The Invitation
A week had passed since he seized control of Apollon.
Throughout that week Jeong-Hoon had devoted himself to training and etiquette lessons, never once taking on a new assignment.
Of the family’s seven enterprises he already held four, Lumen included. Only three remained. Part of the reason for the pause was simple complacency, yet the larger part was that he still had not finished rooting out every last instance of the personal-data leaks.
“This isn’t just common practice anymore. At this point you’d be an idiot not to moon-light as a data broker.”
Every morning the news opened with yet another story of an Awakened’s personal information being sold. He had already exposed a great many of them, yet the flow showed no sign of drying up.
“At this rate the Hunter Association is going to end up completely empty.”
There were almost no clean hands left. The only reason the vassals of Lumen and the other family companies had not been compromised was that no one dared to touch a true conglomerate—that was the only explanation that made sense. The scandals kept pouring out so endlessly that public opinion had begun to sneer that the place should be renamed the Villain Association rather than the Hunter Association.
The one silver lining was that the relentless pressure that had been crushing his friend Yeong-min had finally vanished once the massive purge began.
“Gaju, there is something I must report concerning that matter.”
“What is it? Did the Association president get down on his knees and beg for his life?”
“Something rather similar.”
Butler Joo produced a small envelope and held it out. When Jeong-Hoon opened it he realized at once that it was no ordinary letter; it was an invitation crafted from distinctly luxurious stock.
“Someone getting married?”
“If you read it yourself, you will understand.”
Not a wedding invitation—an actual party invitation of the sort only celebrities ever saw. The sender was the President of the Hunter Association; the recipient was Lee Jeong-Hoon, Chairman of Lumen.
“They’re inviting me to a party tonight. In other words, ‘Please come and spare us,’ right?”
“I believe it is more than a simple plea for mercy. The guest list is quite formidable.”
In short, they intended to solve the Association’s crisis—sparked by the personal-data leaks—through a consensus of social luminaries. That was not the one-on-one negotiation table the family wanted with the government, so the invitation was far from welcome.
“They put some thought into it, I’ll give them that. But if I go, they’re obviously going to ask me to go easy on them. Do I really have to attend?”
Lumen had already stepped into the open with full force, yet the government had hurriedly gathered a crowd of outsiders and staged a grand gathering. Their determination not to be forced into a disadvantageous negotiation was plain, and Jeong-Hoon’s brow furrowed.
“That may be so, yet if Gaju’s resolve remains firm there is nothing to worry about. Besides, it would not hurt for you to attend a proper party at least once.”
The most important duty of Lumen’s chairman was not paperwork or day-to-day management. The moment he stepped into the public eye, Jeong-Hoon himself had become a brand of immense value—the twenty-year-old who ran a major hotel chain called Lumen.
“So to leverage that brand I have to show my face at parties and remind everyone I exist?”
“Exactly. Therefore I recommend you go.”
It was not a matter of walking into their trap; it was simply a chance to grow accustomed to high-society gatherings. Jeong-Hoon nodded.
“Mmm… still doesn’t really appeal to me. I’m not exactly a party person.”
“…Because it is a Hunter Association event, a number of famous hunters will be present.”
“Okay. I’m in. Let’s go to the party.”
Meeting as many hunters as possible and collecting their autographs sat at the very top of Jeong-Hoon’s personal bucket list; every last scrap of hesitation vanished.
Preparation was required before he could set foot in the venue. No matter how expensive Jeong-Hoon’s everyday suits were, they were still work clothes; they did not meet a formal party’s dress code.
“Hmm. A tuxedo still feels weird on me, though.”
His hair was swept completely back, and a pair of fashion glasses completed the transformation. The change in his appearance was dramatic.
“Wow. I can actually look like this?”
He had dressed similarly when he demolished Odyssey, yet the difference still startled him. He stared hard into the mirror. The person looking back was unmistakably himself—and yet not himself at all.
“The exterior is sufficient. The real problem is…”
“There is no problem. We’re going to a party, not a war.”
Jeong-Hoon shot a pointed look at the worried butler and ran a hand over his clothing, checking for any suspicious bulges. It was not merely a matter of style. Nested inside the tuxedo were three fragmentation grenades, two CS canisters, one flashbang, four pistol magazines holding twelve rounds each, and a pair of daggers. He was confirming that none of that heavy armament showed.
Anyone seeing him would have believed he was heading onto a battlefield rather than into a ballroom. In pure firepower he was better equipped than he had been when he faced the Orc Lord inside a dungeon.
“A party is the battlefield of the upper class. If anything, I regret that we cannot prepare more thoroughly.”
The weapons had been concealed with masterful skill—or rather, the tuxedo itself had been tailored precisely so that such an arsenal could vanish inside it.
“I understand it’s a battlefield, but the weapons used on that battlefield are completely different.”
True, a party was a celebrity battlefield, yet the weapons brandished there were never pistols, daggers, or grenades. Money and prestige were the only arms that mattered.
