Interactive labs that make you derive the writing system rather than memorize it.
No reading ahead. Each card asks you to do one thing — the explanation only shows up after you have done it.
Consonants were pictures of your mouth. Vowels are something else entirely — a coordinate system. Two strokes, a tick, and a rule about how many.
The last eleven vowels are just the ten you know, fused in pairs. Some pairs are impossible — and finding out why is the point of this lab.
A third slot opens underneath. Sixteen different consonants can fill it — and they make seven sounds between them. This is the lab that lets you read Korean names.
Eleven times, Korean crams two consonants into the bottom of a block and pronounces only one of them. This is the last structural piece of the writing system — and the only part you genuinely have to memorize.
You can read every block. Spoken Korean still surprises you. One rule does most of that work — and you already have the pieces.
Liaison filled an empty ㅇ. The other surprises are what a stop does to the letter that follows — tense it, or become a nasal.
ㅎ is a puff of air, and puffs do not survive contact. Next to a consonant it aspirates it; before a vowel it simply vanishes.
ㄴ touching ㄹ always comes out ㄹㄹ — the tongue refuses anything else. But behind a nasal wall of ㅁ or ㅇ, it is ㄹ that gives up and turns into ㄴ.
A full Korean name is a shape: family name first, no space, and every junction rule you have drilled fires inside it. Then come the suffixes people are actually called by — 아, 야, 씨, 님.