The Weight of Repetition
There was a game called StarCraft in the Seventh Republic. It was developed by Blizzard Entertainment, the company under Yoo Jae-won's control. Naturally, its popularity was global. From the United States to Europe and Korea, it was an RTS game enjoyed by everyone. Of course, the country that played StarCraft most passionately was Korea. If the Quake and Warcraft eras had merely tested the potential of professional gamers, then from StarCraft onward, the profession of pro gamer had fully taken shape. Local broadcasts and dedicated gaming channels regularly aired matches between professional players. ID Entertainment organized official leagues, which broadcasting stations acquired rights to air, and the popularity was extraordinary. The finals of the Star League, with a total prize pool of 100 million won, filled massive stadiums with paying spectators alone. In fact, the e-sports arena built on the commercial floor of the ID Global Headquarters building could not accommodate everyone who wanted to attend in person, so the finals had to be held by renting performance halls or stadiums with thousands of seats.
The biggest reason StarCraft became so popular in Korea was the PC bangs. The game also offered endless entertainment through its three distinctive races and the countless variables created by wildly creative strategies. “It’s just like the triple bunker.”
StarCraft featured early-game all-or-nothing strategies unique to each race. These were known as rush attacks: Protoss had the photon cannon rush, Zerg had the drone rush, and Terran had the bunkering rush. The bunker was a defensive structure that could be built early. When attack units were placed inside, their range increased, and incoming damage would deplete the bunker’s health first—functioning exactly like a real-world bunker. Korea’s creatively gifted professional gamers turned this defensive building into an offensive weapon. They would quickly gather just enough resources to build a bunker, send all their workers into the enemy’s base, construct the bunker right in the middle of their opponent’s territory, and load it with attack units. The result was an automatic GG.
The triple bunker Yoo Jae-won mentioned had become an enormously popular internet meme. Its origin was simple. It referred to a player who used the same strategy three times in a row during the semifinals of a best-of-five series. The world of professional gamers was brutally competitive. Jumin, Yoo Jae-won’s childhood friend, possessed exceptional talent for the game and had walked the path of a pro early on. Even Yoo Jae-won acknowledged his skill. Yet Jumin had only lifted his first championship trophy that spring league. No matter how talented a player was, each match required meticulous preparation and flawless execution to earn the right to raise the trophy. In that environment, using the same strategy three consecutive times? That was simply unthinkable. Winning three matches with it was even more unrealistic. That was precisely why it had become such a massive meme, circulating as a trend for decades.
Of course, that legendary triple bunker had not yet occurred. The players currently competing in the StarCraft league were from the zeroth or first generation, and in Yoo Jae-won’s view, the system was still far from fully established. The most glaring deficiency was the absence of professional teams. At present, teams operated with modest support from small and medium-sized enterprises. Only when large corporations entered the scene in earnest and began founding teams would a proper professional league truly function. The triple consecutive bunkering would only happen after major corporate teams emerged—still six years away from now.
“Grandfather, what on earth were you thinking, using the exact same method three times?”
The feigned illness had worked well. But repeating the same strategy three times, just like the triple bunker, was the kind of peculiar event that could harden into a meme. Though the interval was somewhat long, time seemed to flow at an accelerated pace in this era, so perhaps the public had already grown accustomed to it. If so, backlash would follow. Yoo Jae-won’s concern grew heavier.
Because of this, he immediately picked up his Tiffany phone and called Jeon Myeong-heon. He wanted to check on him first and then advise him to change tactics. Strangely, however, the call did not connect. It seemed the recent commotion had left him in no position to answer. Since a phone call was impossible for now, Yoo Jae-won switched to texting. After sending the message, he felt somewhat relieved. That feeling did not last long.
The next day, around 5 p.m. San Francisco time, a call came through on Yoo Jae-won’s Tiffany phone.
“Chairman Yoo Jae-won? This is Kim Kwang-il, Chief of Staff at the Blue House.”
“Yes, Chief Kim. Hello.”
