Rise of the Heightarchy

The Silla Kingdom radiates the same resplendence it does across countless timelines, gilded in gold and punctuated by lush green hills. Yet here, the invisible tapestry of societal norms is stitched together by something as straightforward—and comically arbitrary—as height. Household hierarchies, even societal power structures, revolve entirely around who happens to raise their head higher. It’s a bizarre twist of evolutionary and nutritional luck that reshapes everything from family dinners to royal court rituals.

For families, this height-based hierarchy completely reshuffles traditional roles. In one household I visited, a 13-year-old girl named Soo-Min had recently eclipsed her parents and assumed full control of the family. Her mother, previously the matriarch, now deferred to her daughter as if she were consulting a mystical oracle. Soo-Min solemnly allocated chores, though she mostly used her newfound authority to, as her younger brother whispered in confidence, “enforce dessert rations.” It seemed preposterous at first, but I noticed her decisions weren’t openly questioned—despite her fondness for bubblefish ice cream.

Shoemakers in this timeline wield influence that far exceeds their practical trade. Everywhere I went, cobblers were hailed as both artisans and engineers of destiny. One boasted custom insoles capable of adding nearly four centimeters discreetly. "People need hope," she told me, winking as she handed off a completed pair of shoes to a desperate aristocrat whose shoulders carried an odd tension, as if the weight of his family’s honor now resided solely in his heels. Shoes here are less about comfort and more about stealth power—tools to climb the literal and figurative ladder without anyone questioning your divine providence.

This height-focused obsession influences diet, architecture, and parenting in ways I couldn’t have anticipated. The local markets teem with so-called “growth tonics,” bowls of porridge allegedly imbued with seaweed elixirs to stretch one’s very bones. Lodgings and temples flaunt ceilings that comically alternate in height, adjusted every few years depending on the current tallest family member or presiding priest. I even saw a palace engineer planning an emergency rooftop expansion after hearing rumors that the royal crown prince had hit a growth spurt. When I joked about the future of measuring sticks becoming national treasures, I was met with uncomfortably serious nods of agreement.

Curiously, belief systems have evolved to validate this hierarchy. I visited a temple where murals had been reinterpreted to show extra-tall gods bestowing blessings upon their subjects—a notion woven subtly, yet thoroughly, into spiritual life here. A local priest offered to measure me ceremonially, insisting that a blessing wouldn’t be particularly effective without accurate height coordinates. I declined politely, but not before marveling at the enormous stone ruler he retrieved from a ceremonial chamber. Divinity, in this world, truly aligns vertically.

Even the political realm is shaped by heightocracy. During my time in Gyeongju, I heard whispers of a bitter rivalry brewing in the royal court between the queen and a particularly ambitious prince. Apparently, the queen, known for her formidable height, recently began wearing dramatically tall ceremonial slippers to secure her dominance. Meanwhile, the prince’s allies had covertly commissioned cobblers to slip her slightly shorter shoes in an attempt to create the illusion of shrinking—a scandal that, in any other timeline, would sound as absurd as it does here. In this one, though, it has major implications for royal legitimacy.