own ignorant government. First we must drain the puss.” His empty-eyed stare scanned the crowd and seemed to land on Baekhyun.

            His chest tightened painfully.

            “And then we cauterize the wound with fire.”

            Though the crowd roared with agreement and the house shook from its very eaves, all Baekhyun could hear was the soft click and whir of his metal knee.

Baggerby and Green, Haeju

Friday, 2:34pm, May 13^th, 1858

            “Get back to work!” One of the foremen shouted, hand on the pistol at his hip. “We don’t have all day!”

            Wu Fan wiped the sweat soaking his forehead and looked out across the yard. The small group had been unloading Baggerby and Green’s latest cargo, but they’d begun to lag behind as the afternoon wore on. When the men slowed, the foremen always became antsy…and they’d sent Wu Fan into the thick of it to keep order while the rest of them sat in the shade and “supervised” from afar.

            He headed back to where the rest of the foremen sat and grabbed one of the water canteens to take a drink.

            “The riots are finally stopping, aren’t they?”

            “The police can’t handle anything, I thought they’d hire us to take care of business.”

            “It’s all because of that Kim Jongdae.”

            “We didn’t find a body, but chances are the fool ended up dead in a ditch somewhere.”

            Wu Fan suddenly seemed to find the canteen very interesting. He stared down at it and tried not to make eye contact with the other foremen. Not that it mattered; they never talked to him anyway. Still, the last thing he wanted was for them to notice how on edge he was.

            He’d been like this ever since he’d first seen the two Chinese workers. The fact that they hadn’t found either of them and the newspaper editor that was housing them had escaped as well made it hard to sleep at night.

            Every day he awoke wondering if he was going to be found out…and if he would suffer the fate that had awaited Kim Jongdae. He’d been properly lectured and chastised when neither Kim Jongdae or the two Chinese workers had shown up, even though he’d been assigned to the task of “taking care of it”. He’d had two months’ pay docked as a result. He’d hoped that was the end of it.

            “Hey you,” A stout man in the garb of the Baggerby and Green clerks pointed at him, jerking his head toward the main buildings. “Mr. Heath is waiting for you.”

            Wu Fan’s stomach plummeted, and he was left with an odd light-headedness. This was it. Somehow Mr. Heath had found out that Wu Fan had lied. He was going to have him killed. They’re going to give my cat to Jack. He’s going to kill it. He didn’t know why that was the thought that came most to mind, only that as he walked mechanically toward his doom he was more worried for the stupid kitten than himself. I haven’t even given it a name.

            Perhaps he’d lived in fear of this moment for so long that it was a relief to have it finally end, even if it meant the end of his own life. No, that couldn’t be true. He was far too selfish for that. I can only look out for one person in this life, and that is myself. If I die, it all becomes pointless.

            Mr. Heath looked up when he entered and seemed relatively cheerful for a man about to send Wu Fan to his death. A bottle of whiskey sat on the edge of his desk, and he smiled over the paperwork he’d been signing. “Just the man I wanted to see. How are you doing Kris?”

            “Well,” Wu Fan began warily.

            “I got a message from the Headquarters in London and news has been rather positive, despite our recent setbacks. They said not to worry about a few yellow-faced bastards publishing newspapers. The poor can’t read anyway.”

            Wu Fan nodded stoically, pushing down the anger. He’d gotten good at that. It seemed Mr. Heath hadn’t brought Wu Fan to be punished, so what was his intent?

            “I called you in here to discuss a new project that I’d like you to supervise.” Mr. Heath continued, going back to the paperwork on his desk. “You’re the only one that can talk to these blasted Chinese dogs. The other foremen won’t learn the language. Useless sots, all of them.”

            You won’t learn it either, he thought, but once again remained silent.

            “We’re making a second track. The nobles are complaining about the immigrant smell. They say you can smell it all the way from first class.” He gave a bark of laughter. “Some more ships are due next week.”

            Wu Fan stared at him. Something noxious and dark twisted in his stomach. They wanted him to send more to their deaths. Hundreds, possibly thousands. More men like Zhang Yixing and his brother who would trust him because he was also Chinese, who would stare at him with those same eyes filled with fear and hatred before they were abandoned. “No.” He said it before he knew what he was doing, as if someone else were speaking through him.

He felt a hint of regret, and he opened his mouth to apologize, but shut it. No…he wasn’t going to do this anymore.

Mr. Heath had stopped signing his papers. He eyed Wu Fan over the rim of his reading glasses. “Excuse me?”

“I quit.” It felt like he wasn’t in control of himself anymore, and yet he seemed to have more power over his own fate now than he had his entire life. He’d thought about quitting so many times but he’d always talked himself out of it. He needed to survive. He needed money. There was no time to worry about ethics and morals. So why did he suddenly care?

Perhaps it had all eaten away at him until he could no longer deny that nothing was worth killing all of those people, not even his own security.

            Mr. Heath gazed at him long and hard. “I’m going to give you one chance to take that back.”

            But he felt braver now. “I quit. I’ll collect my wages and leave before the night is out.” He turned on his heel and didn’t look back. He felt lightheaded. What had he just done? Where would he go? No, he knew what he would do. He’d been planning this in his head for a long while now. He hadn’t given the fiery, self-righteous speech he’d planned, but this would suffice.

            He wasn’t the type to make those speeches anyway.

Beulli ing-eo, Hanseong

Friday, 8:26pm, May 13^th, 1858

            The coach rolled to stop and Kyungsoo knew where he was even before the door was opened. The smell was enough. Heavy alcohol and perfumed smoke.

            The Red Light District.

            This was not the Tea House District, where the haengsu lived, entertaining the wealthy and noble. This was where the common man came to rut. There were no soft-spoken meetings or exchanges of poetry. Only alcohol and flesh.

            The woman sitting beside him, who had introduced herself as Jinri, fidgeted nervously and watched him. She was obviously embarrassed to have brought him here, but the desperation with which she had pleaded with him told him that whoever this Kai was, he was important to her.

He alighted the coach with Jinri in tow and found himself standing at the entrance of a brothel called Beullu ing-eo. It looked nicer than he thought it would, as Jinri hurried him inside and waved off the armed men that stood at the front, demanding payment from those on the streets.

