# Chapter 10: The Long Road to Xinjing
Hello everyone, it's me again! How are you all doing? Today I will continue to walk with you and review Chapter 10 of "Honey in The Wound free digital audiobook". This is a chapter that moves like a train itself—steady at first, then rattling, then suddenly dangerous. Young-Ja is pulled out of the only world she has known and carried across borders, stations, and suspicions. By the end, she is no longer the same girl who whispered that she needed to pee on a train. She is a witness to empire, to kindness, and to secrets she cannot yet name.
The chapter opens with Baek Yong-Woo trying to draw Young-Ja into conversation. He asks how much Chinese she knows, how long it took her to pick up Japanese, whether she has ever left Cheonan before. But the girl gives him almost nothing. After several failed attempts, he admits defeat and opens a newspaper. The two sit in silence until Young-Ja whispers something he cannot quite catch. He leans closer—he smells like fresh pine needles—and she repeats, “I need to pee.” Yong-Woo chuckles, tells her it is not good to hold it in, and gestures toward the lavatory compartment at the end of the car.
What follows is both painful and tender. Young-Ja enters a cramped room with a wooden bench and a hole in the middle. She has never seen a toilet like this and does not understand why it is raised so high. She gathers her kimono, tucks the fabric into her obi, and steps up to squat over the hole. Suddenly, a rush of water shoots inside the seat. She yelps, loses her balance, and slips her left foot into the hole. Water soaks her sock and wooden sandal. She cries out, humiliated and confused.
A knock at the door is Baek Yong-Woo’s rich tenor. “Are you all right?” he asks. She lets out a defeated squeak. He offers help. When she opens the door, her cheeks and neck are flushed red. Yong-Woo appraises the scene with a gentle smile, then helps her take off the wet sock. He pours clean water over it from his canteen and wipes her feet with a handkerchief from his jacket. “Next time, you just need to sit on the seat,” he explains. “Some modern toilets flush water to wash away the impurities, that’s all.” Young-Ja clutches his sleeve, balancing on one foot while the other dries. Her breath steadies, and she leans into him, trusting that he will support her weight.
That small moment of trust carries into Gyeongseong Station, where Young-Ja steps out into a world too large to comprehend. She is paralyzed by the buildings, the domes, the machines, the swelling waves of people shooting in all directions. Men in Western suits check pocket watches. Others in hanbok move through the crowd. Attendants carry bags behind women in colorful kimono. Everyone is determined to be in a hurry. Unlike the familiar herds of white hanbok in Cheonan markets, this swarm feels inscrutable—a kinetic energy of adult concerns and desires she cannot parse.
Then she sees a line of tan uniforms marching toward them, rifles in hand. Young-Ja gasps and jumps behind Yong-Woo, gripping his jacket so tight he stumbles. He waits until the soldiers disappear into the crowd, then gently releases her hold. “It’s okay, they’re gone,” he says. “You’ve done nothing wrong. They’re not going to do anything to you.” He squeezes her hand and bends down to meet her eyes. “Just stick with me and you’ll be fine.” She gives a slight nod. For the rest of the station, she keeps her eyes on the ground, content to stare at shoes if it means avoiding the gaze of soldiers.
But the world keeps forcing itself on her. When she finally looks up to avoid colliding with anyone, she freezes. Two tall men stand deep in conversation. They have pale skin, light sunken eyes, and tufts of sorghum-colored hair under large noses. She has never seen people like this. She stares at the alien sight, not realizing she has stopped holding Yong-Woo’s hand. A loud train whistle jerks her out of her gawking. She panics, searching for her companion in the horde. Yong-Woo taps her back and explains that those two men are Europeans—and that she can gape at more of them where they are going. Young-Ja blushes at being caught in her indiscretion and takes his hand again to board the next northbound train.
Once they find their seats, Yong-Woo says, “Looks like you’re quite interested in people.” Young-Ja admits she did not know there were so many types. He tells her that people may all look different, but they are more alike than she thinks. Then he begins a quiet lesson. He points to an old woman in a blue kimono and a young man in a hanbok a few seats down. At first, Young-Ja insists they are not similar at all. But under his guidance, she notices details: the old woman’s knuckles are white around a handkerchief, she wipes sweat though it is autumn, she keeps closing her eyes. The young man smooths his jeogori, watches people in the aisle, shifts constantly, taps the windowsill. Both look nervous. Yong-Woo reveals he overheard the man asking for directions and watched the woman being dropped off by her son. They are both traveling alone for the first time.
Young-Ja accuses him of cheating—he already knew the answer. Yong-Woo smiles and shrugs. “Hearing is a part of seeing, little lady,” he says. “With practice you can learn how to read people too. In the meantime, I recommend that you watch people’s hands. You can always tell a lot by the hands.” And so Young-Ja spends the ride to Pyongyang scrutinizing passengers, crafting elaborate stories about their lives. She surprises herself with how easily the conjectures come. She had never thought to imagine other people’s emotions, to extrapolate their inner lives. How much had she missed when all she focused on was herself, on how she might better please others? Would she have been able to pick up Masaharu Ojiisan’s intentions by paying more attention? If she could look into the eyes of the soldiers from that morning, would she understand why they did what they did?
