The Glass Wallet
The Glass Wallet — the most transparent glass wallet in the world! No other epithet could be more fitting. After all, anyone with even a passing interest in the news already knew exactly how the largest lump sum in that account had been formed. When you factored in ID Technology’s offering price and the volume of shares being sold, the figure of $64.8 billion emerged without difficulty. Yoo Jae-won’s Qing Dynasty bonds were also documented on the U.S. federal government website if one knew where to look among the diplomatic records. The United States aimed for transparent administration and had made most materials public. It was a little tedious, but plenty of people in the world were happy to handle that tedium for you — especially those whose profession was journalism.
— Chairman Yoo Jae-won Adds $130 Billion to His Fortune with ID Technology’s Listing!
— Forbes: No Seismic Shift in the World’s Richest Rankings.
— The immovable number-one spot has belonged to Chairman Yoo Jae-won for years!
The cash that actually entered Yoo Jae-won’s hands from the IPO was $64.8 billion, yet the media had already begun tossing around the figure of $130 billion as if it were the most natural thing in the world. They had simply included the remaining 60 percent stake he still held after the listing. In that sense, the economic press’s arithmetic was not entirely wrong, but the way it was phrased made it sound as though $130 billion had simply materialized in Yoo Jae-won’s pocket overnight. In any case, most people now knew that he had earned well over $100 billion. The ones who welcomed the news most were, predictably, the United States and South Korea. Taxes on the Qing Dynasty bond repayment income would go to the state of California, while the income from ID Technology’s IPO would be taxed in Korea. Whenever ID Group held a major event, Korea had always been the one to reap the windfall. When Yoo Jae-won regressed, he had resolved to prove that it was possible to succeed while paying taxes honestly, and he had kept that promise without fail.
Shareholders of the listed subsidiaries had voiced plenty of complaints, of course. Even so, Yoo Jae-won retained firm control of management, and the performance he delivered left them with nothing to say. That basic stance had never changed. This time was no different. The only new development was that the United States had now joined the ranks of countries receiving Yoo Jae-won’s income tax. Without American power, the Qing Dynasty bonds could never have been collected from China, so paying the U.S. was only right. It was welcome news indeed for the federal government and the state of California — especially since ID Group’s tax policy had, until now, been unmistakably Korea-centric.
Fortunately, ID Group’s accounting team had already finished calculating the tax liability, so the wire transfers began at once. With that much money sitting in a bank for even two or three months, the interest alone would be substantial, but what mattered more to Yoo Jae-won was his own state of mind. Large sums had a way of awakening greed that had not existed before. Before his regression, the very reason he had signed those trap-filled contracts with his own hand had been greed for money.
“Still fine so far.”
Yoo Jae-won nodded as he authorized the transfers. After splitting the income tax between the two countries, roughly $38 billion of the original $100 billion had already vanished. Yet he felt not the slightest regret. On the contrary, now that the taxes were paid, the thought that he could spend the remaining money however he pleased only filled him with greater confidence.
A few days later.
“Good heavens, what is all this?”
“It means it is time for you to return to work, sir.”
Though he was in New York, Yoo Jae-won had ended his long vacation and returned to the office. What greeted him was a mountain of documents — an unfamiliar sight. ID Group had long since adopted a paperless system in which nearly everything was handled through electronic approval. Business could be conducted not only on computers but also on Android smartphones. That was how ID Group operated, and it applied to ordinary employees as well as to Yoo Jae-won himself. A few subsidiaries, however, had yet to reach that level — particularly those acquired by Time Warner Nextcom. Time Warner Nextcom itself had been integrated into the system, but the numerous media companies under its umbrella still maintained their own independent workflows.
The documents Kim Dae-seok had brought were precisely those that had risen from Time Warner Nextcom’s subsidiaries: film and drama scripts, along with proposals for various variety and show programs. They had clearly been inspired by NBC’s recent vision presentation. After all, the project that had drawn the most attention at the time was Dragon Ball RM. On top of that, several other fresh concepts had emerged that viewers were sure to notice. Right after Dragon Ball RM came Produce American Idol — a nationwide open audition program to form an idol group across North America. The history of idols had begun in the United States, and the foundation was already broad. Yet there had never been an audition that scouted idols on a pan-North American scale. Such programs would become commonplace in the twenty-first century, but America had not even attempted one yet.
