The Wheels of History Begin to Turn
The Game of Thrones “Huk!” Jeon Jae-jun sucked in a sharp breath the moment his eyes met Yoo Jae-won’s. What kind of gaze was that? It was like staring into the eyes of a tiger. Even his own father at the height of his power had never possessed such intensity. His heart pounded wildly from the shock. Unable to endure it any longer, Jeon Jae-jun quickly dropped his head.
Yoo Jae-won’s lips curved upward. One more win in the staring contest. He hadn’t noticed it before his regression, but lately he had become aware that his win rate in such contests was remarkably high. Opportunities were rare, yet whenever they occurred, he emerged victorious every time. He almost wondered whether the being who had granted his regression had thrown in a staring-contest ability as a bonus. It wouldn’t help with running a business, but it was hardly a disadvantage to possess. In an inexplicably good mood, Yoo Jae-won launched into the presentation with renewed vigor.
After finishing the hour-long presentation, Yoo Jae-won did not head straight home. Having come all the way to the Tongil National Party headquarters, a private meeting with Assemblyman Jeon Myeong-heon was only natural.
“I’m sorry the call took so long.”
The private audience began in Jeon Myeong-heon’s modest personal office with an apology. He had confidently claimed in Busan that everything would be wrapped up in two days at most, yet nearly six days had passed.
“I’ve told you many times, it’s fine. Thanks to the delay, I was able to prepare even more thoroughly.”
It was no empty courtesy; Yoo Jae-won meant every word. While waiting for Jeon Myeong-heon’s call, he had not sat idle. He had refined the presentation materials, redrawn the organizational chart, and meticulously crafted three-dimensional policy pledges. He had also attended to personal matters—praising the ID Investment staff who had flown in from Japan and hosting Vincent Greenhill’s promotion ceremony from vice president to president. Other employees had received promotions as well. At ID Investment, bonuses tied to demonstrated ability far outweighed salary increases based on rank, so no one resented the system.
“I’m grateful you see it that way.”
Once the apologies and thanks were exchanged, Yoo Jae-won moved straight to the main topic, as he always did.
“From tomorrow onward, you’ll have to keep issuing appointment letters without rest, Candidate.”
The organizational chart contained dozens of positions—chairman, bureau chief, division head, team leader—and countless subordinate ranks beneath them. For veteran politicians, this was an unfamiliar approach. In this era, election campaigns consisted of little more than rallying party organizations and supporters to push through sheer numbers. That method had produced spectacles like the million-person rally in Yeouido, but its efficiency was abysmal.
“That won’t be a problem.”
Having entered politics less than a year ago, Jeon Myeong-heon found both the scale and the speed equally foreign, so he felt no resistance to handing out appointments liberally.
Yoo Jae-won then began explaining the policy pledges he had personally prepared. As he reopened the Shell Book for the presentation, a slight twinge of guilt pricked him. Jeon Myeong-heon’s eyes shone with anticipation, yet the pledge document inside the Shell Book was a hastily assembled collection Yoo Jae-won had thrown together in a single day by rummaging through the news library in his Memory Palace. In the twenty-first century he would have commissioned proper research, but there had been no time. He had essentially scanned major political and economic issues that had dominated newspapers between 1990 and 1995 and stitched them into a platform. Even if someone called it sloppy, he had no defense—yet he was confident that the pledges accurately addressed the pressing issues in each region.
“Seoul will focus on economic issues. Northern Gyeonggi and Gangwon Province will center on unification-related development. The key is the expressway. Gangwon is so underdeveloped that nothing meaningful can happen until the highway is laid down first.”
Jeon Myeong-heon leaned forward, donning his reading glasses to peer closely at the laptop screen. Yoo Jae-won simply slid the Shell Book across the desk. Displayed on the screen was the Seoul-Yangyang Expressway route that would eventually be completed in the twenty-first century. At present, the only road from Seoul to Gangwon was the narrow, aging Gyeongchun National Road, which severely hampered the flow of people and goods.
Yoo Jae-won flipped to the next chart.
“Chungcheong Province will see the construction of a high-tech science city. The Korea Advanced Institute of Science and Technology, the Electronics and Telecommunications Research Institute, and private companies will collaborate to build it. Since Mirae Electronics’ second semiconductor plant is already under construction, your pledge will carry even greater weight. ID Group also plans to build a large LCD manufacturing facility.”
“An LCD plant? That’s going to cost a fortune. Are you pushing yourself just to help this old man?”
“Not at all. Market viability has already been confirmed. Once thin, high-resolution LCDs are commercialized, every display in the world will be replaced.”