There was a large courtyard inside, and a few groups of men and women were sitting at candle-lit tables, or dancing drunkenly on verandas. Jinri led him past them and down a darkened path, away from the main house and towards what Kyungsoo assumed were the gisaeng’s living quarters.

A few half-clothed women stood in the hallway, and more than a few men. Kyungsoo averted his gaze, even as he tried to nod in greeting. “Come on, he’s down here.” Jinri tugged on his sleeve. The gisaeng watched them as they passed.

The hallways were quite mazelike, and it was hard for Kyungsoo to keep track of how many times they’d turned or how many stairs they’d gone up. Finally he found himself standing in the doorway of a large suite. “He’s inside.” Jinri nodded her head and ducked back down the hall, leaving Kyungsoo alone.

The sliding bamboo door and been pushed aside, and the entryway was instead covered in red silk curtains. He held his bag in one hand and pushed the curtains apart with the other. The suite was a menagerie of clothes, trinkets, and furniture. Some of it was haphazardly stacked upon tables or draped over cushions, and it all smelled heavily of red wine and roses.

On a raised dais was the bed, and on the bed was a man that Kyungsoo had not expected to see. He stared, and was met with the half-lidded gaze and smirk he’d become so used to over the past few months.

“Surprised?”

Kyungsoo swallowed back a “yes” and busied himself with his bag. “I’ll need to check your pulse.” He placed his bag on the bed and sat next to it, far enough on the edge that he wasn’t touching Jongin at all. He gripped Jongin’s hand lightly, fingers resting against his wrist.

Jongin watched him intently. He had expected something more. A bit of a reaction. But Kyungsoo had recovered from his shock and hid it beneath a thin layer of professionalism. He wouldn’t look Jongin in the eyes.

Kyungsoo dropped his hand a moment later and it fell against the silken sheets like a discarded cigarette butt. Jongin felt his chest tighten. Kyungsoo had turned to search through his bag again. And with his back to him, Jongin panicked.

            “What is there to look down upon? What is there to regret? That I am free? That I can buy anything that catches my fancy and wear it without fearing propriety? That women and men lust after me and I can have my pick of them?”

Kyungsoo glanced back at him, wide eyes curious. His face really did betray everything.

Jongin swallowed. “You’re right. I must live a dreadfully horrid life. If only I had not been a prostitute. Then I could have been a beggar. Or a butcher. Or one of those immigrants working in the Deadlands. Woe is me, the courtesan.”

Kyungsoo gave a small laugh, and his eyes said is that all? As if Jongin had just uttered a badly delivered line at a theatre. You’ve amounted to only this? And it hurt, because he didn’t know if those were Kyungsoo’s true thoughts or what he was creating in his own mind. Because part of him wanted the scorn. It didn’t make sense for anyone to be that accepting. It wasn’t natural. Kyungsoo was as selfish and flawed as Jongin, wasn’t he? “There is nothing wrong with what I do.”

Kyungsoo placed the stethoscope in his ears and met Jongin’s gaze for the first time. “Then why does it sound like you’re trying to convince yourself?”

He wasn’t sure if it was the look or the cold of the stethoscope against his chest that took his breath away. “Because I can see it in your eyes. You think I’m disgusting.”

“I think you’re sick. You have a fever.” Kyungsoo cocked his head to the side. “Breathe in for me. Slowly.”

Jongin found himself obeying silently and he wondered if Kyungsoo could hear how rapidly his heart was beating. They stayed this way for several minutes, the quiet broken only by Kyungsoo’s soft, “breathe in, breathe out. Again.” He finally placed his stethoscope back in his bag and grabbed for something else.  “I’ve treated prostitutes before,” he spoke lightly, and it caught Jongin off guard.

“That doesn’t seem very likely for an Oxford graduate.” Jongin sneered, haughty, because he would not appear ill at ease in front of Kyungsoo, not when he had brought all of this upon himself.

Kyungsoo paused in his search before resuming. The British tended to find Koreans dirty and diseased, Oxford graduate or no. He’d had to make money and practice just like the other students only he wasn’t allowed to touch anyone above him. So he’d worked on those that no one else would touch. He wouldn’t say that though, not to Kai. Perhaps he would have told Jongin. But not Kai. He had his own pride that was already being stripped from him piece by piece. He had to keep some of it intact. “When was your last encounter?”

“Hm?” A soft drawl, slurred from alcohol and fever alike.

            “The last time you engaged in sexual intercourse.”

            Jongin wasn’t sure if Kyungsoo was insulting him or not. But he’d held his bravado this long. There was no point in caving in now. “Last night.”

            “How many?” Kyungsoo’s voice was too professional, too removed. It didn’t fit him.

            “…four…” Jongin sounded almost ashamed.

            “Were these partners regular customers? Did they seem unwell?”

            “Why are you asking?”

            “There are several diseases spread through sexual intercourse.” You know this. Everyone knows. “So we need to rule out those before we can move on to another diagnosis.”

            “I don’t have a disease.”

            “Any swellings?” Kyungsoo reached for Jongin’s robe, ignoring his words. This was not how this was supposed to be. It felt wrong as he checked Jongin’s neck. He tried to keep his gaze trained on his shoulder and not the collarbone that dipped dangerously or the silk that slid off like water. Even if he hadn’t been given a disease, there were plenty of viruses that he could have picked up from a sick client.

            “You don’t like what I am.”

            “I don’t like dishonesty.” Kyungsoo answered curtly. And it was partially true.

            “Would you have spoken to me if I had told you what I was?” No one is that pure. That inherently good. He didn’t know why, but he wanted to hurt him. He was ashamed of himself and the way Kyungsoo looked at him, condemning and understanding all at once. No. He didn’t want this. Kyungsoo needed to feel the way he did. Because the only way he could live was if he brought Kyungsoo down to his level and made him just as dirty, bitter, and defiled.

            “At least then I would have known what to expect.” Kyungsoo answered softly.

            “Ah.” Jongin gave a soft laugh. “Don’t tell me you started to fall for me? I don’t know if you could afford to keep a mistress. And your high and mighty morals wouldn’t allow for it, even if your accounts did.” And there was a whisper of a plea for acceptance. He watched Kyungsoo intently, because he wanted just a flicker of a chance that Kyungsoo felt the same. That he had thought of it.

            Because Jongin would have accepted without a second thought.

