The Airport Maelstrom
The current state of the international arrivals hall at Gimpo Airport could be summed up in a single word: chaos. It seemed the press had somehow learned of Yoo Jae-won's arrival; for hours the terminal had been swarmed by reporters. A photo line had been set up, but in these transitional times it was barely being observed. Only after Hwang Jae-hong, having received reports from the intelligence team, dispatched the entire security detail did any semblance of order return. The press conference itself was arranged in a secluded corner so as not to disrupt airport operations—photographs only. Hwang Jae-hong had personally overseen these arrangements as well.
Strictly speaking, the highest-ranking ID Group executive for East Asia was Choi Kang-wook, so these duties should have fallen to him. Yet with Choi Kang-wook now also managing the White Tiger Fund, his stature had grown to rival even Yoo Jae-won's. His appearance here would have generated its own massive news cycle and only worsened the pandemonium, which was why Hwang Jae-hong had stepped in.
Unfortunately, all these careful preparations became meaningless the moment Yoo Jae-won appeared in the arrivals hall.
“Mr. Chairman! A word on the Korean economy!”
“As the pioneer who launched the eight-hour workday movement through ID Group, did you exert decisive influence on President Jeon Myeong-heon's decision? Do you believe it is reasonable to apply the policy uniformly without considering the differences between IT and other industries?”
“There have been numerous inquiries regarding investment in the White Tiger Fund. Do you have any plans to begin private fundraising?”
“Mr. Chairman, regarding the acquisition of Jeil Bank by the White Tiger Fund—hey! Stop pushing! These juniors have no respect!”
“That's rich. Since when did internet tabloids become newspapers that you get to lecture about seniority?”
The questions had started reasonably enough, but now the reporters were openly bickering among themselves. The clash between a rookie from a print newspaper and a reporter from an internet outlet carried all the way to Yoo Jae-won, who stood some distance away. It was so very Korean. In the United States, the war between internet and print media had begun long ago; Korea, racing to follow America's lead, was no different.
A look of disdain crossed his face, and the cameras captured it without mercy. In an age of rampant fake news, a single expression could spawn endless rumors, but causing a scene now would only create bigger problems. The newspapers were already suffering a severe drought—specifically, an advertising drought. Advertising sales had once been their primary revenue source, yet every company that placed ads was struggling. As corporate finances tightened, advertising budgets shrank accordingly. Austerity was on full display.
Meanwhile, the number of newspapers had only increased. Internet outlets modeled after OhmyNews had sprung up like mushrooms after rain. Once registered as a media company, they could upload articles to Nextcom and earn revenue based on clicks. Competition intensified while the available revenue shrank. Naturally, legacy journalists refused to acknowledge their internet counterparts as equals. Their political leanings were often diametrically opposed, so whenever they gathered in large numbers the atmosphere turned poisonous.
Fortunately, order was maintained at the hastily arranged press conference venue. Yoo Jae-won had become indispensable in Korea. The fate of companies that entered restructuring under the White Tiger Fund versus those that did not was night and day. The contrast between Daeho Construction and Daeho Motors made this painfully clear. At Daeho Construction, most executives above the department-head level had been forced to resign, though a few survived. Lower-ranking employees fared far better; as long as they had not actively participated in embezzlement or breach of trust by the owners, their employment was preserved. Salaries continued without a single won deducted.
Daeho Motors, however, had yet to catch the White Tiger Fund's eye. Though it had undergone due diligence, several shortcomings led to a deferral. If things continued this way, it would have to seek a new owner—an arduous path. Only three parties had shown interest: Ilseong Motors, Mirae Motors, and GM. Whichever acquired it would impose severe restructuring. Because a single decision by the White Tiger Fund could alter the destiny of a massive corporation, the eyes of the entire nation—business leaders and citizens alike—were fixed on Yoo Jae-won. Consequently, the press conference room remained remarkably quiet despite its crushing density.
“Good afternoon. I am Yoo Jae-won. I did not expect so many reporters to take an interest in my arrival. Thank you for the warm welcome. Unfortunately, I am pressed for time and cannot take many questions. I will accept exactly five.”
At his words, reporters pulled out notebooks and began typing. A collective sigh of disappointment rose at the mention of only five questions.
