Record-Breaking Morning and the Digital Storm
“Fifteen! Just one more! Today we’re going to break through the wall of the past!”
“No problem!”
The man injecting motivation was built entirely of muscle, while the one boasting with bravado was Yoo Jae-won. Mid-pull-up, Jae-won wasn’t alone—he had his personal trainer right beside him.
“Huh? Fifteen! Fifteen! You said it was no problem, so why are you still at the same spot?”
The trainer’s shout followed immediately. The number fifteen remained unchanged, and the words that came next blurred the line between motivation and mockery.
“What do you mean, same spot? Sir, did you forget how to count?”
Jae-won refused to back down even while straining.
“If you don’t reach proper form, it doesn’t count! You used momentum, so no count! If your posture isn’t correct, it’s not exercise! Don’t tell me you skipped workouts while you were in Korea?”
“Of course not!”
“Then there’s no reason you can’t do it! If you’ve been following the program I designed consistently, you should be hitting sixteen by now! Try it again—properly this time.”
To an outsider, it might have looked like Jae-won was arguing with his trainer over a mere fifteen pull-ups, but his form was textbook perfect. This wasn’t the casual school fitness-test version where you could drop and jerk back up for a count. Arms had to fully extend at the bottom, and the ascent had to be powered solely by the arms with zero momentum. Fifteen clean reps under those rules was no small feat.
“Hah!”
With a strange battle cry, Jae-won’s body rose again. His pumped muscles bulged, veins standing out along his forearms. Tension rippled through Im Myung-han, the camera crew, and the writers.
“Six……teen!”
The muscular trainer finally called out the number sixteen. Hearing it, Jae-won simply let go of the bar with a satisfied expression. It had been nearly six months since he last broke his limit. The achievement felt good, but the exhaustion was so intense that any joyful expression took a while to surface.
“Aren’t you pushing yourself too hard this early in the morning?”
Once Jae-won finished his morning workout, Im Myung-han seized the moment for a short interview. In a documentary this would never happen, but since this was an observational variety show, it was perfectly acceptable.
“It was tough today, but I train at this intensity regularly, so it’s not a big issue.”
“You say it’s not a big issue, but your hands are shaking quite a bit.”
“It’s just the glorious scar of breaking a limit after so long!”
Jae-won slipped into showmanship to match the variety-show tone. He had been honing that skill since childhood, so it came naturally. Im Myung-han was pleased with how well the morning footage was turning out and didn’t press further.
Next came the inevitable breakfast.
“Huh? Korean-style meal today?”
“Even before we got married, I always had Korean breakfast. Rice over toast!”
Tiffany nodded vigorously at Jae-won’s words. She, too, had completely adapted to a Korean table rather than the American breakfast of bacon, eggs, and toast. The Korean meal itself was the same as usual, but the location was slightly different. Normally it would have been set in their cozy private living space, but because they were filming, they ate in the large dining room with its expansive table.
After breakfast, they brushed their teeth and enjoyed a brief moment of free time. Most office workers would already be heading to work, but both Jae-won and Tiffany had flexible schedules, so the morning felt leisurely. Tiffany left for work first, followed by Jae-won.
“Normally I’d work from the study, but today I’m visiting headquarters and one of the game studios.”
Headquarters meant the ID Technology main office in Coyote City, south of Silicon Valley. The game studio was Firefist Games’ second studio. Though Jae-won mentioned them separately, the two buildings were close enough that little travel was required.
“But there’s a problem. The helicopter only seats four.”
The reason they could afford such relaxed commutes even during Silicon Valley’s notoriously congested rush hour was the helicopter. It wasn’t primarily for daily commuting but as an emergency backup. If Jae-won, Tiffany, or anyone working at the estate had a medical emergency, immediate transport would be possible. Given the remote location, ground or water travel took too long—hence the helicopter.
Securing a pilot’s license had been simple. One of the bodyguards already held one. Since that guard couldn’t be kept on permanent standby, Jae-won had selected several trusted, long-serving team members and sponsored their helicopter pilot training. Naturally, those who earned their licenses received a special allowance added to their salary.
