The Spotlight's Return
Yoo Jae-won had barely stepped into the arrivals hall when the reporters’ voices erupted all at once.
“Mr. Chairman! Just one question!”
“A word on how it feels to become the world’s richest man!”
“Is it true you’re planning a massive investment in Seoul?”
They had clearly not coordinated their questions in advance. If they had chosen a single spokesperson, they might have stood a better chance of receiving an answer. At least the photo line had not collapsed the way it used to, and every reporter was using polite, formal speech. The Korean security team kept order, but journalists’ tone was something that could not be changed by force. Today, however, their words carried a deference that had been absent only a few years earlier.
The reason was simple. Yoo Jae-won had achieved something they could not hope to match, and even they had benefited from the ripple effects. ID Group’s advertising campaign was still running. Most media outlets and broadcasters—everyone except Daehan Ilbo and a handful of like-minded papers—had been enjoying a comfortably warm winter since December.
“You set aside a five-hundred-million-dollar bonus to mark the listing. Is that correct? And what do you say to those who claim it creates social friction?”
Some things about Korean journalism never changed. Yoo Jae-won walked past the barrage without comment. A proper press conference had already been arranged inside the VIP lounge at Gimpo Airport; there was nothing to be gained by lingering at the gate. The reporters knew this, yet they kept firing questions on the slim chance one of them might hit the jackpot.
Most of the questions were reasonable enough, but one in particular soured his mood.
Social friction.
How he rewarded his employees was his own affair. The bonuses were not arbitrary gifts; they were scaled according to each person’s contribution to Android’s successful listing. Everyone received something, but the amounts reflected merit. He considered that the fairest distribution possible. Yet here they were, calling it social friction.
Yoo Jae-won stopped and turned toward the reporter who had asked the question.
“Im Soo-kwang of the Korea Economic Daily,” Choi Kang-wook murmured beside him. “Known for his pro-chaebol leanings, as one might expect from an economic paper.”
Under Yoo Jae-won’s cold stare, Im Soo-kwang instinctively stepped back. Asking the question from within the safety of the crowd had been easy; facing the man himself was another matter. Yoo Jae-won resumed walking. There was no point in engaging someone like that.
The press conference room was packed. It looked as though every journalist currently working in Seoul had been summoned to the airport. The sight gave Yoo Jae-won a quiet sense of satisfaction. The sheer number of cameras proved that the path he had walked had been the right one.
A few minutes later, Yoo Jae-won, Choi Kang-wook, and the other executives took their seats. Choi Kang-wook rose first to open the proceedings.
“We will now begin the press conference with ID Group Chairman Yoo Jae-won. There is no pre-arranged list of questions or speaking order, so I ask for your understanding if things become a little disorderly. We will now take questions.”
Hands shot up the moment he finished. Yoo Jae-won pointed to one of the raised arms.
“The gentleman in the navy suit wearing the dragonfly glasses.”
He had chosen the reporter deliberately; the KBS badge on the man’s chest was clearly visible. A public-broadcaster journalist was less likely to ask anything reckless.
“Choi Dong-ho of KBS. First, congratulations on Android’s successful listing.”
The man spoke with the polished courtesy expected of a network reporter.
“My questions are these: Were there any difficulties with the listing? Does ID Group plan to list its other subsidiaries as well? And will the same approach to taxes and bonuses be used for future listings?”
So much for taking only one question at a time. Still, the three questions formed a coherent thread, so Yoo Jae-won let it pass. Choi Kang-wook issued a gentle reminder that each reporter should ask only one question, then yielded the floor.
“Android, which has become the standard PC operating system, was built from assets acquired from Microsoft, which had already been listed. In practical terms, the preparations were completed long ago. The most difficult part of the Nasdaq listing was choosing the lead underwriter; every firm offered such attractive terms that selecting just one was genuinely challenging.”
The reporters nodded. They had almost forgotten that ID Group had once acquired Microsoft, the company famous for MS-DOS. Several of them were already calculating how many years ago that acquisition had taken place and comparing it with Yoo Jae-won’s age. The comparison left them quietly awed.
“We do intend to list other subsidiaries, but not in the immediate future. We will continue strengthening their fundamentals and wait for the right moment. As for bonuses, we will follow the same principle with every future listing.”
Choi Dong-ho nodded, satisfied. He had received answers to all three of his questions. Yoo Jae-won, however, was not finished.