            But the only thing in Kyungsoo’s eyes were tears. He hurriedly wiped them away and his smile was professional and terrifying. He reached for his bag and for a moment Jongin thought he would bolt. But he simply pulled something out of it and headed back toward the bed.

“You’ll be fine.” Kyungsoo placed the bottle of pills on the table to his left. “Take this twice a day with a full glass of water. It will help reduce the fever.”

            “How much?”

            “Don’t worry about it.” Kyungsoo slipped on his coat. All this time, Jongin had made him play the fool. Had he come to the train station to pick up a client, only to pick up Kyungsoo by mistake? It made sense, the way Jongin had been so genuinely surprised at Kyungsoo’s words that night. He’d thought Kyungsoo was a rich patron. He had been completely duped.

            “I don’t need your charity. I can afford this.” Jongin already had Kyungsoo’s scorn. He didn’t need his pity.

            Kyungsoo had stood, ignoring Jongin’s words as he headed for the door. “I don’t need your money. The pills aren’t that expensive.” Kyungsoo paused at the doorway. “If other symptoms present themselves, be sure to make an appointment. There is a clinic near the University for medical students. They’ll treat you.” I don’t think I can do this again.

            “I can’t come looking for you?” And there was a vulnerability behind the scorn. A vulnerability that Kyungsoo pretended he didn’t notice because if he gave in, he wasn’t sure what would happen.

            “It’s troublesome.” He didn’t know what he was feeling right now—or how he was supposed to feel. Humiliated? Angry? He needed to get out of there, to distance himself from the situation so he could properly think about it.

            And with that, he fled.

Geum-eocho Street, Hanseong

Friday, 10:12pm, May 13^th, 1858

“Wǎn.”

Chanyeol stared at the object that Yixing motioned toward. He gave a small nod and repeated, “wǎn.”

Yixing nodded with a pleased smile. Chanyeol grinned and pointed back at the bowl, “Geuleus.”

It had taken around three hours, but Chanyeol was proud to say that he had learned the Chinese word for almost every single item found within a kitchen. Yixing was a patient teacher, and he enjoyed learning the Korean in turn. Zitao was a bit more taciturn, but he begrudgingly practiced along with them and pointed out when Chanyeol pronounced things incorrectly.

Until Jongdae arrived and they began their newspaper in earnest, Chanyeol had been left with little to do. He’d found himself visiting Yixing and Zitao more often, especially since all Baekhyun wanted to do was go exploring. The other Korean man was secretive about where he went, and he said he didn’t like it when Chanyeol tagged along in his Western clothes.

It seemed as if the stronger his knee got, the more cantankerous he became. He was like a bear just come out of hibernation, and Chanyeol planned on giving him space. But that left him with very few people to talk to, especially since Kyungsoo was always off at the university or holed up in his laboratory in the basement.

There was only Yixing and Zitao, whose Korean was minimal at best. He’d decided to remedy that and brush up on his Chinese at the same time. So far it was going swimmingly. They’d worked on greetings the first day, and how to introduce yourself. After that they’d decided to stick to sets of objects…and today’s lesson had found them sitting at the kitchen table.

Yixing had just been about to tell Chanyeol the Chinese word for cup when he spotted Zitao tearing off the second wing of the Cornish game hen they’d made for supper. He frowned, “You had the first one, put that down.”

“But the wings are the best.” Zitao whined.

Chanyeol watched the two argue over the rim of his teacup. He thought Zitao was cute, despite how rigid he always seemed. If he stopped scowling so often he might even seem approachable. The strong façade Zitao wore faded quickly when his brother scolded him. He returned to being a petulant child, and was currently pouting while Yixing took the chicken wing out of his hand and placed it back on the plate.

Chanyeol reached over and grabbed the wing, “Dalg nalgae.” He took a bite and grinned as Zitao’s frown deepened and he let out a dramatic sigh.

Yixing opened his mouth to tell Chanyeol the Chinese word when they heard the front door open. Chanyeol turned with a grin, “Baekhyun, you’re back.”

Baekhyun paused near the table and held up a burlap sack. “Here’s the things you asked for.”

“The market closed a few hours ago, didn’t it?” Chanyeol smiled, opening the sack, “What else did you do today?”

“Sorry not all of us can move as quickly as you.” Baekhyun snapped.

Chanyeol blinked, taken aback at the outburst. “I wasn’t—”

“Even if I wasn’t a cripple, you don’t need to know where I was. It’s my life.”

Chanyeol’s confused smile turned into a frown. Baekhyun was staring down at him, fists clenched and chin jutted out in defiance, as if he were merely waiting for Chanyeol to fight back so he could take a swing at him. “…sorry.” He couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“Continue your little Chinese tea party.” Baekhyun huffed, whirling around. He stalked out of the kitchen toward the door, footsteps heavy. Chanyeol, Yixing, and Zitao remained silent, though Zitao looked like he wanted to say something. 

They heard the door open a few moments later and a muffled conversation before the door slammed shut. Kyungsoo appeared in the doorway, shrugging off his coat.

“Hey Kyung, how was work?”

Kyungsoo turned to him distractedly. “Ah, sorry. What did you ask?”

Chanyeol’s frown deepened. “I asked about your work.” He wondered why Kyungsoo hadn’t asked about Baekhyun, because he’d obviously met him on the way out. But Kyungsoo didn’t seem to be focused on much of anything. He was still holding his jacket, as if he’d expected the coat rack to be in the kitchen.

“It was fine.” It didn’t look like it had been fine.

“Are you hungry?”

“No. No, I’m going down to the laboratory to work for a bit” Kyungsoo waved him off absently and stalked down the hallway, leaving the three men to sit in confused silence.

Sunkyungkwan University, Hanseong

Saturday, 12:10pm, May 14^th, 1858

            Oh Seyoung checked her reflection in the hallway window outside of the professors’ offices and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Somehow it had gotten out of the coif she’d had her maid style earlier that morning. Gayong never seemed to do anything right. She would probably end up telling mother where Seyoung had snuck off to and she’d be sent to bed without dinner.

            But it didn’t matter, not if she got to see Doctor Do.

            She placed her hands to her cheeks and smiled to herself. She hadn’t been able to forget him since her father’s dinner party. He’d been so kind, so courteous, so handsome. There were so many things she’d wanted to ask him that night, but etiquette dictated she wasn’t to speak at the table.

