The Windfall in Full Swing - 5

There comes a moment in everyone's life when everything changes.

For me, it was the day I threw away my job as a bank teller—a career I'd chosen because I just wanted an ordinary life—and decided to take up farming instead.

That was when my life changed.

It was as if I'd taken off the clothes named Kim Yunho and slipped into an entirely new set: farmer, spirit medium, and businessman.

And now, standing here, I could feel my life shifting once again.

This can't be real.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

The live stream with Seo Jinwoo had lasted exactly ten minutes.

After the broadcast ended, I checked my phone—still on silent—and found that my channel had gained over thirty thousand subscribers.

I knew Jamsil Baseball Stadium held a little over twenty thousand seats.

More people than that had pressed the subscribe button on my channel.

In ten minutes, not even a full hour.

Thanks to that, my subscriber count, which had sat at just over ninety thousand, blew past one hundred thousand.

It even seemed I had fans overseas, because comments in all sorts of languages had started pouring in.

This is not normal.

And sure enough.

After watching the movie Segok-ri Reservoir and checking again, my subscriber count had more than doubled.

I couldn't believe it, so I blinked and checked again. The number hadn't changed.

"Whoa!"

Within a few hours, I had become an influencer with two hundred thousand subscribers.

And it wasn't just the subscriber count.

The comments had piled up in staggering numbers.

I'd taken a photo of the Pyeongcheong River and overlaid the title in white and yellow lettering.

The video itself was footage I'd shot after parting ways with Park Seok-tae and Choi Hogyeong, running alone toward Ugok 1-ri while capturing the morning mist lifting off the river and the village.

Since I'd been filming on the move, the footage shook constantly.

It was dynamic, sure, but watching it for too long might actually give you motion sickness.

And ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠yet.

I clicked on the video I'd posted before that one.

It showed me hanging light fixtures and flipping the switches at the 'Ugok's Courtyard' café.

That video was buried under countless comments asking when it would open.

People were promising to travel all the way to Gangwon Province on opening day.

Saying they absolutely had to visit Ugok 1-ri, the filming location of Segok-ri Reservoir.

"What is it? Are you getting a reaction?"

Seo Jinwoo, who had been exchanging greetings with the reporters, walked over to me and asked.

"It's insane."

I turned my phone screen around to show him the subscriber count. Seo Jinwoo made a face like something was still lacking.

"I think the video came off a little too improvised. You really need at least another hundred thousand to run a channel on stable footing."

"So I'd need three hundred thousand?"

"Exactly. My friend."

At the word friend, Seo Jinwoo went a little sheepish.

He looked just like the calico cat Number 3, nuzzling its face against the back of my hand—frightened but still asking to be close.

"There are influencers out there who deliberately cozy up to me just to grow their own channels. Their follower counts climb just from posting photos they took with me. Of course, I turn them all down."

"Why? Why turn them down?"

"Because if they later cause a scandal—an assault case, banned substances, anything like that—the fallout lands on me too."

Influencers often got invited to fashion shows, charity bazaars, and all kinds of corporate events, and apparently every time, someone would try to playact at being his close friend.

Seo Jinwoo kept strangers at arm's length as a rule. One wrong acquaintance could deal a fatal blow to an actor's career.

But me? He could trust me.

No—he said I was the only person he could trust.

The secrets we share. That's probably why he's so sure I'll never blab.

Even if ugly rumors about me made the rounds, he intended to believe I wasn't the kind of person who'd do bad things.

And if word ever got out that I'd punched someone, surely there'd have been a reason for it, right?

"I consider you my corner, Yunho. No—you are my corner."

Having blurted that out of nowhere, Seo Jinwoo ran a hand through his hair, embarrassed. I caught a hint of red on the side of his face.

"Just... because."

After the premiere, Director Jo Woochul arranged for a dinner at a restaurant near the theater.

He wanted to treat a meal to everyone from Ugok 1-ri who had traveled all that way to support him.

"The fact that we wrapped filming without a single accident is entirely thanks to you, Mr. Kim."

Director Jo Woochul bowed his head again and again, insisting that the shoot's completion without incident was all my doing.

"No, it's me who should be thanking you. You filmed our ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠village so beautifully. The front yard of my house looked like an art museum garden on screen."

"I'm glad the shots pleased you."

"Pleased is an understatement. I think it's going to be a massive hit."

"You really think so?"

"Of course. The reporters seemed pretty taken with it too."

The movie was far better than I'd expected. I'd read the script and kept a rough eye on the filming, but once it was edited together, the whole thing gleamed.

Above all, the way it pushed and pulled at the audience's emotions was impressively deft.

Well-timed thrills, suspense, even a twist at the end—nothing was missing.

I found it hard to believe this was a director who had flopped two films back to back.

Jo Woochul spoke carefully, watching my expression.

"I can always tell when the press acts cold after a screening that the movie's dead. This time the reaction's been good, so honestly I feel like I've come back from the dead. My break-even point is two million admissions—if we just clear that, I'll want to thank my ancestors."

These days, even with aggressive marketing, breaking two million moviegoers wasn't easy.

I'd heard that only when a film sold overseas could it barely scrape past break-even.

My thoughts were different.

