The PC Bang Tournament
Kim Dae-seok blinked. At first, he could not comprehend what he was hearing. The chairman was going to enter the tournament himself? Kim Dae-seok had assumed Yoo Jae-won would merely offer some sponsorship to the fledgling PC bang industry and its Warcraft event. Direct participation was far beyond anything he had imagined.
“So you mean to say, Chairman, that you intend to compete as a player in this PC bang tournament? I thought you were simply offering a measure of support.”
“Oh, that works too,” Yoo Jae-won replied with a nod. Kim Dae-seok’s face twisted into an expression of deep discomfort. He had never considered a PC bang a place the chairman would ever set foot in. He had never visited Kkachi PC Bang himself, but he remembered the one time he had stepped inside such an establishment. A room the size of a classroom, tables crammed together, computers packed shoulder to shoulder. The constant roar of games from every direction, the thick haze of cigarette smoke that made breathing nearly impossible.
“Perhaps you might reconsider?” Kim Dae-seok ventured, recounting his experience and gently suggesting that participation be postponed.
“It’s fine,” Yoo Jae-won said. His mind was made up. He already knew exactly what early PC bangs were like; he had lived through the very conditions Kim Dae-seok described. He even recalled the time the lack of partitions had caused him to accidentally power off the wrong machine while reaching for his own. The more primitive the environment, the more he wanted to see it for himself. The history of PC bangs was only just beginning, and tournaments had appeared far earlier than anyone expected. It was a meaningful phenomenon. He planned to support the event, make it a success, and participate personally to generate buzz. In a country where individual game purchases were still sluggish, PC bangs were the one place where legitimate copies could realistically be expected. Warcraft, with its improved graphics and new systems thanks to his involvement, only heightened the spectacle. Every ID game now included a map editor as standard, and Warcraft featured a spectator system. If the facilities were crude, so be it. If this tournament succeeded, it could spark countless small events across the nation, eventually growing into national competitions. Once popularity was proven, television would take notice. It would accelerate the birth of Korean e-sports far beyond the path it had taken in his previous life.
John Carmack would soon release Quake with e-sports in mind, but that was an FPS. The two scenes would develop along different lines. Yoo Jae-won was excited. If things unfolded this way, Korea’s grassroots approach and America’s developer-driven model could compete healthily side by side. He did not know which would prove superior, but the outcome would surely surpass what he had witnessed before.
“Very well. I will contact Kkachi PC Bang and discuss various support measures. At the very least, indoor smoking must be banned during the tournament.”
Having accepted that he could not sway Yoo Jae-won, Kim Dae-seok straightened with renewed resolve.
“Understood. I will handle this matter personally, Chairman.”
“Good. I’m counting on you, Secretary Kim.”
“Yes, sir.”
Kim Dae-seok’s expression was firm as he accepted the task.
A few days later, Yoo Jae-won was enjoying a leisurely afternoon at his family home in Deokjin-ri. After attending President Park Sang-kwon’s wedding, he had returned to his hometown, meeting old friends and visiting former teachers. Jumin and Yeong-sik remained as close as ever, but things felt slightly awkward with female friends like Soo-kyung and Eun-hye. Ever since word spread that he had a foreign girlfriend, their attitudes had changed, and the distance lingered. Still, the situation had improved. Soo-kyung, for instance, had thrown herself into English studies, declaring she would study abroad and find a tall, handsome boyfriend of her own.
Yeong-sik’s passion for computers remained undiminished. Jumin, true to form, cared far more about games than studying. He played everything, but these days he was completely absorbed by Warcraft. He had bought Return to Castle Wolfenstein the moment it launched, cleared the campaign, and mastered multiplayer, yet he insisted that the deeper satisfaction came from Warcraft.
—Jae-won, is there really a job where you can make a living just by being good at games?
Jumin had sent the message via ID Talk one evening, clearly troubled that everyone else was studying while he alone was lost in games. Yoo Jae-won’s reply was simple.
“There is.”
—What? Really?
Jumin sounded genuinely shocked. He had expected a scolding, not confirmation.
“Right now games are treated like a social ill, but in a few years the perception will flip completely. Tournaments will spring up everywhere, prize money will be enormous. Professional teams will form, major corporations will sponsor leagues, and international competitions will appear. The players in those events will be pro gamers.”
—Whoa! That’s insane!
Jumin’s reaction was predictably straightforward. Yoo Jae-won did not know exactly how many years it would take for professional teams to appear, but Jumin’s skill was already at a level where reaching the pros would not be difficult. He had essentially received elite training in gaming since childhood, and thanks to Yoo Jae-won he had encountered the right games early. In Warcraft he sat in the top one percent—Platinum rank. Local PC bang tournaments would be easy wins. Moreover, Jumin had shown no interest in MMORPGs like Lineage, calling them too simplistic. TJ Soft’s Kim Taek-jun, who had gone all-in on Lineage Online, had narrowly escaped disaster when the game rebounded to over five thousand concurrent users. Yet no matter how hard one tried, MMORPGs would never produce professional players. Jumin had unknowingly dodged a trap card.
—Ah, wait a second!
Having found peace of mind thanks to his friend, Jumin acted with characteristic decisiveness. He called his parents into the living room, showed them the chat, and declared that his future was now set as a pro gamer.
—My parents said they’ll support me fully!
Jumin’s parents were simple rural folk who knew nothing about pro gaming or e-sports, but Yoo Jae-won’s endorsement was enough. In Deokjin-ri, his word carried more weight than anything else. Even if he claimed to make soybean paste from red beans, they would believe him. Their reaction was only natural.
