The Midnight Kernel

Ultima Online's James rubbed his eyes. The sight of Yoo Jae-won sitting in the Alpha Team office was already unbelievable. James had just returned from a week-long volunteer trip to Africa. The communication infrastructure there was so poor that he had been completely cut off from the outside world. Because of that, he had received no advance notice, and the shock was enough to make him faint. Though there was a considerable age gap between them, James regarded Yoo Jae-won as an idol, respecting everything about him.

James stood frozen in astonishment, but after a few seconds his expression changed. The aura radiating from Yoo Jae-won, seated in a place he had never occupied before, was far from ordinary. Jae-won was muttering in Korean while typing code at an astonishing speed, exuding an intense, almost manic concentration.

“Good heavens.”

James clapped both hands over his mouth, startled by his own involuntary exclamation. Having long been interested in Eastern culture, he had studied meditation and instantly convinced himself that Jae-won was deep in a legendary state of mu-a-ji-gyeong—complete absorption in programming. Moving on instinct with the silent tread of a cat, James slipped behind Jae-won. He could ask later why Jae-won was here; right now, witnessing someone in that transcendent coding state was an opportunity he could not miss.

Yoo Jae-won had been up all night. So focused that he remained unaware of James standing behind him, he had thrown himself into programming with extraordinary intensity. The schedule for the release was already tight, yet there had been no need to pull an all-nighter. Somehow, however, memories from his previous life had surged forward. He had connected to the secret server managing the source code the previous afternoon and begun assessing the situation. Flipping through the files like a comic book, he had finished grasping the development status of the next Android version within hours.

The reason was simple. The kernel source code that the Alpha Team had expanded and developed contained far too many flaws. There were optimization issues and bugs that would cause problems later. When he had tested the packaged build, he had not noticed them, but once he examined the source, every defect stood out clearly.

“I don’t even know where to start. Fine. I’ll just fix everything.”

He had made that terrifying declaration around 1 a.m., and the work had continued until James arrived. Strictly speaking, this violated company policy. Developers were only permitted extended hours when a release was imminent; otherwise, it was not allowed. Yet Yoo Jae-won was not technically a developer—he was the founder. As the unique chairman of ID Group, no one except other shareholders of Android Inc. could tell him what to do. One of the privileges of being the owner was working without interference. While many chairmen became tyrants inside their companies, the only thing Jae-won did was voluntarily stay late. It could not be helped. The Alpha Team’s work on the next Android kernel source code was simply unacceptable.

Creating the next Android did not mean discarding the entire source code and starting from scratch. They were reusing a significant portion of the 2.0 kernel to maintain compatibility while expanding performance and features. Yoo Jae-won had written nearly all of the Android 2.0 kernel himself. Not a single function had been written carelessly, not a single character wasted. Yet when he looked at the code the Alpha Team had produced, far too much of it fell short of his standards. There were numerous places where optimization had been skipped, and many sections so convoluted that only the original author could maintain them. Thanks to the popularization of HPC-certified components, computer performance had risen dramatically; otherwise, the new version would have felt slower than 2.0. With enhanced visual elements—moving wallpapers, larger icons using more colors, and short animations when opening and closing windows—the project risked becoming a failure.

Jae-won had opened the source code for CPU resource management, which had received almost no optimization, and was redesigning it. Determined to fully utilize the existing HPC performance and actively incorporate new instruction sets such as MMX and 3D NOW! that would appear in future CPUs, he had been coding since dawn to deliver a truly satisfying experience to paying customers. At least the task did not require pushing creativity to its limits. Building his own operating system had been something he had considered even in his previous life. He had deeply studied open-source systems from DOS to Linux, extracted code optimized for each era’s hardware through machine learning, and stored it inside his Memory Palace. Of course, he had not merely memorized it. If it had been something he could never understand, he would have simply committed it to memory, but programming was both his greatest interest and his greatest talent. Therefore, he had studied alongside the machine learning process and placed the knowledge inside his Memory Palace.

The Android operating system was not stored in perfectly separated versions. Yoo Jae-won was not a god. After his regression, his interventions had made large-scale changes in the computer industry unpredictable. Minimizing intervention might have allowed prediction, but analysis showed that without shaking up the established industry, he could never surpass it. So he had chosen bold action. The early dissemination of the Coppermine process had been one such move; Microsoft’s unexpectedly rapid collapse had brought it to market even sooner than planned. In any case, Jae-won had anticipated this roadmap and organized the most effective source code according to the evolving level of computer hardware. He had even modularized it by independent functions, so he could simply pull out whatever he needed like dried persimmons whenever necessary.

