A Ten Trillion Won Lawsuit

Courtroom battles in movies and dramas are endlessly thrilling.

Two lawyers locked in a fierce war over legal interpretation, trading arguments, producing the decisive piece of evidence, calling the witness who flips the whole game — the very stage of catharsis itself.

But real courtroom battles were nothing like those scenes on screen.

Aside from trial dates held once every two weeks at the shortest, or once every few months at the longest, everything proceeded on paper alone. Courtroom battles were nothing but a suffocatingly boring, frustrating, and interminable procession of paperwork. That was why most ordinary people gave up on litigation altogether unless the matter was truly serious.

Not many people could stomach a dragging, five-plus-year courtroom fight while paying lawyer fees that ran into the tens of millions — no, into the hundreds of millions — just to recover a measly bit of compensation.

And so, in disputes between corporations and individuals, the advantage naturally lay with the corporation.

For an individual to fight a company armed with vast capital and elite personnel meant abandoning daily life and pouring in nearly their entire fortune. It meant betting almost everything they had.

And even if they accepted all of that, the odds of an individual actually winning were vanishingly slim.

Especially against KS, the corporate giant that controlled most of the nation's core telecommunications ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠network.

"Hey, Lee. You see the complaint that came in?"

"Yes, sir. I've reviewed it."

"What did those bastards write in it?"

Cho Sang-ho, attorney and head of KS Telecom's in-house legal team, was asking his subordinate about the complaint filed today by a group suing KS Telecom in a class action.

"They're demanding 400,000 won per person in damages for the personal data breach."

"...How many claimants?"

"Around 1,800. The total claim comes to... roughly 8 billion won."

Eight billion won.

For a company like KS Telecom, which raked in 20 trillion won in annual revenue and 2 trillion in operating profit, it was pocket change. Cho Sang-ho gave the complaint a cursory skim and snorted with a smirk.

"Some people really have too much time on their hands. I mean, they're paying 300,000 won each in attorney fees to recover 400,000 won... aren't they netting a whole 100,000? And they're joining a lawsuit that'll drag on four, five years for that pocket change? Does that even sound sane to you?"

"It's the lawyer who filed it who wins here. From what I can tell, they never intended to win in the first place. Looks like they're just using the opportunity to drum up fee business."

"Ever since law schools started churning out graduates, we've gotten all kinds of strange lawyers, haven't we? Look at them picking fights they obviously know they'll lose. This is called a class action, but it's really just a show. A goddamn show."

Bottom-tier lawyers trying to make a name for themselves off this opportunity. Reading through the complaints they'd sent over, he felt not the slightest flicker of unease.

"Let's go with maximum delay strategy. Drag it out so the third trial doesn't wrap up for five years... no, make it seven. By then they'll all be worn out and drop off on their own. Besides, after a year or so they'll have lost interest and won't even remember it."

"Yes, sir."

"And even if we lose, if we drag it out to seven years the statute of limitations expires and the rest of the victims can't sue even if they want to. If this whole thing gets buried for 8 billion won, that's as good as a win."

This was a fight... that KS absolutely could not lose.

Lee Ji-hye, a Grade 8 court official working in the civil intake office of the Seoul Central District Court.

Today, as always, she was passing another dull, uneventful day in the same endless routine.

One person raged about being scammed out of money; another wept that merely looking at their spouse's face made them want to vomit.

Each one might have been a fascinating story to an ordinary person, but to her these big and small disputes had long since become familiar daily fare. So no matter what story she heard, she registered the submitted documents into the system with mechanical indifference, processing paperwork at speed.

That is, until a young male claimant with a bored expression appeared at her window.

"I'd like to file a damages lawsuit."

"Yes. Let me check the documents you're submitting."

Ji-hye quickly reviewed the claim amount and the gist of the suit, checking for missing materials or errors. She had processed countless damages claims before — but this time, she found herself frozen, staring at the contents.

"...?"

A claim amount so enormous it was hard to even count the zeros. For a moment she wondered if this was some kind of prank, and she looked up.

"Excuse me... did you write this claim amount correctly?"

"Sorry? Yes, it's correct."

"You're... claiming 10 trillion won in damages?"

"Yes. That's right."

Even after double-checking, she simply couldn't believe it. But perhaps reading the disbelief written all over her face, the man waved a hand.

"Take a look at the contents. Then it'll make sense."

At those words, Ji-hye began rapidly skimming the documents with trembling hands. And the more she read, the more she realized that this was no joke. This was real.

This was no half-hearted, probing lawsuit. Every conceivable kind of evidence and document had been meticulously prepared — a complaint that made it abundantly clear the blade had been properly sharpened before it came here. And its contents were grave beyond measure.

An optical semiconductor...? That technology was stolen in this hack?

As if to prove it was no joke, mountains of analysis materials and reports had been submitted as evidence. And only then did Ji-hye properly confirm the name of the person filing this lawsuit.

