Talent Is a Crown
Viktor lay on the mat, staring up at the ceiling. His eyes were open, yet completely unfocused. His chest rose and fell in erratic spasms. He wasn’t even aware that his lungs had stopped functioning. It was a textbook case of winding.
Ian approached and knelt beside him.
“Excuse me,” Ian said briefly, placing a hand on Viktor’s chest. “Don’t try to breathe in. Just exhale shortly.”
Viktor’s gray eyes turned toward him.
“Exhale. Short breaths through your mouth.”
Ian thumped his own chest once in demonstration. Viktor followed awkwardly, yet instinctively. One short breath. Then another. After several repetitions, Viktor’s lungs finally began drawing in oxygen properly again.
“Huuup… huuu…”
The giant’s massive shoulders finally rose and fell in a normal rhythm. Ian kept his hand there a moment longer before withdrawing it lightly and standing up.
“Sorry. I put a bit too much into that technique.”
Viktor looked up at him from the mat. Something flickered in those gray eyes. It wasn’t anger or shame. It was something deeper.
Lee Hwang-chul stepped onto the mat. He positioned himself in front of his grandson. The old man’s hand rose slowly and took hold of Ian’s left wrist, examining it. His grandson’s hand was completely free of calluses—smooth and slender.
“With this hand,” Lee Hwang-chul’s voice rumbled low. “You put Viktor on the mat with this hand.”
Without even turning his head, the old man called out.
“…Viktor.”
The giant, who had just gotten to his feet, immediately straightened to attention.
“Yes, Chairman.”
“How many years have you trained in Sambo?”
“…From the age of nine. Nineteen years, Chairman.”
Lee Hwang-chul gave a slow nod, then turned his gaze back to his grandson.
“Ian.”
“Yes.”
“You brought down a man with that much training.”
The old man’s eyes bored into his grandson through his glasses.
“Of course, Viktor may have let his guard down because he saw you as nothing more than a child.”
The corner of Lee Hwang-chul’s mouth twisted faintly.
“But the fact that you exploited that opening and slammed him into the mat is, in the end, a measure of your own ability. If that isn’t talent, then what is?”
At the edge of the mat, Lee Jung-hwan—who had followed them down to the basement—felt his shoulders tremble slightly.
“Father,” he began. His usual businesslike tone had cracked. “This… this could have been a fluke. Viktor unconsciously held back his strength…”
“Jung-hwan.” Lee Hwang-chul cut him off. “You’ve never trained on the mat, have you?”
“…That is true, but—”
“Lies don’t work on the mat. What you’re saying is the excuse of someone who has never lived on it.”
Lee Jung-hwan fell silent.
“My son didn’t win because Viktor went easy on him.”
Lee Hwang-chul turned back to his grandson. The eyes behind those glasses now carried the same sharp glint they had on the mat in his youth. The tiger had recognized its cub.
He placed a rough hand on Ian’s shoulder. The hand was calloused, yet its weight felt strangely warm.
“Ian, there are two kinds of talent in this world. Talent that only shines after being polished, and talent that blazes like the sun from the very beginning. You are the latter. And a kind I’ve never seen before.”
In the study on the first floor of the mansion, Lee Hwang-chul sat in a leather chair. On the desk, ginseng tea shipped directly from Korea steamed gently. One entire wall was lined with bookshelves packed with management and history books in Korean, English, Japanese, and Chinese.
Ian sat in the chair opposite him. Lee Jung-hwan and Cheon Su-yeon were also present, side by side on one end of the sofa. Both understood clearly that they were not the main figures in this meeting.
“Ian,” Lee Hwang-chul began after taking a sip of ginseng tea. “I have a proposal for you.”
“Yes, Grandfather.”
“One year.” The old man raised a single finger. “Prove your talent to the world within one year. However, you must not neglect your studies. Only by catching both rabbits will you be able to convince this old man.”
Lee Jung-hwan, who had been listening, opened his mouth for a moment before closing it again.