“Then, shall we begin with the gentleman in the navy suit wearing black horn-rimmed glasses?”
“Yes! Park Jae-chul, reporter for Munhwa Daily.”
Park Jae-chul emphasized the name of his paper. While other outlets were still enduring a brutal winter, Munhwa Daily was an exception. It had been hastily founded for Jeon Myeong-heon's presidential project. Previously, other journalists had dismissed it as lacking legitimacy, but once Jeon Myeong-heon became president, that legitimacy materialized. Government advertising, Mirae Group advertising, and ID Group advertising flowed steadily, and other corporations also favored Munhwa Daily over its rivals. While other papers cut salaries and staff, Munhwa Daily expanded its pages and hired more reporters. This bred resentment among the rest of the press corps. Moreover, its inherently pro-government stance earned it the label of “government mouthpiece” whenever its journalists were absent.
“In a country where ‘too big to fail’ was once the rule, even the Daeho Group has collapsed—exactly as you predicted in your interview with Time. At that time, however, you also mentioned the Ilseong Group. Do you still hold the same view?”
Typical of Munhwa Daily—delivering a question perfectly tailored to Yoo Jae-won's preferences. He wondered briefly whether Choi Kang-wook or Hwang Jae-hong had slipped the reporter a hint. All eyes shifted back to him. Ilseong was a chaebol that rivaled Mirae Group for the top spot in Korea. Suggesting Ilseong was in danger was an entirely different matter from the Daeho situation.
“I do.”
Like the bulldozer Jeon Myeong-heon, Yoo Jae-won was a man who never reversed course. The moment he confirmed his stance, the atmosphere in the room shifted dramatically. Economic experts had occasionally hinted in articles that Ilseong's situation was precarious, but such pieces had always been cautious in tone. The passage of the Improper Solicitation and Graft Act, which already made life difficult for struggling journalists, had been followed by the Fake News Prohibition Act. Minor infractions might end with a correction notice, but serious violations could bring fines that newspapers could ill afford. Legacy outlets could no longer publish hard-hitting stories at will. The same applied to the experts—mostly university professors and research institute analysts—who had once spoken in their stead; they dared not openly discuss Ilseong Group's potential collapse for fear of reprisal.
“A year ago, Ilseong Group's overall fundamentals were quite sound. The launch of Ilseong Motors changed everything.”
It was common knowledge, yet when Yoo Jae-won stated it, the weight was different.
“Had they merely launched an automobile company, the damage might have been manageable. Instead, they recklessly restructured their circular shareholding system around the automobile division, and problems emerged. The root cause, as you all know but refuse to say, lies in the third-generation succession.”
Korea's unwritten rules held no sway with Yoo Jae-won. The succession issue was normally taboo, yet explaining Ilseong's insolvency required mentioning it.
“Take Ilseong Electronics. It was once the group's flagship cash cow, but it has become a liability. With the PC generational shift complete, DRAM demand has plummeted. Meanwhile, Ilseong Electronics has several billion dollars in corporate bonds coming due. How they handle those bonds will be decisive.”
The bonds in question were the two billion dollars' worth held by ID Investment. Ilseong Electronics had been wearing down the threshold of ID Investment's offices seeking an extension, but Yoo Jae-won had no intention of showing leniency. He planned to collect every last cent of the maturity interest, which exceeded ten percent.
With each successive statement, the reporters grew more shocked. The Daeho Group's collapse had taught the nation that the myth of “too big to fail” was over. Still, many had quietly believed the rule applied only up to Daeho. Anything beyond that was too frightening to contemplate. Thus, Yoo Jae-won's assertion that Ilseong was not merely at risk but genuinely teetering on the brink delivered a profound, visceral shock. The only silver lining was that the interview was taking place late on a Friday afternoon, after the stock exchange had closed. The fallout would hit the market on Monday, but at least it would not happen today.
Yoo Jae-won, for his part, was unconcerned. The maturity date for the two-billion-dollar bonds held against Ilseong Electronics was now little more than a month away. Watching whether Chairman Choi Hyun-hee could fend them off—and how—would be entertaining.
“What are your thoughts on the eight-hour workday system?”
