No Less Than Double — 11
One look at them, and the air of loan sharks came off them in waves.
The director of the Agricultural Technology Center must have sensed it too, because he stepped in front of me, shielding me, and squared off against the men.
“And where might you gentlemen be from? You don't look like you're from around here.”
“We came camping, and the area seemed so livable we thought we might take up farming. Just scoping out some land, that's all. Money's the one thing we're not short of. Haha.”
The man casually raised an arm and swept his hair back slowly. He clearly wanted to show off the Rolex on his wrist without seeming to.
The man beside him had been fiddling with a BMW key fob this whole time.
With these strangers bragging about their money, the director's guard shot up even higher.
“Even if money's no object, nobody hands out cash for free.”
“We might as well lend it for free — if you let us give you some pointers on settling in the countryside, that is. We'll even be your friends.”
The Rolex man said with a sly grin.
“And I happen to give out farming advice free of charge. Step into my office, jot down your personal details, tell me which region you'd like to farm in, and I can introduce you to land as well.”
The director took a step forward, speaking as though about to usher the men into the office that very moment.
“We also arrange extremely low-interest loans through the agricultural cooperative. Which is a roundabout way of saying there's no reason on earth to touch loan sharks.”
“Loan sharks?”
“Am I wrong?”
At the director's fierce glare, the men just snickered.
“Loan shark's accurate enough. We lend private money, don't we? But what's so bad about that? Frankly, a public servant like you is worse!”
“He's got a point. Herding people who don't know the first thing about it with talk of rural life and country living — then turning them into debtors.”
“The cooperatives and the banks play games with people's money all the same!”
“Difference is, we show jeong. We actually talk things through with people.”
The Rolex man held a business card out to me.
“We're different. We can extend you all the jeong you could ever want.”
“Give us a call. Understood?”
When I read what was printed on the card, I couldn't help but let out a short, incredulous laugh.
Boram Private Loans. The office address was in Jung-gu, Seoul.
So these are Jo Eun-sun's people — the high priestess of Boram Private Loans in Myeongdong.
I'd never told a soul I'd be here today, which meant they'd been tailing me. The question was, for how long?
I'd left Choi Ho-gyeong's natural dyeing workshop, Yeon-du, and driven straight here without stopping anywhere else. The thought sent a chill crawling up my spine.
Did they track my phone's location? Or run my license plate and follow me through the CCTV network?
Abe had seen Jo Eun-sun exchanging text messages with a National Assembly member. Lawmakers, ministers, senior government officials — even people with the power of the state behind them. If her network of connections reached that far, then my being under surveillance was entirely explainable.
Then maybe I should turn that around and use it against her.
After all, if word got out that a moneylending shaman had powerful friends, not many of those powerful figures would be able to keep their seats.
“Interesting people, aren't they?”
As I moved to slip the business card into my pocket, the director suddenly grabbed my arm.
“Yunho, throw that away. You must never get tangled up with people like that.”
Was it the year before last?
Apparently, in Pyeongcheong County, a migrant worker and a Korean man who'd been sold off to cover loan debts had both died — sleeping in a shipping container with a briquette stove burning, and never waking up.
When the authorities traced the Korean man's identity, it turned out he'd been a rural transplant.
Unable to keep up with a government loan, he'd spiraled into private debt until he was essentially sold off, working on someone else's farm at the end.
The story broke, and Pyeongcheong County was thrown into an uproar.
If he'd just asked for help from the center or the cooperative, he wouldn't have died like that.
He seemed to have been an extremely introverted sort — no know-how, not much in the way of street smarts either.
In any case, after that incident, the county put safeguards in place, double and triple layers of them, so that no farmer would ever again be crushed by debt into a tragic end.
If your crops failed completely and you couldn't pay the interest on your government loan, you'd sell the land — and then be recommended for a job so you could at least keep body and soul together.
You could even live in a restored empty house and work at the Agricultural Technology Center. The county actively publicized it now: if you fall on hard times after moving to the countryside, please, ask for help.
The director's throat seemed to have gone dry; he licked his cracked lips before speaking.
“Some farmers, after a few bad harvests in a row, can't pay back their government loans and interest, and they turn to loan sharks. We've even produced videos begging people not to — haven't you seen one?”
“Sorry, what?”
The director grew more and more grave, working himself into a state all on his own.
“Yunho, you didn't buy your land with a government loan, did you? Is it the Ugok 1-ri empty house renovation project? Do you need money for that?”
Taking the loan shark's card had apparently created a terrible misunderstanding.
“Director, as for my financial situation—”
It's quite comfortable, actually. Aside from the ton and a half of gold, I'm sitting on a cool ten billion won in cash alone.
And with my investments compounding, the money was growing even at this very moment.
But the director knew nothing of any of this, and he looked positively beside himself with worry.
Did I live too frugally?
Never changing my car, casually wearing a hundred-million-won luxury watch like it was nothing... maybe that wasn't such a good idea after all.
The director bit his lip hard, then spoke.
“There's a county subsidy, but it won't be enough on its own. Still, you absolutely cannot reach out your hand to loan sharks like that. I'll talk to the company that built your warehouse — I'll have them install one for our goodwill ambassador with no deposit at all.”
