The Giant's Empty Seat

Yoo Jae-won hated wasting even the smallest scraps of time on his way to LSM Entertainment. Rather than staring blankly into space, he studied the way the world moved. He had two methods. One was to receive a briefing from Kim Dae-seok. The other was to connect to the NextCom news page on his iWorks laptop and devour the trending articles in a single sitting.

Kim Dae-seok’s briefings contained information ordinary people could never access. Things like this, for example.

“The Grand National Party and the Democratic Korean Party are pushing for another merger. The vehicle is a single ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠presidential candidate, though they’re still negotiating the exact unification method.”

“Really? They’ve been bitter enemies, yet power makes even old grudges irrelevant?”

“It appears so.”

Just as Yoo Jae-won had remarked, until recently the two parties had been nothing short of mortal foes. The Grand National Party, formed around Kim Young-sam’s support base, held no particular ill will toward the Democratic Korean Party. They had already endured endless criticism as the “democratization activists who compromised with reality” during the three-party merger and believed they had paid their dues through the movement to correct historical records.

The Democratic Korean Party, however, composed of former Democratic Justice Party forces, seethed with resentment. Their central figure, Chun Doo-hwan, had been executed under Kim Young-sam’s administration. Roh Tae-woo had been stripped of his former-president status. Even the massive slush funds they had painstakingly accumulated were completely seized, leaving them utterly penniless. All that remained was the lingering halo of Park Chung-hee.

That halo, in truth, still carried considerable weight. Whatever history’s verdict, it remained a myth to the generation that had lived through industrialization. As a result, Daegu and North Gyeongsang maintained rock-solid support for the Democratic Korean Party.

The problem was the growing fear that a conservative camp split solely between the Grand National Party and the Democratic Korean Party could never reclaim power. Aligning with the neutral Tongil National Party seemed the only realistic path. The complication was that the Tongil National Party—renowned for its talent at sniffing out warm seats—had already signaled it would back the Democratic Party in the upcoming election. Simply refusing to field its own candidate was the most powerful endorsement possible.

Should Kim Dae-jung become president, he would clearly play the ruling-party role through a coalition government. Moreover, since this election introduced the possibility of reelection, the mechanism looked likely to persist. For Democratic Korean Party lawmakers, the situation was maddening. They had spent years as comfortable ruling-party members only to become opposition members under Jeon Myeong-heon, and they were now learning with their entire bodies that not all National Assembly seats were equal. The treatment they received from bureaucrats, the scale of donations, and the under-the-table money had all shrunk to a different order of magnitude. If being a ruling-party lawmaker had been a sunlit garden, they now stood in the frozen kingdom of eternal winter.

Deciding they could not simply perish this way, they had begun toying with the idea of merging with the Grand National Party. Kim Dae-seok shook his head, muttering that they were people beyond redemption, but Yoo Jae-won judged the move entirely plausible.

The poll numbers showed that Lee Hoi-chang of the Grand National Party had also broken the thirty-percent barrier. Although Kim Dae-jung had proven his ability within the Jeon Myeong-heon administration, the “red” stigma still lingered in conservative regions. On top of that, the election was being held after Jeon Myeong-heon’s sudden death, and many voters viewed Kim Dae-jung’s advanced age as a risk. In such circumstances, the possibility of a Grand National–Democratic Korean merger was driving Lee Hoi-chang’s numbers upward.

Yoo Jae-won moved on to the next article.

After the presidential news, the articles netizens read most avidly concerned the Mirae ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Group. Among the Mirae executives, those who could be called Jeon Myeong-heon’s loyal vassals—men like Lee Ik-chi and Kim Jae-soo—were being reassigned or removed. Many, like Kim Jae-soo, were simply fired.

Yoo Jae-won did not know the exact details of how Jeon Myeong-heon had divided the group among his three sons. But one thing was certain: no one would be satisfied with their inheritance, and they would resort to every possible disgraceful act to seize even one more scrap. The media had dubbed it the “Princes’ Rebellion,” but to Yoo Jae-won it was simply a dogfight among golden spoons.

He finished reading the Mirae-related articles and tried to move to the next page, only for the words “LOADING” to appear in enormous letters across the screen.

As the years passed, internet pages had grown increasingly lavish. High-resolution images and dynamic HTML 2.0 layouts had become standard, causing web-page sizes to balloon exponentially. The limits of 2G mobile networks had been reached.

