The Military

Present day. The gap between me and my rival from the Together Democratic Party was nothing short of despairing.

This was the D-14 poll.

When the ballot boxes were actually cracked open, 21.8 percent was never what I'd get.

All this number really meant was that nobody knew who I was.

"Candidate Min Seojun, this is from our internal survey… Your name recognition within the district stands at 15.4 percent."

"Even lower than my approval rating. I'm well aware I'm a total nobody."

"I'm terribly sorry…"

"I could be even less than a nobody. That I know too."

Only a small minority of Maesan City voters knew both my name and my face.

The election posters were already up on every wall, and yet my name carried almost no weight at all… It frankly amazed me that I was even pulling 21 percent.

'If they opened the ballot boxes, it'd probably come out higher than this, at least.'

Even the conservative-leaning voters who had reliably punched for People's Choice in the past found it hard to say they'd back a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠candidate who had dropped out of nowhere.

As election day approached, partisan consolidation would kick in and pad my numbers considerably — but that was all passive.

"If things keep going exactly like this, my defeat is a foregone conclusion."

Not a single person in the campaign office contradicted me.

Nor did anyone have the nerve to say it outright. They were all watching their tongues, I supposed.

So I laid out the situation ahead of us myself.

"If we focus on the old downtown core and sweep the traditional markets and apartment complexes like a dragnet, we'll climb quickly into the high twenties."

"…Candidate."

"After about a week, the votes will start consolidating on their own without any special trigger… let's see. Thirty percent, assuming no blunders on my part."

Then, come early voting day, another slow creep upward to around 33 percent.

And finally, on election day itself—

"Thirty-eight percent in the exit polls, with a final tally of roughly 40 percent."

"Did you run a separate analysis on that?"

"No. How much money do you think that would cost?"

"I see… Well, I agree with you regardless."

Play it safe, take 40 percent, and lose.

There was no need to waste money on a simulation.

That wasn't to say campaigning was pointless because the outcome was already written. Campaigning absolutely mattered.

Campaign like an idiot, and you could hemorrhage a few hundred votes a day.

The opposite was just as possible, of course.

'One thing never changes: the board only shifts if you do something.'

Which was why I had something in the works.

It might be old-fashioned, but they do say you never know an election until the lid comes off.

So I was doing my best, encouraging the troops, giving it my all—

"Phewww!"

And of course, right at that moment, one of the campaign part-timers let out a sigh that cut like a blade.

The mood in the office plunged.

Fortunately, I had a spell reserved for exactly these moments.

A family photo, saved on my smartphone.

'Truly a blessing that I at least have this.'

A photo of a family of five — with me cleanly cropped out of it.

My father and mother, smiling contentedly. My older sister, arms linked with Mom's, standing there with a sullen face. And my youngest sister, standing at our father's side.

On its face, the picture was… honestly, ordinary.

The only reason I could use it as a morale booster was a few offhand remarks my mother had made, utterly casual, when she'd sent it to me back then.

"Seojun, sweetheart, do you remember? When your sister passed her bar exam and we went to Spain to celebrate… oh my?"

"Why aren't you in the photo?"

"Oh, now I remember. You said you were too busy, didn't you? But Seojun… no matter how busy work gets, I do believe family should share life's happy moments together… Sigh. Never mind. I can guess how you'll respond — complaining that your mother nags about nothing."

"Still, you ought to think hard about this too. At the end of the day, the ones who remain by your side are family, you know?"

It was genuinely absurd at the time — I hadn't even known my family had gone to Europe.

No one had ever asked me to come along in the first place.

And yet my mother, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, dug up a memory that didn't exist — "Seojun turned us down because he was busy" — and used it to lecture me.

It wasn't early-onset dementia or anything of the sort.

The rest of my family was more or less the same.

Good things happened? Naturally excluded.

Family obligations? Equally mine — or heavier.

That was my place in the family.

'Thinking about it again, it's still fucking infuriating.'

The feeling was rotten, but as a restorative it worked wonders.

Because if I campaigned decently and got trampled anyway…

…I could imagine exactly how my family would react. Far too easily.

"Alright, everyone! Let's give it everything until the very end!"

Rage, sometimes, made excellent fuel.

That afternoon. The joint rally site in Segyo District.

The Together Democratic Party's candidate and I were stumping in the same time slot.

My rival's campaign jingle blared across the square.

Cast your vote for Pyeon Seongyeop! (Sha-bang, sha-bang ♪)

Happiness for our neighborhood! (Sha-bang, sha-bang ♪)

Ballot number one, Pyeon Seongyeop!

So he'd clearly spent real money on this.

He was using a track from the tier directly below "Unconditional" and "Ride the Wind" — practically the royalty standards.

Licensing fees plus arrangement costs, he'd have dropped at least seven million won, easy.

'Mine cost me six hundred thousand.'

Meanwhile, I was working with a traditional children's folk song that carried zero licensing fees.

And it wasn't just the music.

Even to the naked eye, the difference in weight class was plain.

"Candidate Min… I think we're about to get completely buried out here."

So worried the Maesan City Council candidate — the one campaigning alongside me — the only one willing to tag along.