Yong-Woo catches her staring too hard and teases that her eyes will fall out. He advises her to be subtle. “Most people don’t like to feel watched by people they don’t know, and often, even the people they do.” He continues, “Public life’s a performance. If you want to be able to read people, you must make them think their actions are private. People will be quicker to reveal their true selves if they think no one’s watching.”
After Pyongyang, the pair transfers again and rides through the stark mountains of northern Joseon before crossing into Manchukuo. The novel pauses to give history: a few years after the Uchidas adopted Young-Ja, the Japanese military fabricated an explosion near Mukden to justify invading northeast China. They established Manchukuo, a supposedly harmonious state where Japanese, Koreans, Chinese, Manchus, and Mongols could live under a puppet emperor. In truth, Japan controlled everything. The train Young-Ja rides is filled with university-educated Japanese who learned Chinese in school and now qualify for prestigious posts. Japanese of humbler backgrounds are eager to resettle for farmland or better-paying industry jobs. Koreans have little choice—many are forced north to provide cheap labor for factories and mines, riding in third-class or cargo cars so they will not inconvenience Japanese passengers.
Young-Ja loses track of time. She waits in stations, transfers trains, bounces on rickety seats. Her eyelids flutter as fatigue sets in. Then she notices a man in a deep-maroon changshan. He wears round glasses, has short combed-back hair, and is relatively thin but broad-shouldered. He stares out the window at the passing mountains, but the glimpses he casts at Young-Ja seem laced with urgency. She grows concerned and nudges Yong-Woo, asking why the man is staring at her. Yong-Woo pats her hand. “People might just stare back at the strange person who was staring at them first,” he says. “He probably doesn’t mean any harm. Rest your eyes for a bit—we have about an hour left before we transfer a final time in Mukden.”
Yong-Woo folds his jacket and places it on the long seat. “Put your head down here and relax,” he says. “I need to go to the toilet—” Young-Ja grabs his sleeve. “Don’t worry, little lady,” he chuckles. “I’ll be right back.” She watches him stroll past the man in the changshan and through the door to the next car. The man is no longer looking at her, but out the window. Her need to believe in Yong-Woo’s kindness allows her to trust that no harm will come if she sets her head on his makeshift pillow and lets the train’s vibrations rock her to sleep.
A large jolt stirs her awake. Baek Yong-Woo has not returned. She is unsure how long she slept, but the landscape has not changed much—they are still deep in the mountains. Had something happened to him? She sits up and notices the man in the changshan is no longer in his seat. Perhaps he confronted Yong-Woo about her staring. Or had Yong-Woo abandoned her as well? Her chest tightens. She rises to search for the only person left to her in the world.
The next car over is much statelier than where she sat. Instead of open seating, shiny doors carved from dark wood gate private compartments. Young-Ja leans into an empty compartment to examine the luxurious carpet and plush upholstery. At the creak of an opening door, she jumps out, fearing she might be rebuked for trespassing. The man in the maroon changshan has just exited the toilet by the door. He walks back toward their original car without sparing her a single glance. The anxiety brewing in her chest starts to boil over—if Yong-Woo is not in the toilet, where could he have gone? She starts to pace and considers knocking on one of the closed compartments to ask if anyone has seen her companion.
“What are you doing here? I told you to stay at our seat.” Yong-Woo emerges from the same toilet that the man in the changshan had just vacated. He smooths back his lightly tousled hair and raises an eyebrow at her. His cheeks are flushed, and there is a severity in his voice that Young-Ja has not heard before. She returns to her seat with him in silence. The man in the changshan is nowhere to be seen.
The sun hazes red as it sets on the distant horizon. Baek Yong-Woo promises that this is the final leg of the trip, but Young-Ja is too captivated by the expansive plains to the west to mind. She has never seen so far across such a flat landscape. She wonders how people discovered this place, how they managed to build a railroad for such long distances. Her siblings’ faces flicker in her mind. Young-Ho might have been scared to walk through the station and board the train, but with his sisters by his side, he would have quickly become entranced by the passing scenery. When the train starts to slow, she wishes they had not arrived so she could stay immersed in her daydreams of the open earth steeped in fading sunlight.
Then the passengers murmur. They are still far from the city and have no business pausing on this empty patch of land. Had there been a mechanical failure? One man sticks his head out the window and immediately pulls himself back in, yelling that men on horseback are boarding the train. Bandits.
The car erupts in panic as people scramble to hide their valuables. One person runs into the toilet and slams the door. Yong-Woo grimaces but stays calm. He pats Young-Ja’s shoulder and assures her that all will be fine. “Just keep still and quiet until they leave,” he advises. “These small-time bandits usually don’t want to hurt people. They’re probably poor farmers struggling to make money; they’ll just want to take some valuables and run home to feed their families.”