            This time though, without her pesky meddling father, she’d be able to talk to him properly! She’d made sure to dress in her finest gown from London. She wondered how out of fashion it was…Doctor Do had been on par with the elite of the ton…surely he would know if her dress was from an old season…oh why hadn’t she worn a hanbok instead? She’d wanted to show off her knowledge of England but she was just going to make herself look like a fool.

            She bit her lip and considered turning around. She made it halfway before she bumped into a student coming the opposite direction. “Oh!” She stumbled, but the young man caught her and righted her before she could trip up in her hoop skirts.

            She nodded her head in thanks, “Thank you, my lord,” she looked up at her savior and blinked. He was smartly dressed, and handsome in an almost ethereal way…like the elves in the picture books her little sister read. His eyes were large and dark—like Doctor Do’s—but his expression was one of bemusement. Doctor Do would have fussed over her and asked if she were alright. This boy simply stared.

            Uncultured couth.

            “The only women allowed on campus are the maids and cooks, and you seem a bit too upper class for drudgery work.” The boy leaned against the wall and raised an eyebrow. “What are you doing here?”

            Seyoung pursed her lips. Should she ask this man for help? There weren’t many other options…even if this boy had a strange accent. “Excuse me, do you know where I can find Doctor Do?”

            The young man seemed taken aback, “Why do you need to see Doctor Do?”

            “Do you know him?” Seyoung brightened.

            “We’ve had tea once or twice.” The foreign boy answered, “He hasn’t been on campus since last night. He doesn’t have classes today, so he’s probably at home.”

            “What?” Seyong practically wailed. All of this for nothing? She’d be punished and she hadn’t even seen her doctor! “He won’t be here at all today?”

            “No. He’s—”

            “Oh Seyoung, what are you doing?”

            Seyoung froze, wide-eyed as her older brother stalked down the hallway toward her, his permanent scowl even more prominent. “I…I was…”

            “She was looking for Doctor Do,” The foreign man grinned, “Our professor seems to be quite popular with the ladies.”

            Sehun didn’t bother to spare Luhan a passing glance. He grabbed his sister’s arm. “You are going home right now. Where is Gayong?”

            “She’s at home.” Seyoung pulled her arm out of his grasp and pouted. “Why are you always so mean? I just came here to talk to Doctor Do.”

            “It isn’t proper.”

            “I don’t care what’s proper! You’re just a big bully!” Seyoung cried out, fleeing down the hallway with a last sob and a curse, “You’re horrible Sehun!”

            Sehun watched his sister turn another corner and storm off and gave a sigh. The last thing he’d expected to see was his sister cajoling with Luhan of all people. His eyes narrowed as he turned to the Chinese student. “Stay away from my sister.”

            Luhan didn’t seem to find it necessary to inform Sehun that Seyoung had spoken to him of her own volition. “I’m surprised you’re awake enough to feel protective. I thought you’d sleep in after that rousing speech last night at the theatre.”

            Sehun paused. “You were there.”

            Luhan continued to smile. “Your anonymity works both ways, I’m afraid.”

            “It won’t take long to root out the weeds.” Sehun snapped back. “You should return to Beijing now.”

            “I don’t intend to go anywhere.” Luhan answered smoothly. “I like Hanseong, and the last I checked, I was allowed to be here.”

            “That will change soon enough.” Sehun managed, swallowing back a curse. He couldn’t let Luhan rile him. Luhan enjoyed making him angry…it was time he did the same thing. He’d never seen the other man do anything except smirk. It was time to wipe that expression from his face.

            “I heard the reason you came here was to look for your mother. There’s a rumor that she’s Korean.”

            Luhan’s eyes narrowed.

            Sehun felt his own smirk forming. “The great Marquis of Beijing had an affair with a Korean noblewoman—or was she a prostitute? The details of the rumor are rather hazy.”

            He saw Luhan’s jaw tighten and his kit-gloved hands curl into fists. He wondered if he’d take a swing at him. He was itching for a fight. Instead, Luhan took a deep breath and nodded his head in a cold goodbye.

            “But even though half of your blood is Korean, the Chinese part of you makes it impossible for you to be accepted here.”

“A word of advice,” Luhan paused in his exit. “The leaders of a revolution rarely survive. The people will turn on you. You’re the son of Lord Oh. What makes you think you’ll be safe from their wrath?”

            “I am different than my father. I’m not one of them.” Sehun spat.

“You wear British clothes made on British machines and you preach French philosophy.” Luhan eyed Sehun coolly. “You cannot escape the West, you only make a fool and a hypocrite of yourself.”

“You know nothing!”

“I know exactly what you’re doing and you’re going to incite a rebellion that will destroy us all. The British are not the enemy you should be facing now.”

“They are always the enemy!” And so are you.

“There are dead walking outside our walls.” Luhan’s voice trembled. “And you want to create more? Grow up, Oh Sehun. Before it’s too late.”

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Candle to the Devil Chapter 12

            While the government within the Walled Cities did their utmost to keep the cities safe, several cities fell to the Afflicted. Jeonju and Hamheung were early casualties, from both lack of security and the speed of which the virus spread. Soon it became apparent that other measure would need to be taken to not only ensure that the cities remained safe, but to protect the remaining lives of those in the other cities in case of an outbreak.

            Officials agreed that the best way to protect the other cities was to reduce the number of Afflicted left behind after a city was breached. This meant, however, devising a cruel and ruthless system. Once a city was breached, it was nearly impossible to stop the invasion and curb the number of casualties. Only one recordation of such a feat was the city of Beijing, during the early Walled Cities Period where an outbreak from an infected railroad worker was systematically culled by authorities and an entire area of the city put in quarantine for weeks.

            Some cities tried to devise inner walls that could be closed to keep infection contained. This proved to not only be costly, but it also led to several riots over where these walls were to be made and whether or not the nobility could build their own walls to protect areas of interest and leave the common folk largely unprotected. Only one city successfully used the multiple inner wall system in Asia; Kolkata the capital of the Indian state of West Bengal.

            It later came to pass, that an efficient and ruthless device could be used to quickly eradicate life within an infected city. These devices were named Incineration Towers. Placed strategically within the city and connected through an underground system, triggering only one of these devices would lead to the destruction of everything within the walls. Once an Incineration Tower was activated, the heat conducted within these tower-like devices would surge through the underground systems of highly flammable liquid that would then set the city aflame. The system dictated that there were engineers at each tower day and night to initiate the city’s incineration in case of an outbreak.