Im Myung-han’s mouth fell open again at the mention of the helicopter. A Korean breakfast was already distinctive, but viewers expected to see the world’s richest man living like the world’s richest man. Commuting by helicopter was exactly the kind of striking image they wanted. Using his authority as PD, Im Myung-han chose three people to ride with Jae-won. Surprisingly, he excluded himself and instead sent two cameramen and the head writer. The cameramen could capture multiple angles, while the writer could conduct interviews and gather material for the show. It looked like a generous gesture, but it also conveniently hid his fear of heights and confined spaces.
“Nothing unusual at the company, I hope?”
“Of course not!”
Alan gave his usual calm reply to Jae-won’s routine question. ID Technology had numerous ongoing projects and products in release. The organization was vast—combined headcount across the U.S. and Korea had long surpassed ten thousand. Even after ID Electronics spun off the mobile AP team, the numbers remained impressive. Plenty of work existed, yet most matters could be handled at Alan’s level, so his assurance was no exaggeration.
Still, Alan looked slightly stiff in the presence of the cameras and crew following Jae-won. It didn’t help that additional crew members had joined once they arrived at the Coyote City headquarters by car. The focus remained solely on Jae-won, so no cameraman had been assigned to Alan, but the sheer number of lenses concentrated in one place was new to him. After a while, however, he adapted quickly.
“This is the chairman’s office.”
Alan personally showed Jae-won’s office to the crew.
“It is?”
“Yes.”
Im Myung-han’s surprised question came because the office looked little different from any other executive space. A glass wall with adjustable transparency divided what had once been a single room, creating a separate area.
“I only visit a few times a month, so there’s no need to decorate it specially. A reasonably large desk, a good computer, and a comfortable chair are enough.”
“That’s true, but……”
Im Myung-han trailed off despite Jae-won’s explanation. The only real difference from a regular employee’s workspace was the extra square footage of personal space.
“That’s how Silicon Valley operates.”
After the brief explanation to the still-awkward PD, Jae-won moved to the main topic.
“I’d like a report on Project 2 and Project 3. Are the materials ready?”
“Of course.”
Alan placed his iWorks laptop on the desk and connected the cable. A projector descended automatically from the ceiling, casting a large screen on the wall. Though the office looked sparse, several devices were discreetly embedded. An ID presentation soon appeared, and the slideshow began. The identity of “2” was revealed: Xbox 2.
Only three years had passed since the original Xbox launched. Video game consoles typically had a five-year lifespan, so planning for the next generation should already be underway. Unlike other companies, Jae-won had always intended the Xbox 1’s lifecycle to be exactly four years. Competitive pressure from Sony played a role, but more importantly, an increasing number of games were beginning to outpace the Xbox 1’s hardware. Its specifications could now be called outdated. The latest PCs boasted several times the performance. The only advantages Xbox and PlayStation 2 still held over PCs were their game-optimized architecture and exclusive titles. Even those advantages were reaching their limit. ID Technology believed that within another year the console would be considered obsolete.
The screen displayed the Xbox 2’s design and basic specifications.
“Looks good.”
A single slide, yet creating it had required significant investment. The design had to inherit the original Xbox aesthetic while feeling more refined and managing the increased heat output. The Xbox 1 already used a solid copper cooler; the Xbox 2 demanded an even more powerful cooling solution. Its specifications were several times higher than the first model. The CPU was now quad-core, memory had doubled to 2 GB using the latest DDR2 architecture, and the GPU—designed by ATI—was the upcoming Radeon, a large and powerful chip scheduled for announcement later that year or early next year. While other components had samples available, the GPU remained in the paper-design stage. Overall performance, however, was estimated at a minimum of twelve times that of the original Xbox. Even with all graphical options maxed, 720p HD resolution would be handled comfortably, and 1080p FHD would run smoothly with only minor reductions in demanding settings. The media drive was also expected to support the next-generation DVD format.
