Chapter 1042: Occupying Jeongui

"Stone people!" Nangong Wudi suddenly noticed statues flanking the city gate, their forms distinctly peculiar.

These were Dol Hareubang—Stone Grandfathers—unique to Jeju Island, a manifestation of ancient stone worship.

But Nangong Wudi was neither cultural scholar nor tourist, and the statues held little interest for him. After extended observation of the defensive positions on the wall, he shouted:

"Shikawa!"

"Here!" Shikawa Shuji, recently promoted to sergeant in the Public Security Army, immediately broke from formation. One of Shikawa's platoons had been attached to the special task force assaulting Jeongui County Seat.

"Take your men. Capture this county seat within ten minutes."

"Understood!" Shikawa replied crisply.

His men prepared rapidly for battle. Shikawa glanced at Nangong, and upon receiving a nod, abruptly drew his tachi. A ferocious light ignited in his eyes. "Fix bayonets!"

At his cry, the more than thirty Japanese mercenaries of the Public Security Army's Japanese Company—each gripping a Southeast Asia Pattern rifle with gleaming bayonet attached—howled "Banzai!" and launched into what could only be called a "pig charge": a headlong, suicidal rush.

Racing at the very front came the Battōtai—the Drawn Sword Squad—led by Shikawa himself. Each man brandished a gleaming tachi, roaring wildly as they hurtled forward.

"Suppressive fire," Nangong Wudi ordered.

All Minié rifles opened up on the wall, and a dense rain of bullets swept across the ramparts. After a single volley, not one Joseon soldier remained standing atop the fortifications.

The Japanese mercenaries sprinted across the open ground. With no moat protecting the approach, they reached the base of the wall with ease. Under continuous Minié rifle fire, not a single arrow flew from the defenders, nor did anyone dare raise their head to hurl stones. The mercenaries arrived at the foot of the wall, and the short, sturdy Japanese soldiers immediately began stacking themselves into human ladders.

The Battōtai were first over the top. Only upon gaining the wall did they realize how precarious it was—the walkway could accommodate at most a single person standing; even two passing each other was impossible. Had it not been for the earthen slope immediately behind, where a misstep meant only a tumbling roll rather than a fatal plunge, the wild momentum of the Japanese mercenaries would surely have sent men falling to their deaths.

Few Joseon soldiers remained on the wall. Under the sustained fire of Minié rifles, the low, thin parapets offered no protection against high-velocity bullets. Some defenders were killed outright; others exploited the slope's advantage and slid immediately to the ground below.

The bloody battle Shikawa had anticipated never materialized. They faced only a few dozen terrified Joseon soldiers with no will to fight. A handful of officers led small groups in token resistance before being cut down or bayoneted. The rest scattered in chaos.

In less than ten minutes, the Japanese mercenaries had seized the city gate. Shikawa swung his tachi in a sharp arc to fling off the blood, then led a squad running down from the wall. They reached the gate, removed the heavy bar, and threw it open—all in one fluid motion.

"Not bad." Nangong Wudi checked his watch: exactly ten minutes. Though the outcome had been expected, the fanaticism these mercenaries displayed—reminiscent of Japanese devils from another era—was impressive to witness.

The main force soon entered Jeongui County Seat. Occupation and appropriation procedures had long since been standardized by the Planning Commission, which had even compiled a dedicated ISO-standard manual guiding the occupation of newly captured cities. This served as course material in officer and administrator training. Moreover, a specialized search team under Planning Commission jurisdiction accompanied every deployed unit to manage the reception, registration, and custody of loot and prisoners.

Troops entering the city quickly cleared out remaining holdouts. After raising a banner inscribed "Surrender and Be Spared" and broadcasting continuously in Korean through a loudspeaker, surviving Joseon soldiers emerged from various corners in twos and threes to lay down their arms.

With insufficient forces to surround the entire city, considerable numbers of soldiers and civilians escaped by leaping from uncontrolled sections of the wall. Nangong Wudi made no effort to pursue—this was an island, after all, and crossing the sea to the Korean Peninsula would prove no easy feat. Except for a few, the majority would eventually fall into their hands.

Nangong Wudi led his guards and staff officers grandly through the city gate as fifers and drummers played "The British Grenadiers." The moment he stepped inside, however, he planted his foot squarely in a mud puddle, splashing filth across his legs and sullying his relatively neat uniform.

"Damn it." He cursed under his breath—he had forgotten that the streets of most cities in this era, whether Chinese or foreign, remained unpaved. Trudging through mud was the norm.

Brief chaos erupted within the city but was quickly suppressed by the Public Security Army. The commoners and official slaves had assumed Wokou had come. Many had fled over sections of wall not controlled by the Fubo Army, scattering into the wilderness to hide. Others concealed themselves in desolate corners within the city. Those unable to escape cowered in their hovels, resigned to fate.