“ID Group is already a global enterprise. Our true battlefields lie in the United States and Europe. America gathers the world’s finest talent, and companies there pour out new technologies every day. Competition in the IT sector is especially fierce. If we wish to compete on that stage, we must attract that talent, build organizations in which they can perform at their best, and support them without reservation. It is difficult work, but capitalism allows us to solve it with money.”
Choi Dong-ho drew a sharp breath. He had never considered the matter in those terms. Korean companies expanding overseas had always competed on price, squeezing wages and suppliers to undercut rivals. Yoo Jae-won’s approach overturned that common sense, yet the results were impossible to dismiss. In an environment where journalists still spoke of “social friction,” Yoo Jae-won knew he would have to give this answer many more times. He would give the same answer every time.
“To all job seekers: come to ID Group. You will be rewarded in proportion to the ability you demonstrate.”
With that, he set the microphone down.
The rest of the press conference proceeded smoothly—ordinary questions met with ordinary answers. Yoo Jae-won found it dull, but the questions themselves offered no opening for anything sharper. Even when he deliberately called on a Daehan Ilbo reporter, the result was the same. After roughly thirty minutes, he left through the VIP corridor and walked toward the waiting car.
“Is this the one?”
A black sedan he had never seen before stood waiting. The car he used to drive in Korea had been a white Grandeur limousine, a gift from Jeon Myeong-heon after the original Grandeur was totaled. The vehicle before him now was a 1994 New Grandeur limousine. Its edges were rounded compared with the first generation, and the interior had been completely modernized: airbags, TCS, heated seats, a cooling box, and an ECS suspension that adjusted itself to road conditions. It was the flagship of a future automobile.
“Yes, sir. The second-generation Grandeur limousine model. Future Automobile provided it as a sponsorship.”
Sponsorship, indeed. Jeon Myeong-heon’s hand was obvious; the limousine variant had never been offered to the public. Even in the first generation, only a handful had been specially built. The same had apparently been done again.
“Please tell the president of Future Automobile that I accept it with gratitude.”
Out of respect for the giver, Yoo Jae-won decided the New Grandeur limousine would serve as his official vehicle while in Korea. He could afford any Mercedes, BMW, Rolls-Royce, or Bentley he wished, yet he believed that, just as high-ranking civil servants drove domestic cars no matter how wealthy they were, he should do the same in Korea. The same logic would apply abroad: American cars in America, European cars in Europe.
The New Grandeur limousine pulled away from the airport, flanked front and rear by security vehicles. The escort was heavier than usual; after the paparazzi incident, the security team had insisted. Yoo Jae-won offered no objection. His first destination in Seoul was the ID Investment Seoul headquarters in Dogok-dong.
ID Investment’s true center of gravity was Seoul. While the head office was in New York, Korea—particularly Seoul—had raised the largest share of its investor capital. Even that was dwarfed by Yoo Jae-won’s personal funds, yet the amount raised from private investors continued to grow. Since the Investment Bank Act enacted under President Noh, no other firm had delivered results comparable to ID Investment’s. Returns were no longer as spectacular as in the early days, but the current IT-sector investments had already posted thirty percent gains. Moreover, investors could now enter and exit at any time through an HTS system that displayed real-time performance. Cumulative funds under management had long since surpassed the trillion-won mark.
Hwang Jae-hong’s standing within ID Investment had risen accordingly. Once merely a branch manager, he was now the official president of the Korean subsidiary. His presence inside the group had become unmistakable. Colleagues who had once quietly looked down on his lack of formal education had fallen silent after the results came in. With each promotion, Hwang Jae-hong’s life had changed. In the late eighties he had been little more than a drifter; now he owned a large apartment in Gangnam and kept several cars. The Toyota Crown Yoo Jae-won had given him years ago remained his most treasured possession, though these days he more often drove newer models. When meeting government officials he chose domestic cars; when meeting wealthy investors, a Rolls-Royce was the correct choice.
He was also planning to start a family. At thirty-something, Hwang Jae-hong was technically a confirmed bachelor, yet the title “President of ID Investment Korea” rendered his age irrelevant.
“Mr. Chairman. Hwang Jae-hong reporting for duty!”
His greeting was impeccably formal.
“President Hwang, it’s been a while. Video calls don’t do you justice—you look like a different man in person.”