            These devices, while sinister, could have been a defining factor in the ending of the RCN viral strain, though their usage is still very much in debate in higher circles. While some argue that the deaths of those within the city walls led to the success and well-being of those within uninfected cities, others say that the devices were inhumane and meaningless in the overall fight against RCN.

-excerpt from And the Flames Ever Burned by Melissa Chung

Chapter 12

Geum-eocho Street, Hanseong

Monday, 10:14am, May 9^th, 1858

The basement looked like an alchemist’s lab to Chanyeol. He watched Kyungsoo stare down through a contraption—he’d told him its name long ago and he’d forgotten it—with wide eyes and pursed lips. On the far wall, a table was covered in beakers and phials that bubbled. It smelled odd—not bad, but not pleasant either.

The place was still in a state of disarray, with equipment lying in boxes against one wall. There weren’t enough tables yet, or shelves for storage. The furnace in the corner remained unlit.

“What’s that?”

“Hm?” Kyungsoo straightened in surprise. “When did you come in?”

“Just now.” Chanyeol shut the door and walked toward the table where Kyungsoo had begun scribbling notes.

“It’s research.” He didn’t elaborate, which was just as well. Chanyeol probably wouldn’t understand anyway. Kyungsoo was fun to watch when he was concentrating, but not fun to listen to when he was explaining. It was all far too complicated for Chanyeol’s tastes. And even though Kyungsoo was never condescending, it always sounded a bit like he was being talked down to. It was something nobility never understood. The way they worded things as if they should be obvious, the large words that they thought everyone knew.

“How is the office coming along?”

Chanyeol shrugged, then felt foolish as he realized Kyungsoo wasn’t watching. “Baekhyun and I bought most of the equipment and supplies Jongdae asked for, but we can’t build his machines. We’ll have to wait for him to get here.”

“He should be here by the end of the week, shouldn’t he?”

“That’s what he told us.” Chanyeol felt uneasiness building in his stomach. He didn’t understand it, but he’d thought something was off since a few nights ago. Jongdae should have sent them a telegram by now. He had said he would before sending the machines. Maybe Chanyeol would go down to the telegraph station and have them wire the old office…

Kyungsoo looked up and gave a small smile. “Remind me later to come by and check on Baekhyun’s leg.”

            Chanyeol nodded. “He seems to be walking better, but he’s still got a limp.” That hadn’t stopped him from heading out every few nights into town, but Chanyeol hadn’t questioned him about it. It was good to see Baekhyun up and doing something rather than moping about. Teaching the other man how to read was an uphill battle, made worse by Baekhyun’s pride and Chanyeol’s own lack of knowledge.

            “That’s all in his head. The knee cap is functioning perfectly.” Kyungsoo frowned, “I can’t help him with his mind. That isn’t my forte.”

            “Is it anyone’s?” Chanyeol hadn’t heard of any ‘mind doctors’.

            “It’s an interesting area of study. There are a few people that have looked into it, but the medical field hasn’t legitimized any of the findings.”

            “So it’s a bunch of quacks.”

            “Well,” Kyungsoo laughed, “That’s what they’ve said about the rest of the medical field for centuries. So maybe one day it will become a true area of study. Who knows?” He scribbled something else down.

            “The house looks nice. Upstairs, at least. This place is still a wreck.” Chanyeol glanced over at one of the glass vials and watched it bubble for a few moments. “Yixing and Zitao have done a lot.”

            Kyungsoo nodded. “They’re diligent. I appreciate their hard work. Everything was in proper order upon my arrival.”

            “What are you going to do with them now that you don’t need them to move things?”

            “I thought they could stay on with me for a while. I need people to look after the house. When you’ve taught them enough Korean they can try and find jobs elsewhere if they want.” Kyungsoo frowned at something he was looking at. “…mmmm, I’ll have to do another test.”

            Chanyeol walked toward his friend and glanced down at the scribblings in his notebook. Most of it was in English that Chanyeol could not read, but there were a few messy hangul in the side margins. Pagoe was written next to a long mathematical equation.

            “Kyungsoo.”

            “Hm?” Kyungsoo continued writing.

            “…what is your research? Are you sure it’s safe?”

            Kyungsoo paused, pen threatening to spill a large glob of ink on the paper below. “It’s just a bit of guesswork, Yeol. Don’t worry about it too much.”

            “That looks like a lot of research for guesswork.”

            “You can’t even read it.” Kyungsoo frowned, a flicker of irritation crossing his face before it softened again to his usual demeanor. Chanyeol had seen this happen more than once. Kyungsoo had always hidden his anger like that, even when they’d fought as children. “It’s nothing to worry about.”

            “If it isn’t anything to worry about then why won’t you tell me what it is?” Chanyeol needled, and he saw the frown curling the edges of Kyungsoo’s lips again. Kyungsoo looked back at his work, and for a moment Chanyeol thought that was the end of the conversation. The sound of Kyungsoo’s pen scratching against paper echoed.

            Kyungsoo’s favorite way of engaging in arguments was by pretending they were already over. If he felt that the situation was too heated he’d simply stop talking about it. Sometimes Chanyeol thought it was because he didn’t trust Chanyeol to remain if he really yelled at him. That was stupid, of course. They’d been friends for ages. A little fighting wouldn’t change that.

“Humans are fragile.” Kyungsoo stared down his microscope, jolting Chanyeol out of his thoughts. “But for some reason we’ve persisted. The only strong point we have is our ability to adapt. It’s kept us alive until now and if we allow ourselves a bit of free thinking we’ll continue living.”

“Free thinking?” Chanyeol eyed him warily. “Free thinking sounds a bit dangerous.” The British excommunicated people for that.

“Oh, it is dangerous.” Kyungsoo assented, looking up from his work to meet Chanyeol’s gaze squarely. “It’s dangerous to the people clinging to power through God and Divine Will and Right.”

Chanyeol gripped his arm tightly. “Kyung, be careful.”

“Hm?” Kyungsoo blinked, before he gave a bright innocent smile. “No one else is here. You can’t believe that there are spies around waiting to find some information to have me thrown from court? We’re not in the palace. I’m just a doctor. And it’s just a bit of experimentation.”

