I Became a Fallen Noble of Goguryeo

Chapter 10: Pyeongyang Fortress

“Moo-ohh–!!”

A cow-drawn ox cart creaked as it set off down the road.

In Bear Village, roughly ten households pooled together just one cow.

It wasn’t exactly an individual’s property, but more like the village’s communal asset, and the villagers willingly lent it to me for my journey to Pyeongyang.

That’s how much standing I had.

‘I like this.’

However, the speed was frustratingly slow.

In the 21st century, vehicles like the Damas van could reach speeds of 152 km/h (according to police certification), but an ox is actually slower than a human.

Even if you walked all day, you’d likely manage barely 20 km.

‘Still, it’s better than having nothing.’

In this era, goods were heavy—and currency was even heavier.

Paper money or coins were barely used; currency typically came in forms like grain, salt, cloth, or precious metals.

According to Munso, the value of Grand King mushrooms alone was over 40 seok of millet—more than five tons.

Of course, that weight could be lighter if traded into cloth or salt, but even then, carrying it by hand was a burden.

In this age, a cart was not a luxury—it was nearly essential for trade.

‘At least the roads are decent.’

As a military state, Goguryeo maintained its roads surprisingly well for this period.

I paused to consider where to spend the money.

‘Could I buy a horse or even a Maek-style bow with the money from selling shiitake mushrooms?’

Riding and archery were fundamental—like knowing history or English in 21st-century Korea—for climbing the ranks.

Anything left over, I could swap for grain, salt, or cloth and come away neatly.

As we walked, Munso pointed ahead with his finger.

“Over there—there’s a marker.”

I frowned when I saw the “marker” he pointed at. Naturally, it wasn’t a signpost.

‘Ugh, it’s a human neck…’

What I could see was a flat wooden plank with a severed head displayed neatly on it.

Beneath it seemed to be written the criminal’s crime.

The plank was well-worn—clearly that head wasn’t the first to be placed on it.

And it wouldn’t be the last.

There was a reason putting heads on the roadside wasn’t done without intent.

But unlike me, who felt disgusted at the sight, the villagers seemed accustomed and chatted as they passed by.

“What’s written below? Looks like Idu script.”

“If you could read, I’d be a valedictorian scholar or some farmer?”

No one in the village could read.

Neither could I. Nor could my mother, who had lost her noble rank when I was young.

Even among nobles, many couldn’t read.

‘The script is just too difficult.’

In this era, they usually used Chinese characters—or Idu, the system that borrowed characters to represent Korean.

Sometimes they borrowed meaning, sometimes sound—and because there was no standard, people wrote slightly differently.

You had to half-guess what they meant.

As far as I know, much later, Seol Chong—the famous son of the monk Wonhyo—attempted to organize and standardize Idu… but Seol Chong lived another hundred years later.

In this age, being literate wasn’t common sense—it was a specialized skill, like medicine or law in the 21st century.

Just as wealthy people in the 21st century brought their personal physicians or expert lawyers, nobles here often brought along literate monks as portable TTS devices.

‘I really yearn for Hangul.’

As I was marveling at Hangul’s greatness…

One of the villagers watching the head spoke.

“It seems someone was robbed and killed while traveling.”

“Huh? Do you read?”

“No. But I know his face. Look— isn’t that the traveling merchant who came to our village often?”

“Oh, it really is?”

Others recognized the head as well.

“Right! It is him! He had a strong face. Since business wasn’t going well, maybe he resorted to robbery?”

“Good thing it wasn’t happening around our village! Glad he croaked! Glad he croaked!”

“At least the robber problem is off our mind. Flies aren’t swarming yet—he must’ve died recently.”

In the 21st century, a criminal’s head is useless—but in this era, it served many purposes.

It warned: “No robbers after this!”

“It’s a good sign the head is displayed—means you’re on the right path.”

“If you go in the opposite direction of the head’s gaze, you’ll reach Pyeongyang Fortress.”

Criminal heads were placed facing important nearby areas (because a dead guy looking at you was bad luck)—so they were like signposts.

I marveled at Goguryeo’s postmodern ergonomics in more ways than one and asked:

“But… near the capital there’s only one head?”

“Near the capital there’s one head. If there were too many—or none at all—that would be the issue.”

“...Why?”

“Too many heads means there are many robbers nearby; no heads means no soldiers to catch them.”

So.

Even near the capital, they would place one head? Security’s terrible? (Wrong.)

Ah—security is excellent near the capital so they need only one head! (Right.)

…Just when I thought I was finally getting used to Goguryeo.

Seems I still had a long way to go.

“We’re getting close.”

Far ahead, the capital city of Goguryeo came into view.

And at its heart stood Anhak Palace, surrounded by the Dae-seong mountain fortress, clearly visible even from afar.

‘This is Goguryeo’s second Pyeongyang Fortress.’

