The Whistleblower's Bombshell
Amid thunderous cheers, Jeon Myeong-heon, the honorary chairman, stepped onto the podium and began his endorsement speech. Politics had been his life for only the past two months. His delivery, eye contact, and ability to improvise were sorely lacking—the basic skills of a seasoned politician. Even now, he was simply reading from a script prepared by his aides. Yet the supporters gathered in Yeouido erupted in applause at his every word. Chants of "Jeon Myeong-heon!" rang out without pause. Some supporters' voices had grown hoarse from shouting, sounding as if gravel were scraping their throats. The atmosphere grew hotter by the minute, and Jeon Myeong-heon himself grew more eloquent as he fed off the energy.
Several minutes later, he finally reached the last page of his script—the section outlining the Tongil National Party's bold economic pledges. This was his domain; he had spent decades in business. His voice grew louder, his delivery smoother. As he spoke of the economic platform, his eyes fell upon the topic of convertible bonds.
"Many people seem to doubt me when I speak of dismantling the chaebols. But that is nothing more than the nonsense of those who do not know me. Because I once lived in that world, I understand their methods better than anyone."
Behind him, his aides let out a collective gasp—half admiration, half despair. Perhaps it was resignation. They had begged him to stick to the script after his many improvised disasters, but expecting Jeon Myeong-heon to follow instructions was asking the impossible.
"Let me give you an example. The chaebols have created countless public-interest foundations under the guise of social contribution. Aside from our own Mirae Dream Tree Garden, how many of those foundations actually function properly? The reason is simple. Pouring large sums into a foundation brings tax benefits, and handing the chairmanship to an heir allows them to transfer wealth without paying inheritance tax. Once the Tongil National Party enters the National Assembly, we will put an end to this abuse of the law that ignores its original purpose!"
Flushed with excitement, Jeon Myeong-heon launched into remarks that were nowhere in his script. It was insider knowledge the average citizen could never have known. The revelation was tantamount to a whistleblower's bombshell. Camera flashes erupted from the photographers and cameramen covering the event. Among the supporters, the chant of "Jeon Myeong-heon!" continued unabated—idol fandom had nothing on this fervor. Perhaps it was this very thrill that had unconsciously addicted him; he might have been deliberately hurling out radical pledges.
"But this is an outdated trick. The latest method? Convertible bonds—CBs."
The term finally appeared.
"A CB is a bond issued when a company borrows money. Unlike ordinary bonds that repay principal plus interest at maturity, these come with the option to convert into company shares. On paper, it sounds harmless. So where is the problem? It arises when the difference between face value and market value is deliberately inflated. Suppose you lend 500 won to the company and receive shares with a face value of 500 won. If those shares are trading at 10,000 won on the market, what happens? One transaction yields a twentyfold profit. Has anyone ever explained this scheme to you? Only Tongil National Party's Jeon Myeong-heon has."
The mention of convertible bonds drew a different reaction this time. Not only the supporters but even the reporters who had been covering Jeon Myeong-heon let out gasps of surprise. Unlike the blindly supportive crowd, these journalists maintained an objective eye—and their education allowed them to immediately grasp the mechanism by which chaebols used CBs to pass on wealth. Emboldened, Jeon Myeong-heon prepared to continue when one of his waiting aides received a message, rushed onto the stage, and whispered in his ear. Jeon Myeong-heon nodded and took the microphone again.
"Our hope, Yoo Jae-won, who has declared his support for the Tongil National Party, is on his way here to deliver his own endorsement speech. Please wait just ten minutes."
The crowd exploded. "Yoo Jae-won! Yoo Jae-won!" The very square that had been a stage for chaebol denunciation now burned with renewed excitement. His name joined the chants. After waiting twice as long as promised, the crowd finally saw Yoo Jae-won's Grandeur arrive in Yeouido. Nearly thirty minutes had passed since his press conference at Gimpo Airport; Seoul's notorious traffic had caused the delay. Yet Jeon Myeong-heon greeted him with a bright smile and an embrace, then raised their joined hands as they ascended the stage together. The press corps—now three times larger than when Jeon Myeong-heon had first appeared—captured every moment. Word had spread; outlets that had been absent earlier now swarmed the scene. That evening, every Korean network's 9 p.m. newscast led with Yoo Jae-won and Jeon Myeong-heon's Yeouido rendezvous. The second segment also featured them: ID Investment's $2 billion commitment to Korea, and Jeon Myeong-heon's exposé of chaebol inheritance tricks.
That same night—
"Those bastards!"
In the private study of Ilseong Group Chairman Choi Hyun-hee, a place no one dared approach, a furious roar erupted. Choi Hyun-hee was staring at the large television bearing the Ilseong Group's new corporate identity. More precisely, he was watching the 9 p.m. news. On screen were the reckless upstart Yoo Jae-won and the clearly senile Jeon Myeong-heon, hands clasped and raised high amid thousands of cheering supporters—the very scene from the Tongil National Party rally earlier that day.
