I Became a Fallen Noble of Goguryeo

Chapter 8: Mushrooms

I asked, "A fox spirit inside my mind? A person destined to destroy it?"

“’What are you saying?’”

I asked.

“Could you please explain in more detail? Or would you like some more plain gruel?”

“It wasn’t said in exchange for alms. I only said what needed to be said. I will not answer further questions.”

“Why?”

“As I said, I said it because it was necessary, and I will not say what is not necessary.”

Venerable Ui‑yeon smiled kindly without speaking through to the end.

After that, I discussed this matter with my mother.

“Maybe it was about Munso‑nim? If they hadn’t been there, you wouldn’t have been able to climb the mountain.”

Hmm, that seemed too literal of a comparison.

My thoughts were somewhat different.

‘Perhaps it was a metaphor for my very fate? Suddenly dragged from the 21st century into this era….’

What else could one compare this era to if not a tiger? Then the coming fate might be the event that truly thrust me into history.

For example, something like this.

“Ho ho!”

Eventually the ginseng could not endure the diminishing water supply and boldly pushed its head out smoothly, proving that neither humans nor plants can resist the temptation of the last stop.

‘Hehe, this little bastard, my kid.’

Ginseng was the stepping‑stone I had chosen to integrate myself into Goguryeo history. And at last it began to creep out results.

As a result, about eighty percent of the seeds germinated without issue. It felt rewarding after catching mice and birds so diligently.

But this was only the beginning; before these little ones fully sprouted their heads, there was one essential task to finish.

‘Prepare the field.’

Once rice seedlings were transplanted, you naturally had to replant into a field. Plants needed a wider world too.

Of course, in our fallen‑noble household there was no field, but all I had were just four hundred “rip” of seeds.

‘If planted at roughly 3 cm by 3 cm each… then 60 cm by 60 cm would be sufficient.’

Even taking drainage and plowing into account, one pyeong was more than enough. At this scale it could easily be built within a fenced yard.

“Drainage channel, northwest sector, soil type misato. Build high and low ridges, width nine zero three zero~”

This was a song my father had penned himself. He lacked composing skill, so we just matched it to "Dokdo Is Our Land.”

So is that the end here?

Certainly not.

Cultivating ginseng was like becoming a master of life. There was never an "and that’s it!" moment.

‘A field must, of course, have fertilizer.’

October was precisely harvest season.

I visited nearby farms and used my physical ability to full effect, helping with the harvest like a pseudo‑biotractor.

“Whoa, like an ox!”

“How could that be human strength!”

“Want some grain?”

Impressed, the villagers gave me ample reward.

“It’s one thing to take grain, but may I take some straw?”

“Time to thatch the roof? To feed grubs?”

“We’ll eat that too.”

After helping like mad, I gathered barley straw and barley from people nearby.

Some of it went into the new thatch roof, and from the old thatch we shook out and chewed what I called “Goryeo popcorn” (animal‑based).

“Eat plenty. This sturdy fellow eat too.”

“Ha, this one might be a rhinoceros beetle larva. They’re a bit chewy.”

“Silk‑bean soup is tasty. But anyway, since there’s so much, feed on the rhinoceros beetle grubs.”

At first it felt burdensome, but now I had grown accustomed. In this era, the easiest animal protein commoners could get was the grubs that naturally developed under thatch roofs.

I mixed the well‑rotted straw—after feeding all the grubs—with pre‑prepared misato. This decayed straw was the very best fertilizer for ginseng.

But not too much.

There’s a longstanding saying dating from Goryeo that “since ginseng exhausts soil fertility, nothing grows in a ginseng field,” but that’s a misunderstanding.

In fact, if nutrients are too abundant, the ginseng would rot or turn red, as if exclaiming, “You gave me so much nutrient! Long live the scaly comrade! I am red ginseng!”

As poorly as a communist state might perform economically, red‑tinged ginseng of poor quality was equally worthless.

Thus, ginseng fields were deliberately cultivated in rather lean soil. Wild ginseng itself grew in harsh environments.

Fertilizer was applied only once during its sprouting stage, and even sunlight needed to be partially shaded.

In other words, ginseng thrives in sparse conditions—not because it drains fertility and impoverishes the soil.

Imagine saying of a cactus, “The cactus drinks so much water that the surroundings turned into a desert.” How unjust that would be to the cactus.

Of course there was another basis for the misunderstanding.

Ginseng is a representative crop that cannot be replanted continuously. If you plant ginseng again on recently harvested ground, it all dies.

From a distance that seems like the previous ginseng sucked all fertility, preventing the next from growing—but in fact the reality is quite different.

Due to the nature of ginseng roots, no matter how neatly harvested, fine roots remain in the soil and decay, allowing ginseng bacteria to proliferate.

Just as someone placed in a room full of rotting meat falls ill, planting ginseng on soil teeming with ginseng bacteria kills them quickly.

It’s extreme with ginseng, but corn and potatoes are affected similarly.

The potato blight that devastated Europe or corn disease that crippled North Korean agriculture arose from planting the same crop day in and day out in the same field—professional term: pathological breeding.