In Goguryeo history, the fortresses called Pyeongyang Fortress fall into three main types.

The first was the fortress captured from Lelang Commandery during the reigns of King Daemusin to King Micheon—it served as Lelang’s administrative center.

It was also where King Geunchogo of Baekje killed King Gogukwon in the Battle of Pyeongyang Fortress in the past.

The palace and Dae-seong Mountain Fortress I could now see were constructed by King Jangsu when he moved the capital to Pyeongyang—they represent the second fortress.

‘Wow, it’s huge.’

Anhak Palace was so magnificently built that they excavated two‑meter‑wide roof tiles, and its size was said to be about three times the central palace of Gyeongbokgung.

That may be why even from a distance the main palace was visible.

Indeed, it filled the center of the capital far more grandly than Gyeongbokgung I’d seen someday.

“There—look, the gate. We’ve finally arrived.”

“Phew, that was tough.”

I looked at the entrance to the city centered around Anhak Palace.

What would people normally imagine when thinking of premodern city gates?

Most would probably envision ten-meter-high fortress walls.

If they saw this Goguryeo capital for the first time, they’d be disappointed.

‘About two meters. More like a stone wall than a fortress.’

At this height, it served more as a boundary marker than a defensive fortification.

It meant if enemies attacked, it would fall quickly.

But that didn’t matter much.

‘Pyeongyang Fortress wasn’t built for defense.’

If enemies attacked Pyeongyang Fortress, Goguryeo would abandon Anhak Palace and move about 1 km away to the Dae-seong Mountain Fortress to defend.

The ten-meter-high walls stood there—that’s called a dual-capital system.

Not only Goguryeo, but Silla paired Wolseong with Myeonghwal Mountain Fortress, and Baekje built Pungnap Fortress beside Mongchontoseong.

It was a common approach in that era.

‘Though Goguryeo would eventually switch to a single capital.’

Coincidentally, the villagers were talking about that.

“Over there— what you can just glimpse at the end, is that Jang’an Fortress? Construction’s been going fifteen years already?”

“When will it be fully built… I hope it finishes soon.”

As far as I know, it would take at least twenty more years.

And the “Jang’an Fortress” they were talking about is Goguryeo’s third and final Pyeongyang Fortress.

It stands about eight kilometers from Anhak Palace—large enough to be seen from here too.

‘It was relocated in the reign of the current King Pyeongwon—served as capital until Goguryeo fell, and I hear traces remain in North Korea even today?’

Just as South Korea’s National Treasure No. 1 is Namdaemun, North Korea’s is said to be Jang’an Fortress.

Also, it was Goguryeo’s first and only truly unified capital.

‘It was built in the form of a pyeongsanseong flat-and‑mountain fortress—literally backing a mountain and facing water.’

Pyeongsanseong combines flatland and mountain fortress—basically “back‑mountain, face‑water.”

They usually built it where the Bohyeon and Dong rivers met in a V shape, with Geumsuban to the north as natural defense—protected by terrain.

Despite that topographical advantage, its area was about twice as large as the current city centered on Anhak Palace.

And the capital had a bok­sanseong structure—divided into outer, middle, inner, and northern walls; fifteen years into construction, outer and northern walls were done, and they worked on middle and inner walls.

‘It looks incredibly robust.’

This wasn’t just in appearance.

Historically, it was too.

During the Yeosu War, Go Geonmu repelled Naehoa's navy from this area.

Even during the Japanese invasions of Korea, when Konishi occupied Pyeongyang Fortress, he used this area as a base to resist the Ming-Joseon allied forces for quite a while.

The people of Bear Village talked as they saw it.

“We definitely need to relocate. Just look at the current Dae-seong Mountain Fortress. How could that defend anything?”

“That’s true.”

After King Gwanggaeto fortified Pyeongyang and King Jangsu formally moved the capital there, the residential district of Goguryeo centered around Anhak Palace prospered greatly.

The problem was that prosperity itself.

“Buildings from the capital now nearly touch Dae-seong Mountain Fortress, don’t they?”

That’s how prosperous it became—urban sprawl from Anhak Palace stretched right up to the paths of Dae-seong Fortress.

A fortress needs to be steep and rugged to serve as a defensive structure, but when it’s this close to the city, it loses all value as a fortification.

‘Well then, it’s fortunate they decided to move the capital.’

If they hadn’t built Jang’an Fortress, the Sui might have sacked Pyeongyang directly when they invaded.

“From Bear Village, confirmed. Go on in.”

“Thank you!”

Only after completing a certain process were we allowed to pass through the city gates.

“Wow.”

It was just a 2-meter wall, but inside and outside were clearly different.

To exaggerate a little, it was like the difference between the U.S. and Mexico across the Mexico border wall.

“Look at those houses.”

In the Bronze Age, people lived by digging into the ground, but by this era, such homes were rarely seen.