The man who had once resembled a toad had transformed. His skin was noticeably clearer, the lines on his face had smoothed, and he carried himself with quiet confidence. He would never be called handsome, but he had become distinctly presentable.
“It’s all thanks to you, Mr. Chairman. I’ve never felt more energized. And I recently returned from a very pleasant trip to Jeju Island.”
Hwang Jae-hong laughed heartily, crediting everything to Yoo Jae-won. The mention of Jeju Island pricked at Yoo Jae-won’s conscience. In the early twenty-first century Jeju had been Korea’s premier tourist destination, yet at present it was little more than a honeymoon spot. With overseas travel now unrestricted, foreign destinations were siphoning away visitors. A second Jeju boom would not arrive until the early 2000s. That was why Hwang Jae-hong had been sent to the island in the middle of winter.
“The post-trip report is ready. I’ll escort you to the office.”
Hwang Jae-hong’s office looked as though it belonged in a five-star hotel—spacious, filled with fine furniture, ceramics, and paintings that were clearly expensive. It had always been impressive; now it was on another level.
“I tried to match the clients’ tastes, so it became rather flashy,” Hwang Jae-hong offered by way of apology.
“It’s fine,” Yoo Jae-won said sincerely. Most of the cost had already been expensed; he was meticulous about both paying taxes and claiming every legitimate deduction.
“Your collection is excellent. That one—is it ‘Tears of Joy’?”
Yoo Jae-won had authorized the art budget but left the actual selections to Hwang Jae-hong. The quality of the choices suggested outside help.
“Yes, sir. The director of the Raum Museum recommended pop art, so I selected some representative works.”
The Raum Museum belonged to the Ilsung Group.
“The director is also one of our largest clients at this branch. I’ve secured his personal investment commitment as well.”
Yoo Jae-won’s expression darkened at the mention of Ilsung, and Hwang Jae-hong hurried to explain. The fact that the client was important did not change the rule: ID Investment’s information remained confidential, and no client could dictate decisions. More importantly, the artworks were corporate assets of ID Investment, not Hwang Jae-hong’s personal property. Even if Ilsung later raised objections, they would have no claim on anything hanging in this office.
“This is your seat, Mr. Chairman.”
As promised, a conference area had been prepared in the middle of the president’s office, complete with a projector screen, warm coffee, ginger tea, and an assortment of refreshments.
“Then I’ll begin the Jeju Island survey report.”
Hwang Jae-hong picked up a laser pointer and started the presentation. Photographs and data from Jeju—Woljeong-ri, Gimnyeong, Hyeopjae, and others—appeared on the screen. The target of the large-scale real-estate investment Yoo Jae-won had envisioned was indeed Jeju Island.
Yoo Jae-won listened to the per-pyeong prices but found himself more captivated by the untouched winter landscapes themselves. The decision to invest the equity-sale proceeds in Jeju had little to do with the astronomical land prices that would arrive in the early 2000s. His goal had never been short-term capital gains. Once purchased, the land would not be sold again. Jeju’s value would explode when it was rediscovered as a tourist destination in the twenty-first century, but that golden age would prove short-lived. Reckless development and over-reliance on Chinese capital would drive visitors away; belated attempts at ecological restoration would fail. Yoo Jae-won wanted to develop the island in a sustainable manner while he still could. That was why he had dispatched Hwang Jae-hong to secure promising sites before the boom.
“However, acquiring every parcel you designated will be difficult.”
Yoo Jae-won’s pleasant reverie was broken.
“The landowners have formed a strong consensus: they may sell among themselves, but they will not sell to outsiders.”
The explanation was easy to understand. Jeju had suffered many wounds, most of them inflicted by outsiders. In 1994, with no historical reckoning yet attempted, those feelings ran deeper than Yoo Jae-won had anticipated.
“So how much can we purchase right now?”
“Approximately forty percent of the target area—around thirty-two billion won in budget terms.”
It was a disappointing figure. The original plan had called for eight hundred billion won in the first phase alone—one hundred million dollars. The ultimate goal had been one billion dollars, encompassing not only land but integrated development: lodging, tourism, experiential programs, and wellness facilities. If the opening move was this constrained, the timeline would stretch considerably.
“We’ll have to be satisfied with what we can get for now. Once we demonstrate that we’re different, things will change.”
There was no point forcing the issue. They would begin with what was possible and proceed step by step.