Chapter 190
Chapter 190
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 190
Chapter Title: A Flower Blooms on a Heap of Ashes
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11 a.m.
Choi Yang wasn't sitting in front of the president's office at Blue Sky Investment. Instead, she was tucked away in a corner of some dingy internet café in Seoul.
The cacophony of mechanical keyboards clacking everywhere, the faint whiff of instant ramen hanging in the air, and the occasional bursts of excited cursing from rowdy kids.
It was all a jarring, alien scene that didn't suit her one bit.
While everyone around her was unleashing flashy skills and mowing down virtual enemies, she sat bolt upright, staring intently at her monitor like a surgeon at the operating table.
Dressed in a sharp black suit without a single wrinkle or crease, she looked like some otherworldly being who had accidentally tumbled into this chaotic den.
Her screen wasn't a game.
One side showed the digital archives of the National History Compilation Committee; the other displayed scans of tattered newspaper articles from the Japanese colonial era.
Every scroll of the mouse wheel whipped past terms like "name-change policy," "national defense donations," and "Governor-General of Korea."
With emotionless eyes, she methodically cross-referenced faces from decades-old black-and-white photos against the Taesung Group's Cheon family genealogy.
Her fingers moved with the quiet precision of a well-oiled algorithm.
Spotting faces with similar features, weaving plausible narratives, and jotting them down in a notepad.
"Facts" didn't matter.
Her job was to assemble "fact-like" fragments into a grand, convincing picture.
A moment later, she logged into a popular history community.
Her face betrayed no emotion whatsoever.
Nine years and three months from now.
Dreaming of FIRE, with no intention of lifting a finger after her thirties, she was cranking out "fabrications" right here and now—for her salary, her bonus, her performance pay.
From dozens of black-and-white photos, she picked the one that most resembled Chairman Cheon Myeong-hwan's grandfather.
Then, she cunningly wove together records that could pass for pro-Japanese activities, crafting a single, airtight narrative.
'Huh... this guy really does look a lot like Cheon Myeong-hwan...'
The thought flickered through her mind, but she just shrugged it off.
True or not, it wasn't her concern.
All she was doing was producing a convincingly provocative post.
[Japanese Colonial Era: Tracing the Roots of Taesung Group]
After uploading the final post, Choi Yang immediately started screenshotting her own creation.
Screenshots spread faster than plain text.
Not "I wrote this," but "Reposted from somewhere." That single phrase lent an eerie credibility to anonymous info.
She knew better than anyone that this was the magic of internet forums.
Now, these screenshots would scatter across countless communities via nameless ghost accounts.
Quietly. And very, very quickly.
Popup windows of internet boards flashed by in Choi Yang's mind's eye.
Her fingers moved like machinery.
Left-wing political communities.
Right-wing current affairs boards.
Stock investment cafes.
Fashion communities for women in their twenties.
Fishing clubs for dads in their forties.
Ideology meant nothing to her.
Ghost boards with barely any users? No problem.
She just scattered her prepared screenshots indifferently, using different ghost IDs everywhere.
In some places, as innocent questions: "Is this for real?"
In others, as mockery: "LOL Taesung ancestors on some next-level shit."
And elsewhere, just a careless "Repost)" and nothing more.
She wasn't out to create die-hard believers.
Just one "doubter." One "curious soul."
Once someone reposted her content with a "Is this legit?", it was done.
Plant that tiny seed of doubt, and the masses would water it with speculation, outrage, and conviction—growing it into a monster on their own.
Internet witch hunts always started small and mundane like this.
Not in some grand war room, but in the corner of a PC café or a dingy basement studio.
Or on someone's commute, crammed in the subway or bus.
After posting the last one, Choi Yang closed every window without a second thought and stood up.
Her mission was complete.
Watching the flames spread? That wasn't her job.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇ Faint light seeped through worn curtains, dimly outlining the familiar patterns on the ceiling.
Park Seon-woo slowly opened his eyes.