The door bursts open and several men armed with pistols and spears barge in. Passengers huddle in their seats. The bandits have tied cloths over their noses and mouths. They yell in Chinese, then Japanese: “Money and jewelry, now! No moving! No talking!” They stalk down the aisle, reaching into pockets and grabbing what they can. A bandit wearing a dusty, fur-lined vest over a gray changshan stops next to Yong-Woo and waves his pistol. Yong-Woo raises his hands and responds in calm, lilting Chinese. Young-Ja holds her breath to avoid the bandit’s sour odor and tries to be still, but terror shakes her body. She watches the bandit reach into Yong-Woo’s jacket pocket and dig for his wallet. A woman in the seat ahead shrieks at another rogue taking her purse, but Young-Ja’s eyes never leave the bandit’s hand—not when it could hurt the only sympathetic person left to her. She swears she sees a flicker of paper in that hand, as if the bandit has placed something into Yong-Woo’s pocket that was not there before. When the man steps away with the wallet, Young-Ja releases her breath and looks at Yong-Woo for a sign of what to do next. He continues to stare straight ahead with his hands raised.
As soon as the bandits file into the next car, passengers cry out, turning to one another with their sundry grievances. “My God, they took Mother’s necklace!” “Shh, stay calm, what if those criminals come back?” “How did this happen? Where’s the security on this train?” “Weren’t there soldiers at the last station? Why aren’t they here?”
After some time, the train starts moving again. Young-Ja looks out the window to the west and sees the men fleeing on horseback into the plains. Unlike the affronted Japanese civilians in their car, Yong-Woo does not seem concerned about having been robbed. He maintains his calm, easy demeanor. After the sun disappears into the horizon, the train finally rolls into Xinjing, the capital of Manchukuo and Young-Ja’s new home for the next seven years.
The chapter closes with a sharp historical and sensory shift: Xinjing, Manchukuo, Empire of Japan, 1934. Changchun—“long spring”—was once a modest stopover between Mukden and Harbin. When the Japanese looked to establish the capital of their new Manchurian conquest, they rejected Mukden for its sprawling Chinese palaces and Harbin for its Russian urban planning. Instead, they chose humble Changchun, flat and amenable to expansion in whatever image its new master desired. Japanese forces marched in and renamed it Xinjing—“new capital”—paying local officials handsomely to facilitate the transition. These hanjian traitors found collaboration so profitable that they acquired land across the sea in Japan, securing their escape should their countrymen ever discover the extent of their duplicity. And so the Japanese erected large modern buildings from which to administer government and military affairs on continental Asia. While the invaders were not known for their sense of humor, they liked to embellish their new structures with Chinese roofing style as if in a cheeky nod to the ruse of nominal Sino rule: Chinese hats were worn here, but the head of the beast was Japanese.
Each place Young-Ja passed through since leaving Cheonan was larger and stranger than the last. She had seen, heard, and smelled more in the last few days of her journey than she had in all her life. Now she rides in an automobile whose engine growls as it propels them around cyclists and rickshaws weaving through traffic. The moon hangs low. Electric lampposts cast a distorting yellow light on people teeming about parked vehicles and horses. Night shadows hollow out the stern passing faces whose overlapping shouts and calls make Young-Ja clutch Baek Yong-Woo’s jacket. She shuts her weary eyes to the congestion of the large city: towering buildings, unremitting lights, crowds swarming in the night with the vim of midday.
Reader's Impressions & Star Rating: This chapter is a masterclass in contrast. One moment I was laughing at the toilet mishap, and the next I was holding my breath during the bandit raid. Young-Ja’s growth is quietly devastating—she begins the chapter unable to hold a conversation and ends it reading strangers like stories, even if she still cannot read the secrets right in front of her. Baek Yong-Woo remains a fascinating puzzle. He is gentle, patient, and protective, but the paper slipped into his pocket and his flushed return from the toilet suggest he is far more than a kind traveling companion. The historical backdrop is woven in without feeling like a lecture, and the final image of Xinjing is overwhelming, electric, and lonely. This chapter made me trust Yong-Woo and suspect him at the same time. ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ Rating: 4.8 / 5 Stars
Next Chapter Prediction: In the next chapter, Young-Ja will step fully into Xinjing and begin her new life in a city built to serve empire. The paper slipped into Yong-Woo’s pocket will almost certainly return as a crucial plot point—perhaps a message, a contact name, or a warning tied to the man in the maroon changshan. Yong-Woo’s role may shift from guardian to something more dangerous: a courier, a spy, or a man walking a fine line between survival and resistance. Young-Ja will likely face a new household, new rules, and new prejudices, and her newly learned skill of watching hands and faces may become her only way to stay safe. I predict she will discover that Xinjing is not just a new home but a trap with many doors, and one of those doors belongs to Yong-Woo’s secrets.
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