Every Day an Election, Every Day a War

The primary election was conducted online and via ARS automated phone voting.

The moment online voting opened at nine in the morning, the campaign staff began monitoring the real-time turnout. The numbers were climbing fast from the very first hour.

"Turnout is higher than in past primaries."

Kang Seol-heon said, eyes on the screen. Her voice was as calm as ever, but there was a razor-sharp glint in her eyes.

Established politicians who relied on party machinery were visibly uneasy about the wild card of online voting. They could consolidate votes through their networks, sure — but online voting was structured so that even unaffiliated, neutral party members could participate with ease.

Especially the younger members, the people who had never cared much for politics. If they started picking up their smartphones and pressing a button on a whim — just to give it a try — that could become a current no one could control.

As the hours passed, the tension inside the camp kept rising. Nobody said it out loud, but the former vice mayor's camp had to be on just as high an alert.

Then, at six in the evening, voting closed. The office suddenly fell silent. No one said a word.

Only one thing remained now. The announcement of the results.

* * *

That night, the ballots were counted. With the primary conducted entirely online, the results came quickly. The ARS votes were close, but the online numbers showed support well beyond what anyone had predicted.

And in the final tally, a wide gap opened up.

"The Democratic Republican Party's final candidate for Mayor of Yeojin — Yeo Mu-jin!"

The camp fell silent for an instant. Then the cheers erupted. I drew a deep breath.

I won.

Kang Seol-heon extended her hand.

"Congratulations, Candidate."

I took her hand and smiled.

"The real race starts now."

The primary was over, but the general election still lay ahead.

I made the rounds of event halls, markets, parks, and village community centers, greeting residents and shaking hands.

"Well now, he's young!"

"You're running for mayor? You certainly look sharp enough."

"You're the Assemblyman's son, aren't you? Wow, now that's promising."

I heard the same lines dozens of times a day. This was a special by-election, held because the sitting mayor had fallen from grace over corruption and election law violations.

It wasn't some great political upheaval — not an election that would redraw the existing power structure or produce sweeping change.

Besides, I had just cleared the primary in the Democratic Republican Party's own backyard. From where I stood, this was nothing more than a practice game.

Frankly, unless I tripped over my own feet, there was no way I could lose.

My competitor was a candidate the ruling party had hastily put forward, with no local organization to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠speak of. My father's side was funding the campaign, and the machinery was already in place.

The policies were all in my head, and barring any blunders, the outcome was already written.

Kang Seol-heon looked at me.

"Candidate, aren't you being a little too complacent?"

She fixed me with a sharp-eyed stare.

I shrugged.

"It's a game I can't lose, is all."

She let out a light sigh, then nodded.

"That may be true. But listen — the people you're meeting now are people you'll keep running into in this small community for years to come. Treat them with the utmost care and sincerity. Of course, you're already doing well, but even one small slip could land you in hot water you never asked for."

I smiled and nodded. It went without saying. Politics was, in the end, the business of dealing with people. But her expression remained firm.

After a brief silence, she spoke again.

"Are you planning to be satisfied with just this mayoral election in Yeojin? You're young — aren't you drawing up a bigger picture for yourself? Now that you've started down this road, you can't intend to end it as mayor of a small city, can you?"

For a moment, I faltered. Winning was a certainty. But I hadn't thought deeply about ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠what came after.

She didn't miss my hesitation, and pressed again.

"Is it simply one term as mayor and done? Or do you… have something bigger in mind?"

At that question, my heart began to pound. I closed my hand slowly into a fist.

"Of course. I intend to draw a much bigger picture."

I said it quietly, with a smile.

But in my head, a world entirely different from the 'bigger picture' she was imagining was already unfolding. Kang Seol-heon's vision of a political ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠career was clear enough.

City councilor, National Assembly member, provincial governor, minister, all the way to president. A staircase, climbed step by measured step. But I was different.

In this life, I had no intention of being mayor once and stopping there.

I would design this city. Lead it. Transform it. I would turn the utopia I had dreamed of into reality.

People are often mistaken about this — they believe that a higher office means greater power, that climbing higher lets you do more. But reality says otherwise.

Yeojin City may be small, but the person who wields the most powerful authority here is the mayor. An Assembly member or a provincial governor may look more exalted on paper, but the practical administrative power rests with the mayor.

A governor sets broad regional policy; an Assembly member does little more than coordinate budgets with the central government.

The mayor is different. The mayor plans policy directly with civil servants, executes it, and changes the city. Once the mayor sets a direction, the entire administration moves with it — and policy becomes reality.

I was about to gain the power to build the world's greatest utopia. This wasn't merely about satisfying political ambition. I had been handed the chance to actually implement everything I had dreamed and imagined.

Every scrap of knowledge I had accumulated in my previous life was still inside me. The currents of global urban planning, how to handle administrative bureaucrats, the hard-won experience of clashing with ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠citizens over development. And practical insight that no established politician possessed.