The whole world was a blurry haze, like an out-of-focus photo.
Even half-asleep, his hand instinctively groped the bedside table.
Cool plastic touched his fingertips. His glasses.
Slipping them on, the fuzzy world snapped into place.
Light and shadow, the edges of objects, and...
Right beside him, his wife breathing softly in her sleep.
His full-term wife was a greater, more wondrous being than any historical giant he knew.
Curled toward him, asleep in his threadbare old T-shirt like a swaddled babe.
Her swollen belly rose and fell in gentle curves.
Seon-woo still found it surreal that their child was nestled inside.
He reached out carefully, resting his hand lightly on her belly.
Warm.
Living warmth—the sole gravity anchoring his ordinary life.
He slipped out of bed without a creak.
The cold linoleum of their 500-square-foot rental hit his bare feet, yanking him back to reality.
A far cry from the plush carpet of that Cheongdam-dong restaurant he'd stepped on recently.
He headed to the kitchen and made coffee.
No budget for ground beans, so he tore open a packet of discount instant from the mart.
Boiling water mixed with the cheap powder, filling the tiny space with a hearty aroma.
Standing by the window, he cupped the hot mug in both hands.
Outside: the usual apartment complex view.
Kids chattering on their way to school, neighbors rushing to work.
This was his entire world.
But not anymore.
'I feel a sense of mission to create a world where the professor's great achievements are properly recognized.'
Han Yura.
Her voice, like it belonged to someone from another world, echoed in his ears.
The sparkle in her eyes as she remembered his papers, even the sources in the footnotes.
The thrill of meeting a true soulmate for life.
And his father, Cheon Myeong-hwan.
'Come join the company. I'll set up a foundation for you.'
His inscrutable face, extending a hand like he was offering a chunk of the vast Taesung kingdom.
The child about to be born.
And this cramped 500-square-foot rental.
Rationally, he knew.
For his wife and child, he had to take his father's outstretched hand.
It was the only way to end the poverty and give his family stability.
But as a pure scholar, he couldn't shake the unease.
The weight of the "Taesung" name.
A foundation built on his father's money.
It felt like a stain on the purity and pride he'd guarded his whole life as an academic.
Why was his father, who'd never given him even a pretext for company or inheritance matters, acting like this now?
Images of succession battles with his half-siblings flickered through his mind.
"Pfft, come on... This isn't some drama or movie..."
Seon-woo chuckled at his own imagination and shook his head.
As he pushed the thoughts away, soft arms wrapped around his waist from behind.
"You're up?"
His wife.
She'd woken up and was leaning her body against his back.
Her swollen belly and the baby inside pressed warmly against him.
Seon-woo took a sip of coffee with a sigh.
He gazed at the wall of his books filling one side of the living room.
Worn, frayed history tomes stained with use.
Sources packed with names of the forgotten.
That was real.
Tangible, readable, provable.
He steadied his turbulent heart.
"Hungry? What should I make?"
His world was still here.
His wife's gentle touch, her warm body heat, the life about to arrive.
The universe he had to protect was all contained in this modest 500-square-foot space.
As he popped bread into the toaster, he thought.
'Soulmate. I'll ask her, the one who truly understands me.'
Executive Director Han Yura would surely see through this mess and offer wise advice.
The scholar thought innocently.
Just lay down his one card and seek her counsel.
"Just toast and milk for me. You?"
To his wife's question, he pulled milk from the fridge and replied.
"Same here."
He sat at the table, hesitated a moment, then picked up his phone.
And sent a concise, polite text to his "benefactor."
[Executive Director Han Yura, sorry to bother you so early. I have something I'd like to discuss. Could you spare a moment? - Park Seon-woo]
Almost before he hit send—less than a minute later—a reply came.
[Professor, no problem at all. Anytime. Even today, whenever suits you. Shall I come pick you up?]
Seon-woo smiled in unconscious relief at her warm, proactive response.
She really was a good person.
Munching on the toast his wife brought, he thought once more.
His world was still safe.