I Guarantee It

Yoo Jae-won appeared on television in a deep navy slim-fit suit, his pomaded Regent hairstyle perfectly in place, casually offering his endorsement. “I, Yoo Jae-won, guarantee it. Vote for the Tongil National Party.”

“Ugh, even your drinking buddies won’t stand as guarantors,” the real Yoo Jae-won muttered in front of the screen. Still, he had no choice. If Chairman Jeon Myeong-heon’s Tongil National Party performed well, it would make it far easier for Jae-won to shape Korea’s future. That was why he had no qualms about using words like “guarantee.”

“Does it not meet your expectations?” the director asked, watching the final cut beside him. The video was the official campaign advertisement for the Tongil National Party, set to air nonstop once the formal election period began.

At first, Jae-won had only intended to make a brief appearance. After his meeting with Chairman Jeon Myeong-heon, however, he decided to take a far more active role. He chose to produce the commercial himself. The video production standards of early-1990s Korea simply did not satisfy him. No matter how much effort went into a project, the composition, color grading, and quality of props always felt provincial. So Jae-won had the advertisement shot in the United States, enlisting David Fincher, the director renowned for his commercial work, and the full resources of Hollywood. Fincher had been busy with post-production on Alien 3, but money could solve most problems. A generous fee plus a substantial investment in his next project had secured his willing participation.

The concept was straightforward. Jae-won leveraged his public image as an IT genius. The ad portrayed a vote for the Tongil National Party as the key that would unlock a utopian Technopia built on cutting-edge technology.

“I like it very much.”

When money and manpower were poured in without restraint, the result looked unmistakably different. Even on a fourteen-inch television the difference was obvious. The original had been shot on film stock, meaning it could later be remastered to full HD. The only lingering concern was the word “guarantee,” but if the party’s promises were managed so they never became empty lies, then the words he had spoken would remain true.

Satisfied with the finished commercial, Jae-won paid the agreed fee and added generous bonuses for the director and crew. Even in Hollywood, labor exploitation existed, though not to the same degree as in Korea. The unexpected windfall left the staff with a distinctly favorable impression of Yoo Jae-won—an impression that would soon spread through the industry.

The master tape was flown immediately to Honorary Chairman Jeon Myeong-heon.

Jeon Myeong-heon’s reaction was immediate. He even lamented that the official campaign period was still several days away; he wanted to start broadcasting Jae-won’s commercial right now.

“Ah, you don’t need to reimburse me.”

The relationship between Yoo Jae-won and Jeon Myeong-heon had long since moved beyond simple monetary transactions. When the chairman had visited the San Francisco residence days earlier to receive election strategy, Jae-won had accepted not a single won. Jeon Myeong-heon had merely thanked him and promised to repay the favor later. Jae-won had no intention of charging for this commercial either, even though it had required a Hollywood director.

That was true in theory. In practice, transparent and clean elections would not arrive until after 2010. Until then, the reality involved trucks hauling billions of won in cash and albums stuffed with bearer bonds being delivered as bribes. Jae-won took Jeon Myeong-heon’s assurance that the expenses would be handled correctly at face value.

“Really? Around a little over one hundred million won.”

It was closer to two hundred million, but he had understated the figure, not wanting to startle the chairman.

“We borrowed the director and crew straight from Hollywood,” Jae-won explained briefly. The commercial had also featured custom-made high-end props and extensive computer graphics, all of which drove up the cost.

Jeon Myeong-heon was not a miser; there was simply an official ceiling on campaign funds. Few politicians in the race stayed within that limit. He would almost certainly report only twenty-five million won for the commercial and handle the rest off the books.

Time flew like a bullet. The official campaign period Chairman Jeon Myeong-heon had been waiting for began the very next day. Although the Tongil National Party had existed for less than a month, its momentum was enormous. Following the chairman’s formal founding declaration, a preparatory committee was formed. Founding members and general members were recruited at astonishing speed; the party roster grew by a million names each day. The figure was not literal—many duplicates existed and the membership was inflated by Mirae Group employees, their suppliers, and their families—but the psychological impact of “one million members” was undeniable. Media outlets under Mirae Group influence trumpeted the number as fact.

Every proposal Jae-won had ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠made was accepted. Candidates who had been rejected by their original parties due to factional infighting were swept up by the Tongil National Party. The result was an ideological hodgepodge of former ruling- and opposition-party figures. Yet the party’s founding platform made the coalition coherent: first the economy, then unification. President Roh’s Northern Policy had created a mood of reconciliation so strong that unification seemed imminent. Every party spoke of unification; there was no disagreement between conservatives and progressives on the issue. This allowed politicians from both sides to unite under the Tongil National Party banner.

