Veratian
It was a miraculous new material of staggering value, the raw ingredient for a next-generation battery boasting absurd energy efficiency — and yet, surprisingly, the materials required to synthesize it were remarkably simple.
> The reason Veratian remained in widespread use for hundreds of years is that its main ingredients are minerals you can find anywhere on Earth. The production cost is dirt cheap.
It was at a level where South Korea could easily secure and produce it entirely on its own. Which meant that with the production process and catalyst already secured, mass-producing Veratian was a piece of cake.
> The production cost of one ton of Veratian is... 140,000 won. Considering lithium is currently quoted at 42.35 million won per ton, there's simply no comparison.
A price gap of a staggering four hundred times.
But they couldn't just give away this revolutionary new resource at cost, so for the time being it was decided to price it roughly in line with the lithium market. The official sales price of Veratian was thus set at around 38 million won per ton. It was an obscene margin — but the corporations and governments who knew nothing of that fact came flocking at what was, to them, a bargain, waging fierce lobbying campaigns and diplomatic negotiations against KG Group and the Korean government to secure as much supply as possible.
> Hand over more Veratian to us! We will pay 50% above the listed price for the additional volume!
> What do you want? If KG Group forms a strategic partnership with our Ample this time, both companies will grow far larger than they are today!
> Ahem... The US government has always regarded South Korea as a vital ally and blood brother. We have no doubt whatsoever that the Korean government will be a little more considerate of our position in these Veratian negotiations.
> The Chinese government has lifted the THAAD restrictions as of today. Please understand this as a decision made to discuss the advancement of friendship between China and Korea and a constructive future for both nations.
Considering the production cost, the price was outrageous — yet here they all were, offering premiums on top of it, scrambling to buy up more volume than their competitors. And watching this mad scramble, Alex was thoroughly enjoying himself, snickering with delight.
Wow... I can't believe there are this many people lining up to hand over their money while getting fleeced. Grandpa, you're gonna be rich in no time.
"Am I?"
Of course. The battery industry isn't all that big yet, but related markets — electric vehicles, drones, robots, unmanned aircraft — have been growing explosively lately. Once the Veratian battery hits, they'll grow even faster. According to the simulations I ran earlier...
In thirty years, the Veratian market alone will be worth at least a trillion dollars.
A trillion dollars.
Alex's prediction was that it would grow into a market worth a staggering one quadrillion won. And this was no joke — several big names in related industries already had dollar signs spinning in their eyes over Veratian.
A wizard of the stock market and a globally notorious attention-seeker — Elon, CEO of Besla. He had personally stepped forward to promote Veratian, declaring the age of oil dead and buried, and was already hyping up a new model equipped with the not-yet-released Veratian battery, gulping down his bowl of wishful thinking. Kimchi soup? No — cream soup.
At the new product launch, the CEO of Ample had eyes for nothing but the hype, declaring that no matter what, the next A-Phone would absolutely, without fail, carry a Veratian battery — his bloodshot eyes burning with determination.
Watching this farce — everyone beating drums and clashing cymbals before the gift-giver had even made up his mind — one thing was certain: demand for Veratian would explode by leaps and bounds. Once the pioneers of each industry adopted the Veratian battery, it would become not a choice but a necessity for their competitors and latecomers alike.
"Hmm... if that happens, the revenue from Veratian alone that comes our way would be..."
Roughly 300 trillion won a year.
Three hundred trillion.
An absurd sum to call annual revenue. But Alex wagged a finger as if to say, don't get ahead of yourself.
Of course, that's only if KG Group achieves a total monopoly on the Veratian market. That kind of revenue isn't realistic right now. The industries that need batteries are only just taking their first steps, so you'll have to watch and wait for a while.
"...So how much are we actually talking about?"
Assuming production and sales start this year: 60 trillion within five years, and cumulative revenue of 200 trillion within ten.
Alex's forecast came out to roughly 20 trillion won or more per year. It wasn't a satisfying figure, but as pure royalty income for doing absolutely nothing, it wasn't bad — so I nodded.
"Well... anything beyond that depends on KG Group's capabilities, I suppose."
Exactly. Foreign intelligence agencies have probably already swarmed all over them trying to steal the Veratian technology. I'd say at least two have successfully planted moles inside.
"Already...?"
Don't worry too much. The NIS has already raised KG Group's security classification to the highest level, and Veratian-related information is kept under strict secrecy even within the company. Foreign workers aren't allowed anywhere near the production facility construction sites, supposedly for security reasons.