The rally itself was not the issue. What enraged Choi Hyun-hee was its content. Exposing the public-interest foundation scheme was bad enough, but the real fire under his feet was the convertible bond revelation. Ilseong Group's plan to use CBs for inheritance had been top secret. Yet Jeon Myeong-heon had somehow discovered it, exposed it to the public before it could be executed, and vowed legal sanctions on top of that. The irony was that Jeon Myeong-heon, who now criticized chaebols, was hardly clean himself. The Mirae Dream Tree Garden foundation he proudly touted had long served as a sinecure for his own children. Of course they had enjoyed privileges and spent foundation assets like water. For him to now pretend purity while attacking fellow chaebols was beyond infuriating to Choi Hyun-hee and Ilseong.
The unspoken rule that chaebols should not enter politics directly existed precisely to prevent situations like this. When political influence was needed, the old method had always sufficed: provide appropriate favors and extract what was desired. Even if Mirae had been squeezed, it was hardly an exceptional case. Ilseong and other conglomerates had suffered similar treatment. But the returns had far outweighed the losses. Jeon Myeong-heon, who had flown into a rage over being squeezed and blurted out things he should never have said or done, was nothing more than a senile old man in Choi Hyun-hee's eyes.
"And who the hell is this Yoo Jae-won?"
What infuriated him even more was that Jeon Myeong-heon was not acting alone. Yoo Jae-won was egging him on while simultaneously threatening Ilseong with massive capital. Reports had already arrived that several Ilseong affiliates had hit their daily upper limits that very day—electronics, construction, and trading companies with enormous market caps. Even in Korea's relatively small stock market, heavyweights rarely moved more than three or four percent in a single day. Yet these had surged fifteen percent. Even as selling pressure mounted, the upper limits held. It was clear evidence of aggressive accumulation. Choi Hyun-hee and Ilseong's leadership immediately recognized ID Investment's hand. Only one thing had been unexpected: the timing. Investment firms rarely bought at the exact moment they announced. Most purchases occurred before the announcement—or long after. Announcing first only invited unnecessary premiums. That was why they had barely reacted to yesterday's ID Investment announcement. If the firm had already bought, there should have been changes in major shareholder stakes. There had been none. They had assumed the actual investment would come much later. Instead, massive funds had poured in today, sweeping up shares of Ilseong's key affiliates.
"How much did you say?"
Choi Hyun-hee re-examined the report Kim Hyuk-soo had submitted. Anger made the small figures blur. Only after putting on his glasses could he read them clearly. 120 billion won. In a single day, ID Investment had purchased 120 billion won worth of Ilseong affiliate shares. Even more absurd was the fact that the brokerage window used for those purchases had been Ilseong Securities itself. They had ostentatiously deposited 1.5 trillion won in cash—exactly matching yesterday's announcement. ID Investment's vice president had claimed yesterday that they would buy undervalued blue-chip stocks; at today's Gimpo Airport press conference, he had spoken of investigating smears and demonstrating soundness. Vincent Greenhill stood beside Yoo Jae-won. The same Yoo Jae-won stood beside the rampaging Jeon Myeong-heon. The intent was obvious. Choi Hyun-hee, a veteran businessman himself, was no fool incapable of reading Yoo Jae-won's motives. Naturally, the memory of their brief conversation at the Kim & Jung Law Firm opening ceremony resurfaced. The warning that if Choi broke the rules, Yoo Jae-won could do the same. It had been the most direct threat Choi Hyun-hee had ever received in his life. At the time he had dismissed it as youthful bravado. Not anymore. How could someone capable of mobilizing two billion dollars in a single day be called an upstart? The label "upstart" that had always accompanied Yoo Jae-won's name in Choi Hyun-hee's mind fell away in that instant.
Even more staggering was the claim that two billion dollars was not the end. Simple arithmetic made the calculation possible. ID Investment's announcement last autumn that it would invest three billion dollars in Japanese Nikkei futures had caused a stir even in Korea. They had clearly bet on a decline. Otherwise they could never have delivered the fifty-percent-plus returns after the hedge-fund commotion. Early termination penalties would have been substantial, so actual profits would have been lower than headline figures. Ilseong Securities applied roughly eighty percent penalties on early terminations. A one-year product yielding fifteen percent interest would pay only about three percent if terminated early. Reversing the math gave a rough estimate of ID Investment's Nikkei returns. It had been not merely successful, but spectacular. With three billion dollars in principal, they must now be sitting on profits exceeding fifteen billion dollars.
"Did I calculate correctly?"
Even the numerically gifted Choi Hyun-hee momentarily doubted his arithmetic given the sheer size of the number. He checked again. The same figure appeared both times. Not won—precious U.S. dollars. Fifteen billion dollars. At the current exchange rate of roughly 740 won per dollar, that exceeded eleven trillion won—an astronomical sum. Last year's national budget had barely reached forty trillion won; ID Investment alone could cover a quarter of it. Compared to Ilseong, the gap was humiliating. The combined net profits of all Ilseong affiliates barely exceeded one trillion won, yet ID Investment had generated eleven trillion won by itself. Choi Hyun-hee, who had never once felt inferior to anyone, tasted bitter defeat in that moment.
