Digital Revolution
“Ah, Jae-won, you’re here?”
Jeon Myeong-heon of the Mirae Group greeted Yoo Jae-won exactly as he always had, even after all this time.
“It’s been a while, Chairman.”
Yoo Jae-won bowed his head politely in thanks. Jeon Myeong-heon still radiated the same commanding presence, though the added lines on his face and his noticeably thinner frame were hard to miss. The Future Construction affair had clearly taken a toll.
“You’ve grown quite a bit since I last saw you. At this rate, people will start mistaking you for a middle-schooler.”
“Really?”
“Of course. I’ve always prided myself on having a sharp eye for these things.”
Even in his weakened state, the man’s class was undiminished. A single remark lifted Yoo Jae-won’s mood. He remembered that elementary and middle-school students were said to grow three or four centimeters a year; perhaps he was finally experiencing that growth spurt himself.
“We can talk about that tedious land business later. First, tell me about you. I hear you stirred up quite a storm in America?”
As expected, the conversation began with the Microsoft dispute. Domestic articles had been vague at best. Reporters usually took a short wire from the Yonhap News Agency, called the Korean branch of ID Technology for a few details, and padded the rest. Even that was better than the work of most twenty-first-century journalists, who simply surfed internet communities from their desks. Many never bothered to make inquiries at all. Once natural-language AI reached a certain level, those reporters were instantly replaced by cloud systems running hundreds of high-performance computers—systems that could outproduce thousands of human journalists.
In any case, the lightweight domestic coverage revealed nothing about how the actual conflict between ID Technology and Microsoft was unfolding in the United States. Yoo Jae-won explained the American situation in the same way he had explained it to Lee Yong-kwon, though he chose simpler language this time. Unlike Lee Yong-kwon, who possessed solid IT knowledge, Chairman Jeon Myeong-heon was a complete computer novice.
“I’ll never understand that country. They acknowledged sixty million dollars in damages for something no one can even see and that never actually happened?”
It was true that software itself was invisible. What people could see—packages, diskettes—were merely containers. The actual programs running inside computers were nothing but binary data made of zeros and ones. For the chairman of Mirae Group, whose empire had been built on construction, heavy industry, and automobiles, the concept was difficult to grasp.
“Yes. We’re still exchanging written arguments. We submitted our own calculation showing that the added value we created—value that’s equally difficult to see—exceeds Microsoft’s claimed conceptual damages. A quick estimate put it well above sixty million dollars.”
Microsoft had reacted with outrage, insisting the figure was absurd. Yet the same logic applied to their own claims. What they did was romance; what others did was adultery. That double standard seemed universal.
Once Microsoft filed its rebuttal, the case would finally proceed to formal trial. Even if they delayed as long as possible, they could not exceed one month, so proceedings would begin around November first.
“Haha, I suppose there’s no need to worry.”
Jeon Myeong-heon nodded, impressed by the systematic nature of Yoo Jae-won’s response. Whether the approval stemmed from personal fondness or from fear of being scolded by the president for failing to look after the young man properly was unclear.
“By the way, you said you wanted to buy the building and land on Rodeo Street?”
They had finally reached the main topic.
“Yes. As I mentioned earlier, ID Technology has already opened two large flagship stores in the United States. I’d like to open the same kind of store here in Korea.”
“There? The only thing you could sell in a store is software, isn’t it? And genuine licensed copies will sell even worse. Between labor and management costs, you’ll lose money hand over fist. Are you sure about this?”
Perhaps it was because they were discussing an offline store. Though Chairman Jeon Myeong-heon’s knowledge of IT was only average, the moment the conversation shifted to physical retail, he struck straight at the heart of the matter.
He was right. The flagship store would sell only a handful of software titles. In the United States, where consumers willingly paid for genuine products, the venture might still turn a profit. In Korea, it would likely sit empty. But the plan was never to sell software alone. Once the Egg PC was on display, computers would be sold as well. Later, when ID Technology began producing MP3 players, PCS mobile phones, and smartphones, the store would become an excellent place for customers to purchase those products directly.
“That land is expensive. It’s not something you buy on a whim.”