Now, at last, the stage for all of it was laid out before me — and I was supposed to leave this place? Absolutely not. Four years per mayoral term. Since I was entering by special election, my first term would be two years, and I could succeed myself twice. Ten years in all to lead this city.

For the next ten years, the mayor of Yeojin City would be me. Yeo Mu-jin.

* * *

After the primary came a little over two months of campaigning. I'd expected it to be easy.

It was my father Yeo Byeong-guk's district, and the organization was rock solid. I didn't think there was even a need to plan the campaign meticulously. The policies were already in my head.

All I had to do, I figured, was meet people, shake hands, and greet them enthusiastically.

But then the primary ended, the campaign began, and once I was actually out on the ground, it turned out to be a far more grueling war than I had imagined. At five in the morning, my phone would ring.

Without fail, every single day began with one of these calls.

I'd rub my eyes, drag myself out of bed, and open my smartphone to check the news. Something I could never have imagined doing before. Me, following the news. In the past I'd only watched the national broadcasts now and then, and paid little attention to local coverage.

I had studied urban planning, so I only glanced at regional news when a development issue came up.

But now, Yeojin City news mattered more to me than the national news ever had.

I had to know exactly what was happening in this region. Only then could I hold a natural conversation when I met people.

Candidate, you saw the article about the market road construction yesterday, didn't you?

When someone asked me that, I needed an answer that matched.

What was that about?

If I answered like that, the conversation — and my credibility — ended right there.

Honestly, it would be lovely if someone compiled the local issues for me every day, but right now there was no capacity for it. Everyone was buried in the campaign. Who had the time to put together digests on the side?

Once I became mayor, though, everything would change. City officials would report the local news to me daily.

The mayor's press office would scrap news and newspaper coverage, organize it before dawn, and share it across the whole city. In the past, each department had subscribed to its own newspapers, but at some point that culture had faded, and a single department compiled all the news into a PDF. By the time civil servants arrived at work, a neatly bound news digest was already posted on the administrative network.

Back then, keeping up with local news would come naturally. But for now, I had to gather every scrap of it myself.

And once the day started like this, there was never a moment to breathe.

Events ran from morning on, lunch was a single roll of kimbap wolfed down in the car between stops, and then I was off to the next appointment.

All afternoon: handshakes, photos, speeches, more handshakes.

Then evening came, and it finally felt like the day was over. But every single time, Kang Seol-heon would appear at my elbow.

"Candidate, you still have an evening engagement."

"What? There's more?"

"Tonight it's an unofficial dinner with local business leaders."

"Can't we stop doing this already? I really just want to rest for a bit."

"Politicians have no personal time. Trust is built only when you meet people in person. And… schedules like these will continue even after the election ends."

That was when it finally dawned on me. The hard part wasn't the campaign itself — it was the far more dreadful reality that this was how my life was going to run from now on.

For a month straight, not a single day went by without a packed schedule. Passing midnight before I finally reached home, I would all but collapse onto the bed.

And the next morning, five a.m. The phone would ring again. And so the day repeated.

"Good heavens — is this really how politicians have to live?"

Kang Seol-heon gave a small laugh.

"It does get busier during elections, Candidate. But this is what a politician's everyday life looks like."

Only then did I understand why my father — Assemblyman Yeo Byeong-guk — was always rushing about from dawn until late at night.

A while back, my mother had asked him to take out the food waste, and I remembered how, out of nowhere, he had gone to put on a full suit. Curious, I'd asked him about it.

"Do you really need a suit for that?"

He nodded and answered, "A suit is a politician's uniform. If I went out in shorts and slippers and someone saw me, word would spread in no time and the gossip would write itself. You have to look prepared at all times. Wander around looking shabby and get a photo taken, and that very instant your image takes the hit."

I tilted my head and asked again. "These days, though, don't people actually like a humble, unpretentious look better than an authoritative one?"

My father answered immediately, with a laugh. "Some young folks think that way, I suppose. But those people generally don't bother showing up at the polling place. The ones who critique and pick apart my every move, on the other hand — they're the ones who follow politics closely and pay attention. In the end, I have to live by that code."

I thought about that for a long while after. Honestly, someone ought to film a documentary about politicians' lives.

In dramas and movies, politicians are always feasting on lavish banquets and barking orders at their subordinates from a position of comfort — but reality was nothing like it. Was there any job more brutal than this?

I remembered my old life, working "Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Friday, Friday." Even then, the work and the people had stressed me out — but I'd had no idea it could get this bad.

Back then I'd at least had fixed duties and a limited circle of people to deal with. Now I had to face dozens, sometimes hundreds of people every single day.

I let out a long sigh. It was finally sinking in. Even after this election was over, my life would be a war — every single day.