University Acquisition
Nyanbyeol turned off her broadcast.
“Haa.”
A sigh escaped her lips. Her face was etched with worry. In truth, this was a situation that never should have arisen in her current vibe. After all, she was at the height of her popularity right now.
It’s all because of Jaewoo-oppa.
Shin Jaewoo now dropped by her personal streams every so often. Whenever he showed up, the chat exploded with even more activity. Just his presence alone sparked it. And there was something else. She’d definitely benefited from having a top donor. Daily #1 spot. Her fans were thrilled. More people were tuning in, declaring it her era.
It’s definitely great. Awesome, even… but…
Shin Jaewoo’s stake in her success was just too massive. That fact filled her with dread. The moment he left, everything would change.
“But oppa’s talking like he’ll be leaving soon… I know there’s still a long way to go, but…”
She muttered her grievances into the empty air.
Shin Jaewoo’s spending pace was blistering. He didn’t hit the top donor spot on Serchodong often anymore, and he rarely sent star balloons there. Sure, when he did, it was over 100,000—but those days were in the past. Lately, he was barely sending any to Kuni hyungnim either.
If this keeps up, when Jaewoo-oppa really becomes the top donor…
He didn’t limit himself to just star balloons during Excel events for Kuni. He showered them freely otherwise too. That’s why he’d dropped a whopping 900,000 the moment he joined one stream. For the record, that day Shin Jaewoo had donated 1.2 million on his main account alone.
At this rate, even 30 million doesn’t feel like much.
Her worries deepened.
Lately, Shin Jaewoo had gotten hooked on watching Excel streams. Probably because of his self-proclaimed “picks.” Plus, the back-and-forth banter among the members grew more entertaining with each event.
“Though I’ve been getting a weird influx of DMs lately.”
Some truly bizarre people were sliding into his messages. Begging and promo spam were standard fare. But there were even freakier ones, like “You wanna waste that cash on those black sheep idiots?”
Why do these people even send this crap?
They could’ve just sent hate mail to him directly, since he was the one doling out the cash. Shin Jaewoo clicked his tongue. The world was full of weirdos.
“Right now, my people matter more than those clowns.”
And the definition of “my people” was about to expand a lot. It all kicked off with the meeting happening soon.
Shin Jaewoo’s super penthouse. The place operated under the Daniel Foundation’s name. Today, it would finally live up to that title.
Whew.
Shin Jaewoo took a deep breath, tension evident. This was his first venture as foundation director. And the person he was meeting today…
Knock knock.
He pushed the thought aside as he heard the knock.
“Come in.”
With his permission, the door opened. The woman entering flashed a flicker of surprise.
“…I pictured the director as some seasoned elder, but you’re younger than I expected.”
“I was bracing for some old-timer myself… but I’m thrilled to be chatting with a beauty instead.”
Smooth words flowed from Shin Jaewoo’s lips. A compliment on her looks, delivered with unflappable charm.
Stuff I never could’ve said back then…
He’d changed a lot. Probably the money boosting his confidence.
“Anyway, I’m truly grateful for this deal.”
She bowed toward him. Shin Jaewoo eyed her curiously.
“Didn’t expect a thank-you… Don’t you think it’s a shame?”
He asked her directly. The woman before him was the chairwoman of Baekje University. More precisely, of Go Juntak Baekje Academy.
The daughter of Baekje University’s founder.
She was a Baekje alumna herself. She gave a wry smile.
“…Honestly, yeah, it’s a shame. But what can I do? It’s because of my poor management skills.”
It wasn’t solely her fault, though.
Most universities nationwide are underenrolled these days.
Universities weren’t for-profit enterprises like companies. They had financial limits. Student numbers were shrinking overall, while professor and staff salaries kept rising. The structure was primed for struggle. Go Yun-jeong’s situation was likely similar.
“I had to disband the university orchestra first—my own stomping grounds.”
This negotiation for the university acquisition had morphed into a listening session for Go Yun-jeong’s woes. The nitty-gritty details were probably handled by underlings anyway. So this felt right.
Her story continued. Her father, Go Juntak, had harbored big ambitions for education and the arts.
“Dad always regretted not going to college.”
How many had that chance back then? To make up for it, he’d founded Baekje University in Gongju, near Daejeon.
“About 40 years ago. Even eight years ago, at an advanced age, he wouldn’t step down as foundation chair.”
In other words, she’d taken the helm around eight years back. Roughly 40 years after opening, Baekje University now faced closure.
If no buyer emerges, it’ll really shut down.
From her tale, the foundation’s finances were worse than imagined. They’d once gotten support from an affiliate company—run by her siblings.
“I knew instruments and performance from childhood, not management. That’s how I ended up running the foundation.”
“You played an instrument?”
“Viola was my major. Conducting for my minor.”
That explained calling the orchestra her old haunt.
Come to think of it… I heard Baekje’s orchestra once. Maybe even her playing.
Back when he was still in Daejeon. Baekje had visited his school with their orchestra.
That performance was killer.
She said it disbanded about seven years ago. But that wasn’t all. Her siblings’ companies—the affiliate backers—had hit rough patches too.
“So the funding to the foundation dried up.”
That’s when her real troubles began. It wasn’t just finances. Her influence waned too.
“Before, money came from my brothers, so the board followed my lead. Once it stopped, a woman like me must’ve looked ridiculous.”
Embezzlement followed among board members. Then this year’s decisive blow: the fire. No casualties, at least—that was a mercy.
“Guess I’m cut out for instruments, not foundation management.”
That was her conclusion. Her gaze then sized up Shin Jaewoo.
He looks so young…
He appeared even younger than her. How much real-world experience could he have? Foundation management was no joke—especially acquiring a university in this economy. A huge burden.
And he steps up anyway…
It was a relief her father’s school wouldn’t close. But she worried.
“I don’t know how prepared you are, but it’ll cost a fortune.”
No profits. Pure charity.
“Annual deficits in the hundreds of millions.”
Passing this burden to an clueless young man— was that what she was doing?
Shin Jaewoo listened calmly to it all.
“You won’t hear thanks either. Faculty or students—if something irks them, they bash the board.”
Bashing the board meant slamming the chairwoman. She was prepping him for what lay ahead. But none of this happened until the acquisition was locked in. Even her signature wouldn’t seal it—Ministry of Education approval loomed.
“The university’s been neglected too long. Lots of outdated facilities.”
Including the fire-damaged ones—half-burned, needing full demo and extra costs.
“Still… you’ll really take over our university?”
Now Shin Jaewoo understood her initial gratitude.
She’s a good person.
For her father, her alma mater—or both. She genuinely wanted Baekje to survive. But that devotion had pushed her foundation to the brink. No more sustaining it.
“Even excluding upfront costs, hundreds of millions yearly going forward…”
Yet she kept warning him—out of reluctance to harm him, lingering attachment, or meddlesome goodwill. Advice from a failure, offered without overstepping.
Shin Jaewoo smiled.
“I’m really fine.”
Hundreds of millions in annual losses? Wrong. He’d be eating billions yearly.
That’s the price of upholding Grandpa’s foundation.