“Oh-ho!”
Jeon Myeong-heon’s eyes sparkled at Yoo Jae-won’s confident assertion. Though he had entered politics, his essence remained that of a businessman. Only a year earlier he had been the chairman of Mirae Group and had received reports on LCD technology. At the time, Mirae’s research institute had deemed the market promising but the timing premature. Jeon Myeong-heon had agreed that such a massive investment was not yet feasible. Now, hearing that ID Group was already calculating costs and preparing to build on a grand scale, his thinking began to shift.
The detailed pledges were numerous, but Yoo Jae-won showed only the major pillars before moving on. North Jeolla Province would, of course, revolve around the Saemangeum project—early completion of the reclamation, large-scale desalination, and the attraction of industrial complexes and farms. In addition, a massive ranch named the Unification Ranch would be established for extensive grazing.
“A ranch?”
“Healthy cattle aren’t raised by locking them in barns; they’re raised by letting them graze freely. The vast Saemangeum plain is more than sufficient.”
“All right. But will people actually buy it?”
Jeon Myeong-heon doubted that voters would be particularly moved by the promise of a large-scale ranch. Existing dairy farmers would have to uproot their entire operations and relocate to Saemangeum—an enormous decision.
“They will. The cattle raised here won’t be for beef.”
“If not for eating, then what? Farm work?”
“For easing tensions with the North.”
The sudden pivot caught Jeon Myeong-heon off guard. At the mention of North Korea, his eyes widened.
“I read your autobiography. You started Mirae Group with the money from selling your father’s cattle.”
“That’s right.”
Hearing it directly from Yoo Jae-won stirred fresh emotion in Jeon Myeong-heon, yet he still could not connect the cattle money to a Saemangeum ranch.
“Given how rapidly relations with the North are improving, inter-Korean economic cooperation will likely expand, and the Mount Kumgang tourism project may become possible. You could be the one to initiate it.”
“Me?”
“Yes. It’s time for a glorious homecoming. You came down with the price of a single cow—imagine returning with ten thousand.”
For a moment Jeon Myeong-heon’s mouth fell open. When he had first heard that inter-Korean relations were entering a thaw, he had only hoped he might someday visit his hometown. Yoo Jae-won, however, was already envisioning inter-Korean economic cooperation and even a Mount Kumgang tourism project. Most astonishing of all was the idea of driving a herd of cattle across the border. A president leading ten thousand cattle northward and holding a summit with Kim Il-sung. Ten thousand cattle could not be flown; they would have to travel by ship or truck. Either way, the image would be unforgettable. A shiver ran down Jeon Myeong-heon’s spine as he pictured it.
“It really is you, Jae-won.”
Yoo Jae-won felt a touch embarrassed by the heartfelt praise. The cattle-crossing performance had originally been Mirae Group’s idea; he had merely accelerated the timeline and scaled it up from five hundred to ten thousand head, advancing the schedule by roughly six years. Kim Il-sung’s sudden death had thrown inter-Korean relations into chaos just as they were stabilizing. Several years had been wasted before relations recovered. By staging the cattle crossing and summit before Kim Il-sung’s death, the damage might at least be mitigated. Even if Jeon Myeong-heon failed to win the presidency, the cattle-crossing pledge itself remained valid.
“Candidate, we’re not finished yet. The final section covers the Busan-Ulsan-Gyeongnam pledges.”
Yoo Jae-won pulled the still-dazed Jeon Myeong-heon back to the presentation.
“Busan-Ulsan-Gyeongnam?”
“Busan, Ulsan, and South Gyeongsang. These are the regions we must focus on most in this election.”
A single vote in Busan was not merely +1. It was effectively +2, because it meant taking a vote away from the strongest candidate, Kim Young-sam of the Democratic Liberal Party.
“Busan is called Korea’s second city, yet it has never truly been treated as such. Resentment has built up over the years. I’ve come up with a pledge that can resolve that grievance in one stroke.”
Yoo Jae-won laid the groundwork before flipping the slide. Having already been thoroughly captivated by the cattle-crossing idea, Jeon Myeong-heon’s expectations soared even higher. At the perfect moment, Yoo Jae-won pressed enter.
— Seoul-Busan High-Speed Railway
— Busan International Airport expansion
— Subway connecting Busan, Ulsan, and South Gyeongsang
“With these, Busan’s status as Korea’s undisputed second city will be cemented.”