As always, the conversation returned to money. Unlike Ilseong, Chairman Jeon Myeong-heon had a habit of diving headfirst into any business he personally believed had potential—whether heavy industry or shipbuilding. Once he started, however, he was equally skilled at extracting profits as quickly as possible. Even if he lost money in the beginning, he would make sure to turn a profit in the end. That was his ironclad management philosophy. It was precisely this approach that had transformed the small Future Construction into the massive Mirae Group.
To him, a flagship store looked like nothing more than a money pit. He clearly wanted to dissuade Yoo Jae-won from walking down what he saw as a misguided path.
“I don’t mind losing money for a few years. We’ve been generating substantial revenue lately. I have plenty of ammunition. Besides, I don’t intend to sell only software there forever.”
“Hoho, I heard you made quite a killing in Bundang. Earning several hundred billion won sounds like a lot, but once you start spending it like water, business can dry up in an instant.”
Yoo Jae-won nearly gasped. How on earth did the chairman know about that?
The Bundang investment had been conducted with the utmost secrecy. ID Investment’s founding had never been officially announced; only shareholders and close relatives had been informed. The fact that ID Investment had purchased prime land in Bundang had also been hidden. When transferring titles, they had used the names of Yoo Jae-won’s parents and relatives instead of the company’s. Only a few skeptical landowners, such as the elderly Mr. Go near the Tancheon River, had been told the true buyer. All other plots had been acquired under borrowed names.
“How did you find out?”
The question slipped out before he could stop himself. At the same moment, the answer became obvious. It would have been strange if Mirae Construction—the number-one contractor in the Bundang New Town project—had been left out of the loop. Naturally, they would have eyes and ears everywhere. It was only natural that Hwang Jae-hong’s name had surfaced.
“The computer genius backed by the state falls into real-estate speculation.”
A startled sound escaped him. The headline was unmistakably aimed at him. “The computer genius backed by the state” referred to Yoo Jae-won himself, while “falls into real-estate speculation” pointed to Bundang.
“I’ve never seen that article. Which paper ran it?”
Kim Dae-seok, his executive secretary, handled all media clippings. Yoo Jae-won also made a point of monitoring newspapers and television himself. Yet he had no memory of such an article. Even if he had missed it, Choi Kang-wook or Robert Halley would have reported it immediately.
“Of course no one saw it. It never made it to print.”
“Pardon? What do you mean?”
“It was slated for a small local paper. Fortunately, the reporter in question has a very close relationship with Mirae Construction. So the story reached my ears before it ever reached the page, and I had it quietly buried.”
Chairman Jeon Myeong-heon spoke without any trace of self-congratulation, as though he had merely swatted an annoying mosquito. Yoo Jae-won briefly wondered whether the man was inflating his own contribution, but there was no reason for Jeon Myeong-heon to lie to him.
Still, Yoo Jae-won believed that even if his name had appeared in connection with Bundang, it would not have caused serious trouble. Statistics from the Land Development Corporation showed that original residents had held less than thirty percent of the land in Bundang. Rumors of new-town development had circulated long before the Olympics, and diligent businessmen and wealthy housewives had already snapped up land on the outskirts of Seoul. Yoo Jae-won had been among the last to board the train. Any serious investigation into his activities would inevitably drag in powerful investors as well, so the matter would naturally be suppressed.
“Good heavens. Something like that actually happened?”
Still, it was far better than being dragged through the media and publicly condemned. Yoo Jae-won expressed his sincere gratitude.
“What was the reporter’s name?”
“Why? Don’t you trust this old man to handle it properly?”
“No, no! I just want to keep the information on hand in case it’s ever needed.”
“Leave it alone. You’ll only stir up trouble by digging further.”
“Then I’ll just remember the name for future reference.”
“Haha, reference? Very well. His name is Jo Min-hyung from Gyeonggi Ilbo.”
Gyeonggi Ilbo. Jo Min-hyung.
Yoo Jae-won took out his notebook and wrote the name down carefully. It was important information. Then another question occurred to him. There had been no trace of disappointment in Chairman Jeon Myeong-heon’s voice. Most people in his position would have scolded a young man for playing at land speculation, yet the chairman had not. When asked why, the answer was surprising.