Chanyeol had seen what happened to those that questioned authority. On the small scale he’d helped clean Jongdae’s wounds after a scathing article. He’d heard the horror stories of execution and excommunication. He could only imagine what might happen if Kyungsoo were to speak out publically, whatever it was he was working on.

Kyungsoo, of all people, should have known what happened to those that challenged power.

Gyeongbokgung, Hanseong

Wednesday, 1:19pm, May 11^th, 1858

Lord Bruce had left, and a part of Suho’s headache had gone with him. Aiding Lord Oh enable Lord Bruce’s unknown tastes had been a noxious twisting in his stomach that had only now loosened. He hadn’t asked Lord Oh what Lord Bruce looked for in the red light district. He didn’t want to know, and he knew his nerves wouldn’t be able to handle it, even if his slowly diminishing morals could.

He was thankful that the man was gone but a part of him almost wanted him to remain. With him there, the court had been relatively quiet in hopes of seeming strong and unified toward the British. If there was one thing they could agree on other than slavery, it was that Joseon needed to remain strong in the eyes of the West.

            Now that he was safely on a ship headed back to London, the court was beginning to fester, like an open wound. It was only a matter of time before the smell of rot was noted by the emperor.

            Joonmyun had not expected the emperor to demand his presence. His position, while high in the House, had been given to him, not earned. He did not see how he could be of any help to anyone with so little political power. Also, it was well-known to everyone now that he was allied with Lord Oh. That meant any hopes of the emperor gaining an ally in him was slim. Even if Joonmyun had wanted such an alliance—and he didn’t entirely believe he did—the threat of crossing Lord Oh was more dangerous than a puppet emperor.

            He had visited Gyeonbokgung only a handful of times before this. The palace seemed cold and dead, more like a tomb than the center of Joseon’s power. The House of Lords in Deoksugung held far more prestige, even after it had been renovated to fit the architectural style of its counterpart in London.

“Lord Kim arrives to meet his majesty!” The courtier crowed as Joonmyun stepped into the royal hall. He was a eunuch, from the look of his robes. The British had forced Joseon to outlaw castration of imperial servants years ago, but the eunuchs from the previous emperor’s reign remained. Their castration had become a sort of status symbol among those that served the emperor, as if only eunuchs could be true and loyal servants.

            Joonmyun had no problem with the outlawing of the practice. He’d heard enough horror stories of earlier castration methods and even the newer, safer ones made him cringe.

            The eunuch shuffled back a few feet and bowed his head as Joonmyun walked forward toward the throne where the emperor sat. When he had been young, Joonmyun had been in awe of this man. The Emperor of all of Joseon seemed a powerful thing.

            It had taken only a short period of time for the awe to wear thin. The Emperor was a puppet of the House of Lords, nothing more. The austerity of the palace was a front. The only reason he remained at all was because of Britain’s own monarch. China had long since rid themselves of such ties, having only nobility leading each city like a group of feudal lords.

            The man in front of him was no son of heaven.

            He was old, and tired, and human. His beard was whiter than the last time Joonmyun had seen him, and his wrinkles were far more pronounced. The bright crimson of his robes seemed faded somehow, and the throne room smelled of a mixture of incense and mothballs. Joonmyun tried not to show his distaste.

            Joonmyun knelt, “Lord Kim Joonmyun greets His Majesty.”

            “Rise.” The emperor rasped, and Joonmyun did so. He lifted his head and paused for a moment. Standing to the emperor’s left was Lord Kim, the Cabinet Secretary. The room in the air seemed colder now.

            The emperor shifted on his throne and the wood creaked beneath his weight. “I have heard that you recently became engaged to Lord Oh’s youngest daughter.”

            “Yes, your majesty.” Joonmyun nodded. He was not entirely certain yet where this conversation was going.

            “Congratulations are in order, then.” The emperor smiled, and it almost seemed sincere. He did not have the cold, calculative demeanor of the nobility that surrounded him. Either he felt he was above such plotting and power struggles or he had given up.

            “Thank you, your majesty.”

            “Once a man marries he has much to focus on. A wife and children are a great responsibility.” The emperor paused. “It seems almost cruel to make you bear such a weight and still hold you to your responsibilities as Lord Great Chamberlain.”

            Joonmyun looked up quickly, too shocked to follow protocol, and his gaze met Lord Kim’s. The Cabinet Secretary’s face was impassive, but there was something glimmering in the depths of his eyes. This was not something the emperor had decided on his own.

            Was this how Lord Kim dealt with all of his political enemies, or just the ones weak enough to pick on?

            Joonmyun mustered a pleasant smile. “We are merely engaged, your majesty. The marriage will not take place for at least a year. It is much too early to think of children and the running of a new estate. There is no reason I cannot faithfully serve your majesty.”

            “Faithfully serve?” Lord Kim murmured, almost too low to hear. His lips curled into a sneer beneath his trim beard.

            Whether the emperor noted Lord Kim’s mocking tone or simply chose to ignore it was unknown, but he smiled genteelly at Joonmyun all the same. “I am glad to hear it. Your father was a very wise man. I hope you will serve Joseon as well as he did.”

            My father was a coward with his finger in too many pies. He didn’t choose a side for fear of picking the wrong one and it nearly ruined our family. Joonmyun swallowed and lowered his head again in a sign of customary reverence, “Your servant only wishes to do what is best for Joseon. I will continue to do so readily.”

            As Joonmyun was dismissed and found himself walking down the empty, cold halls of the palace, he found himself shaking. Between the emperor and Lord Oh, a choice had to be made.

            The emperor and Lord Kim’s Joseon was like a wounded tiger. It bled and growled and was in this moment more dangerous than the last for there was nothing left to lose. But soon it would bleed out. It would fall, and the hunter would skin it and place the pelt in its salon for the world to see.

            The future did not lie with the emperor. The future of Joseon was parliament and progress, there was no way around it. Joonmyun didn’t believe in everything that Lord Oh did. He knew the man was cruel. He knew that the moment Joonmyun became useless to him he would be tossed aside.

            Joonmyun swallowed and looked to his hands. They were still trembling. Was he really that afraid? Yes, yes he was. He was a coward, just like his father. This battle for power between Lord Oh and Lord Kim would kill him, he was certain of it.

