The Exile Community in 1890s Japan

In 1893, when Hong Jong-u arrived in Japan, the Korean exile community there was small enough that any new face would immediately draw attention—especially someone as conspicuously polished as Hong. A French-educated intellectual with urbane charm, Hong stood out among his compatriots. His fluency in diplomacy and reformist ideals should have guaranteed him a high-ranking position back in Joseon Korea. Yet the kingdom’s rigid aristocratic hierarchy barred talented outsiders from power—a system Hong bitterly resented.

This resentment fueled his ambition. To bypass the “wall of lineage,” Hong devised a ruthless plan: either ally with exiled revolutionary Kim Ok-gyun to overthrow the Joseon government, or assassinate Kim to earn favor with the ruling Min faction. The latter option held particular appeal. The Min regime had long sought Kim’s death, even offering bounties—though Hong cared less for gold than for a ministerial title.

The Exile and the Assassin

Kim Ok-gyun, leader of the failed 1884 Gapsin Coup, lived in Tokyo as a penniless revolutionary. Despite his落魄 circumstances, he remained a figure of dread for Korea’s royal court. Another assassin, Lee Yeol-sik, had already infiltrated Kim’s circle under orders from Queen Min. When Hong arrived, Kim’s associates grew suspicious—even Japan’s ultranationalist Gen’yōsha warned against him. But Kim, ever the idealist, dismissed their concerns.

Lee saw potential in Hong. To recruit him, he fabricated a royal edict (complete with forged seal) promising high office for Kim’s murder. Their conversations took a philosophical turn:

“How can Joseon modernize?” Lee probed.

“By abolishing nepotism! Talent must lead!” Hong declared.

“Reform requires stability,” Lee countered. “Men like Kim would burn the system down. We need… restraint.”

The subtext was clear: Kim’s radicalism endangered Korea. When Lee finally revealed the assassination plot, Hong—though startled—agreed to collaborate.

A Conspiracy Across Borders

The killers faced logistical hurdles. Japan’s efficient police made Tokyo too risky. Lee proposed luring Kim to Shanghai, where Qing officials secretly supported the plot. Japan’s Foreign Minister Inoue Kaoru, eager to remove Kim as a diplomatic liability, also encouraged his departure.

Meanwhile, Kim’s desperation grew. Bankrupt and isolated, he rejected offers to naturalize as a Japanese citizen, telling a journalist:

“Should I abandon my homeland? Who then would awaken our stagnant nation?”

Yet his principles didn’t pay bills. Enter Osaka banker Ōmiwa Chōbee, who’d been secretly funding Kim—not out of idealism, but as a hedge. If Kim ever regained power, Ōmiwa stood to profit. When Lee confessed the assassination plan, Ōmiwa initially balked at losing his investment. Then Lee showed him the “royal decree.” Calculating that aiding the plot might yield double returns from the Joseon court, Ōmiwa provided 50,000 yen (a fortune then) to finance the operation.

The Shanghai Ambush

On March 28, 1894, Hong and Lee escorted Kim to Shanghai under pretense of securing Qing support for Korean reform. As they toured the British Settlement, Hong drew a revolver and shot Kim point-blank. The assassination shocked East Asia:

– Japan: Public outrage erupted over Kim’s killing on foreign soil. His mutilated body (returned to Korea on a Qing warship) became a nationalist symbol.
– Korea: The Min regime celebrated, but Hong received only minor posts—proof that talent still lost to lineage.
– Qing China: Complicit in the plot, Beijing’s reputation suffered, fueling anti-Qing sentiment among reformers.

Legacy of a Murder

Kim’s death accelerated Japan’s imperial designs on Korea. Within months, the First Sino-Japanese War erupted, with Japan citing the assassination as evidence of Qing interference. By 1910, Korea would be annexed.

Hong’s story epitomizes the tragedy of late Joseon: brilliant minds like his, stifled by feudalism, became tools of repression rather than progress. Meanwhile, Kim’s martyrdom inspired later independence movements. Today, historians debate whether he was a visionary or a reckless radical—but none deny his death reshaped East Asia.

The tale endures as a grim lesson: when meritocracy fails, ambition turns lethal.