As True as a Dream Chapter 153

Why should a Korean have to die for demanding Korean rights on Korean soil?

Is it just for them to invade as they please, force their rule upon us, and wield violence?

We were living our lives just fine!

We never wanted their oppression!

 

But his blazing heart soon crumbled against the wall of reality.

It pained him to watch his people crushed under Japanese oppression, yet he could do nothing.

 

His aging parents, his young siblings, the job he’d struggled to secure, the tangled web of relatives and friends—

He couldn’t just abandon everything and throw himself into the fight for his ideals.

 

Yet now, Hae-Joo had taken that first step he’d been too afraid to take.

 

Yongzhou clenched his fists, his hands trembling.

 

“I’m just…”

 

He was nothing more than a journalist.

No matter what lies Japan spewed, he had to bow his head and write them as truth.

How long could he live like this?

 

Even Hae-Joo, who lacked the strength to kill a chicken, refused to cower any longer. Was he really going to keep seething in silence? For how long?

 

And though it was hard to believe, he now knew the monstrous truth behind Governor-General Saito’s actions.

How many innocent lives had been lost to his selfishness?

 

Just the death toll from the incidents Hae-Joo mentioned numbered in the thousands.

 

“Brother, this isn’t just a one-time thing. I’ll need your help going forward.”

“Going forward?”

“I want to gather evidence—expose the horrors of our country’s reality and Japan’s cruelty to the world. I’m not asking for anything else. You’re a journalist. Do what a journalist should do.”

 

Yongzhou burned with shame under Hae-Joo’s unwavering gaze.

 

‘He was a journalist. Why had he become one?’

 

To be a puppet dancing to Japan’s tune, blinding and deafening the people with his own hands?

To write fiction instead of uncovering the truth?

 

Even his father, demoted to Gongju, secretly saved money to send to the independence movement.

Yet all Yongzhou had done was turn a blind eye, grumbling under his breath and lamenting in his heart.

 

Pathetic.

 

“…Alright.”

 

After a long pause, Yongzhou nodded reluctantly.

 

“Thank goodness. I knew you’d say that.”

 

Hae-Joo smiled brightly at his answer.

 

Stunned, Yongzhou blinked dumbly until Yi Ho added dryly:

 

“I don’t know what she sees in you to trust you so much.”

 

Yongzhou stiffened as Yi Ho continued.

 

“Hae-Joo said you’d help. I said you wouldn’t. And if you refused after hearing all this… well, we’d have kept you somewhere quiet until we bought enough time.”

 

The words were polished, but the meaning was clear—they’d have locked him up.

 

“Think about it. We’ve laid all our cards on the table. Why would we just let you walk away?”

 

“Boss—! That was just a hypothetical! We agreed to reconsider if he refused!”

 

“Right. Exactly. Just a joke.”

 

At Hae-Joo’s outburst, Yi Ho grinned and shrugged.

 

But Yongzhou saw the truth in his eyes.

 

He wasn’t joking.

 

Yi Ho would never have let him leave, not when he now knew too much.

 

A cold sweat trickled down Yongzhou’s back as he swallowed hard.

 

“On your way back, I’ll have one of my men accompany you. You’ll need help arranging things for Hae-Joo’s request.”

 

‘One of Ban Yi Ho’s men?’

 

Yongzhou almost laughed.

 

Was this help—or a watchdog?

 

Then again, if their roles were reversed, he wouldn’t have trusted himself either.

 

Steeling himself, Yongzhou met Yi Ho’s gaze.

 

“But Hae-Joo, have you ever written an article before?”

 

“Huh?”

 

“There’s a reason I’m the journalist here.”

 

Now that he’d made his decision, a strange lightness filled him. The corner of his mouth twitched upward.

 

“I can’t just sit back and do nothing. I’ll help. I know distribution better than you.”

“…Brother.”

“So what’s the plan? The exact purpose of this newspaper? How will you fund printing and distribution? Even I can’t help with that.”

 

Yi Ho answered before Hae-Joo could.

 

“Money is no issue. Send me the bills for whatever you need.”

 

Yongzhou studied him briefly, then nodded.

 

Hae-Joo explained that this “ghost newspaper” was groundwork—to expose Saito’s true nature before they gathered concrete evidence.

 

Just as Saito had stirred panic with tales of “Western demons” and “superstitious, barbaric Koreans,” they would fight fire with fire.

 

“How soon can we distribute? The faster, the better.”

“Hard to say. Finding a press, buying paper… If we print just this issue as a leaflet, maybe a week?”

“A week…”

 

Hae-Joo frowned, glancing at Yi Ho, who spoke again.

 

“What if the press, equipment, and paper were ready by tomorrow?”

“Boss?”

 

Hae-Joo stared in shock. Yongzhou raised an eyebrow.

 

“Are you saying you’ll buy a press?”

“Why not?”

 

Yongzhou scoffed at Yi Ho’s blasé tone.

 

“It’ll be expensive on such short notice. And labor—”

“Money is the one thing I have.”

 

The sheer arrogance of the reply made Yongzhou laugh outright.

 

This man had stolen his first love without giving him a chance to confess.

Annoying. Infuriating.

 

Yet even Yongzhou had to admit—that line was undeniably cool.

 

“Money is the one thing I have.”

 

Hae-Joo was giggling too, shaking her head at Yi Ho.

 

Watching her, Yongzhou quietly let go of the last remnants of his lingering feelings.

 

The love between Hae-Joo and Yi Ho was palpable.

 

Holding on any longer would only make him pitiful.

 

“Then I’ll start arranging things. As for the article—”

“You’re the journalist. I trust your judgment. And if we can print in two days… I’ll do whatever it takes.”

“Right. We’ll need hands. The fewer people involved, the better. I’ll get going, then.”

“Thank you.”

 

Yongzhou turned away, already running through options in his head.

 

A bookstore owner, an acquaintance of his father’s.

A shuttered newspaper press, closed by Japanese censors.

The old printing machine in the basement of the Bogyeong Daily.

 

The first option’s press was too small for mass printing.

The second’s equipment might not even work.

The third would require sneaking in after hours.

 

At least he knew how to operate a press.

 

“Reporter Lee Yongzhou.”

 

He turned to see a stern-faced man in his mid-forties.

 

“I work for Director Ban of Song Yue Pavilion. Here to assist.”

 

The man’s flat voice and expressionless face unsettled him, but Yongzhou shook his hand.

 

“Let me know if you need anything. I’ll report our progress to the boss.”

 

The phrasing was odd, but if this was Yi Ho’s man, perhaps he’d grown up abroad.

 

Besides, the article wasn’t the only problem.

They’d need ink and large quantities of paper.

 

Too much to do.

 

“We’ll buy a press. Secure a location. Purchase paper.”

 

The man spoke as if reading his mind.

 

“…You mean actually buy?”

 

The man nodded silently.

 

Yongzhou was speechless.

 

No joke. He was dead serious.

 

But practicality kicked in—new equipment would draw attention.

They’d need to find used machines through his father’s connections.

 

Then, abruptly, Yongzhou realized he was smiling.

 

“You’re the journalist. Do what a journalist should do.”

 

His heart pounded.

 

Burning hot.