Chapter 129
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 129
Chapter Title: The Golden Age (5)
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Let me organize my thoughts.
Wooden boats.
You can't just ram a big ship straight into a beach, so naturally, the troops have to board small boats to land.
But if you throw wooden boats into battle... they'd shatter pretty easily, right? Demand would be endless.
Take that a step further, and it might even connect to that famous PT boat business. Boats, boats. This might make more money than the big, beautiful steel warships I originally wanted.
But there's a problem.
The Army has zero way to muscle in on this.
As far as I remember, both the Korean and U.S. Armies had some landing craft or transports, but what can you do when we don't have any right now?
This is the season of sharp military cutbacks.
Officers who fought bravely on French soil are lining up daily to apply for discharge, and I had to go before Congress itself just to pull off that fantasy ass-kissing show to save our tanks. If I stir up trouble by poaching another branch's turf now, I could really get screwed.
Beyond the turf war, timing is the issue.
If I barge into the War Department yelling, "We need to drop a million troops in France twenty years from now!" would they say, "Oh, right. Then let's churn out 100,000 boats?" Or would Marshall give me a pitying look and recommend Arkham Asylum?
Impossible is impossible.
The ones screaming for landing boats like a spoiled three-year-old demanding toys are none other than the United States Marine Corps.
First, I need to build some magical friendship with those guys, then convince the Navy's picky procurement officers. Just thinking about it makes my knees weak.
The silver lining? My career is perfect for pitching landing craft proposals right now.
The Philippines.
A land of thousands of islands.
Landings are inevitable, so I can slyly suggest, "Wouldn't we need landing craft for the Army's smooth defense and recapture of the Philippines?"
I'm not volunteering to lead the charge myself—I'll just gauge what the Marines need and offer some... informal input.
This'll take time. I need to figure out who to schmooze first.
In the meantime, scout boat tech teams and existing manufacturers... Busy times ahead.
Burning with ambition for the shipbuilding industry, I headed to San Francisco to bid farewell to Teacher Dosan An Chang-ho.
"Are you really going?"
"If Unam is calling me—someone who can't resist anything touching his rice bowl—it must mean things are that dire. With all these sturdy young folks coming from the mainland, it'll be fine even if an old man like me leaves."
He's not even fifty yet—how can he call himself old? But I've got too many guilty pangs to argue.
I did work Teacher Dosan pretty hard. Time to let him go, regretfully.
"I've handled the handover perfectly, so don't worry too much."
"What, do you think I'm some ruthless slave driver? No need to fret."
"Not a slave driver, but definitely a ruthless businessman. How could they slack off with Korea's future hope right in front of their eyes?"
He patted my waist and said,
"Ignore the chatter from fools who know nothing. You're the one plowing the widest fields for the Korean people's future—more than any so-called great scholar."
"Now that you're leaving, you're gilding my face. Does that mean I can't buy any more independence bonds?"
"Busted? Hahaha! I've watched your family's businesses grow day by day from right beside you. Koreans who once scrambled just to survive, having lost their country, hope, and future—they're now educating their kids and planning ahead. Whose credit is that?"
No, if you wrap even my personal safety and glory-chasing in such noble packaging, it puts me in a tough spot—
"Of course, you'd pout and grumble, 'This is all for my own wealth and fame.' You three brothers take after your father in that youthful cheekiness. Even he, when the National Association rent piled up and he was sweating bullets, would bellow, 'What has Korea ever done for me to take my money!'—yet he'd always slip us some pocket change.
So just keep doing what you're doing. Thanks to you, everyone you feed becomes a precious patron of the Provisional Government. Hahaha!"
And with that, An Chang-ho departed.
"Bro, you know Uncle Kim Jong-rim?"
"Yeah. We ate rice from his place every day, right? Heard he struck it big with the war boom."
"Yeah. He did some independence work, even built a school for pilot training, but looks like it didn't pan out."
Yushin's preamble is dragging on.
Last time he beat around the bush like this... marriage troubles.
Not making that mistake again. People learn from their errors.
"So?"
"A few years back, Uncle came by."
"To me? Why'd you skip me?"
