Cosmic Lottery Makes Kings of Kiln-Singers

I arrived in Gaegyeong during a peculiar time of calm chaos, if that contradiction makes any sense. The capital, while bustling with life as expected, thrums with an undercurrent of bemused acceptance for its annual ritual: the celestial hereditary lottery. This twist in the concept of monarchy was borne of an astrologer’s wild gambit centuries ago, and remarkably, no one has seemed particularly motivated to undo it. Every fall, as the harvest moon rises, the court assembles to draw lots for the next king from a shortlist of descendants of the founding Wang dynasty. The process is wonderfully theatrical, full of ceremonial comet blessings and anxious glances as names are plucked from ornate golden urns. I attended this year's selection under the mild pretense of being a foreign observer—an excuse received with polite but suspicious nods. After all, outsiders like me often take more interest in this system than the locals, who are quietly resigned to its eccentricities.

The reigning monarch, King Wang Yeonghwan II, is proof that lottery systems produce... uneven results. By all accounts, Yeonghwan was not a remarkable man before ascending the throne. As I mingled with palace attendants, I gathered nuggets of his pre-royal life: he was known in his local pottery guild as a passable craftsman with a knack for setting things on fire. “Ceramic calamity,” quipped one workshop peer, who now serves as an unwitting palace consultant, having been plucked from the same village under the guise of providing “natural support” to the king. Yeonghwan’s stewardship has been predictably hands-off; his ministers run the nation with mechanical precision, while His Majesty focuses on hobbies like inventing festivals and composing increasingly mediocre poetry about the stars. To their credit, the people seem to find him endearingly hapless. I’m told that his attempts to enforce royal decrees often dissolve into unofficial public opinion polls, and even his guards admit they sometimes feign misunderstandings to avoid implementing harebrained proclamations.

It’s not all chaos, though. The bureaucratic system that underpins Goryeo is ruthlessly efficient, perhaps as a counterbalance to the ruling family’s random whims. Ministers trade whispered jokes about their chameleon-like ability to serve rulers ranging from scholars to soldiers to, well, former potters. They operate as a sort of permanent shadow monarchy, quietly ensuring the gears of governance turn smoothly—not out of loyalty, but because no one wants the kingdom to collapse. When I asked one official—a man whose cynicism might have been poisonous if it weren’t so cogent—how they manage to adapt so quickly to each new king, he replied with a shrug, “A nameplate changes. The palace walls remain.”

Despite the bizarre political structure, life in Gaegyeong largely continues as one might expect. The markets are dense with activity, though the annual betting pools on the next king seem to carve space in nearly every vendor's stall. One merchant—a weaver with a shrewd eye—tried to sell me a tapestry featuring abstract celestial patterns that she claimed hinted at the “true pathway of cosmic succession.” I declined, primarily to avoid encouraging her wild claims that my own ‘foreign star energy’ might influence this year’s results. Yet the interwoven humor with which the people approach their monarchy is oddly infectious. Even in the shadow of rulership dictated by rolling dice under starlight, there’s resilience in their laughter, even if it veers sharply toward gallows humor.

I remain intrigued by the symbolism folded into daily life here. Villagers preparing celebratory feasts in honor of soon-to-be-former rulers make unsubtle jabs at the fragility of temporal power. Their dishes—bean sprout soup, rice cakes shaped like collapsing towers—make me half-wonder whether they’d act differently if fate decided. I also attended a small farewell banquet for the outgoing queen, who graciously toasted her short-lived rule without a hint of bitterness. Oddly, she seemed relieved. “Royalty is a burden I would gladly share,” she said, punctuating her statement with a resigned sigh so deep I could feel it in my teeth.

Amidst this whirlwind, I managed to secure an audience with King Yeonghwan II himself. As expected, he was both courteous and thoroughly baffled by what I might want from him. “Do they not draw lots for kings in your land?” he asked in earnest ignorance, while offering me a small ceramic vase of his own making. It is lopsided and slightly charred. I said no.