The Resource Recycling Act

The Resource Recycling Act of the Seventh Republic. Stealthily proposed by the Tongil National Party, the bill was designed—as its name suggested—to curb the wasteful use of vinyl, paper, and plastic resources. Its core provision was the environmental contribution fee. A tax under that name would be levied on recyclable resources specified by law. Like VAT, a fixed amount would be collected from the final consumer, but unlike VAT, the full sum would be refunded at recycling centers. For instance, a single-use plastic cup carried a 500-won fee, a newspaper 100 won, and a plastic bag 50 won. To reclaim the money, one simply collected the items cleanly and returned them to a recycling center. In a resource-poor nation already short on landfill space, recycling was the only viable answer, yet recycling rates remained embarrassingly low. The law was long overdue. What made it unmistakably aimed at Daehan Ilbo was the clause stipulating that, for the first three years, only paper products would be subject to the pilot program. Existing recycling infrastructure focused on paper; plastics and vinyl lacked facilities, so the delay allowed time to build them. Paper, by contrast, already had a functioning recycling chain. Once the act took effect, each newspaper copy would incur a 100-won environmental fee—roughly 3,000 won per month. Ordinary households could simply set aside their papers and claim refunds; the inconvenience was minor. Daehan Ilbo, however, faced a very different reality.

The paper proudly claimed a daily circulation of three million copies, yet no one knew how many were actually paid subscriptions. Industry consensus held that at least one-fifth of the figure was inflated—perhaps far more. Roughly 600,000 copies were printed solely to be sent straight to recycling centers. The motive was simple: to exaggerate influence and command higher advertising rates. The more copies claimed, the greater the supposed advertising impact and the higher the fees that could be charged. The Resource Recycling Act would render this trick impossible. Any copies returned to recycling centers would require repayment of the fees originally collected from distributors—proof that the copies had reached end consumers. If every copy were recycled, Daehan Ilbo would shoulder an 1.8-billion-won monthly burden. While 1.8 billion won might seem trivial to the paper, the newspaper business was a declining industry with steadily shrinking advertising revenue; the sum represented a crushing load. Other papers inflating their circulation numbers would face the same heavy pressure.

Despite its strength, the Resource Recycling Act passed the National Assembly’s Environment Committee with surprisingly little controversy. Newspapers—chiefly Daehan Ilbo—had been too busy launching an all-out assault after the unprecedented tax audit to mount effective opposition. Fearing they might be next, every outlet scrambled in panic. After all, a tax investigation of newspapers had never occurred even under military dictatorship. Newspapers had long exploited their special status to skirt tax laws. Daehan Ilbo itself owned a hotel and overseas real estate; other papers were no different. Lax oversight had made it all possible. Thanks to the distraction, the bill cleared the committee and was expected to pass once the regular session convened.

Time flowed like water. In the blink of an eye, late November arrived. As the year’s harvest season drew to a close and performance reviews began, the entire ID Group grew busy. Yet these tasks were routine, occurring every year. This year, however, felt different—external matters made the days race by. Most of those matters originated in Korea rather than from American or global events. Fortunately, no new crises erupted; the issues that had surfaced earlier in the year were now reaching resolution.

“LSM performed exactly as expected,” Yoo Jae-won murmured. The plagiarism dispute between LSM and RATM unfolded precisely as he had foreseen. The reformed courts delivered a clear plagiarism ruling and imposed the anticipated punitive damages. In the past, RATM would have abandoned the case after realizing little practical gain, but the new punitive-damages system allowed them to see it through to victory. LSM’s response was equally predictable: citing inability to pay, it filed for bankruptcy of LSM Entertainment itself.

HxT’s fan club erupted. Fans had purchased millions of albums and funded countless events—two or three per day had been routine. Questions about where all that money had gone naturally turned to President Lee Seung-man. His only answer was bankruptcy. He claimed the group’s activities, album production, and trainee recruitment had consumed every last won. Half-truth, half-lie. Idol activities and album production were indeed expensive, and trainee numbers had ballooned. Yet album sales had been enormous; after all expenses, substantial funds remained. Liquidating assets could have covered the damages. Instead, Lee Seung-man declared bankruptcy and fled. He never considered an appeal—the first-instance ruling on plagiarism and damages was airtight, and further appeals would only increase the penalty. The clause existed precisely to prevent defendants from dragging out cases to harass victims.

LSM’s bankruptcy was accepted, and court receivership began. Hidden facts surfaced: despite the existence of standard idol contracts, secret slave contracts had been signed. When a 12,000-won CD sold, HxT members received less than 100 won each. Scrolling further revealed news about ID Group itself.

Stefan Barber was adept at media play across the Pacific. Although Yoo Jae-won had already decided on the LSM acquisition, no official announcement had been made; concrete negotiations would begin only after a court-appointed receiver took over. The articles were therefore pure speculation by entertainment reporters who had seen ID Entertainment’s Korean staff meeting LSM’s remaining personnel. “These people never change,” Yoo ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Jae-won sighed. More surprising was that no one ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠had even called Stefan Barber for confirmation—yet the headline boldly stated his supposed remarks. A simple inquiry to ID Entertainment headquarters would have sufficed, but no fact-checking occurred. Perhaps the language barrier played a role, yet it was still excessive. At least this particular article happened to align with reality; that was not always the case.

