A Familiar Face

That night.

Grandfather hadn't exactly given me a firm answer. Not that it mattered.

There isn't any other way, is there.

I did need someone who could actually mind the company.

Who would be any good?

I strained to call up the businessmen who would make it big in the years ahead. Here was the perfect place to spend my privilege of knowing the future.

"……."

Perhaps it simply wasn't my field. Not one usable name came to mind.

Weren't there the men who built those great portals? They're still in high school. Looking overseas, the picture was much the same. And I could hardly hold my hand out to Grandfather.

What else was there to do? At a time like this, the only move was to pull on a connection.

I called Chairman Dazai, the man who had given me the Bugatti. The errand was simple.

"Do businessmen still come to see you these days?"

"Of course. Young men in need of capital overflow the door."

"Among them, could you recommend just one who's any good?"

I laid my situation out quickly. A small laugh broke from Chairman Dazai.

"A man of that ability—wouldn't I have taken him in long ago?"

That might well be true. Even so.

"You don't drive every car you've got stacked in the garage. You've given a few of them away as gifts. I didn't see why people should be any different."

Was he turning the words over? The chairman kept a quiet silence. Then, with some difficulty, the first of them.

"Didn't you say you were sixteen?"

"Yes."

"I knew it well enough, and still I find myself asking your age every time. Astonishing. Truly."

"So you'll help me?"

He seemed to leave a pause, and then he went on.

"If the result is good, then someday you, too, Jihoon, will have to grant a request of mine."

"Of course."

I didn't forget to add one line.

"So long as the result is good."

"How much time will you give me?"

"The sooner, the better……."

"Would about four days do?"

"Excellent."

"Then I shall send someone by then."

And with that, the call was done.

A man on Chairman Dazai's level... he wouldn't send me a fool.

The worry did feel as if it had dropped away.

The London Royal School.

Now that I thought of it, hadn't Martin come through graduate school at Oxford? If I asked, I might get something useful.

Is he at the office now?

I set off at an easy walk. I could use the exercise anyway.

Chairman Dazai turned his eyes to the documents heaped before him. Businessmen came every day, hoping for an investment, and sorting the gems from the stones among them was the only hobby the chairman had.

Hm.

He picked up a file with a sticky note on it.

It would have been a year and a half ago. He had come then with a proposal for the first time, and after that he showed up without fail once a week, delivered his briefing, and left again, never seeming to tire.

Dazai read the rest of what the file had to say.

The business itself wasn't bad. Perhaps it was the hardship of the life behind him. The desperation filling both eyes snagged at Dazai. There was no doubt the man was timber that would succeed one day.

He's packed tight with the resolve to make up for that failure, no matter what.

Not a scrap of ease in those eyes. So long as he had eyes like that, he still had a few years of knocking about ahead of him. So Dazai had held off on the investment and kept watching.

Even if asking him to build his own business right now would be too much.

Managing a company under someone else, carefully, one step at a time—that much, perhaps…….

Maybe that was why his mind had tipped. Dazai lifted the receiver with care. Only then did he press, slowly, the number written on the résumé.

"Yasumoto. This is Dazai."

"Ch-Chairman!"

At a call he had never expected, the other man's voice trembled thin.

"Your résumé says you're Zainichi."

"Yes, sir."

"Good."

"……?"

"Do you speak Korean?"

"No. I've lived in Japan all my life, so……."

"Not a word?"

"Only a few curses, the kind you blurt like an exclamation... Whenever my father got angry, he'd slip in these little sounds I never understood……."

"It would help if you spoke Korean."

Dazai shook his head, as if it were a shame.

"I didn't call because I mean to invest in you."

"Th-then what is this about……."

"Even so, it will be a chance without equal. That much, I guarantee."

When the call was finished, he looked carefully through Yasumoto's proposal.

An IT specialist who studied in America.

He ought to sit rather well with the young president, Park Jihoon.

At last Dazai's gaze traveled to the line written at the very bottom. A billion yen owed to the bank, and of all things the company had Bank in its name. At that blameless little irony, a bitter smile soon rose on his face.

Unfortunately, Martin was away, gone to America on business.

"He said he was going to meet someone for work."

"...Who?"

"The person who made this, from what I heard……."

At my question, the employee held out a package.

While I looked it over, the employee went on. I had never seen a mind turn faster than Martin's. And that same man was calling someone a genius?

Curiosity stirred. I went over the package with care, and there, at the tail of the manual, was a name I knew.

Well, of course.

The developer who built Wolfenstein 3D, Doom, and Quake, and laid down the grammar of the modern FPS.