The first question's impact had been so overwhelming that everything afterward felt anticlimactic.
“It is certainly radical. But once it takes root, positive changes will undoubtedly follow. Personally, I believe the ideal balance is eight hours for sleep, eight hours for work, and eight hours for oneself and one's family out of every twenty-four.”
The eight-hour workday was a major social issue, yet the audience's engagement had clearly waned. Nevertheless, Yoo Jae-won answered sincerely. After fielding the remaining questions, he left the airport.
As expected, that evening's prime-time broadcast news led with the Ilseong Group story. Rumors circulated that something had shattered loudly inside Chairman Choi Hyun-hee's residence when the report aired, though no one could confirm it. Since the Daeho Group's dissolution had been decided, Choi Hyun-hee had rarely appeared at headquarters anyway.
After the press conference, Yoo Jae-won arrived at his residence—the penthouse atop the 101-story ID Global Headquarters building in Dogok-dong, the tallest residential space in Seoul. Namsan Tower was technically higher, but it contained no homes.
“Nothing has changed here.”
Standing in the north-facing living room, Yoo Jae-won murmured as he gazed at the Han River glowing beneath the sunset. To someone still carrying 21st-century memories, the unobstructed riverfront—unwalled by apartment complexes—felt unfamiliar.
“No, Mr. Chairman. In a few years it will look quite different. Large-scale permits for new apartment construction along the Han River have already been issued.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes. In the name of stimulating the construction sector, the government has lifted the development restrictions that had been in place.”
Hwang Jae-hong answered. He had accompanied Yoo Jae-won from the airport all the way to the penthouse, having been responsible for its upkeep during Yoo Jae-won's time in the United States. Of course, Hwang Jae-hong did not personally sweep floors or dust; the building's management office handled maintenance. As the person in charge, however, he had escorted Yoo Jae-won personally.
“What would you like for dinner?”
“Ah, my parents are coming up. I am not sure whether we will eat here or go out. You should head home now, Mr. Hwang.”
Hwang Jae-hong had been thoughtfully arranging dinner as well. Though he initially protested, the mention of Yoo Jae-won's parents coming to take care of things themselves finally prompted him to take his leave.
“Just a moment.”
Yoo Jae-won called Hwang Jae-hong back and opened the travel bag he had brought from America, searching for something.
“Take this.”
What he handed over was a gift box wrapped in pretty paper.
“What is this?”
“A gift for Gwang-hui.”
Gwang-hui was Hwang Jae-hong's youngest son. While shopping for Emma's recent birthday, Yoo Jae-won had remembered the boy and purchased one for him as well. Inside was a Bolttron—the popular Japanese robot toy that had taken America by storm. The American version came with superior quality. Yoo Jae-won had selected the very best model.
“Oh my, thank you! Gwang-hui will be over the moon.”
Hwang Jae-hong accepted the unexpected gift with genuine gratitude, cradling it in his arms. After seeing him off, Yoo Jae-won returned to his study and sat at the desk.
“Hmm. Shall I use the computer for a bit?”
After powering on the machine, he did not immediately open the web browser. Even on a personal computer, he first ran a scan for any possible spyware. Only after confirming the system was clean did he launch the browser. Naturally, the first page he visited was Nextcom's news section. The moment it loaded, a large photograph of himself entering the arrivals hall dominated the front page. The articles beneath covered the press conference. He saw no need to click through; the outlets' affiliations already revealed their editorial slant.
Instead, he clicked on Nextcom Japan's news page. Though the screen filled with Japanese text, reading it posed no difficulty for Yoo Jae-won.
— Yamamoto Securities files for bankruptcy after half a century.
— Homura Securities suffers massive losses from Nasdaq collapse.
Japan was currently reeling from the bankruptcy and enormous losses of its securities firms. Having poured vast sums into the Nasdaq, they had been devastated by the sudden crash. Smaller houses had already collapsed; even established giants like Homura Securities were struggling under astronomical losses.
“Japan's timing is becoming clear.”
Yoo Jae-won had vowed never to leave Japan—the very country whose actions had helped trigger Korea's foreign exchange crisis—untouched. The moment to act was drawing nearer, as the Japanese news made unmistakably evident.