Chapter 221: Money, Money, Money (5)
“So, therefore, proper marketing can be explained through the four elements I lectured about previously…”
– Tap, tap, tap.
– Scratch, scratch, scratch.
The sound of chalk tapping against the green chalkboard. And in response, the sound of pens dancing across paper filled the lecture hall.
Aside from the old professor with thick glasses speaking, and the occasional faint sound of breathing, the lecture hall was quiet enough to be called silent. In the middle of that silence, one hand slowly rose.
“Professor, I have a question.”
“Oh, a question! What is it, student?”
The elderly professor, his hair streaked with white, beamed with a wide smile.
“If what you said earlier is correct, then in modern marketing—where consumers emphasize efficiency—doesn’t the role of old-fashioned sales shrink considerably? Isn’t the era of salespeople personally visiting clients and investing valuable manpower essentially over?”
“An excellent point. Your name?”
“I’m Lim Kichan, first-year class representative.”
“Very good. Mr. Kichan, I’d like you to stop by my office after class today.”
“…Pardon?”
Huh. Shit. Something about this feels wrong.
For some reason, the more the seconds ticked by, the more my chest grew cold—like a condemned prisoner waiting for execution.
“Right on the hour. That’s all for today’s lecture. Enjoy your weekend, everyone, and I’ll see you Monday morning.”
“““Thank you for the lecture, Professor.”””
As I hurriedly stuffed my notebook and tablet PC into my bag and tried to slip out through the back door—
“Mr. Kichan?”
“Y-Yes?”
“Hahaha, where are you going? Come along.”
“Yes, sir.”
Following the professor up the stairs, I soon saw the office door with the professor’s three-character name neatly written on the plaque.
“Come in.”
“Yes, sir.”
When someone can snap their fingers and magically change an A+ into a D-, what resistance can I possibly put up? I should just be grateful I haven’t turned into dust yet. Grateful, very grateful.
“Do you like tea? Or coffee?”
“…Coffee would be great, thank you.”
“Haha, I like coffee too. Looks like Mr. Kichan and I have quite a few things in common.”
“…Haha.”
“Here you go. Coffee.”
“Thank you…”
I’m screwed. However I look at this, there’s no way out.
My mouth had gone completely dry, so I quietly accepted the instant coffee the professor handed me and gulped it down.
Hmm. This taste is very stable. Is it Maxim Mocha Gold?
“About the question you asked earlier.”
“Cough!!”
Right to the point? Please give me a moment to calm my nerves.
But the professor continued without caring.
“Mr. Kichan, have you ever heard of a man named Choi Jisung, who once served as vice chairman of Samsung?”
“I’ve… never heard of him.”
…Why are you looking at me like that? And why are you licking your lips?!
– There’s no need to overthink. Charge in first; thinking can come later.
Vice Chairman Choi Jisung.
A monster who went to Germany with nothing but the clothes on his back and, within just three years, raised the European semiconductor division’s annual revenue from zero to 125 million dollars. And during those three years, aside from Choi Jisung himself, that division did not have a single employee.
Behind that absurd growth was a monstrous anecdote: he memorized the entire German telephone directory, drank dozens of cups of espresso a day, personally drove a truck loaded with semiconductors, and visited thousands of electronics companies himself.
Of course, his later years were not good after he became entangled in politics, but for a business student, there’s no way not to know him.
And so I came all the way to this distant Italy myself. Even if I couldn’t imitate that monstrous man one hundred percent, surely I could at least try.
After all, the only things I’ve got are sheer grit and stubbornness. A manager standing on the brink of bankruptcy can do anything.
“…So what you’re saying is that you, the Chancellor, want me—the Pope—to baptize that card?”
“That is correct.”
“…Are you serious?”
Of course I’m serious.
Reading my expression, Pius VI said with a dizzy look,
“…This is quite embarrassing.”
After saying that, he stared silently into space for a moment, then gestured for everyone nearby—priests and guards alike—to withdraw.
“Chancellor Guillaume.”
“Yes, Your Holiness.”
“Now that there’s no one listening, speak frankly. What do you want?”
“What do I want?”
“You want Avignon? Fine, I’ll give it to you! It’s in Gaul anyway—what right do I have to argue? I won’t even complain further about the clergy’s ill-gotten wealth that the revolutionary government confiscated!”
Whoa. Has this old man been bottling things up all this time? Maybe we should hire him a therapist.
The aging Pope now lashed out at me, even making the kind of passionate gestures typical of Italians.
“But the clergy’s civil jurisdiction I absolutely cannot relinquish—!”
“Your Holiness, I’m not sure what you mean, but there isn’t a single lie in what I said.”
I pulled out the bundle of cards wrapped in paper from my coat and held them out. The Pope’s eyes widened.
“…You were serious?”
“I’ve been saying I’m serious the whole time.”
“I… see.”
The Pope, who had been burning with fighting spirit moments ago, suddenly sagged like a deflated balloon.
