The University Vote That Brought Down 2ch.com

When Tzar Yoo Jae-won's private jet touched down in the United States, he was greeted by startling news. 2ch.com, the world's largest anonymous community site operated by ID Technology, had been completely paralyzed for four full hours.

"2ch.com went down?"

"Yes. It happened yesterday. Everything's back to normal now."

The person delivering the news was Tiffany, who had come to the airport to meet him. Their first conversation after a light embrace carried none of the passionate kisses one might expect from lovers reunited after months apart. Tiffany frequently flew into Korea whenever she missed him, so their reunion today felt almost routine after only a week apart. Instead, she launched straight into the latest American developments, beginning with the 2ch.com server outage.

The news genuinely surprised Yoo Jae-won. The service ran on ID Group's vaunted cloud servers, and as a text-heavy platform, it shouldn't have buckled even under heavy traffic.

"What on earth happened?"

He immediately took Tiffany's phone and opened ID Talk. During the flight, communications had been cut off, and he wondered if any technical reports had been posted on 2ch.com in the meantime. Sure enough, a report from the 2ch.com team was waiting.

"Ah, I can't view this ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠here."

The file was a sizable IDW document that required a laptop or desktop to open.

"I can explain it for you."

Remarkably, Tiffany already knew the full story behind the outage. As they climbed into the waiting car and headed home, she recounted every detail of the incident.

"What? Seriously?"

The moment he heard the first part, Yoo Jae-won could hardly believe it. The reason for the crash was far more absurd than he had imagined. He had assumed a powerful hacker had breached the security systems and wreaked havoc. After all, 2ch.com's security was somewhat lighter than other ID Group internet services because it was an anonymous community. Any hacker targeting the group would naturally test 2ch.com first before moving on to tougher targets.

"Yes, really! I watched the whole thing unfold in real time."

Yet the story Tiffany told was pure farce. The culprit was a single online poll titled "Which university has the world's best computer science department?"

2ch.com hosted tens of thousands of thread-style boards covering every conceivable topic. One of the computer-related threads had featured a poll with six candidate schools: Carnegie Mellon, MIT, Stanford, UC Berkeley, Harvard, and Georgia Tech. At first, the votes were evenly distributed as casual visitors picked their personal favorites.

Then something strange began to happen. Carnegie Mellon suddenly pulled thousands of votes ahead.

"Vote rigging."

"Exactly. Someone ran a macro."

Whether the manipulators were actual Carnegie Mellon students was unclear, but once the school surged ahead through macros, rival factions refused to accept the result. They began running their own macros in retaliation. Android 98 supported macros at the operating-system level for efficient computer use, and specialized software companies had developed even more powerful macro programs for sale.

"Macros are easy to detect and block."

Repeated automated activity on the internet always left traces, especially when deliberately designed to be traceable for abuse prevention.

"Do you think computer-obsessed eccentrics wouldn't know that? They simply bypassed the detection."

Yoo Jae-won nodded at Tiffany's words. The computer science departments of the listed universities had every reason to be proud of their world-class status, and their students possessed exceptional technical understanding. Crafting a macro that evaded detection on the fly would have been trivial for them.

After that, the situation descended into chaos. The poll meant to crown the best computer science program had transformed into a contest of who could build the most sophisticated macro and who controlled the largest botnet. Despite the poll carrying no official weight or authority—it was merely an ordinary 2ch.com thread—nobody seemed to care. Tens or hundreds of thousands of connections per second overwhelmed the servers, and unstoppable macro attacks eventually brought 2ch.com offline for several hours.

Yoo Jae-won fell into deep thought. The rapid spread of high-speed internet had created a convenient world, but its side effects arrived just as quickly. This incident might end as a mere internet prank, yet the same techniques could easily be used for large-scale opinion manipulation or to paralyze other internet services. To fundamentally prevent such attacks, servers needed a way to distinguish between human visitors and automated programs.

Of course, Yoo Jae-won already knew the solution: CAPTCHA, a challenge-response test that only humans could solve—distorted text, heavily damaged characters, or image-based puzzles. He decided to instruct the 2ch.com administrators to find a way to prevent recurrence, and if they failed, he would intervene personally. He had no intention of developing it himself; by now, researchers were surely working on CAPTCHA, and locating the right person would solve the problem easily.

"By the way, which school won the vote? Stanford, obviously?"

Relieved that 2ch.com's security had not actually been breached, Yoo Jae-won returned to his usual cheerful tone.

"Which one do you think?"

Tiffany smiled and countered.

"Wrong! The answer is MIT."

At the mention of MIT, Yoo Jae-won nodded. Every candidate school was excellent, but when it came to sheer audacity and mischief, none could match MIT. Even Stanford only displayed its legendary pranks right before or after midterms, falling short of MIT's level by a noticeable margin.