“I don’t know who tipped you off, but you did well. America may be different, but in Korea, that’s how real money is made. Speculation is betting large sums on uncertain odds. If you bet with solid information, it’s simply an investment. You handled the transactions cleanly, too. The only misfortune was that reporter Jo Min-hyung happening to hear your name.”
Warmth filled the chairman’s eyes as he spoke. A school principal would have scolded him. Jeon Myeong-heon had done the opposite. Perhaps because he was a chaebol chairman, his way of thinking was fundamentally different.
“I owe you a great debt.”
“A debt? This is nothing to Jeon Myeong-heon. If you truly feel grateful, just speak well of me to the president someday.”
“Of course. At the last Entrepreneurs’ Night event, none of the other chairmen—Ilseong, Daeho, Geumseong—showed me the same level of care you did.”
The other chaebols had never had any real connection with Yoo Jae-won. There had been one minor overlap when they jointly purchased his typing-practice software for the school computer distribution project, but none had extended the same goodwill that Chairman Jeon Myeong-heon had shown.
“By the way, you said the land you want is in Apgujeong, correct? Hyun-ji! Bring me a map of Seoul.”
They had finally moved into the heart of the negotiation. Without using the intercom, Chairman Jeon Myeong-heon simply raised his voice toward the door. His powerful tone carried clearly, as though he had swallowed a train whistle. A reply of “Yes, Chairman” came from outside, and moments later Oh Hyun-ji entered carrying a large rolled map.
Although no explicit instructions had been given, she efficiently cleared the teacups from the table and spread the map open. It was a detailed map of Seoul. Though hand-drawn, it clearly distinguished commercial and residential zones by color, and every individual building was marked as a small rectangle.
“Here, and here. Ah, this one is just the building we own.”
Chairman Jeon Myeong-heon pointed to various spots in Apgujeong-dong. Each location marked land or buildings owned by the Mirae Group. Even now these were expensive plots; in the future they would become far more valuable. Mirae Group held this much land in Seoul alone. Had they kept it until 2010, Mirae Construction would never have gone bankrupt. But after the Iraq losses and the IMF crisis, they had been forced to sell their best assets to cover bad debts.
“This one looks good.”
Yoo Jae-won selected a large building directly facing Apgujeong’s Seolleung-ro. It occupied a modest plot of 3,150 square meters—roughly 960 pyeong—with a single two-story structure that left enough space for about fifteen cars to park. In Gangnam, such a parking area was rare.
“Hoho, you picked the biggest piece. Fortunately, both the building and the land are ours. The current structure isn’t old, and you could always replace it with a ten-story building later.”
“Yes! A modern shopping mall would fit perfectly. How much?”
“The price is up to the seller, but the buyer sets the offer. That’s the basic rule, isn’t it?”
Apparently the first offer had to come from the buyer. Yoo Jae-won decided to propose a reasonable price based on 1989 Gangnam real-estate values. To do that, he first needed to recall the land prices from that year.
Feigning thought, he closed his eyes and entered his Memory Palace for the first time in a while. Inside, endless corridors stretched in every direction. The nearest room contained 1989 data. Stepping inside, he found a twenty-first-century-style study filled with books and computers. Sitting at one, he typed “1989 Gangnam commercial district land prices.”
An article from the Maeil Business Newspaper appeared.
—Average land price in Seoul: 1.79 million won per pyeong.
The headline was characteristically blunt. The most striking detail was that the highest commercial land price in Seoul was in Jongno-gu at 10.31 million won per pyeong. In Gangnam the figure was 5.9 million won. By simple calculation, the land Yoo Jae-won wanted would cost approximately 5.6 billion won. Seoul land prices were in a completely different league from those of satellite cities. 5.9 million won in 1989 would easily exceed 100 million won by the early twenty-first century, yet the perception of “expensive” remained constant across eras. There was also the cost of the building, the recent media incident, and the need to express gratitude for Chairman Jeon Myeong-heon’s assistance.
“How about 6.8 million won per pyeong?”
“Excluding the building?”
“No, that price includes the building.”
“Very well. Just don’t go around telling people you bought it so cheaply.”
“Thank you!”
