The Magic Book

In the ancient city of Gyeongju, when it was still the capital of the Silla Kingdom, there lived a young scholar named Kim Yeong-su. Unlike most scholars of his day who came from noble families, Yeong-su was the son of a humble bookbinder. From his earliest years, he had been surrounded by books—helping his father mend torn pages, stitch bindings, and apply the final touches to volumes commissioned by wealthy nobles and royal officials.

While working alongside his father, Yeong-su had developed an insatiable curiosity and love for the knowledge contained within the books that passed through their workshop. Whenever possible, he would carefully read portions of the texts before they were returned to their owners. By the age of fifteen, though he had never attended formal schooling, Yeong-su had acquired more knowledge than many certified scholars.

“Knowledge is the one treasure that cannot be stolen,” his father often told him. “It is weightless, yet more valuable than gold. It takes no space, yet fills entire universes.”

Despite his wisdom, Yeong-su’s father worried about his son’s future. Without formal credentials or noble connections, Yeong-su could never hope to take the civil service examinations that would lead to an official position, no matter how brilliant he might be.

One unusually cold winter day, as snow blanketed the tile rooftops of Gyeongju, an elderly monk arrived at their workshop. His saffron robes were threadbare, and he leaned heavily on a gnarled wooden staff. In his arms, he carried a large, carefully wrapped bundle.

“Forgive my intrusion,” the monk said, bowing slightly. “I have traveled far seeking the most skilled bookbinder in the kingdom. I was directed to your workshop.”

Yeong-su’s father bowed respectfully in return. “You honor us with your words, venerable one, but I fear you may have been misled. There are royal bookbinders with far greater resources and reputation than my humble workshop.”

The old monk’s eyes crinkled with a gentle smile. “I seek skill and heart, not reputation or resources. This book—” he gestured to the bundle in his arms “—requires special care. It has… unusual properties.”

Intrigued, Yeong-su’s father invited the monk inside. As they sat around the small brazier that provided the workshop’s only warmth, the monk carefully unwrapped the bundle to reveal an ancient book. Its cover was crafted from dark wood inlaid with mother-of-pearl in a pattern of swirling clouds. The spine, once sturdy, now hung by a few threads, and several pages appeared loose.

“This is the Chaekgeori Birok—the Secret Record of Collected Wisdom,” the monk explained. “It has been in our temple’s care for seven generations, but now requires restoration before it deteriorates further.”

Yeong-su, watching from his corner of the workshop, felt drawn to the book in a way he couldn’t explain. Even from a distance, the volume seemed to emanate a subtle energy, like the hum of a distant beehive.

His father examined the book carefully, his experienced fingers gently testing the binding and assessing the condition of the pages. “This is remarkable craftsmanship,” he murmured. “I have never seen paper preserved so well despite such age. The techniques used here…” He looked up at the monk with new respect. “This will be challenging work, but I would be honored to attempt it.”

They discussed the specifics of the restoration, and the monk left the precious volume in their care, promising to return in one month’s time. As soon as the monk had departed, Yeong-su moved closer to examine the book.

“May I help with the restoration, Father?” he asked eagerly.

His father nodded, recognizing his son’s skill. “You may assist, but we must be extremely careful. This book is unlike any I have handled before. The paper does not feel quite… ordinary.”

Over the next several days, they worked together to carefully disassemble the binding, reinforce the spine, and prepare new thread for restitching. Yeong-su noticed that the pages seemed to warm slightly at his touch, and occasionally, if the light caught them at certain angles, the characters appeared to shimmer and shift.

One night, when his father had retired early with a headache, Yeong-su remained in the workshop, unable to resist the temptation to read some of the book’s contents before it was rebound. He lit an extra oil lamp and began to carefully examine the pages.

The book contained an extraordinary collection of stories, philosophical reflections, and historical accounts from cultures across Asia and beyond. Some were written in classical Chinese, others in various scripts Yeong-su had never encountered. Yet strangely, as he focused on each passage, he found he could understand the meaning regardless of the language.

Fascinated, he turned to a story about a tiger and a monk engaged in a battle of wits. As he read, the words seemed to glow faintly on the page. Suddenly, the air above the book shimmered like heat rising from summer stones, and to Yeong-su’s astonishment, a miniature scene appeared—no larger than a rice bowl but perfectly detailed—of a tiger and a monk seated opposite each other in a forest clearing.

Yeong-su gasped and nearly dropped the page. The tiny monk turned toward him, seeming to look directly at Yeong-su despite his diminutive size, and spoke: “The viewer becomes part of every story he reads. Choose wisely which tales you enter.”

Then, as quickly as it had appeared, the scene dissolved back into the characters on the page.

