I Became a Fallen Noble of Goguryeo

Chapter 3: Climbing the Mountain

If people of Goguryeo had seen 21st‑century hiking clubs, they would have been utterly astonished.

It wasn’t because of the affairs that took place there.

In terms of sexual freedom, Goguryeo actually surpassed 21st‑century Korea.

What was astonishing was hiking itself.

“Hiking as a hobby? Is life perhaps uninteresting?”

Mountains in 21st‑century Korea were safe zones.

During Joseon the mountain wardens, and under Japanese colonial era’s sea‑water sanitation campaigns, all the beasts of prey had been hunted to extinction.

In other words, before then, mountains had been teeming with predators.

On the mountains lived leopards called “small tigers” and tigers called “big tigers.”

Besides those, bears or wolves—numerous beasts capable of harming humans—lived there too.

By Joseon times, there was even a saying: “Joseon people spent half their lives chasing tigers, and the other half going to memorial services for those killed by tigers.”

No wonder there were no yokai legends on the Korean Peninsula.

In Japan, an island nation with few predators, when a person disappeared people believed a yokai had taken them, so there were countless yokai tales… but the peninsula was different.

Suddenly someone was gone from the house? Ah! A tiger must have carried them off!

Someone who went to the mountains disappeared? Ah! A tiger must have taken them!

Someone playing by the river disappeared? Ah! A tiger must have dragged them away!

In the face of the tiger—a visible, physical reality—there was no room for ghosts or goblins with supernatural powers.

Joseon ghosts bowed politely before the magistrate, then filed petitions following the five‑W, one‑H structure; goblins were the kind of things who got conned by humans and ended up working passionately for no pay.

In our country’s folktales, deception and incommunicable calamities always came from tigers.

That’s why a forest spirit in this era was never someone leisurely gathering herbs on the mountain.

They were someone grimly harvesting herbs in a land where all manner of wild beasts roamed.

Naturally, an herbal gatherer also needed enough strength to fight when a beast appeared.

“I heard the distinction between hunter and herbal gatherer was blurry…?”

The difference was only in what was primary and what was secondary… hunters grabbed herbs when they saw them, herbal gatherers hunted when prey appeared.

That was why my teacher, Munso, taught weapons first.

And a few days later.

The weapons that Munso had commissioned from the neighboring village’s forge were completed. To be precise, weapons—plural.

“This is a pyohchang, and this is a bido.”

At first, when he said “pyohchang,” I thought of the kind a bandit throws in Maplestory… but that was my misunderstanding.

“This is… a throwing spear.”

A short throwing spear about a meter long.

In Goguryeo they seemed to call this a “pyohchang.”

“What’s this thing on the end?”

“That’s the chuda. It helps balance the weight, and if it embeds in an animal the chuda rattles heavily so the beast can’t escape. It’s also useful in war. If several pyohchang embed in a wooden shield, the shield becomes too heavy to raise.”

“I see…”

“And if you look at the spear’s blade, the top and bottom are different, right?”

Looking as Munso described, indeed the colors differed slightly.

He said:

“The lower part was made of soft cast iron, and the pointed end was made of strong steel.”

I could guess what he meant.

It was the Goguryeo‑specific ironworking technique called *danjeop* (鍛接).

Steel was strong but rare; cast iron was easy to produce but low quality.

So they made the weapon’s shaft from cast iron and overlaid only the piercing tip with steel.

In Goguryeo, whether spear or arrow, any sharp point was made this way.

Because of that, Goguryeo’s arrows were powerful enough to become one of its chief export goods.

Not talking about raiding where arrows were exchanged for grains, but genuine trade.

Munso said:

“From today on, you will throw the pyohchang.

Only when you can hit a tree twenty paces away consistently will you earn the qualification to climb the mountain.”

At that I asked:

“Does Master also use pyohchang? I don’t recall seeing you carry one.”

“I am old, aren’t I? Instead of a pyohchang, I use this.”

He took out a *nogung* (弩弓).

Often called a crossbow.

Although Goguryeo is often associated with the *baekgung* (貊弓), it also made good use of nogung.

Records from King Pyeongwon’s time mention that crossbow craftsmen from Sui were secretly brought over.

“Is it better than a bow?”

“A master marksman could fire a baekgung in a single breath. That would be impossible with a crossbow.

But a crossbow was easier to learn and easy to shoot.”

The bow was a high‑skill weapon that boosted morale when wielded by a master; the crossbow had a high floor—anyone could use it effectively.

“Can’t you shoot a bow?”

“I tell you, if I were good at the bow, would I be a forest spirit? I’d have joined the military a long time ago.”

“Eh? Didn’t Goguryeo people of all ages and classes shoot bows well?”