Above all, the party’s strongest brand was Honorary Chairman Jeon Myeong-heon himself. Despite being the scion of Korea’s largest conglomerate, he held no party office. He had simply accepted the fifth position on the national proportional list to help recruit talent. To the public, the gesture felt refreshingly different. Traditional party leaders usually ran in safe districts or took the top spot on the proportional list. Korea’s electoral system awarded proportional seats in proportion to regional-district votes, making lower list positions risky. For a brand-new party like the Tongil National Party, the system was especially punishing. Jeon Myeong-heon’s fifth-place ranking would normally require at least fifteen regional winners—an almost suicidal position by conventional standards. Precisely because it was so unconventional, the move dominated headlines and powerfully communicated the party’s freshness to voters.

Of course, this was how outsiders viewed the situation. For Jeon Myeong-heon, a National Assembly seat was optional; his real target was the presidency. He had already commanded far more lawmakers while running Mirae Group. Countless assemblymen had visited his home or private residence during holidays and election seasons. He genuinely did not need the badge. More importantly, he placed absolute faith in Yoo Jae-won’s analysis. Jae-won had presented a forecast of twenty-four regional seats and six proportional seats, complete with detailed data drawn from his Memory Palace—future election results adjusted by a ±5 % margin of error. The numbers suggested even the sixth slot would be safe, yet party elders had insisted on fifth place to give Jeon Myeong-heon the best possible chance of election.

Recruiting high-profile celebrities had also gone smoothly. Mirae Group’s advertising and sponsorship relationships made it easy to identify entertainers interested in politics. Choi Young-han, Kim Bu-ja, and Seok Ju-il—widely recognized names—were successfully brought on board as regional candidates. Although the party had been assembled too quickly to field candidates nationwide, it managed to register roughly one hundred candidates centered on Seoul, Chungcheong, Gyeongsang, and Gangwon, plus twenty-five names on the proportional list. Individual candidate pledges were ready, and a polished party platform booklet was already being distributed. The platform had incorporated Jae-won’s suggestions at 140 % intensity. Where he had proposed free school meals through middle school, the booklet extended the promise through high school. Even his offhand remark about half-price apartments had been included, to be achieved through aggressive taxation that would strip away premiums and force developers to disclose construction costs—an idea radical enough to provoke fierce opposition from construction companies and Gangnam residents alike. The platform clearly signaled that the party was willing to abandon Seoul’s wealthy districts in favor of locking down the provinces.

“I hope everything goes well,” Jae-won murmured, listening intently to every scrap of Korean news arriving via telephone, television, and the internet. He had never expected the obscure Tongil National Party of his previous life to become so deeply entangled with his own plans. The situation was not bad. Through the party he could exert direct influence over Korea in a far smoother and more immediate way than his original master plan had allowed. That was why he was betting so heavily on its success.

The next day, the official campaign period began. Electioneering teams occupied prime locations with heavy foot traffic, loudspeakers blaring. Candidates from every party shouted themselves hoarse, each promising voters their own personal magic wand: new roads, rebuilt apartment complexes, cleaned-up rivers. Among all the extravagant pledges, the Tongil National Party’s were the loudest and most ambitious. “Economy and unification” became the twin slogans that captured the attention of street voters. Anyone who ran the numbers would see the promises could never be fully funded, yet few commentators or journalists bothered to perform that analysis. Chairman Jeon Myeong-heon was deploying his most powerful weapon—overwhelming financial resources—without restraint. Much of that money flowed toward the press. Lavish drinking parties worth tens of millions of won were thrown overnight, making it extremely difficult for newspapers or broadcasters to run critical stories about his money-driven campaign. Only a handful of outlets with editorial independence, such as ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Onkyore Shinmun, published any criticism at all. Other parties, feeling the pressure, began discussing whether they too needed to spend on the same scale.

The television commercial poured gasoline on the fire.

“I, Yoo Jae-won, guarantee it. Vote for the Tongil National Party.”