Yoo Jae-won accepted the favor without hesitation. Still, 6.528 billion won hardly seemed like a bargain. He knew Mirae Construction had acquired many Gangnam plots at absurdly low prices—sometimes for the price of a single sack of rice per pyeong. Their ability to buy land so cheaply had been entirely due to Chairman Jeon Myeong-heon’s foresight. Gangnam’s development history stretched back to the 1960s, with the decisive event being the construction of the Soyanggang Dam. The dam allowed control of the Han River’s water level, which in turn enabled the building of many bridges across the river and marked the beginning of Gangnam’s transformation. Naturally, Mirae Construction had built the dam and many of those bridges. Having seen the flow of development early, Chairman Jeon Myeong-heon had been able to secure prime locations. If Yoo Jae-won had regressed to the 1970s instead of 1988, the chairman’s success story might have become his own roadmap.
“As a gesture of goodwill, I’ll have the current tenants vacate the offices immediately.”
Come to think of it, there was also the matter of existing tenants. The American flagship store had presumably had tenants as well, yet Ellen had handled everything without incident. Yoo Jae-won had not given it a second thought until now. Chairman Jeon Myeong-heon had once again made things easy.
“The transaction will have to wait until your land compensation money arrives, won’t it?”
“Yes. I don’t have that kind of cash on hand right now.”
The third-quarter settlement from Electronic Arts would arrive soon, and ID Office sales continued to generate revenue, but he did not have enough liquidity to spend 6.5 billion won at once. He could have used the ten-million-dollar certificate of deposit sitting in San Francisco’s Citibank, but that was reserved for a grand year-end event and could not be touched. Receiving the compensation from the Land Development Corporation would not take long; the corporation paid quickly to prevent sellers from changing their minds.
“We should be able to close the deal before the end of October.”
After concluding his productive meeting with Chairman Jeon Myeong-heon, Yoo Jae-won invited him to attend the Gangnam flagship store opening as an honored guest and then rose to leave.
“Did your conversation with Chairman Jeon Myeong-heon go well?”
The moment Yoo Jae-won got into the car, Kim Dae-seok asked cautiously. His concern was understandable; Yoo Jae-won’s expression had been stiff ever since leaving the chairman’s office.
“Ah, the conversation itself went fine.”
There were no problems with Chairman Jeon Myeong-heon. The only lingering issue was the local reporter who had been investigating him. In America, Remington’s intelligence team could handle such matters thoroughly, but Korea had no equivalent organization. The fact that he had paid little attention to Korea, despite its much smaller share of revenue compared to the United States, was now glaringly obvious. Even with the upcoming land compensation temporarily boosting Korea’s figures, the balance would return to normal by next year.
“You know about the intelligence team Vice Chairman Remington leads, correct?”
“Yes, of course.”
“How would I go about building something similar here in Korea?”
Yoo Jae-won had never considered creating an intelligence team in Korea while building one in the United States. Inside his Memory Palace, every major Korean incident—and every event that had ever made the newspapers—was already catalogued. There had seemed no need for a Korean team. But he himself was now creating new historical currents, and incidents like the Jo Min-hyung affair could arise as a result. Even a master plan refined over decades had the inherent limitation of being a simulation. No matter how well constructed, reality always proved far more complex.
“Hmm, I’m not sure. I don’t have any expertise in that area, so I’m hesitant to offer advice.”
The real problem was that none of ID Technology’s key Korean executives—Kim Dae-seok, Choi Kang-wook, Robert Halley, or anyone else—possessed talent in that direction. Yoo Jae-won himself was no different. A chief of staff like Chairman Jeon Myeong-heon’s or Ilseong Group’s Lee Hyuk-jae would have known exactly what to do, but ID Technology’s history was still too short to have such a person. Its low profile also made recruiting someone of Lee Hyuk-jae’s caliber difficult. Information was power; the old National Intelligence Service slogan had never been more relevant.
“Understood. I’ll have to think this through carefully.”
Rushing to create a makeshift intelligence team could backfire if it produced bad information. Personnel selection required caution. Instead, Yoo Jae-won instructed Hwang Jae-hong to investigate how Jo Min-hyung had learned his name. Since Chairman Jeon Myeong-heon had assured him the matter was resolved, he told Hwang to avoid direct contact and gather information as discreetly as possible.
Several days passed, and good news began to trickle in one by one.