Selection and Concentration

It felt like 1994 had only just begun, yet November had already arrived. The record-breaking heatwave that had scorched the Korean Peninsula seemed like only yesterday, but now cold winds were starting to stir. Despite the dropping temperatures, however, Korea was burning hot with countless stories.

The biggest issue, of course, was the catastrophic collapse of the Suseong Bridge, where the upper deck had snapped clean in two. It wasn’t just major domestic news—it had become a global topic, a truly significant event. Foreign media largely framed it as the inevitable side effect of Korea’s breakneck growth finally revealing its cracks. Yet many outlets also highlighted the miracle that not a single casualty had occurred.

Naturally, the Prime Minister’s Office safety inspection team found itself back in the spotlight. It was only natural that Jeon Myeong-heon, whose presence had faded after the mass cattle drive into North Korea ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠left him overshadowed by President Kim, would once again step into the forefront.

When Jeon held a press conference addressing the aftermath of the Suseong Bridge disaster, journalists from Korea’s major broadcasters and newspapers, as well as international outlets, had packed the room.

Even after the conference ended, Jeon Myeong-heon never failed to express his gratitude to Yoo Jae-won. “You said you were an expert, and you really proved it.”

Recalling that moment, Yoo Jae-won couldn’t help but feel genuine admiration. The measures Jeon had taken against Dong-A Construction—the company responsible for building the Suseong Bridge—were impressive enough to earn a thumbs-up even from him.

A full inspection was ordered for every facility Dong-A Construction had recently completed. Common sense dictated that a company capable of such shoddy work on a major bridge wouldn’t suddenly produce flawless buildings elsewhere. Jeon announced that if serious design alterations or defects were found, Dong-A would be expelled from the industry and its assets seized. Those seized assets, he declared, would be used as budget for constructing a second Suseong Bridge.

Dong-A Construction protested vehemently. But no one took their side. The entire nation had watched on television as the bridge deck plummeted. The subsequent detailed investigation revealed that Dong-A’s poor design and substandard construction were the primary causes. Even the economic newspapers, which usually sided with corporations, couldn’t muster a single pro-business comment on this matter.

Results from the inspections of buildings and industrial facilities Dong-A had recently constructed were trickling out one by one. As expected, they were damning.

“Old habits die hard,” Yoo Jae-won muttered. Not a single structure had been properly built. Countless cases involved missing rebar or concrete strength falling below standards. Some buildings less than ten years old already showed severe cracks. Even the nuclear power plant constructed by Dong-A was revealing discrepancies from its original design.

Every time such news broke, Dong-A Construction’s stock price plunged. Compared to its value just before the bridge collapse, the stock had been cut in half four times over. Today, it was still plummeting dramatically. If the Korean stock market didn’t have a daily price limit, it would have hit rock bottom on the day of the collapse. The price fluctuation cap had saved it from total annihilation—but surviving wasn’t the same as thriving. Dong-A’s expulsion from the market was practically inevitable.

Yet this was only the beginning.

At the end of October, the National Assembly passed various reform bills, beginning with the resolution to join the OECD. The laws Choi Kang-wook had promised were naturally included. Among them was the punitive damages system. Massive compensation claims from building owners were expected, and Dong-A’s chances of victory were extremely slim. The crisis threatened to spread not only to Dong-A Construction but to other subsidiaries under the Dong-A Group as well.

The amusing part was the reaction from Dong-A Construction’s owner.

Yoo Jae-won found it difficult to sympathize with what exactly was so “unfair.” His expertise in construction matters was close to zero. The explanation came from Jeon Myeong-heon.

When building structures or large-scale infrastructure, construction companies naturally took their cut, but the project commissioner usually took one too. It was the easiest way to create slush funds—easier than building the building itself. If a 10 billion won project was reported but only 5 billion was actually spent on construction, the remaining 5 billion became discretionary slush funds that could be used freely. The construction company got to share in the feast.

Jeon added that it was unheard of for someone like Yoo Jae-won, whose ID Group Global Headquarters building project with Mirae Construction exceeded trillions of won, not to create any slush fund at all.

In fact, Jeon Myeong-heon had initially harbored doubts about the Global Headquarters project. Even for a 101-story building, the construction cost seemed excessively high compared to his own estimates. But after seeing construction actually begin, he had no choice but to acknowledge that Yoo Jae-won operated on an entirely different level.

For one thing, Yoo Jae-won had never asked for a single won back from the construction payments. Overseas supervisors watched with hawk-like eyes to ensure everything was built exactly to specifications. Moreover, the materials used were several grades higher than what was typically employed in Korea. The treatment of construction workers was also excellent. The best thing for day laborers was high wages, and Yoo Jae-won maintained the highest domestic standards. Free lunch was another major advantage.

Usually, temporary cafeterias known as “hamba houses” were set up on-site, forcing workers to eat there. The operating rights for these cafeterias generated massive profits worth hundreds of millions. In contrast, Yoo Jae-won contracted with nearby restaurants and distributed meal tickets. Workers could eat wherever they wanted with a single ticket. Since restaurants competed on taste and portion size—knowing that cutting corners would simply drive customers to competitors—the quality actually improved.

The workers’ only complaint was the strict enforcement of safety rules, which resulted in immediate expulsion for violations. At first, people called it harsh, but as floors accumulated and work moved higher above ground, everyone became more cautious. Thanks to this, the Global Headquarters construction site had maintained a perfect no-accident record.

In any case, Chairman Choi Moon-ki’s recent interview was essentially a threat: if they kept pressuring Dong-A Construction, he would expose everything about the shared corruption.

Jeon Myeong-heon’s response was simple.