The ad intercut scenes of Jae-won’s daily life at ID ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Group—programming, meetings—with dazzling Technopia imagery created by Hollywood technology, then ended with Jae-won himself delivering the line. It looked as though he were personally building the future with computers, and that this same man was endorsing the Tongil National Party. Stripped of its Hollywood visuals the message would have been ordinary, yet the reaction was ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠explosive. Internal surveys by advertising agencies showed Jae-won’s commercial dominating every metric of noticeability and favorability. Other parties had also used famous entertainers and fresh creative approaches, but none could match Hollywood’s technical polish and cinematic quality. When the commercial aired, the difference in production value was immediately obvious, creating a vast gap in immersion and appeal.

By now it was common knowledge in political circles that Yoo Jae-won was assisting the Tongil National Party. His close relationship with Chairman Jeon Myeong-heon and the unusually frequent contact in January had made it impossible to hide. Jeon Myeong-heon himself had mentioned Jae-won’s name freely in public settings. Until the commercial aired, however, established politicians had remained skeptical. They knew Jae-won was formidable in business, but doubted his influence would translate to politics. The commercial proved them wrong. Politicians sensitive to approval ratings and public sentiment immediately felt the shift in the national mood. Their outcry eventually reached the Blue House.

“Heh, Chairman Jeon Myeong-heon and I are hardly ordinary acquaintances. He asked for help, so I couldn’t refuse.”

“Of course! Please tell him not to dislike me too much.”

Jae-won knew exactly what the President was like and played along. After a brief exchange of pleasantries and mutual well-wishes, the call ended. It had not been an entirely comfortable conversation, yet maintaining smooth relations with President Roh until his departure was clearly in Jae-won’s best interest.

Once the call finished, Jae-won returned to his computer.

Choi Kang-wook, his chief of staff, had already been in a private ID Talk chat with him before the President’s call. Two files arrived: a small 12 KB ID Word Processor document and a much larger 360 KB ID Spreadsheet file. They contained the opinion-poll report Jae-won had commissioned weeks earlier.

The data had not come from an external polling firm. Under Choi Kang-wook’s direction, Jae-won had assembled a temporary two-hundred-person polling organization and collected the responses himself. Korea did have a polling company—Korea Gallup—but it was currently overwhelmed by election-season contracts from broadcasters and political parties. Waiting for them would have taken too long and cost too much. True to his philosophy of “if it doesn’t exist, build it,” Jae-won had created his own operation through Choi Kang-wook. Two hundred telephones had been installed, each operator given a 386 computer and custom polling software. When a question appeared on screen, the operator read it aloud, recorded the respondent’s answer, and the system automatically tallied the results into spreadsheet files. Two hundred individual files were then merged and processed with statistical functions to produce live, usable data.

Jae-won opened the IDW file at once. He skipped every other party and went straight to the Tongil National Party section. The data, formatted exactly as he had requested, scrolled down the screen: regional, age, and occupational breakdowns of support, plus estimated win probabilities against individual opponents. The numbers were respectable—eighteen seats total, fourteen regional and four proportional. Lee Keon-hyung, the National Party’s Security Committee chairman who had been publicly rebuked in San Francisco, had predicted at most ten seats. Eighteen was already a strong showing. The only disappointment was that the results stopped just short of securing a seat for Jeon Myeong-heon himself. Once Jae-won approved the data, it would be forwarded to the Tongil National Party’s campaign headquarters. When the chairman saw it, an explosion of displeasure was inevitable.

“We can do better,” Jae-won said quietly. Even though Jeon Myeong-heon’s ultimate goal was the presidency, he would never forgive himself for leaving reachable fruit on the tree. The campaign was still in its early days. With more aggressive effort than in his previous life, the final tally could be significantly higher.

Because the organization was Jae-won’s own creation, he could run it however he wished. Even if Jeon Myeong-heon or other candidates made serious mistakes, real-time polling would let him track shifts in public opinion and respond immediately, minimizing damage. He reminded himself, however, that telephone surveys had inherent limitations; random digit dialing could never perfectly represent the entire electorate, so the numbers should never be treated as infallible.

Kim Chang-wan? The name sounded familiar. Jae-won searched his memory, then slapped the desk.

“Of course—my uncle!”

He always referred to the man simply as “Uncle,” so the given name had not registered immediately. His mother’s younger brother was a flighty, impressionable man who constantly earned her scoldings. Just last month he had cashed out an ID Investment product without consulting anyone and had been thoroughly reprimanded by Jae-won’s mother, grandmother, and grandfather.

“What kind of trouble has my uncle gotten into this time?”

Jae-won’s eyes sharpened as he focused on the chat window.