NextCom needs a second revolution.

The single word “LOADING” was enough for Yoo Jae-won to grasp exactly what NextCom required: mobile-optimized pages. Currently, the same screen was served whether accessed from a computer or a cellphone. Creating dedicated mobile pages optimized for size and speed would let them seize the coming wave of mobile adoption in advance.

But that alone isn’t enough.

Yoo Jae-won, who always preferred to stay one step ahead, refused to settle for simple mobile pages. He felt NextCom needed a groundbreaking new service. After all, portal sites tailored to each country were springing up worldwide. In the United States, Yahoo and Lycos were closing in fast. Japan had Yahoo Japan. In Korea, latecomers like Daum and Netian were launching aggressive services—offering individuals a free gigabyte of personal web space or unlimited email accounts by default.

NextCom had been the world’s first true portal and still held an overwhelming global lead thanks to its flawless completeness. Yet if it stood still, the latecomers could overtake it.

What would be good?

All sorts of future-oriented services floated through Yoo Jae-won’s mind—so many excellent ideas that choosing one was difficult.

At that moment, Kim Dae-seok’s voice rescued him from his deliberations.

“Chairman, we’ve arrived.”

The signal that they had reached their destination—LSM Entertainment. When Yoo Jae-won stepped out of the car, the first thing he saw was the LSM Entertainment sign being lowered. Waiting on the roadside to take its place was the new Dream Entertainment sign.

Crafted from gleaming silver chrome, the enormous letters looked luxurious at a glance. The money spent was obvious. The sign alone had cost nearly a hundred million won. The name “Dream” naturally came from the “D” in ID Group. It was perfect for an entertainment company. It symbolized the dreams of those who entered the industry to become stars, and the dreams ordinary people nurtured while watching those stars.

Consequently, when Yoo Jae-won had renamed the acquired LSM Entertainment as Dream, not a single person had objected. Even though his naming sense was usually lacking, this time he had chosen exactly the right word.

Soon the chrome Dream Entertainment sign began rising, suspended from a crane. The workers’ voices grew louder.

“Careful! Easy does it!”

“That thing’s worth more than your life!”

Rumors flew that a single scratch would mortgage a man’s entire future. Despite the chaos, the sign rose smoothly into place. Originally there had been plans for a grand opening ceremony with the sign veiled and dramatically unveiled, but because Dream Entertainment had been created through the acquisition of LSM, no such event had been prepared.

After watching the sign rise for a moment, Yoo Jae-won entered the building with Kim Dae-seok.

“Two, three!”

“Hello! We are HxT!”

The moment he stepped into the office, HxT greeted him with a perfectly synchronized bow. Three members were the same age as Yoo Jae-won; the other two were only second-year idols. Yet the moment he appeared, they offered a formal group greeting.

“Hello. I’m Yoo Jae-won.”

He bowed in return. When he looked at their faces, he saw no trace of reluctance or forced performance. That was only natural. After the massive damages lawsuit with RATM, their agency had gone bankrupt. The president and everyone responsible had fled. They had reached the absolute peak of popularity with their latest album and were just about to step into the spotlight—only for everything to vanish like a mirage.

The LSM artists and trainees had been at a complete loss. They had hoped things would improve with time, but the situation only worsened. Advertisers who had sponsored HxT canceled their contracts, claiming the group’s image had been tainted by scandal. Some companies even filed lawsuits for damages. Panic set in.

In that desperate moment, ID Group’s acquisition had been a lifeline. LSM, already under court receivership, would have been dismantled if no buyer appeared—an unimaginable fall from the position it had held only a year earlier, when HxT’s explosive popularity had placed the agency at the forefront of the industry.

Several companies had shown interest, but they all withdrew after learning the size of the compensation owed to RATM. Then Yoo Jae-won appeared, and the acquisition was completed in the blink of an eye. Unlike the others, he did not vanish after a cursory glance. Moreover, he cleanly resolved the biggest problem—the damages owed to RATM.

By paying the enormous sum in a lump while securing a steep discount, a major deal had been struck. The RATM members had simply wanted to draw a clear line under the plagiarism issue; they had never intended to destroy the agency itself. They did, however, insist on creating a precedent that would completely eradicate any future intent to plagiarize their work.

Thanks to that stance, only days after acquisition negotiations began, astonishing news arrived: RATM had agreed to cut the compensation—which had reached ten billion won—exactly in half.

