Chapter 10
A Bet She Couldn’t Win
Miyu felt awkward when the three men urged her to give a toast.
She’d shouted a few at office dinners back home while working part-time, but she had never been the one to start one herself.
I’m not some old-fashioned boss… it’s a little embarrassing.
Still, when in Rome, do as the Romans do.
Here, she figured she’d better follow their customs.
The Somaek-dang gathering was a drinking club where a noble interpreter, a middle-class translator, and a commoner painter drank together, dropping all titles and ranks.
Times had changed, the old class system had mostly crumbled—but the divide between men and women still lingered.
Miyu had broken that prejudice by joining them, chatting as if she were an old friend.
If she wanted to blend in, there was no backing down.
No—she didn’t want to back down.
“Fine, I’ll do it.”
The men looked at her expectantly.
“Danmuji!” she shouted, raising her cup.
They blinked at her, confused.
“Takuan?” Byun Ha-yeon finally asked, eyes curious.
“What’s that?” Hwang Hee added.
“It’s a Japanese side dish—pickled radish in rice bran and salt. But that’s not the point…”
Miyu grinned. “Danmuji means, ‘Let’s just simply enjoy the moment!’”
“That’s good,” Yi-un said with a slow, unexpected smile that warmed his winter-cold face like a sudden spring breeze.
“Come on, my arm’s getting tired—Danmuji!”
Their cups clinked.
“Danmuji!” the three men echoed.
Laughter and lively chatter from the Somaek-dang filled the cozy Kojubu tavern.
“Let me introduce myself properly,” Byun Ha-yeon said. “My father, grandfather, and great-grandfather were all interpreters. Thanks to them, I’m the rich son of a rich house.”
“I’m Hwang Hee,” the next man said. “Named so my ancestors hoped I’d become a great official like the famous Prime Minister Hwang Hee.”
“I’m Yi-un,” the quiet one added. “A painter.”
“I’m Jo Miyu,” she said. “I work at the Gongju Vegetable Stall, and I’m very interested in art.”
“Then tonight’s drinks are on me,” Hwang Hee offered as soon as she finished.
“Nope. I lost the bet, so I’ll split the bill. You’re not looking down on a vegetable-stall clerk, are you?”
“Ha! All right, half each,” he laughed.
“Whoever pays, I just need more drinks,” Byun chuckled.
“So, have you decided on a wish yet?” Hwang Hee asked Yi-un.
“I like this—drinking with friends. Since I won the Somaek-dang bet, my wish is to drink here again in three days.”
“Excellent idea,” Byun said with delight.
A pleasant buzz warmed Miyu as she turned to Yi-un.
“Where can I see great Joseon paintings? I want to start collecting.”
“Try Gwangtong Bridge inside the capital,” he replied without even looking at her.
Why so curt? Miyu wrinkled her nose.
Near Gwangtong Bridge were many art shops—seohwasa—selling works by masters like Kim Hong-do, Jeong Seon, Shin Yun-bok, Kim Deuk-sin, Kang Hee-eon, Jo Hee-ryong, Shin Han-pyeong, Kim Eung-hwan, Lee In-mun, Han Jong-il, and Lee Jong-hyun.
“But collecting fine art costs a fortune. How will you manage that? I don’t mean to insult you for working at a vegetable stall…” Byun hesitated.
Buying a famous painter’s work on a stall clerk’s wages was absurd.
“Do you look down on painters?” Yi-un asked bluntly.
“What?” Miyu’s voice rose.
“Mun Saeng bought a Jeong Seon scroll for 300 nyang. A single Kim Hong-do painting costs the same. Three hundred nyang equals the price of a small tiled house in Seoul. I hear a stall clerk earns about two jeon a day.”
Miyu swallowed hard. Cold, that man.
“Three hundred nyang is 3,000 jeon—so I’d need 1,500 days. Four years and forty days of saving every coin?”
“Quick with numbers,” Yi-un said calmly, sipping his drink.
“Just watch. I’ll buy ten fine paintings within a year.”
“Suit yourself,” he replied, still cool.
“So you don’t believe me? Fine—let’s bet!”
The three men only looked at her in silence.
“For a wager, both sides must disagree,” Yi-un said with a faint, mocking smile.
“Exactly,” Hwang Hee agreed.
“Come on, we’re not gambling addicts,” Byun tried to smooth things over. “Let’s just mix more somaek.”
“You guys!” Miyu fumed, the alcohol feeding her anger.
Amused, Yi-un finally said, “All right. If you succeed, I’ll paint whatever you want.”