The Blue Crane, somewhere on the East Sea

Friday, 4:32 pm, May 13^th, 1858

           

            Jongdae couldn’t remember how long they’d been at sea, but he’d slowly developed some resistance to his crippling sea sickness. He’d managed to spend the entire day without vomiting, though the thought of food while on deck made his stomach do flips.

            His charming personality hadn’t withered over the course of his illness, and Minseok had threatened to pitch him overboard daily. It was only Minseok’s immediate dislike and distrust of the smuggling crew that kept him from going through with any of his threats.

            The crew ignored them for the most part—it was what they were paid to do—but it kept Minseok’s options for company quite limited.

            The two were in Minseok’s cabin; the place where they always ended up. This same cabin that Jongdae had also frequented since the first two nights on board when the captain had threatened to dump them both in the ocean if he found Jongdae ‘snooping around’.

            Minseok wasn’t entirely happy with his new roommate, but the closer an eye he kept on Jongdae the better, and that was easier to do when they shared the same sleeping quarters. Jongdae had made himself comfortable in a small nook on the far side of the wall, fastening a hammock out of some burlap. Minseok didn’t want to think how Jongdae had acquired it, or the accompanying sack he’d stuffed with old rags for a pillow.

            Jongdae was in his hammock now, eyes closed as he drummed his fingers against his stomach. In. Out. One. Two. No vomiting. No nausea. Don’t think about the vomit—shit. He took a few more breaths. In. Out. One. Two.

            Minseok couldn’t help but eye the briefcase resting beneath Jongdae’s hammock. He’d brought it aboard and kept it close ever since. It was well-made, expensive leather. It wasn’t the kind of thing that Minseok expected a newspaper editor to own. Most of Jongdae’s clothing seemed quite lavish. He’d thought perhaps it was just Jongdae’s fondness for showing off, but it left him curious all the same.

            And curiosity was the only thing he had to pass the time. “You seem rather…rich for a newspaper editor.”

Jongdae didn’t open his eyes, but a slow smile tilted his lips. “That is because I wasn’t always a newspaper editor.”

Minseok blinked. “Hm?”

“My father was a merchant of Jeonju before it fell. Luckily he left me a hefty sum in the bank at Hanseong in case anything was to happen to the family.” He opened an eye and glanced sidelong at Minseok. “It was a nice investment, and it let me do whatever I wanted without worrying about food and shelter.”

A Jeonju merchant, hm? “Why didn’t you continue the business?”

“I gave it to my sister.” Jongdae answered back, sitting up. He swung his legs over the side of the cloth to steady himself and then proceeded to fluff his pillow. “She has a better mind for business. I took my half of the inheritance and opened up my office.”

“Why journalism?”

“Why not?”

The deflection wasn’t what Minseok had expected, but he supposed it was better than a witty rebuttle. He’d expected some kind of sarcastic remark. Jongdae’s decision not to answer the question meant that the reason he’d turned to journalism wasn’t just because he’d thought it would be fun. 

Jongdae leaned forward a bit. “Now what about you? A General Inspector waltzing around with the imperial seal on his identification tag... Let me guess, your father is a member of the lesser political party. It would explain your loyalty to the emperor—wait.” His eyes widened and his smile stretched. “You’re the emperor’s dog!”

He barely saw Minseok move. By the time he realized what was happening the other man had slammed Jongdae against the wall. The back of his head hit a pipe and stars danced in front of his eyes. It took him a few moments to blink them away.

Minseok puffed out his cheeks in annoyance and Jongdae would have found it cute if Minseok’s hand wasn’t around his throat. He gave a smile that he hoped looked relaxed. “Now calm down,” He winced as his voice cracked. “Dogs are good animals. Everyone loves dogs.” The hand tightened.

A new tactic would need to be used. “If you strangle me you’ll have a hard time explaining that to the crew.”

Minseok let go slowly. Jongdae took in several deep breaths and glared. “You’re rather sensitive, aren’t you?” He threw up his hands as Minseok stepped forward. “Alright, alright, it was a joke.”

Jongdae was almost entirely certain that Minseok would have found a way to murder him if they hadn’t heard the yelling from above deck. The two exchanged looks before darting up the stairs—Minseok was faster, Jongdae still had to clutch his stomach and find his bearings as the boat rocked back and forth. The waves seemed to be getting rougher. Had they hit a storm?

The deck was utter chaos.

Sailors were running around tending sails and shouting orders at one another. Most of them had seemed to forget their duties and were crowded around the port side of the ship.

The sky had just begun to darken, but above the sailor’s heads Minseok could see an unearthly, orange glow. He and Jongdae shoved their way through the crowd. A loud siren pierced the air, traveling quickly across the bay toward their ship.

Hong Kong was being overrun.

“My god…what is going on?” Jongdae managed, turning to Minseok. But the other man’s eyes were trained on the harbor. His grip was tight on the railing, eyes scanning the city. Finally he shoved away and began searching the ship. Another sailor took his spot beside Jongdae.

“They’re breaking through the gates. Oh god.”

He could hear the sounds of gunshots rippling across the ocean. The guards at Hong Kong’s front gate were trying to hold off the Afflicted with little success. The next minute or so was spent listening to gunshots and sirens and seeing the occasional flash of an electrical surge.

Jongdae felt like a coward because he never once entertained the idea of going to help. Not like Minseok, who shouted at the captain and demanded they go to shore and collect any survivors.

The entire city seemed to go silent for a brief moment, and then a blaze of flame so bright Jongdae had to close his eyes filled the sky. It burned through his eyelids, imprinting the backdrop of the city onto them. He heard several sailors cry out, but their sounds were nothing compared the screams that began the moment the Incineration Towers were lit.

Jongdae felt sick. He was glad he wasn’t the only one to rush to the side and empty his stomach. I had been doing so well too. Two days without puking, he thought absently, and the calmness told him he was in shock.

He’d read about the Incineration Towers and he’d walked past the ones in Haeju on severa occasions, but he’d never witnessed them being used. He never wanted to again. It seemed as if Hong Kong had become incased in hellfire, the flames and smoke twisted into the air and spiraling upward into a column of orange-tinted gray.

The heat waves hit them at some point, almost blistering. The smoke was thick and carried with it the scent of charred flesh. The moment his stomach seemed to be under control the smell would hit him again and he’d double over the side. Soon there wasn’t anything left to throw up.

