The Kwanhoon Club Debate
A stage had been set against a backdrop of large lettering that read “Kwanhoon Club Debate — Presidential Candidate Jeon Myeong-heon.” At the center sat the candidate’s chair, with the moderator’s seat beside it. Two questioners’ seats were positioned at a slight distance on either side, occupied by self-proclaimed senior journalists whose careers spanned decades. The audience section held dozens of seats, all filled not by ordinary citizens but by reporters clutching cameras and recording devices. Given that the Kwanhoon Club was an association of newspaper and broadcast journalists, such an arrangement was only natural. The atmosphere was stiff and formal, with every reporter sitting upright in an air of self-importance.
At the outset, Jeon Myeong-heon had attempted a light joke to ease the tension, but it had fallen flat. If anything, the mood grew even more rigid. The journalists assumed he was merely treating them with his usual chaebol contempt, cracking jokes as if they were beneath him. They were not entirely wrong. In truth, Jeon Myeong-heon found the entire scene absurd. Looking at the faces of the men posturing beside him, not one had ever failed to bow and scrape before Mirae Group. Even the newspapers and broadcasters were not under his direct control; that task fell to the youngest executives who had only recently risen to the presidency. Ordinarily, they would have found it difficult even to meet his eyes. Yet now, with the situation slightly altered, their attitudes had shifted so dramatically. To Jeon Myeong-heon, it was genuinely comical.
Because of this subtle war of nerves, none of the questions directed at him were friendly. In the previous two debates featuring the two Kims, candidates had often been asked questions that highlighted their achievements. This time, every question remained coldly formal. More interestingly, the hostile questions from the journalists were drawn almost entirely from the list of anticipated questions Yoo Jae-won had provided the day before.
When Jeon Myeong-heon first received and read that list, each item had struck him like a blow. He had always prided himself on living an upright life, yet the list revealed far more vulnerabilities than he had imagined. As the debate neared its end, one decisive question came like a dagger.
“Candidate Jeon Myeong-heon, a rumor has been circulating in financial circles recently. It claims that the owner family of Mirae Group sold off a large volume of company shares immediately after your declaration of candidacy. Could you please clarify this matter?”
As if on cue, the hall erupted in murmurs. The expressions of surprise on the faces of those in the audience—who were hearing this for the first time—were almost theatrical. To Jeon Myeong-heon, it was laughably transparent. If they were going to stage something, they could at least have made it look natural. Without Yoo Jae-won’s advance briefing, he would have been the most flustered person present. But that was no longer the case.
With every eye fixed on him, Jeon Myeong-heon’s firmly closed lips parted. Had he spoken in his usual manner, he would have thundered that he refused to play along with such a rigged performance. Instead, his tone was remarkably courteous.
“I have already been removed from Mirae Group’s affairs for quite some time. Whether shares are sold or accumulated is a matter for the executives and shareholders to decide. My own influence does not extend to such decisions. Even if shares remain in my name, the same principle applies. When I ran for the National Assembly, I placed all my holdings in a blind trust. Whether those shares were sold or retained was entirely at the discretion of the trust company. It would be faster to inquire there.”
Jeon Myeong-heon delivered the words without the slightest change in expression. Had the atmosphere been any cheaper, a collective groan would have echoed through the hall. It was the classic politician’s deflection—shifting all responsibility elsewhere. The Kwanhoon Club members had expected flustered panic or raw, unfiltered outbursts. Instead, the air went out of their sails. Still, in Korean, one must hear a statement to the very end.
“If I may offer a personal opinion, I find this deeply disappointing. I believe the incident occurred because I failed to properly convey my own convictions to my relatives. Think about it. They must have sold midway through, convinced that I, Jeon Myeong-heon, would never become president. But I am confident. I will become president. And from this very place, I promise to root out the corrupt practices that have stifled Korea’s economic growth and lead every listed company’s stock price to explosive growth.”