The increased performance naturally brought greater heat. Underestimating thermal issues would be costly. Microsoft’s past losses from similar problems made it clear that safety investments could not be skimped on. Cutting corners on cooling to save money would make them no different from the company Jae-won had criticized before his regression—something he refused to allow.
“Preparations for Project 3 are also proceeding steadily.”
Project 3 referred to the third-generation Android smartphone. Apple’s WWDC developer conference would be held in a few months, and a next-generation iPhone was certain to be announced. Jae-won didn’t believe the new device would surpass last year’s Android S2, but people always flocked to the newest thing. Therefore, he was preparing the S3—a minor upgrade to the S2. His strategy was to deliver a major hardware leap every two years, followed by a refined update the next year. The S3’s changes focused on a 10% clock-speed increase for the M4 processor and updated front and rear camera modules.
“Chairman, isn’t this confidential material?”
Im Myung-han asked cautiously. He had quietly moved to a corner to film once Jae-won began receiving reports on the upcoming projects. Then Xbox 2 and the Android S3 smartphone appeared on screen. Im Myung-han was both an Xbox gamer and an Android user. The information he had just seen was clearly genuine.
“This level is fine.”
Jae-won readily approved its use in the broadcast. Since the specifications and design were not yet finalized, public disclosure posed no problem. If anything, the leaked information would put additional pressure on Sony, which was preparing the next PlayStation, and on Apple. Sony’s game division was already bleeding far more red ink than in Jae-won’s previous life because of the dramatically upgraded PlayStation 2. They had only recently returned to profitability at the end of last year; learning that the Xbox 2 would demand even greater performance for the next generation would force them to raise their ambitions further.
After confirming the status of two major ID Technology projects, Jae-won led the crew to the next building—Firefist Games’ second studio—to check on the development of Fantasy Universe’s sequel, Legend League. Just as ID Technology had offered a taste of its projects, Firefist Games’ second studio also revealed several preview materials. What made Im Myung-han’s jaw drop was the cinematic opening title sequence still in production. If Dragon Ball RM airing on NBC had opened a new chapter for computer-graphics animation, the Fantasy League opening title surpassed even that. Though incomplete, the fifteen-second teaser alone was enough to prove its quality.
“You can use this footage as well.”
Since the teaser for Fantasy Universe – Legend League was scheduled to premiere around the same time as tvM’s launch and the first episode of Real Camera, there would be no issue.
“This is huge!”
Im Myung-han could only gape. When filming people who weren’t naturally entertaining, interesting footage didn’t come easily. Writers usually had to work hard to manufacture situations, but Jae-won generated material effortlessly. Every movement and every meeting produced usable content. In fact, a single episode couldn’t possibly contain everything; at least two episodes would be necessary. If one more major moment occurred, three episodes might even be feasible.
Five o’clock in the afternoon. Work at Firefist Games’ second studio was winding down.
Ding!
Jae-won’s Android phone chimed with a cheerful alert.
“Hm? What’s Yeong-sik up to?”
The ID Talk sender was Yeong-sik. His message, marked urgent, contained a single piece of news: a massive internet outage had struck Korea. Internet services across the country were completely paralyzed. Even banks, convenience stores, and supermarket POS systems were down—an enormous incident. Attached to the message was a sample of the rapidly spreading malware. Jae-won immediately opened his iWorks laptop, launched the ID Talk app synced with his Android phone, and extracted the attachment. He then began reverse-engineering and analyzing the code.
The code was protected by sophisticated encryption, but that posed no real challenge for Jae-won. While dissecting it, he searched his Memory Palace for information on the 2003 internet crisis. The details were there. A DNS server at KT’s Hyehwa branch had been infected by the Slammer worm, generating massive traffic that spread rapidly through other DNS servers. The Slammer worm exploited a vulnerability in SQL Server software. Recovery was difficult but not impossible. This current crisis followed the same pattern. Once the encrypted code was decrypted and analyzed, it proved to be no high-level malware.
“This is……?”
The vulnerability the malware targeted had already been patched—two years earlier, during the September 11, 2001 cyber conflict between the U.S. and China.