Trembling with excitement and fear, Yeong-su tried another page—this one containing a description of a great naval battle. Again, the words glowed, and a perfect miniature scene formed above the page: tiny ships with billowing sails, the flash of weapons, the churning sea. He could even hear the faint sounds of battle cries and crashing waves.

Throughout the night, Yeong-su explored the magical book, discovering that every passage, every story, every historical account could come to life before his eyes—not as mere illustrations, but as living, moving scenes that he could observe as if through a window into another world.

When dawn approached, he carefully returned the pages to their proper order, his mind reeling with the implications of his discovery. He said nothing to his father, partly from fear that he wouldn’t be believed, partly from a strange sense that the book’s secret was meant for him alone.

Each night thereafter, while his father slept, Yeong-su continued his exploration of the magic book. He watched ancient battles unfold, observed philosophical debates between long-dead scholars, witnessed the construction of wonders like the Great Wall, and traveled through remote landscapes from desert caravans to icy mountain monasteries.

But the book offered more than mere observation. Yeong-su discovered that by concentrating intensely, he could direct questions to the characters in each scene, and they would respond with wisdom from their experience and knowledge. He learned medicine from legendary physicians, strategy from great generals, ethics from revered philosophers, and crafts from master artisans of many cultures.

As the month of restoration work neared its end, Yeong-su had amassed knowledge far beyond his years—knowledge that typically would require multiple lifetimes to acquire. Yet he kept his secret closely guarded, helping his father complete the rebinding of the Chaekgeori Birok with meticulous care.

On the day the elderly monk was due to return, Yeong-su felt a deep sadness at the thought of parting with the magical book. It had become his greatest treasure, his window to worlds and wisdom otherwise forever beyond his reach.

The monk arrived as promised, nodding with approval as Yeong-su’s father presented the beautifully restored volume. “You have done exceptional work,” he said, examining the binding. “The book has been given new life under your skilled hands.”

As the monk carefully rewrapped the volume, he glanced at Yeong-su, who stood quietly in the corner, trying to hide his dejection. A knowing smile crossed the old man’s face.

“Young scholar,” the monk said, addressing Yeong-su directly, “I see the book has chosen to reveal its secrets to you.”

Yeong-su looked up in surprise, while his father turned to him with a questioning expression.

“Do not be alarmed,” the monk continued. “The Chaekgeori Birok chooses its readers carefully. Not all who touch its pages witness the magic within.”

“You knew the book was magical?” Yeong-su’s father asked, astonished.

The monk nodded. “It is why I sought the finest bookbinder—one whose hands would respect the book’s power rather than fear or exploit it.” He turned again to Yeong-su. “And it seems your son has been deemed worthy of the book’s knowledge. Tell me, young man, what have you learned from these pages?”

Hesitantly at first, then with growing enthusiasm, Yeong-su described some of the wonders he had witnessed and the knowledge he had gained. His father listened in amazement, beginning to understand why his son had seemed increasingly wise and thoughtful over the past month.

When Yeong-su finished speaking, the monk nodded thoughtfully. “Knowledge without purpose is like a book that is never opened—beautiful perhaps, but fulfilling not its destiny.” He fixed Yeong-su with a penetrating gaze. “What will you do with all you have learned?”

The question caught Yeong-su by surprise. In his excitement over acquiring knowledge, he had given little thought to its application. “I… I don’t know,” he admitted. “I am just a bookbinder’s son. Who would listen to my wisdom, even if it comes from this magical book?”

“A candle’s light is not diminished by the darkness around it,” the monk replied. “Rather, it becomes more valuable. Your humble origins make your wisdom more accessible to ordinary people, not less.”

After a moment of contemplation, the monk made an unexpected proposal. “I must return this book to my temple, as it has been entrusted to our care for generations. However…” He paused, studying Yeong-su intently. “I believe you were meant to encounter the Chaekgeori Birok. If you wish, you may accompany me to the temple and continue your studies there. We have many other texts that, while perhaps not magical in the same way, contain profound wisdom.”

Yeong-su’s heart leapt at the opportunity, but then he looked at his father—aging, with hands becoming stiffer each winter. “I cannot leave my father without support,” he said reluctantly. “He needs my help in the workshop.”

The monk nodded, respecting his filial piety. “Then perhaps there is another way.” He reached into his robes and withdrew a small, simple book bound in plain brown leather. “This is my personal journal of reflections. It is not magical like the Chaekgeori Birok, but it contains what insights I have gained in my seventy years of study.”

He placed the book in Yeong-su’s hands. “Consider it payment for your father’s excellent work—and a seed for your own future growth.”