There was no room for argument. The scale of development was staggering. High-speed rail was something only advanced nations operated. Laying the tracks was one challenge; building trains capable of sustained 250 km/h speeds while ensuring passenger comfort was another that most countries could not achieve. Yet once completed, the benefits would be immense. The Gyeongbu Expressway had already brought Busan within a day’s travel of Seoul. High-speed rail would reduce that to two hours at most. It was a transformative national project.
“All of it is excellent! These pledges are in a completely different league from that flimsy booklet.”
Jeon Myeong-heon was referring to the shallow pledge book Jeon Jae-jun had prepared. The difference in quality was obvious at a glance.
“The real issue will be securing the capital,” Jeon Myeong-heon said. Drawing on decades of experience at Mirae Construction, he could roughly estimate the cost. Selecting routes, purchasing land, and actual construction would require tens of trillions of won—an enormous undertaking.
“The funding plan is in the second part. I’m not proposing reckless tax hikes, so don’t worry. Besides, we don’t have to spend all that money at once. Spread over five years, the numbers are perfectly manageable. And I’ll be working hard to generate plenty of taxable income myself.”
Korea was a nation with real potential. The reason it still struggled was the presence of massive parasites draining its resources. Eliminating them alone would allow the pledges to be fulfilled without raising taxes. Moreover, the explosive growth of ID Group would bring in far more tax revenue than anyone could currently imagine, so there was no need to fear national bankruptcy. ID Group would be paying taxes in the trillions; that was no empty boast. The revenue would come not from domestic competition but from overseas earnings—an entirely new source of tax income.
“With this, we can actually win!”
Jeon Myeong-heon’s confidence erupted. A sophisticated organization and powerful pledges gave him the conviction that he could overwhelm the other candidates. Only yesterday he had worried he would spend a fortune and walk away empty-handed; now his expression brightened as though that fear had never existed.
“There is one condition, however.”
It pained him to dampen Jeon Myeong-heon’s enthusiasm, but the matter had to be addressed.
“A condition?”
“Election day is December 18, but we must settle the outcome by the ninth.”
Jeon Myeong-heon tilted his head, not understanding.
“Even with the best pledges and the most sophisticated campaign, approval ratings don’t reverse overnight. Public opinion shifts gradually, and by tracking those shifts we can identify trends. If the gap between us and the frontrunner falls within the margin of error by the ninth, victory remains possible. Anything less than that, however…”
“…becomes difficult.”
“Yes. In that case, we’ll need to explore other methods.”
“I don’t fully grasp it. Even with ten days left after the ninth, you’re saying it’s difficult?”
In the twenty-first century, five or even three days would suffice. Yoo Jae-won had allowed ten. The reason was simple: the limitations of communication. Unlike the early days after his regression, nearly every household now had a telephone. Yet mass media remained strictly one-way. Television, radio, and newspapers still commanded enormous influence, while PC communications and internet users numbered fewer than a million. Mobile phones were exceedingly rare. The speed at which information spread was nowhere near twenty-first-century levels. That was why he had given the trend analysis a generous ten-day window.
“I don’t even want to imagine what those ‘other methods’ might be.”
Jeon Myeong-heon’s overwhelming drive came from refusing to look left or right and charging straight toward his goal. This time, too, he resolved to set aside any talk of alternatives and simply run with everything he had.
“Of course. All we have to do is run like mad until the ninth.”
Yoo Jae-won agreed wholeheartedly. He, too, would give everything until the ninth. If even that proved insufficient, then—and only then—would he consider other options. That part would be his responsibility.
Afterward, Yoo Jae-won spent another hour with Jeon Myeong-heon discussing election strategy and the operation of the campaign headquarters. They agreed to equip both the central party office and regional branches with computers and secure internet connections to maximize communication security. He also offered small but practical tips, such as always looking at the camera with the red light during debates rather than at the opposing candidate. Countless other twenty-first-century election insights were passed on like an intensive private lesson.
The next day, the Tongil National Party transformed. From early morning, appointment ceremonies followed one after another. The party’s National Assembly members were simultaneously appointed as regional chairmen or higher. Those with expertise in law, broadcasting, or national defense naturally became committee chairs in their respective fields. In addition, a steady stream of external figures—mostly professors from universities and research institutes heavily influenced by Mirae Group—visited to receive their appointments. Because the process had been rushed, the first people summoned were those easiest to contact. With the official campaign period fast approaching, everything felt improvised. Yet the party was far more vibrant and energetic than the established parties like the Democratic Justice Party or the Democratic Party. Once the party began to move, the public finally felt that election season had truly arrived.
Time passed. November arrived, and the starting gun for the official campaign season fired. The wheels of a new history began to turn.