Thus, in scientifically enlightened twenty‑first‑century understanding, after ginseng is harvested, one usually plants crops like soybeans or oats that grow well even in poor soil and are unaffected by ginseng bacteria.

Then after about ten years, once ginseng bacteria were gone, ginseng could be planted again.

‘This is something worth spreading too.’

The myth about ginseng depleting soil fertility had historically hindered large‑scale ginseng production.

At worst, some said ginseng would ruin fields entirely and starve people.

‘But if this misunderstanding were resolved?’

Then East Asians—both old and young—could enjoy ginseng even more widely.

“Spring was finally here.”

The bitter, freezing winter had passed and spring arrived.

Spring, by nature, quickened everyone’s heart….

“There’s a bear! A bear appeared!”

No, that wasn’t law. The bears having finished hibernation were beginning to emerge from their caves in earnest.

Since bears emerged after ending hibernation, from as early as the Gojoseon era they were understood as sacred spirits of agriculture and symbols of spring.

Goguryeo still had many who revered bears, often calling themselves Mæ 貊.

However, that was only in mythic terms.

Just as re‑creating a dramatic “refreshing” scene from a drama in real life makes one socially maladapted, a bear with a physical presence stepping out of myth was closer to something to be fought than worshiped.

If a Goguryeo person heard the song “Three Bears,” they wouldn’t think of a warm family story—they’d understand it as more like “Ten Little Indians,” a Didactic Nursery Rhyme.

“Why did they name the village Bear‐village? I was saying name it something like Snake‑village.”

“That sounds like what those Tiger‑village folks said recently?”

“In any case! What about the bear! Are you too scared to climb the mountain?”

The villagers, terrified because of the bear, soon displayed the characteristic behavior of frightened Goguryeo people.

“Let’s kill the bear!”

“Let’s pull out its gallbladder!”

Bears are terrifying.

Dead things are not terrifying.

If we kill the bear, we no longer need to be afraid.

It’s a Goguryeo‑style three‑step syllogism.

This somewhat matched early Goguryeo’s policy toward great China: “They will invade someday, so let’s strike first and kill them all.” (Fortunately, diplomacy is good now.)

The mountain folk of the terrified village gathered in threes and fives to form a bear raid party.

Of course, I wasn’t interested.

“Insam, are you ready?”

“No. I’m a little…”

“The village’s best spear‑thrower, and you’re not going?”

The world was watching me.

If I tried to back out here, I would probably get scolded badly.

If an accident happened while hunting the bear they might say, “If Insam had gone, it wouldn’t have happened! → Insam didn’t go? → Because Insam didn’t go, that person died?” — a miraculous syllogism in action.

Then all the reputation I had built so far would collapse. Reputation is hard to build and very easy to lose.

“Damn, I should’ve faked illness or built up excuses earlier.”

Elite soldiers, when training was coming, would build up excuses—go to a hospital, feign illness, anything to get exempted.

But I didn’t do that.

Because I hadn’t expected a bear to appear!

“A tiger appeared not long ago—why would a bear appear again?”

But that was my mistake.

Just because a tiger had come from the neighboring village didn’t mean a bear wouldn’t show up—that’s gambler’s error.

Wild beasts don’t fight other animals of similar size. Bears and tigers act independently.

On the contrary, because a tiger appeared in Tiger‑village, I should have thought a bear might appear in Bear‑village. Goguryeo is called the land of Yemaek (tigers and bears) for a reason: there are many tigers and bears.

“There it is, it’s drinking water on the eaves!”

“Kill it!”

Fortunately, the bear was spotted quickly.

Unlike a tiger or a wolf, a bear is dumb.

Especially one that just woke from hibernation and is nutritionally deficient—its mind is even slower.

Whoosh—!

Driven by the sole determination to return home quickly, I threw my spear, and it pierced the bear’s chest exactly.

“It was worth all that practice.”

I wasn’t just staring blankly at ginseng and mushrooms every day; I’d been throwing daggers and spears nearby.

That practice paid off. The villagers marveled again.

“At only fifteen years old, to do that! Did King Gwanggaeto do that?”

They then took poles and surrounded the bear.

After that, true to their reputation as a spirited people, they beat the bear in rhythm: deung‑gir‑deok, kung, deol‑reol‑leol‑reol—using the “bear‑head dance” rhythm until the beast died.

“We got it!”

“Let’s see how much it weighs?”

“It’s scrawny and maybe not worth full meat price… but bear gallbladders from bears that just woke from hibernation are the most expensive, right? And the hide is pretty solid… And since the spear alone took it down, no wounds to spoil it.”

“Go sell it well. Don’t get cheated!”

“I’ve been selling beasts for years. I can easily bring back twenty seok!”

Later, a few villagers went down to Pyongyang and sold the bear’s carcass, then split the money among those who participated.

My share in millet was about five seok.

“Out of twenty seok, five seok…”

I had taken the front position and stuck the spear in the bear’s chest, and even exposed myself to the greatest danger in wrestling it—so the villagers gave me a generous bear dividend.