According to Jeon, the expulsion of Dong-A Construction had already become a foregone conclusion at the highest levels. The civilian government had decided to use this as an example to clearly demonstrate how different they were from the old military regime. This would secure victory in next year’s local elections. No matter how large the Dong-A Group was, once it fell out of favor with the administration, it could be dismantled in an instant. Moreover, unlike the 1980s when companies were targeted simply for not providing slush funds, this case had the clear justification of widespread substandard construction. It was obvious whose side the public would take.

Rather than helping, provoking the higher-ups would only increase the risk of arrest.

Articles highlighting the Internet Complaint Center naturally poured in. What had been a ghost town with only flies buzzing around before Yoo Jae-won posted his tip now overflowed with civil complaints. Prime Minister Jeon Myeong-heon responded by dramatically expanding and reorganizing the organization responsible for the system.

This naturally raised questions about the previous secretary in charge. When Jae-won’s information team looked into it, they found the man had simply returned to his original post. There was strong suspicion that he had received something from Dong-A Construction and suppressed the report, but pursuing the matter would be like throwing cold water on the currently rising Jeon Myeong-heon.

“Still, I wonder if the Tongil National Party isn’t growing too big.”

The local elections held four years ago had been a half-measure, electing only local council members because the reorganization of administrative districts wasn’t complete. Next year’s elections would be the real deal, electing everyone from mayors to governors and heads of basic local governments.

From Yoo Jae-won’s memory, the ruling party had been crushed while the opposition made remarkable gains. But looking at the current situation, the civilian government had clearly distanced itself from the old military regime and achieved remarkable economic growth. Although the side effects of rapid development were emerging, Jae-won’s help had allowed them to handle these smoothly. They had gone beyond simply resolving problems well—they were now leading national administration on the issue of public safety.

With this momentum, it seemed very likely that the 1995 local elections would be comfortably divided between the Democratic Liberal Party and the Tongil National Party.

“That said, it’s not necessarily a bad thing.”

After mentally simulating future developments, Yoo Jae-won concluded that it wasn’t a bad outcome. Power that leaned too heavily to one side would receive a clear judgment when the time came for accountability.

Having thought that far, Yoo Jae-won closed his diary file. What had started as daily journal entries had now become more like a strategy notebook. With no major incidents requiring his attention for the time being, he could focus on his own business with a light heart.

The very next day, the newspapers exploded with major ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠articles about the ID Group.

The articles had been carried in the morning papers after Android Inc. in the United States announced its Secure Area support partners the previous day. Naturally, the Korean company KimLab received the most attention. Few people had expected a Korean firm to make the list over world-renowned computer security companies, so the impact was enormous.

The funny thing was that the articles already mentioned a flood of investment inquiries even though the announcement had only happened yesterday. It was Korean morning, after all—when exactly had they met with investors to gauge interest? These were clearly anticipatory articles. Interestingly enough, they weren’t wrong.

If one browsed the Nextcom bulletin boards or various internet community sites, countless posts declared the intention to buy KimLab stock. With profits in the hundreds of billions of won virtually guaranteed, anyone who could invest stood to make a fortune.

However, no one could reach Kim Cheol-su.

This was because he had been in seclusion preparing for the partnership announcement ceremony that would take place shortly. Although it was a simple matter of signing contracts and exchanging documents, Chief of Staff Choi Kang-wook had deliberately made the event large and spectacular to turn it into world news. It was the perfect event to build anticipation right before the release of Android 95.

“First, I would like to express my gratitude to the companies that have generously agreed to participate in supporting the Secure Area of the next Android operating system.”

Before the signing ceremony, Yoo Jae-won gave the gathered journalists a brief explanation of how the three companies responsible for the Secure Area had been selected. Some had claimed that his arm had bent inward, favoring the Korean company KimLab. The criticism had originated from neighboring Japan. Since computer adoption in Korea had lagged behind Japan, many Japanese found it difficult to accept that a Korean company had been chosen over their own.

Yoo Jae-won dispelled these misunderstandings by partially releasing the ranking table and comprehensive scores. The official signing ceremony then began in earnest.

“Please welcome Symantec Chairman John Symantec.”

Interestingly, each company held its signing ceremony separately. Although they shared the same stage, the intense competitive consciousness between Symantec and ESET prevented them from appearing together. ESET seemed to feel that sharing the stage would officially confirm the current rankings. Since this wasn’t entirely wrong, Yoo Jae-won generously accommodated separate ceremonies.

Among the successive signing events, the one that generated the most buzz in Korea was naturally KimLab’s Kim Cheol-su. This was the first time the untouchable Yoo Jae-won and Kim Cheol-su—who had been called “the second Yoo Jae-won” for several years—had stood side by side in an official capacity.

“I look forward to working with you.”

“Yes, sir! I will do my absolute best so that you never regret this decision.”

They didn’t forget to exchange warm words while handing over the contracts. After signing, they made sure to shake hands as well. Kim Cheol-su’s face glowed as if he had gained the whole world.

In truth, anyone standing in that position would have worn the same expression. A hundred billion won was scheduled to be deposited as the contract fee today. Jae-won wondered what kind of face Kim Cheol-su would make once he returned to a house without cameras. He was also curious how the man would spend that hundred billion won.

KimLab currently had twelve employees. Watching how much bonus he ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠gave them, how many new hires he made, and so on would reveal the man’s true character.

Unfortunately, Yoo Jae-won didn’t have time to observe Kim Cheol-su’s next moves. A schedule far larger than the signing ceremony awaited him.

A presentation that would determine the future of Nextcomcast was waiting for Yoo Jae-won.