Chapter 89
Chapter 89
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 89
Chapter Title: Cash Cow Ranch
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I left the office without a second thought, ignoring their expressions—a tangled mix of despair and hope.
The murmurs and scraping chairs faded into the distance behind me.
By now, those three were probably huddling together, locked in a heated debate.
But they didn't really have a choice anyway.
They could take the devil's deal I offered, or just let the whole thing crumble and scatter to the winds.
One or the other.
The creaky old elevator dinged as it hit the first floor.
As I crossed the lobby, the elderly security guard in his booth gave me a perfunctory nod.
He'd probably seen people dressed just like me coming and going every day.
Investors, entrepreneurs, and the desperate employees of tiny companies hanging on their every word.
Stepping outside, June's humid air washed over my face.
The exhaust fumes unique to Guro Digital Complex mixed with the hot blasts from air conditioner outdoor units, stinging my nose.
Choi Yang, who'd been silent the whole way, finally couldn't hold it in any longer.
"President, I get the pharma research lab, but why a game company all of a sudden? And dumping 10 billion into some tiny, unlisted outfit...?"
Genuine worry laced her voice.
Choi Yang was always like this.
Raising rational questions about my seemingly reckless decisions.
That's what made her so trustworthy.
"Isn't this just throwing money away? Wouldn't it be better to invest in a stable IT firm or some proven big game developer...?"
I clicked my tongue—tsk, tsk, tsk—and slowly shook my head as we headed to the parking lot.
"Secretary Choi, you've still got a long way to go."
"Pardon?"
"Why not a big game company?"
I stopped in my tracks and looked her straight in the eye. Choi Yang's face was filled with utter incomprehension.
"Try walking into Entisoft or Nexcom with 10 billion in your pocket right now. Even the security guard at the door wouldn't give you a second glance. 10 billion? To them, that's pocket change—not even a month's revenue."
I started walking again.
The rhythmic click of my dress shoes on the asphalt echoed steadily.
"In a small company, I'm the king. In a big one, I'm just another ant in the colony. I want to build my own kingdom, not slave away as a cog in some massive empire."
We climbed into the black Genesis parked in the lot.
The car was cool from the AC, but the heat from outside seeped through the windows.
I started the engine and adjusted the side mirror.
In the reflection, I could see the building we'd just left.
"And you still don't get how terrifying a well-made game can be."
"......"
Choi Yang buckled her seatbelt and waited for me to continue.
I backed out of the spot and opened up as I did.
"You ever hear of a game called Eternal Chronicle?"
"No, first time."
"It came out 20 years ago, and even now, it sucks in billions from Korea alone every year. A real monster."
I turned the wheel toward the parking lot exit.
Slipping my ticket into the machine got a beep, and the barrier lifted.
"Graphics are garbage compared to modern games, but players still open their wallets happily. Why? It's their 'nostalgia,' their 'history.' Like a first love. No matter how pretty the new girl is, she can't replace that spot."
Navigating the tangled roads of Guro Digital Complex, I glanced at the countless IT buildings flashing by outside.
Inside each one, thousands of devs coding, planners racking their brains, designers crafting graphics.
But how many would actually strike gold?
"A well-made game isn't just a game."
Stopped at a light, I turned to Choi Yang.
"It's like a Gangnam building that spits out rent every year. An endless fountain of cash that prints money just sitting there. Sell character skins, items, expansions... Players line up to throw money at it voluntarily."
The light changed, and I hit the accelerator.
The engine purred smoothly.
"Build it right once, and it's an ATM pumping cash till we kick the bucket. Look at games like Space of Warcraft. Over 15 years old, and millions worldwide still pay monthly subs."
In my mind, the perfect picture was already taking shape. If Shilla Biotech's new drug was the massive 'jackpot' to change our lives in one shot,
this game company would be the steady, reliable 'cash cow' backing every move of our empire from here on out.
"Plus, the gaming industry's recession-proof. The worse times get, the more people crave escapism. Remember how game stocks soared during COVID?"
Traffic jammed us up on the bridge over the Han River.
I gazed at the flowing water outside and kept going.
"And above all, games are 'culture.' Control culture, and you hold real power. What kids do with their time these days, what they love, what values they hold... Games dictate it all. Just like K-pop swept the world—a single great game can reshape global culture."
Choi Yang fell silent after my explanation.
She stared blankly at the Han River outside.
In her cynical eyes, a new economics was rewriting the rules of the world she thought she knew.
