Fireworks Over Seoul
Big Deal. December 23, 1996 — only days before the new year. Yoo Jae-won had returned to Korea for the grand opening of the ID Global Headquarters Building, better known as the 101 Building. As his car glided through the streets of Seoul, a wave of memories washed over him.
From anywhere in the city center, the towering silhouette of the Global Headquarters was impossible to miss, stirring a strange, bittersweet feeling in his chest. In his previous life, he had once clawed desperately just to buy a single apartment in Seoul. After his military discharge, he had returned to university, landed his first job near thirty, and then lost it when the company could no longer keep him. At the time, owning property had seemed like an impossible dream. Later, when his own startup finally exploded in success, he had tasted real money — only to discover that the investors he once thought were angels were wolves in sheep’s clothing. The glory had been brief; the pain had lasted far longer. The luxurious house he bought during those heady days had eventually been seized and sold off without mercy.
Now everything was different. He had raised the 101-story tower in Dogok-dong — Seoul’s most coveted land — without a single loan. Even more satisfying was the fact that, despite a few minor safety incidents during construction, not a single fatality had occurred.
“Honey, what’s wrong all of a sudden?”
Tiffany’s gentle voice pulled him from his reverie. She sat beside him in the car, concerned. Their relationship had already passed the four-year mark. Having her stand beside him at the 101 Building’s opening ceremony felt completely natural now. Her parents were riding in the car behind them; this trip was also meant to let them see Seoul and meet Yoo Jae-won’s family. It was not yet a formal meeting to discuss marriage — both of them were still young.
“Ah, it’s just been a while since I’ve been back. The city looks so different that it feels a little strange.”
“Really? Seoul looks every bit as vibrant as a major American downtown.”
“It didn’t used to be like this.”
Objectively, Seoul still had a long way to go before matching the United States, but the newly redeveloped areas — especially Teheran-ro — already rivaled major American cities. IT venture companies dreaming of becoming the next KimLab were flooding into the district, drawn by cheap rents and government support. Even at night, nearly every building glowed with light. Signs ending in “Tech,” “Tec,” “Tel,” or “Technology” were everywhere, alongside research labs and institutes. On the KOSDAQ, launched the previous summer, any company whose name ended in those words was snapped up by investors. Even established firms that weren’t tech-related were changing their names just to ride the wave.
The KOSDAQ market was burning hot. Modeled after the U.S. NASDAQ, it was fully electronic and open to individual investors. Its benchmark index had started at 100 points at launch; now it had already surpassed 200. In just over a year, the index had doubled — meaning the average stock price of its constituent companies had doubled as well.
Leading the charge was, of course, KimLab. After being selected to provide the default security support program for the Asian version of Android 95, the company had achieved explosive growth. It received a 10-billion-won down payment and continued to earn royalties based on Android sales volume. In return, KimLab took full responsibility for security threats, expanding its workforce to respond in real time. Listed on the KOSDAQ from the moment the exchange opened, KimLab had become its symbolic flagship. Its stock, once 5,000 won per share, had soared past 100,000 won — a twentyfold increase in a single year. Market capitalization had exceeded 500 billion won. That summer, headlines had celebrated how KimLab employees had become instant millionaires after Chairman Kim Cheol-su distributed stock options as incentives. Though the exact percentage remained undisclosed, reliable sources told Yoo Jae-won that employees had received a collective 5 percent. With roughly fifty employees, each person’s share was worth around 500 million won at current prices. Those who sold during the summer peak had walked away with roughly 200 million won each.
