The Mysterious Letter

For the record, I covered the entire bill for the meal with Jason Jang.

Given that it was quite a joyous occasion, I picked up the tab for everyone in the restaurant as well.

Was it to manage my public image?

Sorry to disappoint, but I genuinely had no such ulterior motive. The plain truth was that I simply had far too much financial leeway. There is an old saying, after all: if you adjust the cost of living to the wealth of a chaebol chairman, a whole serving of fried chicken costs barely thirty won. Would buying a few dozen of those put the slightest dent in my wallet?

Quite the opposite, actually...

"A round of applause for Geon, who bought us all chicken!"

"Woooow!"

"Kang-geon! Kang-geon!"

Watching the patrons cheer for me in an almost festival-like frenzy actually put me in a great mood. But the moment I settled the payment and stepped outside, I walked straight into a media ambush. Swarming aggressively, the reporters pounced so fast that I couldn't even begin to fathom how long they had been out there drooling in the cold.

"Chairman Kang-geon! What did you discuss inside with Jason Jang?!"

"Who paid the bill?!"

"Do you have any words for the citizens regarding this collaboration with Neovision?!"

I didn't answer a single one of their questions. I merely turned my head to look at Jason Jang, who was standing beside me. He let out a dry chuckle and flashed me a thumbs-up, as if telling me to say whatever the hell I pleased.

Turning back to face the sea of flashing cameras, I paused. Long-winded speeches had never been my style anyway.

I just...

"There is no time to explain. Hurry and invest in Seonghwa Group."

Somehow, I had really wanted to say that.

The collaboration between Neovision and Seonghwa Group was swiftly formalized. The contract scale, supply quotas, the scope of technical sharing, joint development for next-generation hardware—all of it required separate negotiations and exhaustive reviews. Yet the market already understood what had transpired. The premier conglomerate of the Korean Empire and one of the twin pillars of the global AI industry had firmly joined hands. And this was no simple supply agreement or one-off fling, either.

Naturally, there were always skeptics.

"Why Seonghwa, of all companies?"

"Isn't Seonghwa still unstable?"

"With a groundbreaking architecture like Orion, there are bound to be enterprises where Neovision could reap far greater benefits. For instance, AT or Z1..."

Jason Jang was bombarded with virtually identical questions from every reporter he met.

However...

"Then what have those companies shown me?"

"Pardon...?"

The questioning reporter was struck dumb. Jason Jang merely chuckled with easy nonchalance.

"AT is a magnificent enterprise. The same goes for Z1. They, too, possess colossal capital, formidable engineering, and dominant market shares." He conceded the point without hesitation. "However, I wasn't simply shopping around for the biggest corporation out there."

The larger an enterprise grew, the more cautious and hesitant its leadership became. They waited to see who would make the first move, where the market tilted, and how they could squeeze out more leverage for themselves.

Kang-geon, however, was fundamentally different.

"He boldly stepped forward first. He built the stage himself, and he took the risk upon his own shoulders. Before negotiations were even settled, before the terms were completely hammered out, he declared with absolute conviction before the eyes of the entire world that Seonghwa was ready to be Neovision's partner." Jason Jang flashed a bright grin. "I like that youthful audacity. That is a rare, extraordinary force you seldom find in an enterprise of Seonghwa's scale and engineering caliber."

And Seonghwa Group is unstable? What a complete joke.

People were far too fixated on surface-level snapshots. What truly mattered in a corporation? Preventing crises before they ever occurred? Hardly. Disasters struck without warning from the blindest of angles. Even with thorough preparation, preventing them entirely was impossible. Therefore, when calamity hit, the true measure of an enterprise was how swiftly it could rise back to its feet.

From that perspective, Seonghwa Group had ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠weathered an unprecedented catastrophe: the fatal mass poisoning of its entire direct owner line. Yet they hadn't collapsed. Instead, within a breathtakingly brief span of time, they had calmed the markets, brought internal turmoil under control, and begun marching out onto the global stage once more.

And standing firmly at the center of that miracle, of course, was Kang-geon.