“You really don't have to go that far—”
“No! You've done so much good for Pyeongcheong County and worked so hard promoting it — I can't just sit on my hands. Wait right here.”
The director pulled out his phone and called the company on the spot, asking whether they could install a warehouse at the home of Pyeongcheong County's goodwill ambassador.
Doesn't this feel a bit too much like special treatment?
But the company was overjoyed, apparently, and said they'd install it right away. Relaying the news, the director said,
“All they're asking is that you agree to appear in a few promotional videos. They figured having you would help advertise the warehouse — you're getting famous not just in Pyeongcheong County but nationwide.”
“Nationwide? Ah... ah.”
Before withdrawing from the Ugok site, the joint Korean-American remains excavation team had called in reporters and given an interview about me.
That video was still circulating on YouTube, and according to the county's PR officer, it had recently passed one million views.
The modest videos the county PR team had been posting about me since then were steadily racking up views as well.
I never watched any of that stuff, so it never even registered.
But maybe it's time I started paying attention, isn't it?
Seo Jinwoo's coffee endorsements had proven it — the reach of a famous face was enormous.
And when it came to taking on Jo Eun-sun, that kind of celebrity influence might, just maybe, prove more useful than any spell or spirit channeling.
The director said with a smile,
“A representative will come out in person next week to sign the contract. They want to take a few photos with you then — that's fine, right?”
My face had already been sold to the public anyway.
And once the Ugok's Yard website went live, my caricature was scheduled to be splashed right across the front page.
Goodwill ambassador of Pyeongcheong County. Young farmer. Capturing nature. Made with sincerity. That was the angle they'd use to promote my business.
“Of course. I benefit from the publicity, and the company gets to promote a warehouse they spent years developing — it's a win-win.”
[My lord, those men still have not left. They are watching you still.]
As I left the Agricultural Technology Center and walked toward my parked car, Abe followed silently at my side and let me know.
Yeah, I know.
I could feel the two men in the BMW staring at me, engines off, eyes fixed squarely on my back.
[What would you have me do?]
Let's wait and see.
I created a personal livestream account on my phone and started recording on the spot.
Having already resolved to put myself out there, there was no reason to put it off.
“We're here in front of the Pyeongcheong County Agricultural Technology Center. If you've decided to take up farming, this is where you come to receive all kinds of support and take your first steps as a farmer.”
I casually angled the camera toward the center's entrance, making sure the BMW was caught in the frame.
Then I turned the screen back toward myself and walked to my car as I spoke.
“I've just heard a presentation about their AI Smart Warehouse, and it looks like I'll be signing a contract in a few days. Now then — let me show you the road from here to my place.”
I got in, mounted my phone in the holder, and turned the wheel — angled so the camera could see me and the car trailing behind.
“Alright, shall we head out?”
I eased onto the highway with a smooth turn.
The stream had just started, so it didn't matter if no one was watching. All I needed was a record that these men were tailing me.
But before long, wouldn't you know it — a patrol car came up behind me.
When I'd reported the wild greenshoot thieves in Ugok 1-ri, the patrol car hadn't shown up until a good thirty minutes later.
But this was the county seat, home to the Pyeongcheong Police Headquarters. Two patrol cars pulled up — one in front of my car, one behind the tailing BMW — and ordered us to pull onto the shoulder.
I stopped and waited for the police to approach.
In the meantime, I could see an officer stepping out of the other patrol car, demanding ID from the loan sharks in the BMW and beginning his questioning.
Knock, knock, knock.
The officer who'd blocked my car walked up to the driver's side and rapped on the window.
When I rolled it down, he gave a courteous salute and spoke.
“The director of the Agricultural Technology Center reported that individuals have been following you, sir.”
Our director's concern for me had apparently been greater than I realized — he'd gone so far as to call 112.
The officer gestured toward the BMW as he continued.
“The director believes they're loan sharks attempting to force a loan on you. Do you know these men at all?”
“No, sir. Today's the first time I've ever seen them. This is what they gave me.”
Fully aware that my livestream was still running, I held up the business card.
“Boram Private Loans — Manager Kim Mi-gyeong and Assistant Manager Lee Cheol-su, hm?”
“So complete strangers handed you this card and followed you here, is that right?”
“Yes. I believe it's because word got out that I won the auction for the five parcels in Ugok 5-ri.”
I let Ugok 5-ri slip out as naturally as breathing.
“And how would that be connected?”
“After the auction, a company that claimed they could arrange my balance-payment loan somehow got hold of my personal information and contacted me. It's frightening enough to make a man lose sleep, honestly.”
At my words, the officer's face hardened.
“We'll handle this thoroughly so you never have cause to worry. You are the goodwill ambassador of Pyeongcheong County, correct?”
“Ah — yes, that's me.”
“Pyeongcheong County has the lowest crime rate in the nation. Rest assured. We will protect you.”
The police went so far as to escort me all the way home, a patrol car leading the way.
They're a bit different from the officers at the Ugok substation, aren't they?
The next day.
I woke up in the morning and turned on the TV — and there it was.
What's more, my phone showed dozens of missed calls.
What on earth is going on?
Apparently I was far more famous than I'd realized. Or else — could it have been yesterday's livestream?