“Did you come from 500 years ago?”

No—though I had arrived 1500 years ahead of time.

“Sure, long ago many could shoot bows as you say… but not now.”

---

“Long ago” meant the early days of Goguryeo.

When prayers offered to heaven were not “May crop‑growing prosper in our country,” but “May Dongye and Okjeo crops prosper, so we can raid them.”

But now things were different.

About 400 years ago, the first nationwide peasant loan law in Korean history—the *jindaebeop* (賑貸法)—had been enacted, giving spring seed to poor farmers who returned it in fall.

Thus peasant support was institutionalized.

Through steady conquests from King Daemusin to King Micheon, they expelled Lelang Commandery and occupied Pyongyang, the fertile agricultural region on the peninsula.

During King Gwanggaeto’s wars against Later Yan they gained Yodong, the premier iron‑ore region of East Asia, and distributed iron farm tools.

As a result, 6th‑century Goguryeo was no longer a pillaging economy but a proper agricultural nation where most people farmed. (They even prayed, “May our Goryeo crops prosper.”)

As the economy shifted from raiding to farming, archers became elite.

“If you were in the capital region, where pastoralism was strong and fighting with Malgal or Khitan intense, maybe there would be many archers.

But in present‑day Pyongyang, most were farmers… so few people here shot bows well. That’s why the kyungdang taught archery separately.”

Indeed, among the Mongols none needed cavalry trainers—no Mongol couldn’t ride a horse. Same with bows—if everyone could shoot well, there’d be no need to teach it.

“I also lacked skill with the bow, which is why I used the crossbow.”

Oh, really?

“Do you happen to have another crossbow?”

“Do you think I can dig one up like a root crop? First off, one costs at least five **seok** of millet.”

Five seok of millet.

Since a typical Goguryeo smallholder earned about fifteen seok a year, that’s a third of average annual income.

If crudely converted to modern currency, that would be quite a sum—about ten million won.

“And besides, money alone isn’t enough. These are made by craftsmen… the best worked under nobles in the fortress. Not easily obtained. The baekgung was similarly difficult to acquire.”

True enough—just because you have money doesn’t mean you could buy a gun in modern Korea.

“But Master, you have one, don’t you?”

“Back when I served as a soldier, I was in the crossbow corps. After the war I slipped it out on the return journey.”

Does that mean he pilfered a rifle and used it for hunting?

“Is that allowed?”

As someone who in the 21st‑century scoured the hillside for a spent shell casing during military service, my spine tingled the moment I heard that. Munso chuckled.

“If I’d been caught I’d have been punished. But if I hadn’t brought it, I’d have become beast food.”

Ah, a survival‑driven misconduct. Even that part resembling the 21st‑century military. Regardless how this weapon acquisition passed muster, another problem remained.

“The last time you went to war was before I was born… so nearly 20 years ago, right? Then this nogung must be twenty years old. Does it still work?”

“I used it last time too. I’ve maintained it well. If something that shouldn’t move moves, I apply rice‑paste; if something that should move doesn’t, I rub on pig fat.”

That meant things that shouldn’t move had moved, and things that should move had not moved. Instead of WD‑40 and duct tape, he'd used pig fat and rice‑paste.

At first the crossbow’s iconic flair blinded me, but on closer inspection it was a tattered mess.

The steel handle had already rusted.

Other parts were relatively clean, but on closer inspection the wood’s color and texture differed bit by bit.

In other words, it wasn’t in good condition, but a Theseus’s nogung patched together repeatedly whenever it broke.

“Stop staring so much. It wears it down.”

Yet Munso, perhaps interpreting that gaze differently, cleared his throat and subtly hid the nogung behind him.

I also looked away. With an object in that condition, just looking at it might break it.

A seasoned internet technician could fix the internet just by staring at it and get a customer to say “But this clearly wasn’t working?”—so surely the opposite could happen too.

Munso said:

“For now, don’t think about bows. The only one obtainable is the dangung, which is basically a toy and can’t pierce animal hide in one go. You, like most hunters, start by mastering the pyohchang.”

Munso presented the weapons.

“I give these weapons to you as gifts. I can’t give you the nogung, but I can at least give you these.”

He said “at least,” but those pyohchang were easily worth one or two seok of millet each.

I asked:

“Then what about the tuition fee?”

Normally a teacher asks the student to pay tuition. Hearing this, Munso laughed.

“I already received that thirty years ago from your great‑maternal‑grandfather, the clan chief.”

He stroked his beard as he spoke. He looked like a martial‑arts master from a wuxia novel.

Indeed, was it necessary to fall off a cliff to encounter fate? Such a meeting and help itself was destiny.

“Thank you, Master. I will learn with grit.”

“Good.”