"I think you'll clear it easily. I'd say eight million."

The number eight million had slipped out of my mouth before I knew it. I'd never once thought, I should say that—the figure had simply popped out on its own.

Then my mouth opened again by itself.

"You'll win an award overseas, too. A warm land in the south, but plenty of wind."

I'd lost my mind. What I'd just said sounded exactly like a shaman delivering a prophecy.

But Jo Woochul took my words as gospel truth and grinned from ear to ear with delight.

"Oh! Really? You mean it?"

"Ah, that's... it's just my wish... I hope it turns out exactly like that."

"If Mr. Kim says so, then it must be so. In that case, I won't fret and will simply wait patiently for the results. Thank you!"

Jo Woochul bowed deeply toward me.

Only then did his old words come back to me—how he'd visited a gifted shaman for a reading before filming began.

I'd laughed it off when I heard it back then. Now I couldn't.

I've started making prophecies now, apparently.

The golden ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠aura that had shimmered across Bang Seonghyun's face. And moments ago, the number eight million admissions that had spilled out of me unbidden. Even an overseas film festival award.

Whether someone had left me a gift on their way to the afterlife, or whether a power my true self had always carried was finally blooming, I couldn't tell.

"How was the movie?"

Late that night, Moon Sung-il came looking for me outside the restaurant where I'd finished dinner.

My car had already been driven back to Ugok-ri by Bang Jeongsoo, who'd taken his family home.

The moment I climbed into the sedan Secretary Yoon was driving, Moon Sung-il asked.

"I heard the investors held a separate screening of their own, and the response was excellent."

"It's going to do phenomenally. The words 'this movie is genuinely well-made' just come out of your mouth on their own."

"Really? If you say so, CEO Kim, I'd better go see it myself."

Catching a brief lull in the conversation, Secretary Yoon asked, "Where shall I take you, sir?"

"Would you allow us the honor of hosting you at my residence? If that's inconvenient, I'll have us take you to a hotel in the city."

I'd be treated lavishly anywhere I went. But nowhere would be as comfortable as my own home.

"May I impose on your household, Mr. Moon? I have a meeting coming up that needs careful attention to security."

"Please, 'impose' is far too strong a word. Don't mention it."

Moon Sung-il directed Secretary Yoon toward his house, then handed me a stack of documents.

"This is the redevelopment project Seongdo Construction is pushing in Gangdong District. Six point eight billion won has flowed to the union leader across five separate payments. These are cooked books—but this is the original."

On the original ledgers Moon Sung-il had extracted through his people, the payments to the union leader were laid out in black and white.

"So this is how they've been doing business all along."

At my words, Moon Sung-il's expression turned bitter.

"Redevelopment projects move forward with the residents' consent, but sometimes the union makes decisions that run directly counter to a construction company's interests. And in construction, even a single day's delay in the schedule means enormous spending."

"So from the company's perspective, it's cheaper to hand the union leader six point eight billion?"

"Precisely. If paying six point eight billion saves you ten billion, it's money in the bank."

Whether it was six point eight billion or ten, profit only survived if you clawed back what you'd spent.

Why else would construction companies skimp on the rebar when building their structures, if not to recoup the money they'd handed over in bribes?

"They haven't even broken ground yet, and they've already paid six point eight billion in bribes. Shoddy construction is practically guaranteed at this point."

"They'll surely be cutting corners on something."

"We should use these documents to shut the project down and get a different contractor selected. So that people like Cho Eun-sun and Seongdo Construction can't make a single won off corruption."

Moon Sung-il gathered the papers, saying he would arrange exactly that.

Then, suddenly, he chuckled.

"Jeong Su-hwan of Seongdo Construction has no idea. That because of one Kim Yunho, CEO, living in Ugok 1-ri, he's about to be forcibly dropped from the redevelopment project and thrown in handcuffs."

"Keep it that way. Forever. I hate complications."

"I'll spread the word that it came from a public interest tip."

Soon, Seongdo Construction would be under investigation on charges of paying six point eight billion won in bribes and providing lavish entertainment to the union leader.

SD Financial, which bankrolled Seongdo Construction, would find its knees buckling.

After winning the redevelopment contract, it had sucked enormous sums out of the banking sector and from investors—money it would now have to return, every last won of it.

County Governor Na Jeong-hwan had decided to launch an internal investigation into SD Financial over the Ugok 5-ri auction affair. Bundled together with Seongdo Construction.

And Boram Loan's figurehead chairman was already under investigation, all because Cho Eun-sun had sent people to tail me.

The questions would come hard and heavy: why would a moneylending operation travel all the way out to the countryside to pitch loans at returning farmers?

Seongdo Construction, SD Financial, Boram Loan—all of them under investigation now, or about to be.

Soon they'll collapse, or every last one of them will end up behind bars.

If Cho Eun-sun truly had the power of foresight, she would learn of her bleak future before long.

She might even come looking for me to cut a deal.

I gave a small laugh and said to Moon Sung-il, "We'll finish talking about the gold when we get to your place."

"Of course."

When I turned my head, the surface of the Han River glinted gold in the night.

Seoul was a madhouse, but the Han River was still a gift. Especially at night—it was almost painfully beautiful.