Yoo Jae-won felt a chill upon receiving the call from the Blue House Chief of Staff. It was only natural—his Tiffany phone number was a private line he had shared only with his parents, Tiffany, and a handful of close acquaintances. Naturally, Jeon Myeong-heon knew it, but the Blue House Chief of Staff did not. Yet here was the Chief of Staff calling him directly on a number that had never been given to him. And not on a regular line, but a secure one.
“The President informed me that if I called this number, I would be able to reach you, Chairman.”
As expected, it was because of Jeon Myeong-heon.
“Something really happened to Grandfather, didn’t it?”
Kim Kwang-il had been Jeon Myeong-heon’s closest aide at Mirae Group for decades, coordinating with him hand in glove. During Jeon Myeong-heon’s prime, he had served as the conduit for delivering orders across the entire Mirae Group. In Jeon Myeong-heon’s absence, he had even acted in his stead. That was why he had been appointed Chief of Staff at the Blue House. As Jeon Myeong-heon’s most trusted confidant, there was no need to hide the fact that Yoo Jae-won called him “Grandfather.”
“I wish I could say otherwise, but since the President said I must tell you the truth, I will. The elder is in critical condition.”
A heavy shock struck him. Though Yoo Jae-won was protected by thorough security that no one could harm him, the words coming through the phone from the Blue House Chief of Staff delivered a mental blow. Until this moment, Yoo Jae-won had felt both suspicious and uncertain. After all, there was the saying that to deceive the enemy, you must first deceive your allies.
“Really?”
Because of that, Yoo Jae-won could not help but ask once more.
“Yes. It is extremely urgent.”
The answer remained unchanged. Even in Kim Kwang-il’s voice, which tried to sound composed, a thick layer of anxiety seeped through. If such a performance were possible through acting alone, Kim Kwang-il would have become an actor rather than a company executive. This was not a triple bunker—it was the boy who cried wolf. In the Aesop’s fable, the claim that a wolf had appeared was a lie twice, but the third time it was real. Jeon Myeong-heon’s feigned illness had been a lie twice, but this time it was genuine.
“And the elder is asking for you, Chairman. I know you are extremely busy managing the world, but we would appreciate it if you could come as soon as possible.”
“Of course I’ll go!”
Yoo Jae-won answered without a moment’s hesitation. That concluded the conversation with the Blue House Chief of Staff. After hanging up, Yoo Jae-won immediately summoned Kim Dae-seok and asked him to prepare a private jet. He also opened ID Talk and informed the North American division presidents, including Remington, that he needed to head to Korea urgently, asking them to handle things in his absence. Fortunately, all the plans established at the beginning of the year had been accomplished. With no new projects launching as the year drew to a close, there was no problem with Yoo Jae-won rushing to Korea.
After hastily notifying the company, Yoo Jae-won also made calls to his family. Tiffany and her family received the same news. While making these calls, Kim Dae-seok reported that preparations were complete. Yoo Jae-won grabbed only his Tiffany phone and iWorks laptop before rushing out of the house.
— ID Group Chairman Yoo Jae-won returns to Korea urgently.
— Evidence mounts supporting rumors of President Jeon Myeong-heon’s critical condition.
— Constitutional amendment vote faces major crisis!
On television, a 737-NG with ID Group’s logo prominently displayed on its vertical stabilizer was shown landing at Gimpo International Airport. It was the private jet that had carried Yoo Jae-won back to Korea. Previously, the ID Group logo had not been present, but after a fresh paint job, the aircraft now featured not only the ID Group logo but also Android’s mascot robot painted stylishly on the fuselage. Anyone could immediately tell it was an ID Group plane, so even without prior announcement, Yoo Jae-won’s return was instantly recognizable. This only lent further credibility to the rumors of Jeon Myeong-heon’s critical condition.
It was inevitable. After footage of the President collapsing during the summit meeting aired, the Blue House had yet to issue a single official briefing. Instead, troops stationed near the DMZ had heightened their alert status, and leave and overnight passes had been canceled, raising tensions. Although a forced recall of personnel on leave had not yet been ordered, those on vacation had been notified to keep an eye on the news. The only voices emerging were from the opposition party leaders who had attended the summit. If Jeon Myeong-heon had been faking illness to push the constitutional amendment through, they would have been the first to rise up. Instead, they chose their words carefully while implying that his condition was indeed serious—as if acknowledging it as fact.