"You were losing your shit over my marriage stuff then—"
Ah, that time.
Yeah, unavoidable. I admit it. Awkward to reach out.
"There was a big flood around here back then—wiped out his rice farm."
"Get to the point."
"Our family money's keeping his flight school afloat. You were into education anyway, so I just folded it in."
"Good call. No need to bug me every time—just handle it."
This is great.
I was planning to dip into aviation anyway. U.S. aviation is still a mess compared to Europe's.
Send smart kids to pilot or engineer tracks, and they'll lock in as elite talent. Elite talent gets respect anywhere.
Colored infantry divisions got shat on in the Great War, but a colored air squadron? They'd get real props. Solid appeal.
I've got buddies in Army Aviation. Time to casually work on them.
"Anything else?"
"The students you brought over."
"Oh, that."
"Not an 'oh, that' situation. Teaching them English first. Real-world crash course, half a year to a year—they'll loosen up. Then high school or college by age, tech enthusiasts to Ford."
"Okay, okay. Perfect."
Unlike rice farming, people farming takes years—no joke. Decade-long plan.
"But bro."
"Yeah?"
"Like I said before, shouldn't we start some profitable businesses now?"
"Profitable, huh."
"Money pits keep growing, but no new moneymakers."
Fair point.
Japan expansion was a shot at a path forward, but how long will that last?
I figured to swallow companies in the Depression, I'd need footholds first—hence the investments.
But hearing this, I'm getting anxious: when it hits, will we be hunting firms or crashing ourselves?
Cash cows. Cash games. Need some brilliant money magnet.
I slunk out of the house, sadly, to Dorothy's unheard line: "Go figure out how to make money! There's a hole in my wallet!"
Damn. Speak of the devil—cigarettes ran out on the way.
I ducked into the nearest shop.
"Pack of Fatimas."
"Sold out. Sorry."
"Really?"
"Hardly anyone smokes Fatimas anymore. Tough to stock. Switch brands this time?"
Switch cigarettes? Scarier than converting religions. Back in my day, once you learned on an 88, it was 88 forever—even if you started on a Deep Plus, you'd stick the incense in a Deeple.
"This one's hot now. You like baseball, sir?"
"Yes. Love it."
"Try it. Tastes good, and baseball player cards inside—even non-smokers buy packs to collect 'em."
Baseball cards?
Bought a pack, tore it open—yep, small cards inside. Player pic on front, bio on back.
"Different players per pack?"
"Yep. Plenty of collectors."
This is it.
Heaven pities good-deed-doing Eugene Kim and guides him to fortune!
Past life, card games exhausted me. Kid days: Magic: The Gathering. School: Pokémon, Digimon—scraping for cards. Army nights on duty: Hearthstone like mad.
These damn games bleed pockets dry endlessly. In this era short on fun and cheap thrills, drop a addictive, seemingly low-cost game—what happens?
I bolted home, bursting with pride, pitching my genius idea to Yushin.
"So, you're making kids' entertainment with these cards to sell?"
"Yep. Just paper—dirt cheap production."
"I've doubted your bullshit sometimes, but seeing it work out every time changed my mind more than once."
He set down the baseball card.
"But this? Yeah, looks like chain-smoking hallucinations—"
"For real! This'll work!"
He doesn't believe me! Every '90s kid teen tithed at the school store?
"Baseball cards work 'cause kids love baseball. These? Nothing."
"Nah, wait. I'll make prototypes."
And soon after.
I scraped past-life memories, hand-made a sloppy card stack, and ran a game against skeptical Yushin.
"Fuck! What kinda luck is this shit?! Rematch! This goddamn luck-fucked trash game!"
"Little bro..."
"I ain't saying it sells! But this dumb game pisses people off!"
"Yushin. Stronger cards boost win odds, right?"
"Sure."
"What if rare powerful ones are hard to pull?"
"Just play with what ya got?"
Doubt it. He'll buy till he gets 'em.
"Fine, this cursed game—let's make it. Can't suffer alone. Fine, I admit. I'll handle printing, packaging— you wait."
"Commercialize? Need artists too."
"Obviously. You draw like shit."
Asshole.
And a few months later, we hit the jackpot.