Thanks to KimLab’s spectacular success, the KOSDAQ burned like a furnace. Yet it was not the only sector thriving in Korea’s booming economy. The 1996 growth rate stood at 6.9 percent, per-capita income had reached $11,000, and the economy ranked eleventh in the world. Private consumption had risen 7 percent. It was no exaggeration to say everyone was enjoying a happy winter, and the streets of Seoul preparing for Christmas had never looked more dazzling. Christmas carols played nonstop, and shops from tiny stores to grand department stores overflowed with customers. Even the cars on the road had changed. The battered 1980s models that once lingered had vanished, replaced by gleaming large sedans — some bearing unfamiliar logos. One of them was the ISM-5, Ilseong Group’s first sedan. The name combined “IS” from Ilseong with “M” from Motors and “5” for its five-passenger capacity.
Chairman Choi Hyun-hee of Ilseong was well known as a car enthusiast, and entering the automobile industry had long been his personal ambition. Military regimes had blocked such moves under the pretext of protecting domestic industry, but the civilian government had lifted those restrictions. Production of Ilseong-branded vehicles had finally begun in late spring 1996.
“Oh, by the way, that brand-new car you mentioned — it feels familiar somehow.”
Tiffany’s sharp question caught Yoo Jae-won off guard. He had not expected her to notice. “It’s a technology partnership with Nissan. I think the U.S. version was called the Maxima.”
“Ah! That’s the car Carrie’s boyfriend bought.”
Carrie was Tiffany’s best friend. Naturally, she had seen the Maxima during visits. In truth, the ISM-5 was far more than a simple partnership — most parts were imported from Japan, with only final assembly taking place in Korea. Yoo Jae-won chose not to burden Tiffany with the full story. Behind Ilseong Auto lay a far more complicated tale.
Several years earlier, Yoo Jae-won had spent two billion dollars quietly acquiring stakes across Ilseong Group’s major subsidiaries. The move had been so sudden that Ilseong failed to mount an effective defense. As a result, he now held over 10 percent of Ilseong Electronics, along with significant stakes in trading, construction, and heavy industry. He had not stopped at passive investment; he had actively exercised shareholder rights, uncovering and reporting embezzlement and breach of fiduciary duty. Such lawsuits were unprecedented. Even when Ilseong executives were caught, courts had traditionally handed down only token punishments. This time, however, several Ilseong presidents remained behind bars. The so-called “Ilseong scholars” — those most loyal to Chairman Choi — had concentrated their influence in Yeouido and the judiciary, where Choi’s reach had once ensured lenient treatment. But Yoo Jae-won’s influence now matched Choi’s, especially among judges. Everyone in the judiciary knew he had been behind the unprecedented impeachment of a sitting judge. Moreover, Kim & Jung Law Firm had become the most desirable post-retirement destination for judges, offering starting salaries of one billion won and far lighter workloads than other firms. The firm’s pro-bono work defending the underprivileged had also earned it immense public respect. The contrast with the Ilseong scholars — who had once done dirty work only to be discarded when things went wrong — could not have been starker. As a result, Ilseong’s grip on the judiciary was rapidly weakening. The arrests of Ilseong’s top executives were living proof.
Yoo Jae-won’s two-billion-dollar investment had done more than just weaken Ilseong’s legal shield. Chairman Choi had long been preparing his succession plan in secret. With one son and three daughters, the choice of heir had never been as complicated as it was for Mirae Group. He had simply needed to prepare the throne. Yet Yoo Jae-won’s investment had brought that entire process to a halt. Searching for a new vehicle, Choi had turned to Ilseong Auto — simultaneously fulfilling his lifelong dream and restarting the succession plan. The booming Korean economy had also boosted Ilseong Auto’s sales beyond expectations, and rumors said Chairman Choi’s face had been wreathed in smiles for the first time in years.
“Wow… is that the 101 Building?”
Tiffany’s exclamation snapped Yoo Jae-won out of his thoughts. The full view of the tower came into sight — a magnificent pillar of light descending into the gray cityscape. Every floor had been illuminated for the opening ceremony, and a massive Christmas tree stood in the plaza at its base. On the rooftop, powerful searchlights — specially permitted — shot beams into the night sky, making it seem as though heaven and earth were connected by light.
“It’s beautiful.”