“That is true, yet the world has grown rather dangerous of late, has it not?”
“Are there really lunatics out there who would terrorize a Hunter Association party—terrorize Korea itself?”
“Gaju, the people we call lunatics are called that precisely because they cannot be understood by common sense.”
Unable to refute the point, Jeong-Hoon closed his mouth. Still, this particular gathering would decide the Association’s future; there was no way its security would be lax. The arsenal was simply the inevitable result of the family’s absolute priority on the Gaju’s safety. Jeong-Hoon’s life was directly linked to the safety of the world itself.
“Anyway, from where I’m standing the preparations are more than enough. Shall we head out?”
If they left Lumen now they would arrive just as the party began. Perfect punctuality was unnecessary, yet Jeong-Hoon’s true goal was not the party itself but the famous hunters attending it, so he was eager to move.
“The car is ready. Please come down.”
Impatient to reach the venue and meet hunters, Jeong-Hoon took the lead—then abruptly stopped as the sheer weight of his own armament registered.
“Wait. Am I going to get caught carrying all this?”
“Gaju, many famous hunters will be present.”
“Yes, that’s why I’m going. What does that have to do with the weapons? Don’t tell me the hunters themselves are coming armed?”
“Not at all. A hunter, even bare-handed, is the equivalent of an armed man.”
In other words, taking precautions for the worst-case scenario would raise no eyebrows.
“Then the grenades…”
Buzz— Buzz—
“Ah, excuse me for a moment. Gaju—and also, if it is not discovered, it is not illegal.”
The sudden phone call forced Butler Joo to step aside. Jeong-Hoon’s expression turned puzzled. For the chief butler to leave a conversation with the Gaju in order to answer a call was astonishing; until now he had always placed the Gaju above every other priority.
“I apologize for the wait.”
“…What was that call about?”
“Nothing of consequence—no. A problem has arisen.”
Having first tried to brush it off, Butler Joo shook his head and delivered a bombshell.
“It seems I will only be able to escort you as far as the entrance.”
“…Why? Did they say attendants aren’t allowed inside?”
“No. It is a family matter.”
At the words “family matter” Jeong-Hoon’s eyes widened. A family matter more important than the Gaju himself—that was the single most surprising thing he had heard since becoming head of the family.
The family revolved around its Gaju and consisted of some three thousand vassals. At the apex of those vassals stood the Twelve Vassals, and the most senior among them was Butler Joo, the chief steward. Yet even Butler Joo could not freely command every vassal. There existed a body known as the Council of Elders—the gathering of the family’s elder vassals.
As the name implied, they were older than Butler Joo and had largely withdrawn from the front lines, half-retired. Their influence, however, remained formidable; they had served successive Gaju for decades. Under ordinary circumstances they would have been fully retired, but the world’s transformation had plunged the family into an unprecedented crisis, and so they were still active.
One of those elders—the chairman of the Council—had summoned Butler Joo.
“Still… just leaving me alone like this is something else…”
Hearing of the organization for the first time, Jeong-Hoon muttered to himself as he sipped his wine. Compared with Lumen’s grand banquet hall the venue was modest, yet it was still the third-floor ballroom of one of Seoul’s finest hotels—easily large enough for a hundred and fifty guests, a proper celebrity affair. And he had walked into it completely alone, knowing not a single soul.
He had insisted that an attendant was required for the party, yet as things stood he lacked the authority to issue orders to the Council of Elders. That did not mean he had been abandoned entirely. Vassals who were not among the Twelve were already inside, watching over him. It would have been better if one of the Twelve had been present, but the Council chairman had summoned every single one of them; there was no help for it.
The problem was that Jeong-Hoon knew neither the faces nor the names of any vassals outside the Twelve. He was trying to memorize them, but three thousand people was three thousand people. The mere effort already deserved praise.
“No need to go hunting for the ones who are deliberately staying out of sight.”
The best course was simply to enjoy the party while trusting that the vassals were quietly protecting him. Yet it was Jeong-Hoon’s first party; he had no idea how to enjoy himself. Even when he spotted famous hunters he could not bring himself to approach and greet them, so he merely watched from a distance.
“This is exactly like the big press conference.”
Standing far off and staring at the celebrities felt identical to that day. He drained another glass of wine and even considered simply going home. The whole gathering seemed to consist of people who already knew one another clustering together and chatting, and nothing of interest was happening. Leaving empty-handed, however, would diminish the value of the brand that was “Lee Jeong-Hoon.” Worse, if the chairman of Lumen simply turned tail and fled, the assembled guests might assume he had been cowed by the scale of the party—and then they might take it upon themselves to settle the Awakened-data scandal however they pleased.
“Oh? Chairman? What brings you here?”
“Han Si-Eun? I should be asking you the same thing. Weren’t you busy?”
He had planned to finish the glass, leave without speaking a word to anyone, and then use the deliberate snub of an ignored invitation as leverage for even stronger pressure. The moment he saw his friend Han Si-Eun—who should have been buried in work—he abandoned every thought of leaving.