Jeon Myeong-heon spoke in a calm, measured voice, without the slightest excitement. Paradoxically, that very composure only enhanced his credibility. While other candidates prided themselves on being economic experts, none could match the decades Jeon Myeong-heon had spent in the field—an assessment everyone present acknowledged.
“To be specific, I intend to push the composite stock index past the 1,200 mark during my term. By that measure, my unworthy children and family members will have been fools who sold a trillion-won asset for three hundred billion.”
“Candidate, that claim seems rather baseless—”
“Listen here, Moderator. Who am I? I am the only person guaranteed by Yoo Jae-won, the man who achieved an 8,800 percent return in the oil futures market. Raising the stock index threefold is child’s play.”
Objectively, it was an outburst of groundless confidence, yet the thoroughly flustered journalist found no words for rebuttal. His expression made it clear this was not how he had envisioned the exchange. A potentially fatal scandal involving relatives had been flipped one hundred eighty degrees into the fault of “unworthy children.” Though it painted Jeon Myeong-heon as someone his own family did not respect, the answer had unmistakably demonstrated that he possessed the qualities of a presidential candidate.
“Ah, well… Understood. Thank you for your remarks.”
The moderator, realizing he could not allow the discussion to remain on Jeon Myeong-heon’s terms, hastily changed the subject. The frame captured both his flustered face and Jeon Myeong-heon’s quietly triumphant expression.
A few days later, the Kwanhoon Club debate was suitably edited and broadcast on television.
“That’s our candidate, all right.”
Watching alone, Yoo Jae-won nodded in approval. Jeon Myeong-heon had assured him there was nothing to worry about after the debate, but Yoo Jae-won had not known whether that was meant to reassure him or was genuinely true. Jeon Myeong-heon’s aides were his loyal retainers and always reported favorably, while newspaper interviews were carefully crafted. Only by watching the footage directly could he be certain. Some people memorized their lines perfectly in preparation yet froze when the cameras rolled. Fortunately, Jeon Myeong-heon proved strong under real pressure. When the questions came, he delivered the prepared answers exactly as planned. The Kwanhoon Club journalists, who had sharpened their blades for a decisive blow, were visibly thrown off balance.
“Ah, what a shame. The voters should have seen this live.”
Such an excellent scene could currently be viewed only in Seoul. Even a televised debate had failed to materialize due to disagreements among the candidates, and the public broadcasters had declined to carry the Kwanhoon Club event. Only Seoul Broadcasting had aired an edited version, scheduled at the last minute. Watching candidates debate in real time would have been an immensely entertaining event, and its absence only doubled the regret.
Searching his Memory Palace, Yoo Jae-won recalled that candidate debates had not begun until the 1997 presidential election. He clicked his tongue at the myriad restrictions surrounding campaign activities. Then again, with the sitting president being a former military man, even this level of openness was remarkable. Still, if everything in the world were leveled down to the lowest common denominator, how could there ever be progress? Yoo Jae-won, whose drive for improvement always pushed him to look higher rather than settle for the present, felt ready to explode with frustration.
“If only something like SNS existed, we could run an entirely different kind of campaign.”
His regret brought to mind tools that had not yet been invented. In this era, the only media available for campaigning were television and newspapers. With such narrow channels of communication, their value had skyrocketed. Placing even a mildly favorable article about Jeon Myeong-heon now required paying several times the usual rate. Journalists had become the dominant party, freely making demands—as the Kwanhoon debate itself had demonstrated. Under normal circumstances, they would never have subjected Kim Young-sam, Kim Dae-jung, and Jeon Myeong-heon to such ideological grilling. Bias was another problem. Kim Young-sam, currently leading in the polls, was already being treated as president-elect. Sensitive questions were limited to a token few for appearances’ sake. Kim Dae-jung, by contrast, faced a barrage of questions designed to reinforce the “communist” image the military regimes had once painted on him. Jeon Myeong-heon was being deliberately targeted in the economic sphere—his greatest strength—precisely to neutralize that advantage. The Kwanhoon debate had been a textbook example of this strategy.