“Baptism, baptism. Well, I suppose it’s not impossible. But before that, may I ask you one thing, Chancellor?”
“What is it?”
“Why on earth does that piece of card need my baptism?”
“Well…”
What should I say? Should I just say it plainly? Something like, Want to make money together?
Or should I give him some lip service? All for the advancement of the Catholic world and for the Lord and the Virgin Mary—blah blah.
Hmm. The first option seems better.
For a moment I wondered if I should spare the old man’s mental health, but since he’ll end up taking the red pill anyway, wouldn’t it be better to get it over with? They say it’s better to take the beating early.
“As Your Holiness surely knows, our Catholic priests seem more interested in guarding coffers filled with personal greed than in guarding the Ark of the Covenant described in the Bible.”
“What—what are you saying?! That’s practically an insult to the entire Catholic Church!”
“Then what do you think about the three billion livres of church property I confiscated?”
“…That is… merely the wrongdoing of a few individuals, not the will of the Lord—”
“If it were only a few individuals, would a nationwide revolution have erupted?”
“….”
Did I hit too painful a spot for an opening blow? The Pope’s complexion darkened rapidly.
Oh dear. He looks quite old already—if he collapses from high blood pressure, I’ll look like a complete bastard.
“Your Holiness, I spoke a little aggressively just now, but I swear I have no intention of opposing the Holy See. It’s just… how should I put it. The Bible never says that the Lord or Jesus declared card games to be Satan’s play. Yet our priests get extremely furious about games, don’t they?”
When nobles gamble with cards, they quietly join in and play along. But when commoners play cards to pass the time, they suddenly become stern and solemn: ‘You scoundrels! How dare you play Satan’s game!’—and they interfere.
“…So you want me to baptize the cards so such things won’t happen?”
“That’s part of it.”
“Part of it?”
“There’s also a secondary purpose.”
I continued with a bright smile.
From the day he was ordained as a priest until he rose to the papacy, Pius VI had never once uttered coarse words.
But this man before him… wasn’t he completely insane?
“I will give the Holy See 0.1 percent of the profit from each deck of cards sold.”
“Share the profit? What on earth are you talking about…?”
“Our priests—honestly, they talk too much. Wouldn’t you agree? No matter how devout and righteous Your Holiness may be, some of the priests beneath you are greedy. You can’t deny that, can you?”
“…That is true.”
“So this is my proposal. With the profits I give you, the Holy See directly pays the priests their salaries.”
If the Holy See pays their wages, then like any salaried employee, they’ll bow to whoever pays them. If that happens, the papal authority that had weakened among the clergy will at least regain some strength.
“Why offer such a proposal to me? What benefit could you possibly gain from it, Chancellor?”
“Well… ah. Let me ask you to think about dogs for a moment.”
“…Dogs?”
“Dogs are very clever animals. They clearly distinguish between the master who feeds them and strangers. They never bite their master, but they bite intruders.”
“Are you comparing our priests to dogs right now?”
“No. I’m comparing those pieces of trash—who produce nothing, stuff their own pockets while draining the lifeblood of the common people, ignore the Pope’s commands, and spout ridiculous sophistry.”
And those pieces of trash, thanks to their sly instincts, never attack the people who fill their bellies. The young Frenchman added,
“I’ll be free from those parasites, and Your Holiness can strengthen papal authority. Isn’t that a win-win?”
“…To speak such blasphemous words so freely… aren’t you afraid of standing before the judgment seat after death?”
“I’ve died once already. There was nothing like that.”
“Hah.”
At that moment, Pius VI finally realized what kind of man stood before him.
This man simply removes whatever blocks his path. Like a janitor sweeping away dust, he removes obstacles without any particular emotion. His methods were still relatively gentle for now—but if he ever snapped, what might he do?
While Pius’s head filled with complicated thoughts, the young Frenchman scratched his head awkwardly and said,
“Oh, and please don’t think about it too politically, Your Holiness.”
“…?”
“Isn’t the original role of the clergy to spread the Gospel, educate the common people, and provide relief?”
“…That is correct.”
He lifted the bundle of cards again.
“But it turns out these are incredibly effective at curing illiteracy among children. Wow! Our kids are actually trying to learn the alphabet on their own! Isn’t that amazing?”
“…And?”
“And what do you mean, ‘and’? Your Holiness. These cards—officially certified by the Holy See as the only cards free from Satan’s grasp—will soon cure illiteracy among our children. You should be dancing with joy!”
He could not keep up with the rhythm of this conversation at all. Just moments ago, the man had seemed like a Richelieu-like statesman. Now the statesman had turned into a clown.
“Oh, and if you don’t like the cards, just let me know anytime. If you want cards like The Victory of Canossa or The Trumpets of Jericho, I’ll make them immediately.”
“…Do as you wish.”
In the end, Pius VI could only raise both hands in surrender.