I Will Find You - Chapter One

Steve Im stumbled off the hiking trail in the Bukhansan National Park, his chest heaving, his sides hurting, and his peripheral vision going blurry. Were those the symptoms of a heart attack? He had no idea; he’d never experienced one before, but it figured he’d have a heart attack the day he finally decided to get back in shape by taking up hiking.

Thrashing around in the bushes—he needed to get as far from the trail as possible before collapsing, because he’d be damned if someone he actually knew would find him drooling on the trail, twitching in the throes of death; they’d surely film it and post it on the socials for the whole world to see—he found the ruins of a small temple-like structure, a tree growing through its remains, and collapsed onto his butt in the shade, glad he was feeling a little better. Maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t a heart attack, but only his out-of-shape body protesting at the exercise. Not that he’d made it far into the park or scaled the great mountain itself.

He slipped his daypack off his shoulders, found a power bar, bit half of it off in a single bite, and was about to gulp it down with the help of some water when a golden flicker appeared in front of him.

“Eh?”

The flicker grew larger and larger until everything in front of him started to glow.

“What the—” he mumbled around the mouthful of the power bar, then spat everything out and scrambled back with a squeak.

Just moments ago, there had only been grass, but now a man in full sageuk garb lay there. Action-scene sageuk garb complete with a headband, black velvet boots, and a black belt with golden emblems. The voluminous sleeves of his lilac hanbok, covered by a white bangryeong, were tightly tied to the wrists. It must’ve been quite a fight he’s been in, judging by the locks of jet-black hair escaping from his loose sangtu, specks of dirt and dried blood on his face, and the slashed and bloody clothing.

Okay, he was definitely dying or severely dehydrated. One just didn’t see a man suddenly appear in front of them in a burst of golden light when they were running on all cylinders. He righted himself—why bother, when he was dying anyway?—and a splinter bit into the palm of his hand.

Which was weird. Dreams or hallucinations before death weren’t supposed to hurt. Unless...Steve bit the inside of his cheek. Hard. And tasted blood.

He shot to his feet with another unmanly squeak and stared down at the man lying on his side. There was no wondering whether the man was alive; his chest was moving, though his eyes were closed. He stepped closer and heard a rustle. Looking down, he noticed a torn sheet of paper wiggle in the slight breeze. He leaned down to pick it up...

In an instant, the cold metal of a sword kissed the underside of the chin. “Touch that and die.”

Steve squeaked—again!—stumbled back and landed on his butt. Trembling, mouth agape, he stared as the man in front of him slowly sat up, sword firmly in hand. The combination of the gleaming, incredibly steady sword and murder blazing in the man’s dark eyes was bowel-movement inducing. 

How hadn’t he noticed the sword before? Well, he certainly noticed it now. It looked old, with the hilt covered in black velvet with copper and jade decorations of what looked like dragons and the blade obviously handmade. And bloodied.

“Song-jae?” the man asked, disbelief in his voice. But at least he lowered the sword. “Impossible. I saw you die.”

Steve felt a cold shiver down his spine. Song-jae? He knew that name. Everybody in the Im family knew it. There’d been only one Song-jae in their family. No one dared name their son that after what happened to the original. The chief royal secretary slain by the very king he’d called friend since childhood.

Well, that was the historical version. The truth, at least according to family lore, was much different. As they say, history is written by winners. And if you repeat a lie long enough, it’s bound to become true. At least for those who don’t know the truth.

There were a few families in Korea who knew the truth about what really happened in the so-called Gapsin Purge. Families whose ancestors were there in the months and days leading to the massacre and its aftermath. The people who were on the side of the then king, Yi Heon, later dethroned, blamed for the purge, branded a criminal, renamed the worst tyrant in Korean history, Yeonhuigun, and exiled. The king, whose body was never found—at least that was historically correct—though they did find the bodies of his uncle, the true tyrant, Grand Prince Jesan, and his three bodyguards, who, according to the lore of the families, had kidnapped the chief royal cook to use as a pawn to kill the king. The chief royal cook, whose body also was never found. The woman who supposedly came from the future.