Even so, I've never heard of Commander Keen.

An early work? It hadn't been a hit, so maybe that was why I didn't know it. He'd looked at a flop and still seen the essence of John Carmack at a glance.

A monster really is a monster.

Trust that had already stood high felt ready to punch through the ceiling.

That aside.

The reason I came looking for Martin...

Right, right. I'd come to ask about the Royal School. It wasn't urgent. I could see to it next time. I swallowed the disappointment and had to turn back.

Three days later, at the boxing gym.

"Want to spar a round?"

The coach didn't know who I was. If he'd known I was a third-generation chaebol heir, he wouldn't have offered a spar. He wouldn't even have made me run.

"Why a spar, all of a sudden?"

"You know the type. Kids swaggering around saying they used to run the neighborhood. They signed up last week and they've been strutting so hard I want the cockiness knocked out of them."

"Me?"

"If I pound them, it looks bad. Putting the competitive squad on them looks even worse."

In plain terms, he wanted the sparring done at my level, since I hadn't been at it all that long. The lesson—if you could call it that—would land better. Something along those lines.

"He doesn't look like an ordinary guy……."

And he wasn't. The moment the T-shirt ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠came off, a gaudy goblin tattoo reared its head. In my previous life I wouldn't have been able to meet those eyes. The coach seemed to see it differently.

"For you, that thing's nothing."

"……?"

"The squad kids are going crazy trying to poach you, man. That punch of yours is no joke."

"Come on."

"You think I'm making it up?"

The talk didn't last. When I came to, I was already up on the ring with the headgear on.

And would you look at this. The other fellow had nerve to spare. Forget the headgear—he even refused a mouthpiece. A nobody like me, he figured, would go down in one punch.

I glanced at the coach.

Like that, I can barely even throw a jab.

Just work the body.

I'm not a competitive fighter!

That's why I keep telling you to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠join the squad!

We traded that look. Then—

Ding!

Round one.

I put both hands out, carefully. A glove touch. The greeting you offer on the ring.

"Good round to—"

And right then.

Whoosh!

He threw without warning.

Beg your pardon?

I drew my left in and caught the punch.

Smack!

Heavier than I thought.

He threw the other hand at once. He'd clearly done his share of street fights; the momentum was something else. But.

Whooosh!

A classic windmill punch. Not a shot thrown while he watched you to the end.

Whooosh!

A fist swung on the bet that it ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠would land somewhere. I slipped every one of them with nothing but my upper body, and that must have stung, because he thrust both arms out like a sumo wrestler and shoved me toward the corner. Pin me there and beat me—what good would technique be then?

Even so.

I feinted a jab. One sidestep, and I was out of the corner.

After that, the same picture kept repeating. He pressed in behind his fists, and I stepped clear. He was a beginner, and I meant to end it lightly rather than use my hands.

"Hahh—hahhh—"

Look at him, winded on his own. I was thinking he might give it up around there, when he came crashing in again with no plan at all.

And then he stomped my foot, pretending to throw. Not content with that, he shot his left arm out and grabbed the back of my neck.

This wasn't boxing.

"Go on, run... let's see you..."

A nasty grin, and he started to swing an elbow. That must have been the plan. But the moment my fist landed in his gut—

"Urk!"

He folded where he stood. He went down so limp that his chin cracked against his own knee.

Tsk.

If he hadn't fouled, I would have kept slipping him. He'd pinned my foot... and I ended up throwing after all.

"You all right?"

I'd heard the body only really hurts once the damage has had time to stack. He seemed to be laying it on a bit thick.

"I... I can't breathe..."

I looked back at the coach. What he had to say was this.

"Told you that punch of yours was no joke."

Oh, come on. Not that again.

"Look at him."

"Please call an ambulance..."

Hm.

Today's workout would have to end here. I bowed to the coach and had to leave the gym at a reasonable point. Couldn't even shower. Still, the office was right there.

I was swallowing the regret and coming down the stairs when a voice met me, in Japanese.

"A pleasure to meet you."

By the building entrance stood a man in a shabby suit. I thought a tourist might be asking the way, and I was about to step over and help, when he suddenly produced my name.

"Are you President Park Jihoon?"

"Who are you?"

He bowed, deep.

"I am Yasumoto. Chairman Dazai sent me."

Ah. Had he already found the right man?

"Good to meet you."

I returned the greeting and looked at his face. Late thirties, or thereabouts. Aside from a keen light gathered in the eyes, there was nothing much to mark him. I was sure of that. And yet, strangely, the face was familiar.

"Have we... met somewhere before?"