“What? You’re deciding your entire future on a whim like that?”
—Hey, if you say it’s possible, then it is.
Jumin was fortunate. The burden of the promise now rested more heavily on Yoo Jae-won. If e-sports took longer to flourish than expected, his guarantee could fall flat. Still, the pressure was not overwhelming. If Korea failed to develop a voluntary e-sports ecosystem, ID Group would simply build one. Game development already occupied a significant portion of the group’s business, so operating an e-sports team was inevitable. Jumin was the perfect fit. The ideal path would be for him to become a star player and later transition into coaching or management, but even if that did not happen, Yoo Jae-won could easily look after one friend.
—Hey, come to Battle.net!
Jumin was fully committed now.
—I’m going to pay you back for yesterday’s loss! I wasn’t at full strength because I was worried about my future. Today I’m definitely going to crush you.
The clumsy provocation continued. He had completely fallen for the still-nonexistent profession of pro gamer. Yoo Jae-won clicked his tongue but launched Warcraft anyway.
“New challengers are always welcome.”
If Jumin could beat him when he was truly trying, he could proudly call himself a pro gamer anywhere in the world.
“Yesterday I was playing with one hand. Today I’ll give you a proper match.”
Since Jumin’s career path had unexpectedly become that of a pro gamer, Yoo Jae-won intended to face him seriously from now on. He also wanted to prepare for the upcoming tournament at Kkachi PC Bang. That day they played twelve games. Yoo Jae-won did not lose once. Each game featured a different strategy, and without balance patches the execution was overwhelming.
Time passed, and October 15th—the day of the Kkachi PC Bang tournament—arrived. Kim Dae-seok had been traveling between Seoul and Deokjin-ri, working diligently on preparations. Judging by his confident expression during the drive back to Seoul, everything had gone smoothly.
“It looks like the preparations turned out exceptionally well.”
“I did my best. I only hope it meets your standards, Chairman.”
“Don’t worry. I’m just going to enjoy myself regardless of how things turn out.”
Yoo Jae-won already knew the primitive state of early PC bangs, so he held no grand expectations. Simply appearing in the news through his participation would be enough. If it boosted Warcraft sales, encouraged other PC bangs to host events, and helped usher in the dawn of Korean e-sports, that would suffice. His real concern at the moment was the Internet petition board. More than a week had passed since he posted about the warning signs of the Suseong Bridge collapse, yet there had been no response. Last night he had checked and found that all his previous reports had been blocked, with only a generic “under review” reply attached. It seemed they had simply ignored him. As the accident date drew closer, his patience was wearing thin. He was even considering posting under his real name. While he was deep in thought, his phone rang. If calls to Kim Dae-seok were business, calls to his personal line came from people with close relationships. Among those, only one person would call him now.
“Is it Grandfather?”
He was right. When he took out his Tiffany phone, the name Jeon Myeong-heon appeared on the screen.
—Is that you, Jae-won?
“Yes, Grandfather. It’s me. What’s the matter today?”
Ever since Jeon Myeong-heon returned to Korea, they had spoken every three days. A hint of weariness crept into Yoo Jae-won’s voice.
—My chest feels so heavy. I have no idea how long Kim Jong-il’s silence will last.
Jeon Myeong-heon’s recent complaints all concerned inter-Korean relations. After the meeting with Kim Il-sung and the successful summit, relations had reached an unprecedented level of reconciliation. Yet after Kim Il-sung’s death, the new leader Kim Jong-il had taken no follow-up actions. He claimed to be honoring his father’s will, but every cooperative project had come to a complete halt. For Jeon Myeong-heon, who valued swift, on-site decision-making, the waiting was unbearable. North-South economic cooperation was not merely an economic opportunity; it was also a crucial political issue for next year’s local elections. He wanted to break ground on Mount Kumgang development immediately, build large industrial complexes in the North, and regularize family reunions. All of it had stopped. The ruling party was riding high on economic support, but the Tongil National Party had nothing but inter-Korean cooperation. Without results, they risked a crushing defeat in the local elections. Jeon Myeong-heon’s anxiety was palpable.
After listening for a long while, Yoo Jae-won spoke.
“There is a way.”
—What? You have a way to move Kim Jong-il?
“I’m not a sorcerer. I can’t move someone in the North. But we can create a major domestic issue.”
—A domestic issue?
“There’s that safety inspection unit directly under the Prime Minister’s Office, isn’t there?”
—Yes, there is.
“You could mobilize it to make a strong impression on the public.”
—An impression? Something that could surpass inter-Korean cooperation?
“Every time I cross the Han River bridges, there’s one thing that makes me particularly uneasy. The joints on the bridge decks make a loud clunking sound. The signs of collapse are obvious. Why not conduct a large-scale inspection? Block the road entirely and make a big show of it. People will be shocked by how shoddy it is.”
Yoo Jae-won had given up on resolving the bridge collapse through the petition board alone. He decided it would be more reliable to move Jeon Myeong-heon directly.
—Don’t tell me you’re talking about the Suseong Bridge?
“Huh? You already knew about it, Grandfather?”
Yoo Jae-won was startled. He had never expected Jeon Myeong-heon to mention the bridge by name.
—Not exactly. Reports kept coming in that someone was repeatedly posting about collapse warnings on the Internet petition board. I never imagined that person was you, Jae-won.
Yoo Jae-won was shocked. So all his posts had reached Jeon Myeong-heon’s desk. Yet no action had been taken. What did that mean? His mind raced with sudden complications.