However, when the source code was very long, he could not transfer it all at once. Although his memory was extraordinary, perfectly reproducing tens of thousands of lines down to the last character was impossible. The method he had devised was simple: he refused to be greedy and moved the code in small increments. When he knew the content, he wrote it himself; when it grew hazy, he entered the Memory Palace, reviewed the big picture, then returned to coding. This allowed him to demonstrate productivity on an entirely different level from ordinary programmers.

“Hah!”

James, who had been silently watching, tried once more to cover his mouth to keep from making a sound, but it was too late. In less than a minute, the previously blank monitor had filled with complex C-language code that was impressive even at a glance. As an S-Class programmer himself, James understood better than anyone just how extraordinary the sight was. He was simply moved by the fact that he had witnessed the true form of the legend he had only heard about in rumors. Unfortunately, the sound had been far too loud.

“Hmm?”

Startled by the presence so close behind him, Yoo Jae-won turned around. Entering ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the Memory Palace did not involve any visible hologram that others could see, so there was no risk of revealing his greatest secret. Still, the expression he wore while inside was not something he wanted others to witness. Jae-won composed his face and looked back.

“Team Leader James? When did you arrive?”

He felt a slight relief upon seeing that the person behind him was James. It was their first meeting since the trial against Microsoft, but the bond forged while fighting a major battle together made the encounter comfortable.

“Ah, I believe it’s been about fourteen minutes!”

James checked his watch and gave the precise time. Jae-won also looked at the clock and confirmed it was 7:20 a.m. Only then did a hint of fatigue wash over him, though it was not severe. Being a vigorous seventeen-year-old, he felt he could probably stay up for several more nights without issue. Still, relying on youthful energy alone would eventually lead to health problems later in life. Jae-won decisively saved the project and lifted his hands from the keyboard. James looked slightly apologetic. To Jae-won it had been nothing unusual, but to James the level of concentration he had just witnessed seemed like something that occurred only once or twice a year at most.

“By the way, you’re at the office quite early.”

“It’s my first day back from vacation, so I wanted to get a feel for things again.”

It was the kind of answer an employer loved to hear. Yet because Yoo Jae-won sensed a certain unhealthy workaholism in the young man—something reminiscent ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of his own past self—he felt more pity than satisfaction. Still, he could not bring himself to forcibly send him home.

“Yawn. I see. I need to get some rest.”

“Of course you should. Though there isn’t really anywhere suitable to rest here.”

Folding cots were essential equipment for programmers. Especially as a release date approached, the office would turn into a dormitory. Even in the United States, where working conditions were considered good, personal space could be provided, but bringing unauthorized furniture into the office was strictly prohibited. Jae-won also disliked turning the company headquarters into a giant shopping complex filled with restaurants, cafés, and countless conveniences. In his view, such facilities only encouraged employees to never go home. His policy was simple: eat outside when you want, enjoy your leisure as you please. He did not merely say this—he provided meal allowances of eight dollars in the U.S. and five thousand won in Korea, with similar support in other regions. The same applied to hobbies and education. Reading, watching movies, various sports, night school, or academy fees were all subsidized at reasonable levels. In short, the office was arranged so employees could focus solely on work; if Jae-won wanted to sleep, he would have to return to his lodging.

“I know. I’ll just go to a hotel and catch a quick nap. Oh, and I have a favor to ask.”

“Yes! Please tell me anything.”

“I’ll be back around two in the afternoon. Could you gather the entire Alpha Team in the conference room by then? I have a few announcements and some things I’d like to discuss together.”

Even if he slept as long as possible, he would only manage about four hours, but that was enough for Yoo Jae-won to recover. James answered immediately.

“Understood!”

After the court testimony, James had not stood before others to speak, so he felt a moment of worry about how to deliver the message, but he could not refuse Jae-won’s request. Leaving the rest to James, Yoo Jae-won logged out completely from his computer and left the office.

After returning to the hotel he had designated as temporary lodging and catching a short nap, the news had been updated extensively. There was no need to visit Korea’s Nextcom news page; simply turning on CNN was enough to see Korean developments as breaking headlines. Chairman Kim Il-sung had personally come to the airport to greet President Kim Young-sam, who had arrived safely in Pyongyang via the direct West Sea route. Although North Korea’s broadcasting environment was poor and the footage could not be shown live, the recorded videos later aired on evening news programs around the world. The scene of President Kim Young-sam and Chairman Kim Il-sung shaking hands right after the plane landed was replayed countless times. It was the first time the leaders of the world’s only divided nation had met, making it headline news not only in Korea but across the globe. Korea’s reaction, in particular, was indescribably passionate. Every major Korean newspaper that day carried the handshake on its front page. Some progressive papers published nothing but the photograph, without a single line of text.

“Hmm. Is it really going to be different this time?”