In truth, they had wanted to deny it. Though they were now in the opposition, they had long been part of the ruling party. Even if they lacked ability, they were skilled in political maneuvering. Naturally, they had an eye for reading the political landscape and knew this situation would work against them. That was why they had not immediately spoken out. After all, they had witnessed President Jeon Myeong-heon collapse right in front of them. While he was asking for cooperation to pass the constitutional amendment, his speech had suddenly become slurred, and cold sweat had visibly beaded on his forehead. The moment they thought something was terribly wrong and moved to support him, it happened. Though it was the President who had collapsed, the leaders of the Democratic Korea Party and the Grand National Party also felt their vision go dark.
The public’s attention immediately focused on President Jeon Myeong-heon. He was a populist president unlike any in Korean history—simply put, a populist. Of course, calling someone a populist usually meant a politician who said whatever the public wanted to hear to gain popularity without keeping those promises. Ignoring realistic conditions such as national capacity or financial resources and only saying popular things inevitably led to problems later. But Jeon Myeong-heon was never that kind of typical populist. He said what the public wanted to hear to gain popularity, but he always followed through on those words. The Tongil National Party’s campaign promises from the general election were being fulfilled one after another. Although half-price apartments were still pending, various welfare promises such as free education had been legislated. While the IMF crisis had caused delays in budget execution, making it difficult for the public to feel the effects immediately, the promises themselves had been kept.
The same applied to the IMF regime. Though Yoo Jae-won’s significant assistance played a major role, the Jeon Myeong-heon administration was also skillfully overcoming the IMF crisis through various reform measures. While the chaebol-centered economic policy itself remained unchanged, measures to protect the weak from corporate abuses were steadily implemented under the IMF banner. Additionally, improvements to the corporate structures of the large companies that would lead Korea’s economy in the future were underway. Once the shackles of the foreign exchange crisis were removed, Korea’s economy would unleash potential on an entirely different level than before.
Furthermore, relations with North Korea had improved dramatically. Just ten years ago, it had been an endless competition where each side believed the other had to die for them to live. Now, the Kaesong Industrial Complex was being built, North Korean coal and iron ore were flowing into South Korea, and Mount Kumgang tourism was just around the corner. No one knew when relations with the North might sour again, but this level of closeness between the two Koreas had not existed since the Korean War. Jeon Myeong-heon deserved immense credit for these changes.
And it did not end there—there was also the constitutional amendment. From purging pro-Japanese collaborators to eliminating remnants of the military dictatorship era, the amendment proposal was perfectly aligned with the public’s expectations. Though it had wavered slightly under attacks from conservative forces and major newspapers like Daehan Ilbo, the nightclub drug scandal had completely pushed the anti-amendment forces off the cliff. Conversely, support for Jeon Myeong-heon had grown even stronger. So much so that rallies praying for his recovery began appearing the very next day after he collapsed. There had been many instances of citizens gathering to demand a president’s removal, but this was the first time the opposite had occurred. Jeon Myeong-heon’s approval rating had reached its peak.
“Please hurry.”
“Yes, Chairman. I’ll take you straight to Mirae Asan Hospital.”
After barely shaking off the reporters who swarmed like sharks at the scent of blood, Yoo Jae-won got into the waiting car at the airport and headed to Mirae Asan Hospital, where Jeon Myeong-heon was hospitalized. The journey from Gimpo to Jamsil passed in a blur in Yoo Jae-won’s memory. He simply wished to arrive as quickly as possible.
Upon reaching Mirae Asan Hospital, Yoo Jae-won passed through the complex security screening set up by the Blue House security detail, exchanged brief greetings with Jeon Myeong-heon’s family members gathered outside the hospital room, and entered the VIP ward. There, he found Jeon Myeong-heon lying down, connected to various monitoring devices with wires all over his body and a thick bandage wrapped around his head.