“With this much, I won’t have to worry about eating for a while.”

Even my mother, who had recently been subtly annoyed by my laziness, smiled when she saw that… so I guess it worked out.

“Besides, I even got the strange nickname ‘Bear‑village’s Best.’”

Not “world’s best,” not “Samhan’s best,” not even “Pyongyang’s best,” but “Bear‑village’s Best.”

A weird nickname, but I let it slide.

And most importantly, what matters to me now is not just a bear.

“Hehe, Insam, mushroom, I love you…!”

Insam had grown handsome by now. It had passed the stage where it might suddenly die for no reason.

“In future, I won’t need to worry much about Insam.”

This one is a long‑term investment: seeds only appear after about three years, and become useful around the fourth year.

If possible, release it as a six‑year root.

First impressions are important.

By then I’d be just over twenty.

“Hoho, grow well, Insam. I’ll see you later.”

It’s not over just by planting Insam.

If Insam is long‑term, there’s a short‑term investment too.

Grand King Mushroom… in other words, shiitake cultivation.

March is gradually the season to inoculate the spawn.

Originally done with a syringe, but since such didn’t exist in this era, I just made knife cuts and inserted it.

After packing soil mixed with spawn into the cuts, I hit them firmly with my fist—a method called “shock cultivation,” even used during the Joseon period.

Also, soaking them in flowing cold water for about three hours is good.

That’s another stress cultivation method: reproduction speeds up that way.

It’s like gathering all the energy you’d been saving for longevity and releasing it at once because you might die at any moment.

It feels similar to innate energy in martial‐arts novels.

Though they’re little fungus creatures, they do everything to survive.

Pow—! Pow—!

As I continued pounding the wood with my fists, my mother freaked out.

“Why are you soaking and hitting firewood in water? Firewood hasn’t done anything wrong to you!”

I replied that “mushrooms grow properly when struck,” but my mother countered with “seeing you act crazy, maybe I didn’t hit you enough when you were young.”

No, really.

You must do this for Grand King Mushroom to duplicate, see?

After the spawn‑punch, I lifted the wood off the ground and stacked it in the shape of a well pillar.

If it stayed on the ground, other fungi would creep up from below and kill the mushrooms.

Then I placed the wood in a humid spot and watered it once a week. Repeating the process, by around April the mushrooms began to emerge, white and opaque.

As the mushrooms grew, my mother’s nagging noticeably decreased.

It made sense, seeing Grand King Mushroom duplicating right before my eyes.

No matter how parents oppose Bitcoin, once returns exceed a thousand percent, their eyes widen and their dinners improve, don’t they?

“Thankfully, summer wasn’t too hot.”

Usually, the most dangerous season for mushroom cultivation is summer.

Because mushroom spawn do not grow well once temperatures exceed 30 °C.

But this place was Pyongyang, the northern end of the Korean Peninsula, so even in summer the temperature was not that high.

However, that does not mean it was easy.

“These beast kids.”

Originally targeting ginseng seeds, the rats and sparrows now eyed the mushrooms I had planted.

To these creatures, the frequently visited “restaurant menu” had simply switched from ginseng seeds to mushrooms, but our house remained a popular hot spot near Pyongyang with a 4.5 rating on CarXo.

But I did not just sit idle either.

Whoosh—!

“Chaaak!”

A sparrow struck by the bi‑do I threw dropped to the ground with a thud.

Screee—! Nearby, a rat that had been eyeing my mushrooms fell too.

“One shot, one kill.”

By now, throwing bi‑do was nearly at divine level.

I was confident I could land in Maple‑Leaf Village and succeed as a shuriken thief right away.

“Sparrow again today?”

“Yes sir.”

I quickly roasted a sparrow.

Sizzle, sizzle—!

“Ah, gets you craving liquor.”

My father once said that one sparrow could net five drinks—one for each leg, wing, and body.

Now I saw that wasn’t an exaggeration.

That tiny beast was so nutty and delicious. I downed tankju in one go.

“Rat meat is another story….”

Of course, the rats around here weren’t filthy gutter rats.

Those exist only in Pyongyang with drainage infrastructure, and you can’t eat gutter‑rat meat anyway.

Even in Kingdom of the Winds, gutter rats don’t drop edible rat meat.

Most of the rats in this remote mountain village—Bear‑village—were field rats that came down from the mountains, so eating them didn’t cause illness.

“In fact, many eat them in reality too.”

Even so, I felt some aversion, so I loudly announced “rat meat for sale” before villagers and exchanged it for things like beans.

“This is ecological circulation.”

If rats and sparrows ate my precious mushrooms, I balanced the ecosystem by eating them and selling them.

Over the year, the total of sparrows and rats I killed probably exceeded five hundred… enough talent that Mao Zedong would drool over.

As I spent time roasting sparrow and selling rat, finally came September.

“It’s done…! It’s done!”

On every stack of decaying oak that smelled sour and pungent, large Grand King mushrooms hung prominently.

It looked as if money were growing from the wood.