Even the man who had personally ordered this spectacle felt a surge of emotion he could not put into words.
The next day — Christmas Eve — the grand opening ceremony of the 101 Building began. It started, naturally, with a ribbon-cutting. Yoo Jae-won and Tiffany joined an array of distinguished VIP guests at the first-floor lobby entrance. The guest list was dazzling: Prime Minister Jeon Myeong-heon, Presidential Chief of Staff Kim Kwang-il, Seoul Mayor Cho Soon, the ruling party leader, and even opposition leader Kim Won-ki. Business leaders from Mirae Group, Daeho, and Geumseong had also come. Ilseong Group had even sent a congratulatory wreath and orchid arrangement. It was clear proof of how powerful ID Group’s presence had become in Korea.
In truth, ID Group’s contribution to the national economy was enormous. Since the early 1990s, it had effectively shouldered roughly one-tenth of the national budget through corporate taxes, income taxes, and acquisition taxes amounting to tens of trillions of won. Everyone knew that the civilian government had been able to launch massive SOC projects — high-speed rail, next-generation destroyers — without hesitation precisely because of ID Group’s steady tax payments.
Yoo Jae-won’s influence extended far beyond economics. The Tongil National Party, centered around Jeon Myeong-heon, had made another leap in the 1996 general election, further elevating Yoo Jae-won’s political stature. The election had been peculiar: aside from Tongil National Party, no party — ruling or opposition — was satisfied with the results. The seat distribution told the story: New Korea Party 109 seats, Tongil National Party 71, Democratic Party 80, United Liberal Democrats 38. The old Democratic Liberal Party, born from the three-party merger, had disappeared, replaced by the New Korea Party. Its sudden collapse stemmed from the Special Act on the Gwangju Democratization Movement, which had purged the former Democratic Justice Party faction and led to the arrest of former presidents Chun Doo-hwan and Roh Tae-woo, along with participants in the December 12 military coup. President Kim had kept his promise to “enter the tiger’s den to catch the tiger,” while maximizing his own political gain. The New Korea Party had entered the election with the president’s economic achievements behind it, yet still won only 109 seats — a disappointing result. The real winner of the vacuum was Jeon Myeong-heon’s Tongil National Party. Thanks to Jeon’s powerful charisma, even the most sensitive nomination process had produced no leaks. Though internal discontent existed, the party presented a united front. Yoo Jae-won’s electoral support had remained steady as well. Though he could no longer campaign in person as ID Group’s chairman, he appeared through advertisements and video endorsements. Candidates proudly displayed photos of themselves alongside Jeon Myeong-heon and Yoo Jae-won, helping the party gain twenty additional seats for a total of 71. The Democratic Party and United Liberal Democrats had also exceeded expectations, though both remained regional parties. The United Liberal Democrats’ surge had created the same sensation Tongil National Party once had, but their rapid growth had also brought internal divisions to a boiling point after absorbing purged figures from the old regime.
In the end, the political landscape of Yeouido remained largely unchanged from the 1992 election. The coalition between the New Korea Party and Tongil National Party continued, now controlling 180 seats — even stronger than before. With such a majority, they could push for constitutional amendments if they wished. Within Tongil National Party, Yoo Jae-won stood as the second most prominent figure after Jeon Myeong-heon. That was why the 101 Building’s opening ceremony had become a gathering place for both business tycoons and political heavyweights.
— One minute later, the fireworks festival celebrating the opening of the ID Global Headquarters Building will begin.
The announcement faded, and exactly sixty seconds later, a massive burst of fireworks exploded from the rooftop of the 101 Building. The most spectacular fireworks display the country had ever seen lit up the night sky. It was dazzling — almost unbearably so. Only one person in the world, Yoo Jae-won, remembered that this moment would never come again. For everyone else, this was the prime of their lives, and he had prepared the grandest fireworks possible so that, one day, someone might look back and remember it fondly.