Seeing me bow deeply in thanks, Munso smiled warmly.

“You are born of the clan chief’s bloodline, so it won’t take long.”

---

Actually, this kind of education is normally learned in real situations while climbing a mountain. If you cannot learn, you die.

This was the survival‑of‑the‑fittest education of macho Goguryeo.

But because I was the child of someone who had saved his life, Munso said he simply couldn’t do that.

“Now that I’ve shown you the method, fill in the rest with effort.”

In his youth, Munso had been famed as an expert in thrusting spears. If he hadn’t been, he wouldn’t have survived twenty years.

After learning general model posture from him, I practiced throwing the pyohchang like mad to climb the mountain.

Whoosh—!

Crack!

The spear pierced the tree as though smashing it.

When I saw that, I sighed.

“That tree next to it….”

It wasn’t the target tree, but a random tree that was obliterated.

I did have strength. My maternal‑grandfather was the clan chief, and my father was a company guard.

“At this rate, even compared to my previous life, I’m doing well.”

In my previous life I’d been factory staff when not farming, so I had confidence in my body.

Whenever I heard talk of “21st‑century people being less fit than past people,” I’d say “Only white‑collar city workers are 21st‑century people?” I had endurance and strength to back it up.

But now I could say for certain: if the fourteen‑year‑old me and my past‑life self fought, past me would lose. Muscle elasticity, recovery, reaction speed—all were better now.

So the problem was not strength but accuracy.

“This is bloody tiring….”

In my past life I once saw a pitch from my favorite baseball team’s pitcher turn into a homerun off the opponent’s bat, and I furiously asked “How much is his salary?”

But actually doing it—throwing a ball at that speed and hitting the strike zone—takes massive training.

“And if a spear is like this… a bow is a whole different matter.”

Currently, I was quite bad at sensing long‑distance targets. If not my body, then it was an experience problem.

Unless someone was an athlete or high‑school teacher, when in 21st‑century Korea would a person throw something full‑strength to a distance?

Experience could be gained. So I threw the spear over and over again.

As I destroyed one tree after another in practice—

“Have this before you go on.”

My mother came with a bowl.

When I looked into it, I nearly fainted.

“What is… uh!”

Floating in the wooden bowl were bugs.

‘What is this? Dog food?’

Because of my spear skill, she was implying I was not a person but a dog—and should eat dog food?

But I did not shriek “How dare you call me a dog!” It wasn’t her meaning.

“This is silk‑bean soup. All Goguryeo nobility, male and female, young and old, eat it.”

“Silk… bean soup?”

“Yes. It’s a health food made by boiling leftover silkworm pupae from silk thread making, or grub from thatching roofs, with soybean milk and millet.”

For Goguryeo nobility, there were three essentials: the village, the stable, and the mulberry plantation.

Villages—whether stately or assigned—formed the basis of a noble’s income.

In a militarist‑aristocratic Goguryeo, horses were obviously vital, but mulberry was equally important.

From mulberry fields came silk—a noble symbol—and also pupae for protein.

People of that era didn’t know about protein in detail, but they knew by experience that eating meat or bugs built strong muscle.

And now, among the Pyongyang nobles, this “silk‑bean soup” seemed to be trending.

It was food made by mixing pupae and grubs into soybean milk.

Pupae were rare, and soybeans also somewhat rare at the time….

Like French frog‑leg cuisine, visually intimidating but actually a gourmet food.

“Eat it. I obtained it with effort.”

Moonlight cast shadows over my mother’s face.

She seemed to have labored even more to give me this single bowl of silk‑bean soup.

“You needn’t go to such trouble.”

“It wasn’t necessary. But I wanted to.”

My mother smiled.

“Watching you throw spears made me recall your childhood.”

“My childhood?”

“Yes. Your father always practiced martial arts in the yard, and Grandmother used to cook this silk‑bean soup for him. Watching that I thought I would cook it for my own child someday… and finally, thanks to you, I fulfilled that dream.”

My mother spoke so well.

Worried I might feel guilty, she assured it was her pleasure to do so….

“I will eat well.”

Overcome with emotion, I chewed the silk‑bean soup. I felt disgusted at first, but I chewed it thoroughly and left not a grain.

Chewing, I found it nutty and slightly salty.

“I washed a few sets of clothes for you too. Don’t worry and train hard… hey? Are you crying?”

“I’m not crying… hmmph!”

I swallowed back tears.

From that day on, I threw the pyohchang every day.

My mother stayed up beside me sewing.

After about fifteen days—

Crack! Crack! Crack!

Three consecutive spears I threw struck a tree stump in a row. Perfect gold.

And—

“Oh my…! So soon?”

Munso saw that and his mouth dropped open.