"..."

A name that had lately become famous to the point that no one in the country hadn't heard of it. Kang Gun.

The genius scientist who had developed the optical semiconductor technology that stunned the entire world — and the man who had suddenly plunged into the construction business with trillions of won — had walked in carrying the largest civil damages suit in the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠history of Korean jurisprudence. Ji-hye could barely find her voice.

"Is there anything missing, by any chance?"

"...No, the documents look fine."

"Then may I go ahead and file it like this?"

Kang Gun beamed and asked again, as if this were no joke at all but dead serious. At his question, Ji-hye felt cold sweat break out on her forehead.

What do I do...?

She hesitated, wondering whether she should really accept this filing. A situation that soared far beyond common sense — something outright unreal, happening in reality. But knowing there was nothing technically wrong with it, she entered the document contents into the system according to procedure, and spoke.

"The filing fee for the lawsuit comes to... roughly 35 billion won. Will that be all right?"

Just to start a single lawsuit, an astronomical sum of 35 billion won.

It was madness no ordinary person would even attempt — but the man pulled a card from his wallet with perfect naturalness and asked:

"Do you take card?"

"..."

And so...

The largest civil lawsuit in the judicial history of the Republic of Korea had begun.

A damages lawsuit quietly filed at the courthouse.

But its scale was so absurd that word spread fast — before even half a day had passed, it was in the news, radiating outward in every direction.

A mega-scoop.

The KS Telecom hacking incident had first erupted in massive public outrage, but as the situation dragged on without progress, public interest had been fading. Then the unexpected scoop appeared — and the dying embers, fed fresh kindling... no, an entire tanker truck of fuel, roared back to life with unstoppable force.

"CEO! CEO! Just one word about the lawsuit you filed against KS Telecom! Please!"

"Was the optical semiconductor technology really leaked to the outside?"

"Has the identity of the hackers been revealed?"

"Just give me one story! If I don't land an interview this time either, I'm seriously getting fired! CEO!"

Reporters from every major terrestrial broadcaster, plus cable and internet news outlets, had all swarmed Limitless headquarters and set up camp outside. Normally he avoided media contact and turned down every interview — but this time was different.

"I'll give you a brief statement on my position, so please settle down."

The reporters' eyes gleamed with desperate, begging-for-something-anything expressions. Feeling like ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I was looking at a pack of hyenas, I began tossing them the prey they wanted.

"First of all, it's true that I was hacked. My smartphone, which contained the optical semiconductor technology, was compromised, and the entry point for the hacking program was KS Telecom's system update patch file. The National Intelligence Service has confirmed this as final, so I don't think it's something anyone can dispute."

"The hackers' identities are still under investigation, but personally, I doubt we'll ever uncover who they really are. Of course, the fundamental responsibility for this incident lies with the hackers — but I believe KS Telecom also bears serious responsibility."

"KS Telecom is, by its own admission, the largest telecom carrier in the country. More ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠than a third of all citizens use their service, and they're responsible for over 70% of the national backbone network. And a company like that didn't even know there was a hole in its security system. It wasn't discovered through their own efforts, either — it was found during an external investigation. What does that tell you? Their servers were breached, and they didn't even know it had happened."

"What's most serious is that even after a hacking incident of this magnitude, KS Telecom never issued a proper warning to victims. They didn't send users so much as a single text message, and their customer service just keeps repeating that they have no SIM cards in stock — not even handling that properly."

"To conclude: KS Telecom is not a victim of this hack. In this incident, they were negligent and indifferent in building their security systems, and they are the principal culprit behind a nationwide disaster — the party responsible for answering for all of it."

The reporters hammered their keyboards at a furious pace, faces flushed, as if determined not to miss a single word I said. Feeding them exactly what they wanted — provocative, dopamine-packed soundbites — I continued with a playful smile.

"Honestly, I hadn't planned on going all the way to a lawsuit. Court battles are a massive hassle, you know? But after calling the KS Telecom customer service line, I changed my mind."

"When I said I wanted to switch carriers, they told me to pay about a million won in cancellation penalties."

"...?"

"I mean, isn't that infuriating? They're the ones who screwed up — why should I pay the penalty?"

A mere million won.

At my claim that a million-won penalty demand had so enraged me that I launched a ten-trillion-won lawsuit, the reporters froze for a moment, dumbfounded. And I turned to the camera and addressed every viewer who would watch this footage.

"If there's anyone out there like me — a victim who wants to sue KS Telecom over cancellation penalties or damages from the personal data breach — please visit our company website and join the class action. The outstanding attorneys under contract with our company will fight KS Telecom on your behalf and make sure you receive fair compensation."

"KS Telecom promised to compensate 100% of all damages caused by the hack, didn't they?"

"Well then... let's see whether they actually take responsibility for all of it, just like they said."

The bait... hurled with a force no one would have dared to touch...

began to blaze.