“What are you, Kim Hong-do or Jeong Seon? I don’t care about your painting,” she shot back, pride stung.
“This fellow’s paintings would easily fetch 300 nyang,” Byun said, throwing an arm over Yi-un’s shoulder.
The image of that exquisite female portrait flashed through Miyu’s mind and she mentally smacked herself.
Jo Miyu, are you crazy? This is your chance…
“He’s a genius on par with Kim Hong-do or Jeong Seon,” Hwang Hee added. “Only problem is, he never sells.”
Never sells? So that’s why none of his work was left… What am I doing being stubborn?
Her greed sparked. She swallowed and glared at Yi-un.
“I take it back. If I win, you’ll paint for me.”
Her boldness mesmerized the men.
“Such fickleness,” Yi-un clicked his tongue.
“Anyway, that’s a bet!” she declared.
“Fine,” he said with a snort.
“Her attitude changed the moment she heard ‘300 nyang,’” Byun teased.
“Terrifying,” Hwang Hee laughed, shaking his head as they lifted their cups.
“Whew, drunk,” Miyu murmured later, sitting on the veranda of the merchants’ annex, gazing up at the yellow moon.
“Still… I’m lucky. I’ve got work at the vegetable stall, new friends, and now you.”
She stroked the back of the white dog lying beside her.
Earlier he’d been wet and scruffy, but now he was so cute she wanted to bite him.
His floppy ears were gentle, his paw pads black like tiny beans, and even his coal-black eyes had little double lids.
“What should I call you? Just Baekgu? Do you like it?”
Baekgu blinked once, then closed his eyes again, unimpressed.
“Too plain? All right, you deserve a one-of-a-kind name.”
Maybe a famous foreign painter’s name—Michelangelo, Leonardo, Van Gogh, Chagall, Picasso…
None suited a Korean village dog.
She stroked his snowy fur—soft, warm. Like milk.
“That’s it. U-yu! Milk. Baekgu, how about Miyu’s little brother, U-yu?”
The dog’s tail swished.
“Great. From now on, you’re U-yu.”
The names even rhymed like real siblings.
Miyu went inside, fetched a towel, and wrapped U-yu in it, tying it with twine so it wouldn’t slip.
“Haha, you look like a little beggar dog.”
She debated letting him sleep indoors but finally tied him under the eaves where no rain could reach, spreading plenty of straw and placing a water bowl nearby.
“Just for tonight. Tomorrow I’ll build you a nice house.”
It pained her to leave him outside, but this wasn’t the 21st century—this was Joseon.
People would talk, and she didn’t live alone.
Better to start training him properly.
The good little dog didn’t whimper. He wagged once, curled on the straw, and drifted off.
His breathing soon became slow and steady.
Though they’d only met today, he trusted her completely.
You feel safe, don’t you?
Miyu’s heart swelled. She felt it too.
The loneliness of being the last survivor of a ruined Earth melted away.
Life was truly miraculous.
She looked up at the full moon.
Seoul’s noisy night felt impossibly far.
No streetlights, no neon, no red church crosses—only the golden moon and a glittering sky putting on an endless cosmic show.
Meteors streaked; the Milky Way blazed.
It was more moving than any man-made fireworks.
She missed her father, worried how he was coping.
He’d panic if she didn’t answer his calls.
Miyu shook her head hard.
Brooding wouldn’t change anything—only deepen the anxiety.
Maybe the next moment I’ll pop right back to my own time…
That would be nice.
But what if time here runs faster, like in the movie Interstellar?
The thought sobered her instantly.
No bad thoughts.
She’d earn money, buy art, and go home with a trove of paintings.
“U-yu, just watch. I’ll win that bet and flatten Yi-un’s arrogant nose.”
But first she had to make the vegetable stall a success.
Know yourself and know your enemy, and you’ll win every battle.
She’d need to scout the other two vegetable stalls.
“Tomorrow I’ll check them out,” she decided.
Then—soft footsteps.
Someone was approaching the annex.
Miyu stiffened.
No one should come here at night.
U-yu rose, tail bristling, staring into the dark.
Miyu gripped the broom leaning on the porch.
Step… step… cautious footfalls.
Hide inside? No—the room had no lock and might be worse.
And she couldn’t leave U-yu to face danger alone.
She tightened her grip on the broom, ready to scream the moment the figure appeared—loud enough to wake everyone in the merchants’ quarters.
U-yu crouched low, lips curling in a growl far too fierce for a puppy.
Step… step…
From the darkness, someone began to emerge.
Miyu’s knuckles whitened around the broom handle.
