Loyal Hounds
If a pack of loyal hounds—Esquires—ever turned on a human and killed them, the outcome was simple: every last one would be slaughtered. People kept dogs to protect lives and, as a bonus, property. Even pets received food and shelter only because they obeyed their masters. The moment one of those dogs killed a person, putting it down was the obvious response.
The prosecutors and judges who had just submitted their resignations followed the same logic. Judges and prosecutors enjoyed high social standing yet earned relatively modest incomes. Prosecutors, in particular, needed funds for investigations that the state never fully provided. Senior prosecutors were expected to look after their juniors out of their own pockets. Judges faced the same reality—crushing caseloads of dozens of cases a day, yet meager compensation. Still, the authority they wielded was immense. To the parties involved, they were like the King of Hell, holding the power of life and death.
The chaebols had long exploited this vulnerability. No one could deny that the biggest sponsors of prosecutors and judges were the conglomerates themselves. Jung Byung-woo’s investigation had therefore been terrifying to them—not a mere nip, but the equivalent of a human death. If prosecutors truly went after the chaebols, not a single executive would escape prison. And with a truly upright judge on the bench, real prison sentences were inevitable.
A precedent had to be set. If the same pattern continued through the appeals and Supreme Court stages, the chaebols would face the same fate as common criminals. That outcome would be disastrous not only for the Busan Group’s owners but for every major conglomerate. The wind had to change.
For the first time in years, the chaebols moved as one. They mobilized every possible pressure to expel the two “dogs” that had bitten their masters. Had the prosecution leadership, the Supreme Court, and the Ministry of Justice held firm, the chaebols’ efforts would have been nothing but wasted breath. But too many high-ranking prosecutors and judges already saw themselves as the chaebols’ servants. Post-retirement sinecures at major corporations awaited them, and even as lawyers, their biggest clients would still come from the same conglomerates.
By forcing Jung Byung-woo and Kim Chang-hwan out, the chaebols had sent a clear warning to every judge and prosecutor in the country: touch us and you die.
“Hmm. Still just speculation,” Yoo Jae-won murmured. Yet he was certain it was close to the truth. His previous life had given him intimate knowledge of how Korean chaebols operated.
Still, confirmation was necessary.
“What time is it in Korea right now?”
He opened his computer and checked. It was just before ten in the morning. He picked up the phone and dialed.
The line rang a few times before a familiar voice answered.
—Who is this?
“Hehe! Grandfather, have you been well? It’s Yoo Jae-won.”
—Ah, Jae-won. It’s been a while.
The man on the other end was Jeon Myeong-heon, Chairman of the Mirae Group—the only Korean chaebol leader with whom Yoo Jae-won maintained a close relationship. Their bond had grown deeper than Jae-won’s original plans had ever intended. Early business ventures and an invitation to the Blue House had created the connection, and variables had piled up until they reached this point.
“Grandfather, do you have a moment to talk?”
—Hm? What’s this about? I’ve got plenty of things to handle, but talking to you comes first. You’re the largest shareholder of Mirae Electronics, after all.
Even after the long gap, Jeon Myeong-heon’s tone remained warmly affectionate. As he said, Jae-won held 31 percent of Mirae Electronics. The investment had funded construction of the second semiconductor plant in Daejeon, while the first plant underwent modernization and eco-friendly upgrades. Groundbreaking at the second site was complete, and the foundation work was underway. Because semiconductor equipment was vibration-sensitive, special construction methods were being used.
Given the other man’s stature, Jae-won didn’t launch straight into business. They exchanged brief updates. Jae-won offered congratulations on Mirae Group’s strong performance, while Jeon Myeong-heon mentioned knowing about Jae-won’s perfect SAT score and praised him for it.
—What? You’re only applying to Stanford? Why not all the Ivy League schools?
Jeon Myeong-heon’s thinking was, as always, unconventional. Jae-won had decided on Stanford alone from the beginning. He had no fear of rejection and had never considered anywhere else—even in his previous life.
—You didn’t apply early decision, did you?
“No, I’ll be applying regular decision.”
—Good. There are plenty of gifted students in Korea, but none have ever been accepted to all eight Ivies at once. If you pulled that off, it would be historic—news that would spread worldwide. And that kind of publicity is something money can’t buy.
Typical of the chairman—turning even university admissions into a business calculation. There was one small factual error, though: Stanford was not part of the Ivy League, nor were MIT or Caltech. The Ivies had originally been a sports conference founded in 1930; newer elite schools had never joined. Still, their prestige was equal to or greater than the Ivies in American eyes. Only in Korea and Japan did the label carry special weight.
That didn’t make Jeon Myeong-heon wrong. A little extra paperwork and a few more recommendation letters could generate enormous image value. Being accepted to every Ivy plus Stanford would indeed be unprecedented.
“Understood. I’ll give it a try. Please don’t be disappointed if it doesn’t work out.”
—Good! Smart thinking.
A small victory. Having secured what he could, Jae-won moved to the real reason for the call.
“There’s something I’d like to ask. Have you ever heard the names Jung Byung-woo and Kim Chang-hwan?”
—Jung Byung-woo? Kim Chang-hwan?
“The prosecutor and judge who handled the Busan Group case.”
—Ah, those two. Now I remember. Why do you ask?
“I think they resigned because of me. If that’s true, it weighs on me.”
—Why would it be because of you?
Jeon Myeong-heon’s tone suggested he already knew the answer.
“I asked the President to make sure they were punished properly. The verdict came down, but the two people who actually did the work ended up resigning.”
—Ah, that. The Busan Group people raised quite a fuss. A few others joined in, and some were very active about it.
“Ilseong?”
—So you already knew. Yes. That family tends to manage things quite strictly. They’re probably using this incident to compile a list of troublemakers in the judiciary.
“And you, Chairman?”
—Me? I just watched from the sidelines. All because of you, you rascal. And why “Chairman” all of a sudden? You used to call me Grandfather.
“Hehe, that was personal. This is business now. Anyway, I understand.”
Jeon Myeong-heon seemed slightly different from the man Jae-won remembered in his previous life—less inclined to get directly involved in such matters. The conversation drifted back to small talk before ending with a promise to speak again soon.
“As expected. It’s him.”
Confirmation complete. The culprit was exactly who he had suspected—the man who treated the judiciary like his personal tool and would one day attempt to rename the country the “Ilseong Republic.” Such ambitions didn’t arise overnight. They required years of steady groundwork, and these people had succeeded.
“Hmm. What to do?”
The judiciary was surely cowed after this episode. Those already pro-business and conservative would simply nod and say it was inevitable. But moderates and those without strong leanings would now hesitate—every investigation and every ruling would be colored by the memory of what had happened to Jung Byung-woo and Kim Chang-hwan.
“I need to come up with a countermeasure.”
For Yoo Jae-won, who stood to gain far more from breaking the grip of Korea’s establishment, this incident was something he could not simply let pass.