Even a short nap had completely dispelled his fatigue. Yoo Jae-won’s eyes sparkled as he murmured to himself. The summit with Kim Il-sung was an unprecedented, ultra-high-level event. He felt great anticipation about what synergy might emerge between the two men and how the resulting aftershocks would affect inter-Korean relations—matters of critical importance to him. Of course, as a Korean himself, his heart burned with emotion. Still, whether this would truly lead to genuine reconciliation or merely serve as another stalling tactic for nuclear development required a cool-headed analysis.

“Why hasn’t the computer been used lately?”

What concerned him was that no information had arrived from the rootkit in Pyongyang for several days. After showing signs of becoming addicted to the internet, the connection had suddenly gone silent. It did not seem as though the rootkit had been discovered; rather, it appeared the computer simply was not being used, which was frustrating. Even though the incoming data had been fragmentary, it had always been useful. The lack of new information left him feeling stifled.

“Well, I’ll know for sure after just one more day.”

The presence or absence of a joint declaration, and if one appeared, the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠degree of specificity in its clauses, would provide a clear indication. Having witnessed dozens of inter-Korean summits in his previous life and personally experienced the aftereffects of agreements and meeting outcomes, Yoo Jae-won would be able to assess the situation at a glance from the wording alone.

“Now then, shall we get moving again?”

As two o’clock approached—the time he had mentioned to James—Yoo Jae-won rose from his computer to change clothes. Just as he was about to shut it down, a timely ding sounded. An ID Talk notification had arrived. The sender was An Jong-cheol, leader of the domestic information team.

The message contained the results of the investigation into the frequently called but unsaved number from Jeon Myeong-heon’s call history. Yoo Jae-won had given An Jong-cheol the number without revealing whose phone it had come from. He had simply asked for the owner’s identity. Consequently, the document An Jong-cheol sent listed names of individuals or organizations along with their titles. To interpret it accurately, one had to consider not only the names but also the number and duration of calls. The data had already been organized separately inside his Shell Book, so opening the file and pasting it in would connect everything neatly.

“As expected, mostly the same sort of people.”

Most were National Assembly members, high-ranking government officials, and business leaders—people consistent with Jeon Myeong-heon’s social status and background. Among the assembly members, the Unification National Party accounted for the largest share, followed by Democratic Liberal Party lawmakers and even several from the Democratic Party. Even though they fought fiercely inside the National Assembly, they apparently addressed one another as brothers and sisters outside; the call logs reflected the same pattern. As for business leaders, Jeon Myeong-heon had spoken with a wide variety of them. Notably, he had more frequent and longer calls with Mirae Group’s executive team than with his own children. While the content of the conversations could only be guessed, the frequency and duration suggested that the Mirae Group presidents were far more involved than Jeon Jae-gu, Jeon Jae-geun, or Jeon Jae-jun. This gave him a rough sense of why the so-called “retainer faction” had become problematic when Mirae Group transitioned to the second generation. There had also been quite a few calls with other chaebol chairmen. Besides Choi Hyun-hee of Ilseong Group, with whom Jae-won had become rivals, there were calls to Daeho and Geumseong as well. If Jeon Myeong-heon was not the type to receive requests or pressure from chaebols, these were likely calls to maintain personal connections.

“If he called this number so often, why didn’t he save the name?”

Thinking about it, entering names on a small dial pad instead of a QWERTY keyboard must have been cumbersome for Jeon Myeong-heon. Moreover, with his executive secretary always at his side, the secretary would simply tell him who was calling based on the number, so there had been no need to manage an address book.

“Hmm? What are these names?”

Kim Kyung-ja? Kim Hyun-joo? Several ordinary female names ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠appeared in Jeon Myeong-heon’s contacts. Since none listed any position or occupation, there was no obvious connection to him. Jae-won’s instincts urged him to investigate further, but he stopped himself. As the saying went, curiosity killed the cat; halting here was the rational choice.

“Also, there is a recently collected report.”

“What is it? I have to leave soon, so please keep it brief.”

Yoo Jae-won closed all documents on his computer, signaling that he wanted a short report.

“It concerns former ID Technology team leader Kim Taek-jun. He has founded a company under the name TJ Soft.”

“TJ Soft?”

Kim Taek-jun’s movements were something Yoo Jae-won had been paying close attention to. TJ Soft? Originally, the company Kim Taek-jun founded was supposed to be NC, wasn’t it? Because of Jae-won’s influence, Kim Taek-jun’s path had changed, and so had the company name. It was clearly derived from his own name, Taek-jun.

“TJ Soft has signed a distribution contract with Dongseo Game Channel and plans to release the game Lineage (Hyeolmaeng) on May 31st.”

“What? Did you say May 31st?”

Yoo Jae-won thought he had misread the text at first. He had not. The note from An Jong-cheol clearly stated a release date of May 31st—not a planned development date, but an actual release. When Kim Taek-jun submitted his resignation, Jae-won had assumed he would leave the company and begin serious game development. Apparently, that had not been the case.