Naturally, endless smears and machinations had preceded it. Every morning, when the newspapers arrived, Yoo Jae-won’s first task was to count how many fabricated articles had appeared. Ordinarily, Mirae Group and ID Group’s influence would have kept the media in check, but during the election season the press seemed to have lost all sense of restraint. Of course, Yoo Jae-won did not remain idle. He had wanted to call the desks himself, but a shred of reason prevailed; instead, he asked Hwang Jae-hong to deliver a message: Did they want to do business for only one election season and then shut down? The desk editors’ replies were exactly as expected. They claimed they had no desire to act this way, but the owners were directly interfering with the articles, leaving them no choice. They even complained that they themselves were suffering. While it was true that newspaper proprietors could be overbearing, Yoo Jae-won did not believe their excuses were entirely honest. They might simply be using the owners as cover after going too far themselves. In any case, he had taken careful note of the yellow journalism being practiced by the print media. Once the election ended, he intended to make them pay dearly.
The real issue was the present.
“If the internet were more widespread, we could finish off these print newspapers in an instant!”
The best way to counter fake news was to spread the truth faster than the falsehoods. Yet at the moment, all channels of communication with the public were firmly controlled by the existing media. Even a press conference could be subtly distorted until its meaning was completely inverted. As a stopgap, Yoo Jae-won posted on Korea Nextcom: “The truth behind the three hundred billion is this.” If SNS had existed, a single post would have spread nationwide and worldwide in moments. On Nextcom, however, even the most popular posts barely reached three to five thousand views. Although Nextcom’s paid membership had just surpassed six hundred thousand, not all of them were interested in politics, and readers had to navigate through multiple clicks to find the free bulletin boards or news pages. Consequently, fact-checking could not keep pace with the newspapers’ dissemination of fake news. Cities were relatively unaffected, but rural areas were another matter—and this was confirmed not merely by anecdote but by actual polling data.
Jeon Myeong-heon’s current approval rating hovered in the low thirties, narrowing the gap with Kim Young-sam to seven percent. In rural regions, however, that gap widened to as much as ten percent.
“Once the election is over, I’m making smartphones—no, at the very least cellular phones!”
Yoo Jae-won ground his teeth, having tasted the bitter reality of media power. Time flew like a bullet; December had already arrived. While a cold wind blew outside, those involved in the election had no leisure to notice whether it was cold or warm. Only nine days remained until the Tongil National Party’s internal D-Day. With each passing day, the party grew increasingly tense, as though walking on thin ice.
“How did today’s poll turn out?”
Jeon Myeong-heon, the central figure of the Tongil National Party, experienced extreme emotional swings with every evening’s poll results. Without a word, Yoo Jae-won slid a single A4 sheet across the table. Jeon Myeong-heon put on his reading glasses with a stern expression and began to read. Gradually, his face relaxed.
“We’ve overtaken the Democratic Party!”
His face flushed crimson as an exclamation burst forth. Jeon Myeong-heon’s nationwide approval rating on December 1 stood at a full 32 percent, while Democratic Party candidate Kim Dae-jung sat at 28 percent—a four-point lead. After a month of intense campaigning in November, he had still been unable to escape third place. Yet the moment December began, he had caught up to Kim Dae-jung by four points. Compared with previous results, it was an enormous achievement; his final approval rating in the last election had been only 16.3 percent, less than half of what it was now. Yoo Jae-won’s participation had more than doubled the previous figure—an extraordinary result. The problem was that only Yoo Jae-won knew this fact, so he could not even boast about it. Moreover, in a single-winner election like the presidency, second place was utterly meaningless. Presidential candidate Kim Young-sam of the Minjeong Party still led with 36 percent—outside the ±3.5 percent margin of error. The election was, for all practical purposes, already his.
“Yes! One more step and first place will be within reach!”
Unable to voice anything discouraging as emergency committee chairman, Yoo Jae-won matched Jeon Myeong-heon’s upbeat tone. One step. If Jeon Myeong-heon’s approval rating rose just two more points, he would enter the margin of error. That would mean the final stretch was worth contesting. The difficulty, of course, was that taking that single step was no easy task.
