Rule Breaker
“The biggest problem right now is the phenol contamination in the Nakdong River,” Yoo Jae-won said.
President Roh looked surprised. He had expected complaints about taxes or regulations—the usual grievances from chaebol chairmen he had met before. Hearing Yoo Jae-won suddenly bring up the Nakdong River phenol incident left him puzzled.
“I became deeply concerned about environmental issues because I was directly affected by one,” Yoo Jae-won continued. The misunderstanding had stemmed from polycarbonate production, an incident he and Sambo had smoothly resolved through timely action. Under a microscope, the actual damage had been minimal, yet because the event had erupted in the United States, its repercussions had become global news.
“Ah, I see,” President Roh replied. He was familiar enough with the incident that it could be referenced repeatedly without issue.
“Even if a company doesn’t directly cause pollution, once the stigma attaches, it lingers. If Korean products get labeled as environmentally harmful, export disruptions are inevitable. And in finance, where reputation is everything, attracting investment from developed nations becomes far more difficult.”
President Roh nodded. “So what do you propose we do?”
“The real issue is that we’re only cutting off the tail and sweeping the rest under the rug. The people who actually profited from this are still out there, while only the weakest frontline workers are being punished. That just teaches the owners they can keep making money this way. If we end it like this, another environmental disaster is bound to happen. We need to reach all the way to the top and make the punishment severe enough that no one even considers trying it again.”
After finishing, Yoo Jae-won studied the president’s expression. Unlike ordinary politicians, President Roh’s face revealed nothing.
“Hmm. You’re right,” the president said at last, his tone positive. “I’ll make sure the orders are given. In return, you now owe me a favor.”
Favor? The word made Yoo Jae-won’s skin crawl, thanks to memories from his previous life. Besides, cracking down on those responsible for the environmental disaster served both the nation and its people. He had simply asked that the guilty face proper consequences—not for personal gain. Yet here was the president calling it a debt.
Ah. Of course. It was only natural that Busan Group would lobby for leniency. The request might have come through the party or directly to the Blue House. From President Roh’s perspective, choosing between saving Busan Group’s owner and following the law as Yoo Jae-won demanded carried similar political weight. Under normal circumstances, he would have sided with Busan Group. Overturning that precedent was a significant favor on the president’s part.
“Understood,” Yoo Jae-won replied briskly, though he had no idea what the president might later demand. After all, President Roh’s term had only a few years left. Soon he would be imprisoned, stripped of his former-president status, and left powerless. Despite his youth, Yoo Jae-won was not yet influential enough to alter the course of history. Even if an awkward request came later, he could simply refuse. It aligned with the universal principle of never negotiating with pirates—those who broke their word at will. Keeping promises with such people only led to loss for the one who honored them.
“By the way, once you pass the high-school equivalency exam, you’ll qualify for university. Have you decided where to go? I heard you’re heading to America. Is Seoul National University not enough?”
Yoo Jae-won couldn’t tell whether the question reflected genuine interest or subtle pressure.
“Yes. I’m already in IT, and the cutting edge of the field is in the United States, so that’s my decision.”
“Fair enough. Which university? Harvard? Yale?”
Whenever older Koreans asked about American universities, Harvard was almost always the first name mentioned.
“No. I’m considering Stanford. Their computer engineering program is stronger than Harvard’s. My American operations are also based in San Francisco.”
“I see. Good luck to you.”
President Roh nodded as the armored limousine arrived at their destination. They were greeted by waiting officials, and the next event began. Yoo Jae-won’s steps felt slightly heavier. The occasion would have been pleasant if not for the president’s mention of a “debt.” That single word had left an unpleasant mark.
The private meeting with the president had worked wonders. The prosecutors, who had been content to punish only minor figures in the Nakdong River phenol case, suddenly turned into relentless hounds. Former Chairman Park Sang-yong was summoned as a witness, then upgraded to suspect the very next day. An arrest warrant was swiftly requested. Even the office of the new chairman, Park Sang-o, was raided without hesitation; documents and computers were seized en masse.
This was a far more aggressive approach than Yoo Jae-won remembered from the twenty-first century. Back then, even with a search warrant, prosecutors had often been blocked by corporate security and left empty-handed—or carried out empty boxes to avoid embarrassment. Now they stormed in like an occupying force and swept everything away like professional movers.
The clearest sign of the shift was that the case had been transferred to the Special Investigations Division—the unit that handled major corruption cases involving politicians, high-ranking officials, and chaebol families.
“They’re really going all out,” Yoo Jae-won murmured as he watched the television. It was impressive, yet he couldn’t understand why they had dragged their feet until now. The only way to break a cartel bound by connections and money was with superior power from above.
The lead story on the nine o’clock news was President Roh’s remarks from the Blue House cabinet meeting he had chaired. The tone was unprecedentedly firm. With the president’s direct intervention, even the best lawyers Busan Group’s owners could hire would be unable to secure the usual chaebol sentence of three years in prison with a five-year suspended term.