Interestingly, the proposal itself had been circulating among broadcasters for some time. Simon Fuller had brought the format that had enjoyed moderate success in Britain under the name Pop Idol, but no American network had picked it up. With the acquisition of NBC, Yoo Jae-won had recruited Simon and prepared to launch the program under the new title Produce American Idol. He had added his own seasoning to the concept. The idol audition format that originated in America had reached its perfected form in Korea; that system would now be applied here. That was why the word “Produce” had been added to American Idol.
Once Yoo Jae-won selected the project that had previously been ignored, similar proposals began pouring in. Structurally, the smaller media companies under Time Warner Nextcom did not require Yoo Jae-won’s personal approval. The very reason Time Warner had kept them as subsidiaries was to preserve their individuality and allow free creative activity. There was only one constraint: budget. In other words, the documents piled before Yoo Jae-won today were all variations on the same request: “We have created an excellent concept, so please approve the budget or provide investment.”
Stephen Barber, president of ID Entertainment, was already handling similar work, but there was a subtle difference. Stephen focused primarily on films and joined as an investor only after a project had been fully planned and was ready to enter production. The proposals now on Yoo Jae-won’s desk, by contrast, were starting from nothing at all. The nature of the request was therefore quite different.
“So the Glass Wallet rumor really has taken hold.”
Raw, undeveloped proposals reaching Yoo Jae-won’s desk had been rare in the past. Seeing so many of them today, he could not help but attribute it to his own reputation as the Glass Wallet. Even so, he did not shirk the work. From the start of the morning until long after lunch, he reviewed the proposals one by one. Any that seemed promising received his approval — several occult dramas, a few variety formats, and one or two blockbuster films. None of them had existed in his previous life, yet the proposals themselves were excellent. Moreover, because the flow of events had diverged so completely from his previous timeline, he judged that a little risk was acceptable and signed off on them. He did not approve projects based solely on profitability, either. Public-interest projects and niche but necessary concepts also received his approval. With such ample reserves, his mind had grown more generous; by the end of the day, more than ten proposals bore his signature.
“Now it is time for me to make the moves I have been wanting to make.”
Yoo Jae-won had already compiled a list of things that needed to be done once large sums of money arrived. The plan had existed even before his regression. The master plan he had now set aside was exactly that. According to it, once several ID Group subsidiaries successfully listed in the 2000s, large-scale facility investments would follow: expansion of the ultra-fine-process silicon semiconductor production lines and construction of a massive OLED display plant.
“Even now, the judgment still holds.”
Setting the master plan aside did not mean discarding every item on it. In particular, the semiconductor line expansion and the OLED display plant remained excellent projects even by current standards. During the years he had spent preparing for regression, his sole focus outside of meals had been gathering the latest technological trends. The trial-and-error that inevitably accompanied large-scale projects did not apply to him. Furthermore, an event he had never anticipated in his previous life was now unfolding: China had become a variable.
“Will the Communist Youth League win again this time?”
China had clearly lost the hegemonic struggle with the United States that began with the 9/11 cyber terrorism. A superpower like America and a China that had only just begun to globalize were never evenly matched. Had the confrontation occurred after 2010 the story might have been different, but the China of today was not the G2 power it would later become. The heavy debt of the Qing Dynasty bonds, which had to be paid as the price of defeat, had shattered China’s economic growth potential. On top of that, a massive corruption scandal within the Communist Party had leaked past media controls and shocked the Chinese people. Even Jiang Zemin’s “get rich first” theory could no longer shield anyone. The theory held that regions such as Shanghai and Beijing should be allowed to prosper first, after which the wealthy areas would help the rest. The corruption scandal had exposed it as an illusion. A closer look revealed that the theory was even more absurd than trickle-down economics. The fundamental flaw was that the entity accumulating wealth was not the individual but the region — a notion rooted in Jiang Zemin’s own background as mayor of Shanghai. Moreover, the theory offered no mechanism for deciding how much wealth should be accumulated or how it should be redistributed. Thanks to that policy, Shanghai, Beijing, and Guangdong had siphoned their wealth overseas instead of aiding less developed regions, and the discovery had left the Chinese people with a sense of betrayal beyond imagination.