Most houses in this time were single-room thatched houses with walls built on all sides, and they usually had some form of ondol heating system, even if it was basic.

One family lived in one room together, and when someone married, a new house was built.

No matter how open Goguryeo was, showing your parents how you make grandchildren was apparently too awkward.

Our village was almost entirely made up of these single-room houses too.

But here, it was different.

“Tiled roofs, huh…”

Up until now, I had only seen one house with roof tiles.

It was in the neighboring village of Beomchon—belonged to that punk Soyong, whose teeth I shattered.

In poorer Bear Village, there wasn’t a single tiled house.

But of course, the capital was different.

One in five houses had tiled roofs, and even the thatched houses typically had two or three rooms.

“This is just the outskirts—go deeper, and you’ll barely see any thatched houses. The roof tiles get bigger too. In neighborhoods where the nobles live, you’ll see tiles as big as children, and palace tiles are as big as a person.”

I could roughly guess the layout.

The palace stood at the center, with neighborhoods for nobles and their retainers around it, and the outer zone was where commoners lived.

Though “commoners” was just a word—most of them were considered upper-class commoners like prominent free villagers or national subjects.

It might be close to “bourgeoisie” in modern terms.

“The market’s a little further ahead. There are over twenty shops along six streets.”

“A market? Seriously?”

I was genuinely amazed.

To say, “Hah, a 21st-century guy getting excited over something like that,” would be like mocking a soldier at boot camp for sweating over a supermarket voucher.

By 21st-century standards, tiled roofs or twenty shops aren’t much—but for someone used to only seeing thatched roofs and shady peddlers, this was eye-opening.

“Let’s hurry.”

“Hold on, you fool. You can’t run here.”

That was a startling statement.

Chinese historical records say that Goguryeo people didn’t know how to walk.

It didn’t mean they were all paralyzed, but that they rarely did anything at a slow pace—they usually ran.

Even when sitting, they squatted as if ready to spring up and run at any moment—a speed-loving people.

So telling a Goguryeo person not to run was like telling a Roman not to start a civil war or an Englishman not to pirate.

Still, even Rome had times without civil wars, and England probably had days without piracy.

And Goguryeo was the same.

“Over there.”

Munso pointed to a massive main road leading to Anhak Palace.

Lined along both sides were houses so large they made the tiled houses we just saw look small.

And at the entrance stood soldiers, three times more elite-looking than standard soldiers, glaring down from atop massive horses.

Munso whispered.

“That’s the Royal Guard. Don’t make eye contact, and walk carefully with both hands visible. Beyond this point, nobles ranked Junior Elder and higher live.”

The Royal Guard literally protected the King.

They were the elite of the elite among Goguryeo’s official army.

‘Since the King and high ministers live here, it makes sense that security is tight.’

Even in the 21st century, if you cause trouble in a parliament building, you’ll be arrested.

All the more so in a class society like Goguryeo—death on the spot wouldn’t be questioned.

I kept my eyes down and shuffled behind the villagers.

After what felt like 30 minutes (no watches here), the market came into view.

Even in this era, there were markets.

There’s even a line in the chronicles of King Muyeol saying, “Thanks to the King, market prices were stabilized.”

But not just anyone could sell goods in the market.

The fact that most of the Pyeongyang Faction came from merchant families meant that the market was either run directly by nobles or by those under their protection.

If you tried selling without a permit here and got caught, a fine wasn’t the end of it.

You’d probably end up as a nutritious meal for the fish in the Bohyeon River the next day.

So we chose to sell the Grand King mushrooms not to consumers, but to a merchant.

“There seem to be about three people around here who deal in Grand King mushrooms… The real problem is the other peddlers.”

Market order in the capital was simple.

The peddlers bought goods at dirt-cheap prices from producers, then went to nobles and sold them (because selling directly would get you killed).

The nobles then marked up the prices again and put the goods in shops.

It sounds like “intermediary trade,” but in reality, it was a scam that prevented direct transactions between consumers and producers, inflating the supply chain for profit.

Ah… I miss online shopping and home shopping networks.

Anyway, the reason we came here directly was to avoid getting ripped off by the peddlers.

And that was a huge disturbance to the peddlers, who made money by standing between producers and nobles.

“They’re definitely going to make a fuss…”

“So what if they do?”

I smirked.

“We just have to negotiate the Goryeo way.”

“Goryeo way?”

“You all brought daggers at least, right?”

At that, the villagers nodded.

“Got it. Yup, that’s a negotiation.”

To a Goguryeo person, “negotiation” meant “coercing others.”

Note:

The 152 km/h for the Damas van refers to a police radar anecdote. In reality, the Damas starts rattling even above 80 km/h, making it hard to go faster.

Idu, the system of using Chinese characters to phonetically represent Korean, is often attributed to Seol Chong, son of Monk Wonhyo, but traces of its use predate him. Currently, Seol Chong is credited with compiling and systematizing Idu.