"But President..."
She spoke cautiously.
"Can those devs really pull it off in six months? No amount of money beats time."
I scoffed.
"Secretary Choi, I'm not investing because I believe they'll pull it off."
"Huh?"
"I'll make it so they have to. Carrot and stick, plus absolute pressure. People only show their true potential when they're desperate."
The car got moving again. We headed toward Gangnam.
Before the day ended, I had another investment to scout.
Empires build one brick at a time.
We finally pulled up in front of a rundown four-story building in a quiet alley in Cheongdam-dong.
Sandwiched between flashy luxury shops and high-end restaurants, it looked like a relic from another era—gray tiles peeling off here and there, utterly shabby.
A faded sticker on the first-floor glass door had one corner curling up in the breeze.
[STAR-MAKER Entertainment].
Parts of the letters had peeled off, making it read [S AR-MA ER Entertainment].
As if foretelling its own fate.
A familiar building, a familiar name. Or rather, one that used to be familiar.
Choi Yang, in the passenger seat, went rigid.
Her face drained of color in an instant, her fists clenching unconsciously.
Staring at the place where she'd poured her teenage years—and been most brutally discarded—she muttered low, her words dripping with soul-deep hatred.
"...Fucking bastards."
That curse carried every memory from three years ago.
The absurd school bullying scandal that blew up just a month after debut.
It started with some middle school classmate claiming, "Choi Yang borrowed my pencil lead and never gave it back"—a ridiculous witch hunt not even worth watching with eyes open.
Pencil lead. A single piece of pencil lead had wrecked her life.
Online forums overflowed with the nickname "Pencil Lead Thief Choi Yang," and haters jeered, "Steals pencil lead 'cause she can't afford her own, and thinks she can be an idol?"
Someone even made and sold parody merch called "Choi Yang Pencil Lead Souvenirs."
The company? They canned her overnight, of course.
"Image tarnished," they said.
Three years of trainee hell, all crumbled over one piece of pencil lead.
I just shrugged at her curse, unscathed.
Honestly, I'd seen this reaction coming a mile away.
"I told you earlier, right? Games are culture, and culture is money."
I scanned the building and launched into a fresh business lecture for her.
One second-floor window had cracks taped over sloppily; third floor had multiple overlapping "For Lease" stickers.
Classic signs of a sinking ship.
"Nothing's a surer cash cow than idols. Albums, music sales, concerts, merch... Build a solid fandom once, and they'll throw money at anything the girls do. Way more blindly than gamers."
"So you're gonna invest in this failing dump?"
Choi Yang shot back with a mocking tone.
Her voice still trembled, but cold, vengeful fury burned underneath.
"Nah."
I shook my head. Then, calm as a chess master moving a piece, I said,
"I'm buying the whole damn company."
Choi Yang's eyes widened. Her mouth fell slightly open, her face screaming No way?
Watching her, I slowly laid out my real plan.
"This place is just a hollow shell now. Ties to the big three broadcasters? Cut. Record distributors treat 'em like deadbeats. Even the trainees have probably bolted."
I scanned the building again, analyzing.
A lobby light flickered; the intercom wires at the entrance were ripped out.
"But I need that shell. Their rusty connections to stations, distributors, press? Better than starting from zero. Building a new entertainment company network from scratch takes years."
I turned to Choi Yang with a devilish grin.
Confusion and anticipation warred on her face.
"I'll buy the shell, gut everything, and build new idols."
Silence hung for a beat. Then I dropped the real bomb.
"Perfect idols, engineered from your failure data. Guaranteed not to flop."
Choi Yang's face twisted.
"Failure... data?"
"Yeah. No one's life gets ruined over pencil lead on my watch. Flawless background checks, crisis management, image crafting. Your case as the cautionary tale."
I nodded and pressed on.
"And best of all? When you—the 'pencil lead thief'—become the new owner? Instant buzz."
Complex emotions flickered in Choi Yang's eyes. Vengeance, fear, anticipation... and a faint glimmer of hope.
"Revenge is best served cold, Secretary Choi."
I uttered "revenge" with maximum charisma, like a movie hero—icy resolve in my eyes, enigmatic smile on my lips.
But my utterly faithless secretary just glared and rolled her eyes.
"This isn't just some bullshit excuse to bang celebrities, right?"
I clamped my mouth shut and headed inside.
I tried keeping the charismatic vibe while hitting the elevator button, but my ears turned a little red anyway.