That never made it into history books. Neither did the pledge the families made to preserve the truth by all means. Until family lore turned into legend, a fairy tale told to small children generation after generation. The tale of a woman from the future who suddenly appeared during a solar eclipse, and whose cooking skills, kindness, and warm heart captured not only the king but also all those around her, inspiring loyalty that lasted generations, weaving together noble and common families, soldiers, inventors, and common cooks.

A fairy tale Steve grew up listening to. And scoffing at.

But what if?

Steve waited for the skeptical part of his psyche to rise to the occasion and scoff that it was all fiction. But it didn’t happen. The man had suddenly appeared out of nowhere, his clothes torn and bloody as if he’d been in a fight for life and death, his getup straight from the history books and historical TV dramas, his speech aristocratic, the accent sounding dated and slightly foreign in the 21st century...Then there was the sword, the white jacket over the lilac hanbok, the golden embellishments on the belt, the butterfly-like emblem on the white headband...

Some elements of the fairytale had certainly been embellished, removed, and added, all for artistic freedom purposes; descendants’ actions were augmented or decreased depending on the family telling the story. But some things didn’t change. Some details were the same no matter which family told the story. Among them the description of the deposed king’s clothing on that fateful day, the decorations of his sword...

Still, it seemed preposterous. The theory of him dying of dehydration sounded more plausible than time-traveling 16th-century kings. Yet, the skeptic remained silent.

No way. He mentally shrugged. What the heck. He might as well try. “Jeonha?”

There was a flicker in the man’s eyes. Not surprise or bewilderment, but a quiet recognition that told him he was used to hearing the honorific title.

“Holy shit!”

The possible sanctity of excrement eluding him, Yi Heon stared at the stranger with a friend’s face as the man slapped himself upside the head. Looked at him, rolled his eyes, and slapped himself upside the head again.

“Did it help?” he asked politely.

Song-jae’s doppelganger shook his head dejectedly. “It didn’t. You’re still here.”

“Indeed. Where is here, exactly?”

“Seoul.”

Heon tsked. That didn’t tell him anything.

“Republic of Korea?”

His heart skipped a beat. That was the name of the modern Joseon. He looked more closely at the man with the familiar face, at his clothes and footwear. It looked nothing like what Ji-young was wearing when they first met. Still...“What year?”

“2025.” A pause as if the man knew that told him nothing. “You’re from 1506.”

I’m from 500 years in the future. Heon glanced down at the piece of paper lying on the grass. The last page from his journal with the drawing of ‘hwanseban’. The dish that brings you home. Relief and anticipation filled him. She was alive!

He snatched the torn page, tucked it into his bangryeong, and stood, wincing at the pain in his wounded thigh. He definitely wasn’t dreaming. Dreams didn’t hurt. He was in the future. He sheathed his sword—he clearly remembered throwing it at the bastard that tried to hurt Ji-young, so how did it end up with him?—and watched the man with Song-jae’s face quickly scramble to his feet.

“You obviously know who I am.”

The man shrugged. “Either I’m delirious, or you’re Yi Heon, the 10th ruler of Joseon.”

Heon inclined his head. At least the man didn’t use the name they bestowed upon him after his ‘treason’. “And how do I know who I am?”

Another shrug. “You’re a legend, man. Literally. My family grew up on the story for generations. I thought it was just a bunch of bullshit, a fairy tale to put me to sleep.” He looked up at him with wide eyes. “You just proved me wrong.”

Fairy tale? “What story?”

“About what really happened with the purge. When you supposedly went cuckoo and killed everyone, including your bestie Song-jae.” The man gesticulated widely. “That none of it is true. That it was your bonkers uncle that went berserk out of envy and framed you. How you sent everybody back to the palace to protect your little brother while you..."

The man fell silent, lifted his hand palm up as if wanting him to continue, and though he’d understood maybe half of the speech, Heon smirked. He was obviously being tested. Smart man. He was glad Song-jae’s descendant was as sharp as his best friend used to be.

“While I went after Jesan to rescue the woman I love.”

Song-jae’s descendant’s face fell. “Shit,” he whispered.

Heon grinned. “The woman you’re going to help me find.”