Daehan Ilbo was a prime example. The drug scandal at DH Hotel’s nightclub had expanded into a full-scale special audit of the entire paper. The National Tax Service had dispatched over a hundred investigators to turn the company inside out. Worse, the paper that had gleefully reported Yoo Bong-man’s alleged golf-course lobbying with the senior presidential secretary now faced the full backlash of fake-news consequences: a lawsuit from ID Group. Though his father claimed to be unbothered, Yoo Jae-won was not. A mere correction was insufficient; to fully restore his father’s honor, he had filed a damages suit against Daehan Ilbo itself. As chairman of the ID Foundation, which handled trillions of won annually, Yoo Jae-won sought hundreds of billions in compensation. Court filing fees scaled with the claim amount, so a suit of that magnitude required billions ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠in stamp duty—yet he paid it willingly. Naturally, Daehan Ilbo was in uproar. A decade earlier it had reigned as the “president of the night”; now it was a neighborhood punching bag. Its frantic rebuttals went largely unread. Meanwhile, the National Tax Service, police, and prosecutors steadily tightened the noose around the paper’s founding family.

“If even Ilsung’s chairman stood on the photo line, why should Daehan Ilbo be any different?” Several ID Group lawsuits stood out, but none carried more weight than the one against Ilsung Group chairman Choi Hyun-hee. During the White Tiger Fund’s acquisition of Ilsung Electronics, massive embezzlement had been uncovered. Additional suits addressed design flaws at the Suwon semiconductor plant and the unauthorized use of toxic substances that caused leukemia and lung cancer among workers. ID Group deployed an enormous legal team; Ilsung countered with its own in-house counsel and a roster of former judges and prosecutors. Even so, Choi Hyun-hee eventually stood before the Seoul Central District Prosecutors’ Office photo line—masked, supported by bodyguards, and questioned for only six hours. The special treatment itself proved the world had changed. If Ilsung’s chairman could be summoned, Daeban Ilbo’s owners enjoyed no special immunity. Ma Jeong-hwan, who had snorted cocaine at the nightclub, was arrested the same day; as president of DH Hotel he was now a formal suspect. Ma Sung-hoon, the paper’s owner, was expected to be called in for questioning soon. Ironically, Daehan Ilbo reacted far more violently to Yoo Jae-won’s astronomical defamation suit than to any criminal charges. After LSM’s bankruptcy became reality, the panic intensified. Reporters and even the political editor visited ID Group’s Global Headquarters Building to beg for leniency. They had reported that punitive damages would exceed ten billion won, yet none had truly believed it would happen. The same fear gripped them now: a criminal fine was manageable, but civil damages were an unknown quantity.

“When dealing with people who value only money, the best weapon is money itself.” Yoo Jae-won had no intention of showing mercy. Even if the final award proved smaller than the filing fees, the prolonged legal battle would keep Daehan Ilbo under constant pressure all the way to the Supreme Court. The phenomenon was not limited to Daehan Ilbo. The aftershocks of LSM’s bankruptcy rippled through the entertainment industry. Singers who had announced comebacks postponed schedules; active artists suddenly entered hiatus. The message was clear: plagiarism led to ruin. Artists previously accused of plagiarism rushed to clear rights and negotiate settlements with original creators. The year-end music scene grew eerily quiet. Yet this reckoning had always been inevitable. Perhaps the episode would elevate Korean pop to a higher level; if not, ID Entertainment would demonstrate superior methods once it acquired LSM.

“All that remains is the vote.” While Korea displayed dynamic change across multiple sectors, politics remained equally turbulent. The constitutional-amendment process led by Jeon Myeong-heon, the Tongil National Party, and the Democratic Party had reached its climax. Public hearings had been held nationwide, and multiple televised debates aired. Never before had a Korean constitutional ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠revision been promoted so openly. Previous amendments had been decided in secret by a handful of insiders; this one unfolded transparently, generating intense debate. Support split sharply. Those unable to escape the past opposed it fiercely—and they possessed wealth and social standing, giving their voices outsized volume. Their refrain was simple: things were fine as they were; no change was needed. The critical hurdle was securing forty-nine votes from opposition lawmakers—an arduous task, yet not impossible. Through Jeon Myeong-heon’s backroom politics and Yoo Jae-won’s powerful behind-the-scenes support, the necessary votes had been obtained. The remaining obstacle was the final tally. Any defections would collapse the entire effort. The ruling party therefore demanded an open vote, while the opposition insisted on a secret ballot. The opposition’s position prevailed: two hundred members were required for a quorum, and if opposition lawmakers simply stayed away, the amendment would fail automatically for lack of attendance. The vote was scheduled for November 18—one week away.