What was needed in such a moment was a scapegoat willing to shoulder all the blame and disappear. Consequently, an internal power struggle was raging inside the Communist Party to identify which corrupt reactionary faction could be sacrificed. To lose was to die — not a figure of speech, but a literal threat to one’s life. The Party leadership attacked rival factions even more fiercely to conceal their own misdeeds. At the same time, they sought to divert the people’s anger by intensifying territorial disputes with Japan and stoking anti-Japanese sentiment. While South Korea enjoyed the World Cup festivities, Japanese stores in China were looted and Japanese cars were set ablaze by protesters.
“At least things have quieted down a little lately.”
The demonstrations had not lost momentum because the organizers had collapsed. On the contrary, each protest only intensified public fury. Fearing that the crowd’s anger might eventually turn toward the Party itself, the authorities had begun using public security forces to disperse gatherings, which had reduced the scale of the protests. Hu Jintao had only just begun to wield real power in the past two years, yet the country had already descended into extreme chaos. Because Hu himself was not free of corruption, his grip on power was even weaker, and voices within the Communist Party were now calling for a new chairman. The question was who that successor would be. If the Shanghai Clique prevailed in the power struggle, Chen Liangyu would rise; if the Communist Youth League held its ground, Bo Xilai or — most problematically — Xi Jinping might appear far earlier than in the original timeline.
While China remained stalled, ID Group had to surge ahead. The surest way to do so was through large-scale capital investment. When China later attempted to catch up with slogans such as “great power rise” or “semiconductor rise,” the most effective response would be to drag them into a chicken game and crush them. “Ten trillion won each should suffice.”
Yoo Jae-won now spoke of sums in the tens of trillions without hesitation. The larger the amount of money, the narrower the range of fields in which it could be invested. The confectionery industry, for example, could not absorb ten trillion won even if one tried. Semiconductors and displays, on the other hand, could easily absorb such sums. Building production facilities in those industries required enormous capital, yet they were also the industries capable of turning a ten-trillion-won investment into twenty or thirty trillion in returns. After signing twice to spend twenty trillion won, Yoo Jae-won pulled out a new document. Its recipient was the ID Foundation.
Every year Yoo Jae-won donated a portion of his net profit to the ID Foundation, but when a windfall like this occurred he gave on a grander scale. This time he intended to make an additional special donation separate from the usual contribution. Previously the Foundation had decided how the funds would be used; this time he would specify the purpose himself. The emphasis would be on supporting research projects that lacked funding because their profitability or success rate appeared low — the development of treatments for malaria, Ebola, and various rare diseases, as well as basic scientific research. “Ah, the humanities must not be left out either!”
At the end of the document Yoo Jae-won hurriedly added the humanities, social sciences, economics, and history. Compared with the natural sciences, which at least occasionally attracted investment, the humanities received support only once in a blue moon. History was especially dire; in Korea it was possible to find papers that praised Japan more enthusiastically than Japanese scholars themselves. Anyone who understood the system knew the reason was money. The problem lay in the content. Given the current state of affairs in China, the Northeast Project would undoubtedly proceed, while Japan — eager to erase its dark history — would promote theories of colonial benefit. Yoo Jae-won had no desire to witness either spectacle a second time and underlined the point in especially bold letters.
“Is that everything? Hmm, I feel as though I have forgotten something.”
He reread the sentences on the monitor, thought for a moment, then added one more item with a small exclamation of satisfaction: DNA analysis technology.
Ding!
“Ah, the community guidelines.”
It had been earlier this year, if he recalled correctly. Yoo Jae-won had instructed Allen Schmidt, president of ID Technology, to draft end-user terms that would apply to all of ID Group’s internet services. As a former lawyer, Allen had been the perfect choice for the task. Yet after the order was given, no word had come for a long time, and Yoo Jae-won had naturally forgotten about it. Today, however, Allen had silently completed his assignment and uploaded the draft.