Of course, his calculation was slightly exaggerated. ID Investment's total assets, inflated by the Nikkei futures trade, stood at 10.7 billion dollars. In theory fifteen billion was possible, but practical constraints always reduced the scale of investments and profits. Once his thoughts reached this point, Choi Hyun-hee's rage exploded anew.
"Kim Hyuk-soo! Bring that bastard here right now!"
Unable to contain himself, Choi Hyun-hee grabbed the intercom, shouted, and slammed it down without waiting for a reply. It had been Kim Hyuk-soo who had suggested fabricating suspicions around ID Investment. Having kept the man as his closest aide for years, Choi Hyun-hee immediately understood and simply nodded. The result had been the hedge-fund commotion. At first it had felt satisfying, but within days everything had flipped. If you were going to do something, do it properly! What on earth was happening? Choi Hyun-hee was so overwhelmed he could not even begin to grasp where or how to respond.
- Yoo Jae-won draws 10,000 to street rally!
- A scene unlike ordinary politicians; young people are uniting again.
- A Tongil National Party whirlwind sweeps Seoul.
Exactly one day had passed since Yoo Jae-won began his campaign support. The main battleground was Seoul, where the Tongil Democratic Party was weakest. While regions like Ulsan and Chungcheong offered solid support and likely victories, Seoul was squeezed between the ruling and opposition parties. According to the polls Chief of Staff Choi Kang-wook conducted every three days, twenty-six candidates in the provinces were virtually assured of victory, but only three in Seoul. Still, that was five more than the Tongil National Party had achieved in its previous life. Yoo Jae-won's endorsement and Jeon Myeong-heon's far more aggressive campaigning—unlike in the past—had added those five seats.
"We've flipped three districts."
Even more encouraging was the latest poll showing golden crosses in three districts: Yeongdeungpo-gu (including Yeouido, which Yoo Jae-won had visited first after arriving), plus districts in Chungcheong and Gangwon. Yeongdeungpo-gu in particular had trailed by four percent in the previous poll but now led by two percent. The margin remained within the margin of error, so it could not yet be called certain. Yet the trend was unmistakably upward. Moreover, Yoo Jae-won's participation had only begun yesterday, so the poll did not fully reflect it. Campaign effects took time to reach the grassroots; the final poll the day before the election would capture them clearly. The outcome would undoubtedly be positive. Beyond the numbers, Yoo Jae-won could feel the shift in public sentiment on the ground. Even without computer analysis, he was certain the results would be far better than in his previous life. The more National Assembly seats, the better. Yoo Jae-won began preparing for another day of intense campaigning. His only equipment was his own body and a good suit. Like a celebrity, he would visit a salon for styling and don the prepared outfit. Today's schedule called for eight stops—an excessive load—but his overflowing stamina left him brimming with energy.
That evening—
"Thank you for your hard work today."
After finishing his final support rally, Yoo Jae-won greeted the person who had come to see him off. He had held the microphone all day, yet his voice and movements remained vigorous. The man who had come to bid him farewell looked at him enviously and spoke.
"What did I do? You're the one who worked hard."
Again, he praised Yoo Jae-won more than himself. At that, Yoo Jae-won looked at the man with fresh eyes. The person who had come to see him off was no ordinary candidate. It was Jeon Jae-jun, the sixth son of Chairman Jeon Myeong-heon—the very man famous for the 70-won bus fare and the World Cup. Jeon Myeong-heon had given the presidencies of construction and automobile companies to Jeon Jae-jun's two older brothers, but had never assigned Jeon Jae-jun an official post within Mirae Group. Only when founding the new party had he handed over Ulsan, the Tongil National Party's most secure stronghold. Because the district was so safe, Jeon Jae-jun had entrusted his own campaign to family and aides and come up to Seoul to support others. When Yoo Jae-won first met him, he had felt a slight tension. The Jeon Jae-jun he remembered from his previous life had not been particularly cool-headed. He had also worried that Mirae Group's royal family might view his closeness to Jeon Myeong-heon as an unwelcome intruder. Yet the look in Jeon Jae-jun's eyes held a trace of goodwill. It was the same now. A longer conversation would be needed to read his true thoughts, but schedules were too tight for that. Still, this was not someone he would meet only once; there would be plenty of opportunities.
"Yes, then tomorrow—"
He had meant to say "I'll see you," but the words never finished.
"Chairman! It's an emergency!"
Kim Dae-seok, who had been taking a call on the car phone, cried out in alarm. His face was genuinely panicked as he continued rapidly.
"The military is in chaos. Lieutenant Lee Ji-moon is making a conscience declaration that the Defense Security Command is conducting large-scale election fraud."
At Kim Dae-seok's words, both Yoo Jae-won and Jeon Jae-jun's expressions changed dramatically—though not in the same way. Jeon Jae-jun looked as if he had been struck by lightning, his face drained of color. Yoo Jae-won, however, remained calm. His expression said only one thing: the moment he had been waiting for had finally arrived.