He had a point.

The gap in headcount alone was stark.

I was shuffling around with a grand total of four people.

Over at the Daminju camp, sixteen ajummas and ajussis in matching blue windbreakers were performing synchronized dance moves.

They'd clearly drilled them well — the coordination was ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠honestly impressive.

"The gap isn't so bad after all."

"Did you just say… not so bad?"

"Yes. Not so bad."

Pyeon Seongyeop. Together Democratic Party candidate for Mayor of Maesan City.

He was a local politician who had climbed an extremely textbook ladder.

Two terms as city councilor, two terms as provincial councilor.

During his provincial stint, he'd even served as Vice Chairman of the Gyeonggi Provincial Council.

For a city of some 250,000 people, that résumé was the baseline for a mayoral run.

And honestly, he did have competence. Sixteen years as a local councilor will breed a certain political savvy in anyone.

His competitive edge was definitively superior to mine.

"A hardworking young builder of our community~ Ballot number one, Pyeon Seongyeop will be the sturdy feet of the good people of Maesan! Ballot number one! Pyeon Seongyeop!"

A man pushing sixty calling himself a young builder was a bit much.

But even that was hard to count as a weakness.

Maybe he genuinely believed he was young. That was his personal freedom.

'No winning this head-on, anyway.'

Yet knowing that wasn't why I kept loitering in front of Pyeon Seongyeop's camp for nothing.

My objective was to cross paths with Pyeon Seongyeop — that, in itself.

Once the joint rally wound down, my chance arrived.

"Hey there, my friend Min! Meeting like this, of all things!"

Pyeon Seongyeop, dragging his entourage along, greeted me like an old buddy.

Officially this was our first meeting, and he'd already dropped into informal speech… but it didn't ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠bother me.

Instead, I feigned being flustered, hesitated, then took the hand he offered.

"Ah… yes, good afternoon, sir."

"Why so glum? You've got to put some pep in it!"

"Ha ha…"

"Never dreamed I'd be running against someone this young."

The pitying once-over as his eyes swept me up and down, the crushing grip in our handshake.

Pyeon Seongyeop was looking down on me.

And that didn't discomfort me either. If anything, I was grateful for it.

"By the way… Candidate Min Seojun, was it?"

Smiling, he began steering toward something.

And in that instant, what surfaced in my mind was this man's military service record.

The line emblazoned across Pyeon Seongyeop's official campaign literature.

And if you browsed his Forest Wiki page, you'd find a staggeringly long, rambling, cinematic account of him and North Korean soldiers staring down each other's gun barrels across the DMZ.

No way his staffers had researched and written all that themselves.

Pyeon Seongyeop himself had absolutely logged it, dying to brag. There's always some politician pathologically obsessed with his own wiki page.

And politicians like that share a common trait.

"So tell me, my friend Min — you did your military service, didn't you?"

"Ha ha… well, you see…"

"Fit as a fiddle, so naturally you went and came back."

The moment an opening appears to flex their own strength, they simply cannot resist. Perhaps resisting is beyond them.

Pyeon Seongyeop hadn't brought this up out of nowhere, either.

This man had just taken the bait I'd dangled.

The military service question hanging over a conservative party candidate in his thirties?

It was nigh impossible for a creature of politics not to bite on that.

Even without touching my record, Pyeon Seongyeop had the race in hand.

But the meta of elections these days was to gnaw your opponent to the bone even in a race you were already winning.

Nipping the sprout before it grows. Or digging up the other guy's flaw purely to append another chapter of your own righteous heroics.

"Candidate Pyeon, personal questions are a bit—"

"A candidate for public office's service record is a personal matter…? My friend Min, you're talking nonsense."

"……"

"So where did you serve?"

That attitude — he'd obviously read my classification and still asked, "So where did you serve?"

I didn't fire back that his own party had more exemptions than mine.

Instead, I darted my eyes left and right as if hunting for an escape route, forced the corners of my mouth upward, and produced an agonized little smile.

All of it performed for Pyeon Seongyeop's benefit.

Then, abruptly, I straightened my face and said, "Candidate Pyeon Seongyeop… I'm very sorry, but that's a matter of personal record. Out of respect for my own privacy, I'd rather not discuss it further."

"Huh?"

"Well then, I'll be… yes, excuse me."

I brushed him off just enough, then beat a hasty retreat.

Made sure to fiddle with my smartphone as if phoning someone, too.

Giving it my all to the very end — that was the right play.

Because that way, Pyeon Seongyeop would work all the harder to make my exemption a matter of public debate.

'We're counting on you, Candidate Pyeon.'

Happily, the Daminju camp did not betray my expectations.

The next morning.

A public inquiry issued by some group I'd never heard of, aimed squarely at me.

It was the setup — the formal groundwork for lodging the accusation officially. It always went like this.

"I really must repay these folks someday."

Figuring I'd shower while I was at it, I stripped in front of the bathroom mirror.

There it was — a surgical scar shaped like an inverted L, starting at my solar plexus.

The mark I'd earned long ago, giving a piece of my liver to my baby sister.