Yoo Jae-won’s newly reorganized election machinery within the Tongil National Party was operating at 120 percent capacity. District lawmakers had already returned to their constituencies and were working tirelessly to solidify their bases. The numerous chairmen appointed through the liberal distribution of titles were participating in the campaign with unexpected enthusiasm. Outside figures often accepted appointments and then worked half-heartedly, but this time such people were hard to find. Whether because of Jeon Myeong-heon’s presence or Yoo Jae-won’s, many were campaigning as though they themselves were running. Thanks to their efforts, Jeon Myeong-heon had even taken first place—within the margin of error—in certain regions: Gangwon Province and Chungcheong Province. In Gangwon, the unification policy had resonated; in Chungcheong, the high-tech science city pledge had taken hold. The surge in Chungcheong was particularly dramatic. While the unification pledge remained somewhat abstract, the high-tech science city issue was concrete and ongoing. Mirae Electronics’ second semiconductor plant was approaching test operations, and Jeon Myeong-heon’s pledge to attract ID Group’s LCD plant had followed. Chief of Staff Choi Kang-wook in the United States had responded positively to the LCD industry venture, and since Chairman Yoo Jae-won himself was serving as campaign headquarters chief and emergency committee chairman, everyone understood that the promise was no empty words. As a result, in South Chungcheong Province, Jeon Myeong-heon had pulled ahead of Kim Young-sam by a margin outside the error range.
“The problem, however, is Busan.”
The Minjeong Party and Kim Young-sam were in an uproar over Jeon Myeong-heon’s fearsome pursuit. President Roh and the Blue House were equally alarmed. In recent days, the number of tip-off calls alleging election fraud by the Tongil National Party had increased sharply. Mobilizing civil servants for campaigning was routine; treating small village gatherings such as hiking clubs or women’s associations to meals was also frequent. Election fraud was growing bolder by the day. Every report was filed with the election commission, yet the commission—tasked with overseeing fair elections—merely stated that the matter was “under review” and repeatedly delayed any decision.
“Busan?”
“Yes. Election irregularities are especially severe there. Moreover, the daily polls fluctuate wildly. If we can turn Busan around, we can close that final gap.”
Jeon Myeong-heon nodded at Yoo Jae-won’s analysis. Since appointing him emergency committee chairman, Jeon Myeong-heon had never once regretted the decision. Whether it was organization, policy, or campaign strategy, following Yoo Jae-won’s guidance consistently produced results with the voters. The newcomer’s judgment surpassed that of the veteran political operatives who usually dominated election seasons. Jeon Myeong-heon found this talent incomprehensible, yet he nodded once more.
“Understood. Then we must hold what you call a concentrated campaign. But focusing exclusively on one place for a full week would look odd.”
“Yes, so I suggest we conduct another nationwide tour until the fifth, then concentrate on Busan from the sixth through the ninth. After that, we’ll see the results. You haven’t forgotten the promise you made earlier, have you?”
At the mention of the promise, tension crept across Jeon Myeong-heon’s previously smiling face. The ninth was D-Day, known only to a tiny handful within the Tongil National Party—a date that could mark a major turning point in the campaign. To a conventional politician, deciding victory or defeat based on a poll taken on the ninth would have sounded absurd. When Jeon Myeong-heon first heard the idea, he had nodded outwardly while remaining unconvinced in his heart. Having witnessed Yoo Jae-won’s miracles up close, however, his thinking had changed.
“Of course. I haven’t forgotten.”
At Jeon Myeong-heon’s firm confirmation, Yoo Jae-won exhaled a quiet sigh of relief. Since the candidate himself had prepared mentally, whatever the outcome when the lid was lifted, his anxiety had vanished. The remaining problem lay outside. Even the location was specific: Chowon Bokguk. The Chowon Bokguk incident. Whether it would unfold exactly as before or take a different shape, even Yoo Jae-won would not know until the lid was opened. Amid a mixture of unease and anticipation, time continued its swift passage.