Jason Jang was suddenly reminded of their conversation at the chicken joint—the way the young man had evaluated himself as deeply lacking. Yet Jason didn't see it that way at all. Those who were genuinely incompetent never even realized their own deficiencies. Instead, they foolishly believed they knew everything and deluded themselves into thinking they were always in the right. Such people inevitably steered corporations into mortal peril—especially when dealing with colossal conglomerates. A single delusion from an arrogant chairman could upend the livelihoods of countless employees, convulse entire markets, and shake the foundational industries of an empire.

Kang-geon was different. The boy was acutely aware of his shortcomings, yet he had never once backed down. That alone was more than enough.

In twenty years? No, I wonder what kind of monster he'll have grown into in just ten. Recalling the youth who bore such a striking resemblance to late Founding Chairman Kang Seong-cheol, Jason Jang smirked. At his core, Jason was still a businessman through and through, which meant he never entered a deal that lost money. And from that angle, this might very well turn out to be the most lucrative venture of his life...

The alliance between Seonghwa Group and Neovision commanded international spotlight as a next-generation power bloc, but its shockwaves were felt most intensely on the domestic front.

While the entire Korean Empire was boiling over with discussions about Kang-geon and Seonghwa Group...

"Ah... to pull off a partnership with Neovision as well! Could there be a more flawless, magnificent achievement? I could die right now without lingering regrets—"

Yoon Chang-seop, who had entered the executive office to deliver a briefing, wept tears of profound emotion as he gazed upon Kang-geon. Kang-geon stared back at the old executive with a completely flat, deadpan expression.

"Ha? Die without regrets? Has this old man gone senile again? If your report is finished, get back to your desk and do your job."

Despite the frosty dismissal, Yoon Chang-seop bowed deeply without a single word of complaint and stepped out of the office. Kang-geon then leaned back into his executive chair and listened to Choi Yuna's administrative briefing.

These days, his daily schedule consisted almost exclusively of listening to reports. After all, once Kang-geon laid the groundwork and blew open the stage, hyper-competent executives like Yoon Chang-seop and Choi Yuna cleaned up the aftermath and executed the logistics flawlessly. Because of that, Kang-geon had been harboring a private dilemma lately.

I just want to rest for a few days.

Had he been sprinting too hard without catching his breath? Kang-geon desperately wanted a brief vacation. Now that ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the partnership with Neovision had officially set sail, Seonghwa Group would fully normalize in short order under its momentum. In fact, the conglomerate might very well emerge significantly larger than it had ever been. Having pulled off results of this magnitude, he felt he had fulfilled his obligations as chairman and then some. Surely nobody could begrudge him asking for a little bit of downtime.

Unfortunately, Kang-geon's wish was not meant to be granted. To be precise, it couldn't be.

"Chairman." Choi Yuna set an envelope down on his desk.

By all appearances, it was an ordinary piece of mail. A clean, white envelope bearing neatly penned calligraphy designating the recipient:

To: Kang-geon, Chairman of Seonghwa Group

Yet something was decidedly strange—

"And the sender?"

"Unidentified."

Kang-geon crossed his arms, looking down at the envelope with narrowed eyes. "Then there's a high probability it's just a prank."

"While that remains a distinct possibility, the recipient was explicitly designated as the Chairman, making it difficult for the Secretariat to dispose of it arbitrarily."

"Is it dangerous?"

"Screening has concluded. No hazardous materials or biological agents were detected." Choi Yuna briefly glanced down at the envelope before continuing with her usual icy composure. "Therefore, we determined it was most appropriate for you to inspect it in person."

Kang-geon fell into contemplative silence. An anonymous letter in a world governed by makjang soap-opera tropes...? Why did this cliché feel so uncomfortably familiar? Was it a death threat targeting his life? Or perhaps classified evidence proving his biological father wasn't actually late Vice Chairman Kang Jun-hyuk after all? Whatever it was, he had a strong premonition that something intensely dizzying was written inside.

Then again, what was the point of agonizing over possibilities? Kang-geon reached out, tore open the seal, and slid out the folded stationery from within.

And written upon the crisp paper were words that stopped him cold...

"..."

Yep. It definitely was a headache-inducing cliché, all right.