KG Group was already paranoid about security to an almost pathological degree, but with the government involved as well, the NIS had stepped in and elevated security to an art form. So Alex spoke with a relaxed smile.
Even if KG Group's Veratian secrets leak, don't sweat it. Remember — the most critical catalyst for synthesizing Veratian is being produced and supplied directly by Limitless, isn't it? The production process matters too, but no matter how hard anyone tries, they can't make Veratian without it. So relax.
Contingency plans stacked two and three layers deep against every conceivable scenario. The odds of Veratian's dominance slipping into foreign hands were vanishingly small.
"Sir."
A knock at the door — Cheol-min, looking for me. I had no choice but to cut off my conversation with Alex.
"Yes?"
"Do you have a moment?"
"Come in."
Cheol-min opened the door and stepped inside. He glanced around the room this way and that, then abruptly asked:
"Was someone else in here with you? Besides me, I mean."
"...? No? Why do you ask?"
At my puzzled echo of his out-of-nowhere question, Cheol-min shook his head.
"It's nothing... You just seemed to be talking to someone."
My heart skipped for an instant, but I didn't let it show — I forced a calm smile, and Cheol-min quickly changed the subject.
"The transfer offers to Limitless have all been finalized. Of the twenty-six employees seconded from Ontel Korea, twelve have decided to join our company, while the remaining fourteen wish to return to Ontel Korea. We've concluded discussions with Ontel Korea on the matter, and the fourteen will return there sometime this week."
Twelve out of twenty-six.
Cheol-min's report that fewer than half had chosen to transfer — that a full fourteen had opted to go back — came as a bit of a surprise.
"They turned it down even though we offered to double their salaries...?"
Ontel was a major foreign corporation; their paychecks were already pushing nine figures a month, so a 100% raise was not an offer you could easily refuse. Yet more than half had given up the transfer. I was quietly stunned.
"It's not about the money."
"Then what is it?"
"...May I be honest with you?"
Cheol-min hesitated for a moment at my question. But he soon began to lay out the reason his employees were refusing a massive raise and heading back the way they came.
"This place is the middle of nowhere, sir. Honestly, when I first arrived... it was more of a shock than I'd imagined."
"There's exactly one convenience store in town, and the only restaurants nearby are a handful of rice-and-soup joints. Forget a big-box mart — there's just one hole-in-the-wall shop with almost nothing on the shelves. There's no school for the kids, no proper hospital. To watch a single movie, you have to drive twenty minutes into town."
"Sir, for people from Seoul... this is a place you couldn't pay them to live in, even with double the salary. The bus comes at best every thirty minutes, and getting to Seoul takes a minimum of three hours one way. Three hours."
Crumbling infrastructure. No conveniences, no cultural facilities. Miserable transportation. A distance from Seoul that felt like another world.
The reasons varied, but in the end it all came down to one thing: the quality of life here wasn't good enough. At Cheol-min's words, I gazed out the window in silence.
The peaceful scenery of a rural farming village.
Beyond the sun-warmed window, fields stretched out endlessly, and I sank into thought.
"So... in the end, it's that this town is too inconvenient and too boring to live in. Is that about right?"
"Yes...? Well... yes, I suppose so."
At my oversimplified conclusion, Cheol-min looked briefly flustered — as if he wanted to say the reasons were more complicated than that — before nodding.
And I agreed with him, up to a point.
"It's not wrong. If there's no school nearby and you have to drive your kid twenty or thirty minutes every single day, of course you'd hate living here. If you suddenly fall ill and there's no hospital that can actually treat you, forcing you to wander from place to place, you'd hate it even more."
"If even watching a movie is a struggle, if there's no chance to enjoy a proper cultural life, who would want to live there? Right?"
The provinces were dying. Countless people were abandoning the hometowns and communities they'd grown up in, flooding into Seoul and the capital region.
And the reason was clear.
Lack of infrastructure. The resulting population drain. Shrinking investment and growing neglect caused by the population shortage. Aging infrastructure and dwindling jobs. Further population drain.
This vicious cycle had repeated itself, over and over, for years on end.
And this endlessly turning loop — someone had to break it.
Which was why... I looked at Cheol-min in silence, and smiled.
"Cheol-min... no, excuse me — Director?"
"Yes...?"
"Shall we start a construction company?"
Now was exactly the time to launch the Kill the Seoul project in earnest.