They remained anchored off shore until Hong Kong was nothing but a pile of ash and bones.

Jongdae’s gaze was trained on the churning waters in front of them. Night had fallen quickly, enveloping them in an inky black haze. The city had been reduced to a dull glow, but he could still hear the occasional yell. Who could have possible survived those flames?

“What’s that—in the water sir, what’s that?”

“Where are the spotlights?” The captain roared. “Position them toward the bay!”

The lights were lit, blazing to life behind him. Jongdae flinched, reminded of the Incineration Towers that had blazed hours before—it seemed a lifetime ago.

There was movement in the water a mile or so ahead of them. Jongdae narrowed his eyes. Those were…people? Survivors! People had managed to swim into the bay before the Incineration Towers reached them!

“It’s people sir!”

“They’re swimmin’ in the water!”

Minseok was beside him again, straining to catch a glimpse of the people in the dark water. His lips were pursed and his face pale.

“Gather your guns, men.” The captain ordered, looking out at the ocean. “Shoot them as soon as they are within range. Aim for the head, boys.”

Minseok’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Those are people out there sir, not Afflicted.”

The captain leveled a hard look at the younger man. “We can’t let anyone on board. They might have been infected.”

“Afflicted can’t cross running water. They’re swimming here. They aren’t infected!” Minseok argued, looking desperately between the captain and the floundering survivors.

“It could take days for the change to be completed. I will not endanger my crew for a few damned Chinese.” The man shoved past them and began barking orders to the crew. “Get your guns, you lazy asses, and heat those engines! We have to make it to Beijing.”

Minseok reached into his sleeve and Jongdae grabbed his arm, shaking his head. “That won’t help you here, not with these people. The emperor’s seal means nothing to them.” Jongdae’s grip tightened as Minseok tried to pull away. “Look. None of the other ships are going back either. No one is going to help. Everyone knows it’s suicide except for you.”

Minseok looked back out at the bay. It was true. Of the few ships that had been sufficiently manned and anchored far enough out at sea, none were stopping to help the people of Hong Kong. Most of the ships had left the moment the fire had begun. Only a few had stayed, and they remained silent and still as their crews stared out at the destruction on shore.

“Let’s go belowdeck.” Jongdae managed, swallowing back a mouthful of bile. “Come on.” He didn’t let go of Minseok’s arm, even as several sailors armed with rifles began to take their positions along the railing. “Come on.” He repeated weakly.

Minseok looked ready to protest, ready to fight, but his shoulders sagged and he took a few steps backward, letting Jongdae lead him to the stairs. They’d just reached them when the gunfire began.

Sunkyungkwan University, Hanseong

Friday, 8:11pm, May 13^th, 1858

            “Have a good evening, Professor Do.”

            Kyungsoo waved farewell to the group of students as he exited the main hall and walked out onto the grounds. Evening was beginning to fall, but several groups of students were still milling around the gardens.

            They’d taken to staying within the grounds as of late after a stern warning from the headmaster. Several new Joseon purist groups had sprung to life in Hanseong, and the mobs that filled the streets to listen to their talks was unsettling. Even with the police to keep them in line it was hard to get further into town safely on foot.

            Even in his carriage, Kyungsoo never felt entirely safe. The groups hadn’t resorted to violence of any sort, only staged protests. But they accosted people on the streets and made it difficult for anyone to get past.

            Kyungsoo also knew that the main reason that the headmaster was warning students away from going out was his fear that they would somehow get involved with one of these groups. The students of Sunkyungkwan were known to be a powerful ally in government. They held the singular ability to stop meetings of parliament and to directly bring proclamations from the people to the emperor. As long as the president of the student body and the rest of the student council agreed to it, they could make things very difficult for anyone they opposed.

            This power was one rarely used. Kyungsoo believed the last time the students had gathered had been when he was seven, over a regulatory system for the meat industry within the walled cities. It had led to the government sanctioning all meat to keep the prices stable so that the commonfolk could afford them.

            If the student council and enough of the student body became enamored with this idea of a Korean-only Joseon, it could cause quite a lot of problems. Kyungsoo didn’t think they had much to worry about. Several of the student council members had fathers that were avid supporters of the British influence in Joseon, and his student Luhan was the council’s secretary. It would be difficult to get a unanimous decision on the subject out of that group.

            But still…those that feared change were dangerous, especially if they were ignorant.

            Kyungsoo shook his head. He had problems of his own to deal with, he didn’t have time to worry about politics. He neared the gate and frowned as he spotted a crowd of students mingling at the entrance.

            One of the students glanced back and noticed him, “Professor Do! Someone is looking for you!”

            Kyungsoo’s frowned deepened. Someone was looking for him? As the student spoke Professor Do’s name, the crowd parted instantly to let him through, all watching intently. Standing on the curb just outside the gate was a woman.

            She was dressed in an elegant hanbok with a multitude of brightly colored pins scattering her hair, and a well-worn shawl pulled across her shoulders. As she spotted him her eyes brightened, “Are you Doctor Do?”

            Kyungsoo nodded warily. “I am. Who might be asking?”

            The woman lurched forward and grabbed his hands, clasping them tightly between her own as she looked up at him desperately. “Doctor Do, you must hurry!” Tears clung to her eyelashes.

            Despite the oddity of a stranger clinging to him, his heart went out to the crying woman. “It’s alright, tell me what’s wrong.” He tried to use his best, most soothing voice, the kind he often reserved for young children.

“I’m a friend of Kai. He said that you would come. You’ll treat him. He said you worked on immigrants so you’d be willing to help us.”

Kyungsoo gave a small nod. “Ok.” He didn’t know who this “Kai” was that he was meant to know, but he knew that someone was sick, someone that no one else would touch. Kyungsoo had always had a weak spot for those discarded by society. “Where is Kai? We can take my carriage.” He was thankful he’d brought his medical bag with him. He’d been giving a lecture on medical equipment earlier that day.

The woman let out a relieved sob. “Oh thank you, thank you.” She began pulling him toward the street, “Hurry, you have to hurry.”

“Of course, of course.” Kyungsoo nodded, waving off his students with a smile. They began to disperse, but they continued to stare at the two, even as Kyungsoo summoned his carriage and allowed the distraught woman to give the driver Kai’s address.

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