Accompanying civil affairs personnel posted calming notices and broadcasted continuously in Korean to reassure the population.

Nangong Wudi toured the county seat with interest. Jeongui looked thoroughly dilapidated—houses were squat structures of volcanic rock walls and thatch roofs. Even official buildings like the County School and Government Office, though tile-roofed, remained similarly low and cramped. Standing on the ground, a person could reach the eaves merely by stretching an arm upward.

Ordinary commoners' and slaves' dwellings lacked even floors—just bare earth inside. Only wealthier merchants and officials enjoyed raised flooring. Due to Jeju Island's geography, most interiors were damp and cold.

The county possessed a County School, a government granary, and a small market hosting several shops and workshops.

The shop owners had all fled, leaving only empty premises. Nangong Wudi inspected them: sauce shops, general stores, carpenter shops, wine shops, blacksmith shops—the basic commercial and handicraft trades found everywhere. One workshop, however, caught his attention: a bow and arrow shop.

The establishment was substantial, its interior empty and abandoned. The stove for bending bamboo still burned. Pots of ox horn glue and fish bladder glue simmered on the fire. Piles of timber, bamboo poles, feathers, ox tendons, and ox horns covered the floor. Finished bows hung from the walls.

Walking through, he found finished and half-completed products everywhere. By rough estimate, there were a hundred completed bows alone, with three or four hundred more in various stages of production. As for arrow components—the thin bamboo poles for shafts alone numbered two or three hundred bundles.

Clearly, this volume far exceeded local demand. These were more likely export goods from Jeju Island.

He connected the dots: abundant cattle and horses meant plentiful hides, horns, and tendons—essential materials for bow-making.

The Occupation Command established itself in the county's finest building: the Jeongui Government Office.

Nangong Wudi took his seat in the main hall. Captured clerks from the county's six divisions who hadn't managed to flee were herded before him. The Joseon Dynasty's local government mirrored the Ming system in miniature: the magistrate's office maintained six divisions—Personnel, Revenue, Rites, War, Works, and Punishments—to handle county affairs. The divisional clerks were minor officials selected from the local commoner population, intimately familiar with local conditions. Securing their cooperation was therefore the first priority after taking a city.

With no salaries and no path to promotion, these petty functionaries subsisted on gray income. Their loyalty to the dynasty was typically minimal. This was true in the Ming Dynasty, and equally true in Joseon. Especially when their lives and property hung in the balance, the clerks swiftly chose cooperation.

The Joseon Dynasty's official language was Literary Chinese. Though Eonmun—the native script—existed, it saw limited use; scholars and officials disdained it, employing it mainly for women and lower-class commoners. Because important documents, both public and private, were written in Chinese, these petty officials could read and write the language even if they couldn't speak it. Staff sent by the Planning Commission could therefore communicate through "brush conversation"—written exchanges—without needing translators.

The clerks quickly furnished comprehensive intelligence about the county. The population within the walls, including adjacent villages, totaled eight thousand. Approximately two-thirds were official slaves. Naturally, many commoners lived in scattered villages beyond the city. The county's total population, including public and private slaves, reached fifteen or sixteen thousand.

Regarding horses, all official horse ranches fell under the unified management of the Jeju Magistrate; the county magistrate had no jurisdiction. There were, however, some private ranches raising horses, cattle, and sheep.

"Is there a person named Kim Man-il in this county?" Nangong Wudi asked abruptly.

The clerks exchanged glances, thinking privately that this gang of Wokou had set their sights on Master Kim.

Kim Man-il was among the wealthiest men on Jeju Island at the time. Having once donated ten thousand horses to the court in a single contribution, he had been ennobled as an official.

"Master Kim resides in Jeju, not in this county," one clerk answered. "He does, however, maintain ranches within our territory."

The most valuable revelation from the clerks concerned the grain stored in the city: over ten thousand dan in two government granaries. This figure delighted Nangong Wudi considerably—at least until the refugees arrived, the food supply would be secure.

But subsequent conversation quickly tempered his enthusiasm.

True, the county held more than ten thousand dan of grain. But Jeju Island had just suffered a famine the previous year, and the populace's food reserves were severely depleted. Winter had only just begun; by the time spring arrived before the new crops ripened—the dreaded spring famine season—relief would inevitably be needed. Moreover, five or six thousand official slaves resided in this county, and these people depended entirely on magistrate-distributed rations for survival.

Official slaves farmed and herded for the government but received no harvest themselves. Their food and clothing came solely from government distributions. When natural disasters struck, large numbers of official slaves not only contributed nothing but became a crushing burden on the government office.

(End of Chapter)