After the monk departed with the restored magical book, Yeong-su felt both loss and gratitude. The monk’s journal, while lacking the spectacular magic of the Chaekgeori Birok, was filled with thoughtful observations and practical wisdom. Most importantly, it concluded with a suggestion that would change Yeong-su’s life:

“Knowledge becomes wisdom only when shared. Even in the humblest village, a teacher’s voice can change the world one mind at a time.”

Inspired by these words, Yeong-su approached his father with an idea. “What if we expanded our workshop?” he suggested. “We could continue binding books as always, but also create a small school where I could teach children whose families cannot afford formal education.”

His father, having witnessed the transformation in his son, agreed enthusiastically. They converted half their workshop into a simple classroom, and Yeong-su began teaching local children in the afternoons after completing his bookbinding tasks.

Word of the young scholar-bookbinder spread through the humbler quarters of Gyeongju. Children came first—the sons and daughters of craftspeople, merchants, and servants—eager to learn reading and writing. Soon, adults began to attend as well, seeking knowledge that had previously been denied to those of lower social status.

Yeong-su taught not only basic literacy but also the diverse knowledge he had gained from the magical book—simplified for beginners but no less valuable. He shared medical information that helped families treat common ailments, architectural principles that improved their homes, agricultural techniques that increased their harvests, and philosophical concepts that enriched their understanding of the world.

As seasons passed into years, the small school grew in reputation. Even some noble families began sending their children, recognizing that Yeong-su offered practical wisdom often absent from the more theoretical education provided by conventional scholars.

One spring day, nearly five years after the monk’s visit, a royal procession stopped outside the workshop. To Yeong-su and his father’s astonishment, a high court official entered their humble establishment, bearing a message from the king himself.

“His Majesty has heard of the unusual school where practical knowledge flows freely between social classes,” the official announced. “He wishes to understand how a bookbinder’s son acquired such diverse wisdom.”

Yeong-su was summoned to the palace, where he spoke honestly about his encounter with the magical book—though he was careful to credit his teaching methods and philosophy, rather than supernatural forces, for his school’s success.

The king, impressed by both Yeong-su’s knowledge and his humility, made an unprecedented decision. “Knowledge should not be the exclusive property of the privileged,” he declared. “Henceforth, this bookbinder’s son shall establish a new kind of academy—one open to talented students regardless of birth, focused on practical wisdom alongside classical learning.”

With royal patronage, Yeong-su founded the Chaekgeori Academy on the outskirts of Gyeongju. Unlike traditional academies that prepared students exclusively for government service, this school embraced a broader vision of education—one that valued practical application alongside scholarly theory, that welcomed students of all social backgrounds, and that sought to disseminate useful knowledge throughout society rather than concentrating it among elites.

The elderly monk visited occasionally, watching with quiet satisfaction as the academy grew. During one such visit, as he and Yeong-su walked through the academy’s garden, the monk asked, “Do you ever miss the magical book?”

Yeong-su considered the question carefully. “I valued the knowledge it gave me,” he finally answered, “but I’ve come to realize that the book’s greatest magic wasn’t in making stories come alive before my eyes. Its true magic was showing me that knowledge becomes real only when it leaves the page and enters the world through action.”

The monk smiled approvingly. “Then you have learned the book’s deepest secret. The Chaekgeori Birok is not merely a collection of stories and facts—it is a test. Those who use its knowledge selfishly soon find the magic fading. Those who share its wisdom see the magic multiply beyond the book itself.”

He gestured to the academy buildings where hundreds of students were engaged in various studies. “Look around you. Is this not greater magic than any single book could contain? You have created living knowledge that will continue to grow and spread long after both of us are gone.”

Years later, when Yeong-su was an old man with silver hair and hands gnarled like his father’s had been, a young girl in his advanced class asked him the secret of his remarkable teaching.

Yeong-su smiled, remembering the magical book that had set him on his path so many decades earlier. “The greatest magic,” he told her, “is not in acquiring knowledge but in passing it on. A book unread is just paper and ink. A lesson untaught is just a thought that dies with its thinker. But knowledge shared becomes a living thing that grows and transforms with each new mind it touches.”

After Yeong-su’s death, the Chaekgeori Academy continued to flourish, becoming famous throughout Korea as a center of practical learning and progressive thought. Few remembered that it had begun with a magical book and a bookbinder’s son, but Yeong-su’s philosophy lived on in the academy’s motto, inscribed above its main gate:

“True wisdom lies not in the book, but in the hands that open it, the mind that comprehends it, and the heart that shares its light with others.”

And somewhere in a distant temple, the Chaekgeori Birok waited patiently for its next worthy reader—for the magic of knowledge is eternal, passed from generation to generation through the simplest yet most powerful magic of all: the willingness to learn and the generosity to teach.