The phone rang sharply while Yoo Jae-won was still absorbed in the broadcast.
“I’ll get it,” he said. His instincts, long dormant, had revived. The moment he heard the ring, he knew the call was for him.
It’s me.
His revived senses proved accurate. The voice on the other end belonged to Jeon Myeong-heon, chairman of Mirae Group.
“Yes, this is Yoo Jae-won.”
That story on television right now—was that your doing?
The question caught Yoo Jae-won off guard. There was no blood relation between Busan Group and Mirae Group, nor were they major business partners. Why the sudden interest, especially enough to call him at home?
“Pardon? Ah, Busan Group?”
That’s right. Word in the business world is that you’re the one who pushed the president.
“It’s already common knowledge in the business community? So all the chaebol chairmen know?”
Korea truly was a small country. A conversation held only hours earlier inside the presidential limousine had already spread everywhere.
You may not realize it, but there’s an unwritten rule in this industry, Jeon Myeong-heon said, his voice unusually cautious. Even when incidents like this occur, they’re usually resolved without reaching the top. No matter how careful we are with large projects, accidents happen. If people like us are held responsible every time, how can anyone run a major business in this country?
Yoo Jae-won understood exactly what the chairman was implying. He had suffered under that very logic in his previous life.
“Is that so? Well, what can I do? I never agreed to that unwritten rule.”
What? Did you even hear what I said?
Jeon Myeong-heon sounded genuinely flustered. He had always viewed Yoo Jae-won favorably until now.
“If a newcomer like me wants to grow, I have to break through the seniors’ scrum, don’t I? When an opportunity appears, I have to charge in. If I let an unwritten rule tie my hands and waste that chance, I’m the only one who loses.”
Hah… I have nothing to say to that.
A sigh came through the receiver. Surprisingly, there was no anger in it—only resignation.
After this, the scrutiny on you and your company will only intensify. Are you confident?
Aside from Sambo Computer and Mirae Group, no other company had shown him genuine goodwill. Most relationships were strictly transactional.
“Let them attack as much as they want. The moment they show an opening, I’ll bite down hard.”
An opening? Be more specific.
Jeon Myeong-heon, usually quick to understand, seemed unusually slow today.
“Take a semiconductor division, for example. If workers exposed to toxic chemicals develop leukemia or cancer, we expose the company the same way—drag everything into the light so sales collapse. Corporate ethics can be a weapon too.”
Despite his lingering affection, Yoo Jae-won gave the advice. It was blunt and sweeping, yet Jeon Myeong-heon immediately grasped which semiconductor company he meant.
You brat! By that logic, are you planning to go after Mirae Heavy Industries too?
Heavy industry, with its massive metal components, was prone to industrial accidents no matter how careful one was. Jeon Myeong-heon felt a sudden chill.
“Come on, ID Group is an IT company. Why would we touch heavy industry? That’s your responsibility, Chairman. Anyway, do you really think Korea’s market will stay closed forever? Once it opens, global companies will flood in. Unwritten rules mean nothing to them. With OECD membership coming, it’s better to align corporate practices with global standards now.”
Having grown somewhat fond of the older man, Yoo Jae-won offered a valuable piece of advice. A twinge of conscience followed—he had used the threat of global standards to scare him, yet in reality foreign firms had adapted to Korean norms rather than the other way around. That was the so-called “Koreanization,” or, more cynically, “hellification.” To prevent such things from recurring, proper standards had to be established now.
…I understand your thinking. I’ll consider it.
“Thank you for calling. If you have any more questions, feel free to reach out anytime.”
Got it. Get some rest.
After hanging up, Jeon Myeong-heon sat in thought. He had called to warn the boy for crossing a line, yet he had ended up receiving advice instead. The words were not to be taken lightly. He fetched paper and a fountain pen to jot them down before they slipped from memory, then found himself reflecting more deeply on Yoo Jae-won.
“Is the root cause a lack of shared identity?”
Shared identity arose from doing similar work. It existed even among chaebol families. That was why the sudden prosecutorial blade aimed at Busan Group’s owners had startled them into searching for the cause. They quickly identified Yoo Jae-won as the source. The president’s unusually hardline stance had come right after his private meeting with the young man.
With his long experience, Jeon Myeong-heon realized the fundamental reason behind Yoo Jae-won’s audacity: he did not see himself as one of them.
“That impudent brat doesn’t consider us his peers.”
To him, Busan Group was simply prey. That was why the conventions and unwritten rules the chaebols had established held no meaning for him. What surprised Jeon Myeong-heon most was that Yoo Jae-won’s sights were also set on Ilseong Electronics’ semiconductor division.
Thanks to that realization, Jeon Myeong-heon finally understood Yoo Jae-won’s true nature: a predator and a rule breaker.