While chatting affectionately with Tiffany, the car arrived at their destination. Yoo Jae-won finally felt he had truly come home.

The next day, Yoo Jae-won returned straight to work—this time heading to ID Technology headquarters rather than handling matters from his study. Normally he would have eaten breakfast and worked online from home, but today Kim Dae-seok had prepared a car. Even during the drive, he wasted no time, connecting his Tiffany phone to his iWorks laptop to access the internet and focusing intently on the monitor.

Nextcom's news page had temporarily pushed yesterday's election coverage aside, now dominated by articles about Daehan Ilbo. Dark clouds had gathered over the newspaper. Prosecutors had formally indicted the owner family on charges that amounted to a comprehensive crime package. In the past, police and prosecutors would have turned a blind eye to even the most obvious offenses. But times had changed. The Corruption Investigation Office watched every investigation with hawk-like scrutiny, and any attempt to bury the case through backroom deals with the Daehan Ilbo family would trigger immediate action from the office.

Kim Chang-wan, head of the Corruption Investigation Office, had publicly declared that the agency was monitoring the case of national interest and would launch its own investigation if public questions remained unanswered after the case concluded. Under the Corruption Investigation Office Act, the agency retained authority to reopen cases closed by police or prosecutors upon separate complaints, provided there was evidence of external pressure or requests involving high-ranking officials under its jurisdiction. Kim Chang-wan's warning meant police and prosecutors could no longer dismiss matters with the old "live and let live" attitude.

Consequently, the full force of state power had zeroed in on the Daehan Ilbo owner family, resulting in formal indictment. Once the trial began, their heads would roll on the judicial guillotine. The era when they were called the "president of the night" had long since passed. From now on, Daehan Ilbo would be remembered first as the prime example of a media empire that collapsed after failing to recognize the changed world.

"Still, we can't afford to let our guard down."

Even with the family cornered, Yoo Jae-won remained vigilant. He had no intention of showing mercy until the Daehan Ilbo sign was removed from its headquarters in Sejong-ro.

He then searched for the next keyword: Choi Hyun-hee. However, most articles about the Ilseong Group chairman on Nextcom's news page were old stories.

"The handling of Chairman Choi Hyun-hee seems rather slow, doesn't it?"

Beyond standing in the photo line for a few pictures, there had been little progress.

"It's probably because of Ilseong, sir."

Kim Dae-seok, seated beside him, answered cautiously. His brief reply carried significant weight. Daehan Ilbo had merely been called the "president of the night," but Ilseong had reached the point where people referred to it as the "Republic of Ilseong."

"Shall we take action?"

"No. Let's wait and see for now."

Only against Ilseong did the prosecutor's sword and the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠judge's gavel become mere cotton hammers. But things would surely be different now. Time would tell.

Soon after, Yoo Jae-won's car arrived at the ID Technology headquarters lobby. A group of people was already waiting to greet him.

"Boss, welcome back."

"It's been a while for everyone! Sorry I'm so late."

The first to greet him was Remington. Although Yoo Jae-won disliked formal ceremonies, he responded warmly to the people he had not seen in a long time.

"It's been a while for you too, President Vincent. You seem to be getting younger by the day! I heard you pulled off something big in Japan as well?"

"Haha, working with the chairman makes it feel like time is running backward for me."

Present were not only Remington but also Vincent, president of ID Investment, Ellen, president of ID Technology, Henry, president of Nextcom, Andrei, director of ID High Tech, and the rest of the group presidents. Today's schedule at headquarters was special. They had gathered to hold an important event that Yoo Jae-won had missed due to Jeon Myeong-heon's passing—the announcement of the 1998 financial settlement and the 1999 business plan.

ID Group traditionally closed its books in December and announced its short-term plans for the coming year in January. What had once been a thirty-minute event had grown into a full-day affair as the conglomerate expanded to enormous scale.

"Not at all! If it were up ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠to me, I'd tell the boss to take more time to rest."

Remington, Ellen, and the other founding members understood how profoundly Jeon Myeong-heon had influenced Yoo Jae-won. They knew the depth of his grief and had therefore been concerned. Yet the company's work could not ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠wait. Moreover, they all recognized that no one could replicate Yoo Jae-won's extraordinary foresight. Yoo Jae-won himself believed that actively leading ID Group forward was better than remaining mired in sorrow, and he felt that Grandfather Jeon Myeong-heon, watching from above, would prefer to see him moving ahead rather than dwelling in melancholy.

Accompanied by the executives, Yoo Jae-won entered headquarters and immediately began the 1998 financial settlement review.