To Yoo Jae-won it was incredibly welcome news. It felt like picking up five billion won while walking down the street. In return, he created a special RATM page on Next Music and held a massive discount event—at his own expense, of course.

“Chairman Yoo! It’s an honor to meet you! I’m Han Sang-soo.”

A bearded man soon stepped forward. After President Lee Seung-man fled and producer Park Young-jin disappeared, he was the only executive-level employee who had remained to handle the aftermath. He had started as HxT’s road manager, earned recognition through hard work, and been promoted. When the plagiarism scandal erupted, he had become the sole person left to take responsibility.

Yoo Jae-won greeted the trainees as well. After the introductions, he moved straight to the main topic: renewing contracts with the HxT members.

Although all of LSM’s assets had been acquired and the existing contracts technically transferred, Yoo Jae-won believed new wine belonged in new wineskins. The members’ contract dates also differed, so voiding the old agreements and drafting fresh ones would be cleaner. For HxT there was nothing to lose. These days agencies used standard contracts, but when HxT had signed, the documents had been filled with clauses that could only be called slave contracts.

Although they had later switched to the standard form, it was still the version used during their rookie days. The contract Dream Entertainment now offered was far more favorable to the members. Even without consulting a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠lawyer, anyone could see that the distribution ratios for digital sales, physical albums, and merchandise were on an entirely different level.

Besides, after the plagiarism disaster the members had been forced to contemplate disbandment and forced retirement. They would have signed a blank sheet of paper if Dream had offered one. In a neatly prepared conference room, the HxT members and Yoo Jae-won sat side by side and signed the new agreements.

HxT went first, followed by the three-member girl group that had debuted the previous year. Even the trainees renewed their contracts under Yoo Jae-won’s name. For the next seven years, they would be part of the ID Group family.

To mark the occasion, Yoo ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Jae-won picked up a microphone for the first time in a while.

Claiming to create the world’s best was no small statement. In this era, the idea that Korean entertainers could achieve global recognition and popularity was almost unimaginable. Yet when Yoo Jae-won said it, the words carried a different weight, and everyone listened intently.

“That clause is simple: obey the law.”

It was clearly not the answer the HxT members or the others had expected. It sounded more like something a moral teacher would say.

“As members of society, everyone should live within the law. But because you work in the special environment of the entertainment industry, far stricter standards apply to you than to ordinary citizens.”

At these words the young idols finally nodded in understanding.

“If you break the law and it becomes news, you will face a level of social condemnation the public cannot even imagine. Among all offenses, drugs are the absolute worst. They are strictly forbidden. Drunk driving? If I hear of any drunk-driving incidents after today, I will terminate your contracts immediately. Gambling? Obviously prohibited. Plagiarism goes without saying, doesn’t it?”

When he mentioned gambling, Yoo Jae-won glanced toward S.O.S, the three-member girl group. He had done it deliberately, yet the movement looked natural, so no one found it strange. Even the fairy-like S.O.S member whose eyes met his simply nodded with an innocent expression, unaware of anything.

“For the next six months, all external activities will be suspended as a period of self-reflection. However, I have no intention of letting you waste that time. I will provide the absolute best support to improve your abilities and ensure your success. Believe in me and follow my lead. One day soon, you will find that you have already become the best.”

His confidence was overwhelming, yet it contained not a single gram of bravado. The system Dream Entertainment would introduce was neither the American entertainment formula nor the Japanese idol factory model. It was the K-pop system that would write a perfect legend of success in the twenty-first century.

When Yoo Jae-won finished speaking, thunderous cheers erupted. He had been recognized as the world’s richest man and had single-handedly resolved the crisis that had nearly destroyed them. If they had not cheered at his declaration, it would have been strange.

Looking at their bright faces, Yoo Jae-won inwardly prayed for their souls. The core of the K-pop system was not only wide-ranging division of labor and networked fandoms, but above all an absolutely brutal volume of practice. Singing powerful live vocals while executing sharp, synchronized choreography was impossible without merciless training. And the foundation of that training was stamina.

Starting tomorrow, their schedule would begin not in the studio or practice room, but in the gym. He could already hear their screams echoing in his ears.

After completing every item on the Dream Entertainment schedule, Yoo Jae-won headed to the Million Dollar Challenge awards ceremony—his final engagement in Korea.