“If you fail, you will return to the path I have set for you. Harvard Business School, Wharton MBA, and the Samhwang successor curriculum. Can you promise me that?”
Ian leaned back in his chair and gazed at the ceiling for a moment. On the surface, his grandfather’s proposal seemed like a compromise. But beneath it lay the old man’s meticulous calculations. The condition not to neglect academics served as both a safety net in case of failure in combat sports and insurance to prevent complete departure from the successor track even if he succeeded.
It was far too precise to be called a gamble from a wily chaebol chairman.
A faint curve formed at the corner of Ian’s mouth. He really liked this old man.
“Two rabbits is too weak,” Ian said slowly. “I’ll catch three for you.”
Lee Hwang-chul’s eyebrows rose. The air in the study froze. Lee Jung-hwan’s mouth fell slightly open at his son’s provocative words. Cheon Su-yeon’s hand holding a wine glass stiffened in midair. Only Lee Hwang-chul continued to stare directly into his grandson’s eyes.
“…Hah.”
A short laugh escaped the old man. It was an answer he had not expected. Satisfaction crept into the corners of his mouth at his grandson’s bold spirit.
“I never thought I’d hear such words from your lips.”
After staring at his grandson for a long time, Lee Hwang-chul nodded slowly.
“Very well.”
The old man rose slowly from his leather chair.
“And from this moment on, you will be officially registered as one of my successor candidates.”
Lee Jung-hwan’s wine glass stopped in midair. Cheon Su-yeon turned to look at him. There was an expression on her husband’s face she had never seen in all their years of marriage. It was neither anger nor joy, but the face of someone whose mind was spinning with rapid calculations.
It made sense. His older brother had long dominated the core of the group back in Korea. As the second son, his role managing the U.S. branch had been largely honorary, and the path to succession had been closed to his son Ian. Now their father had thrown that closed door wide open.
“…Father,” Lee Jung-hwan said slowly. His voice was calm, yet carried a faint tremor. “You know better than anyone the weight of the successor competition. Whether Ian can bear that weight…”
“Isn’t the test precisely to see whether he can shoulder Samhwang, Jung-hwan?”
Lee Hwang-chul brushed it aside lightly. Lee Jung-hwan could say nothing more. Yet deep in his eyes, he found himself unconsciously watching a single ray of sunlight slipping through a door he had believed would remain closed forever.
The old man turned his gaze back to Ian.
“Ian, today you have not simply received permission to pursue martial arts. You have stepped up to the starting line of the successor race. You have two cousins. Both are already working in key positions within the group in Korea, and both are five to seven years ahead of you.”
Ian’s eyebrows rose slightly. This information existed only hazily in the body’s memories. Two cousins—the son of his eldest uncle and the son of his aunt. They lived at the main family house in Korea and had almost no interaction with him.
“They are also successor candidates,” Lee Hwang-chul continued slowly. “If you reach the pinnacle in martial arts, maintain the highest academic standing, and simultaneously show results in the successor curriculum, then I will give you a real seat at the table. If you cannot, you will live as an ordinary executive behind those two candidates. …What will you do?”
Ian stared for a moment at the steam rising slowly from the ginseng tea. In Ji Kanghyuk’s life, this kind of test was a first. The tests in the octagon had been simple: break your opponent within five minutes across three or five rounds, or be broken yourself. Only two outcomes.
But this test was different. It was a high-wire act balancing martial arts, academics, and business all at once across the stretch of time before him. And on top of that, two invisible rival cousins.
…It was interesting.
Heat flared once more in the center of his chest.
“I’ll do it,” Ian answered slowly. “But I have one request.”
“What is it?”
“Please cover the resources I need for martial arts training, Grandfather. Trainers, a gym, equipment, nutritionist, medical staff. All top-tier.”
Lee Hwang-chul smiled slowly.
“…Ask for whatever you want.”
The old man gave a short laugh.
“…Just make this grandfather enjoy the show.”
That night, in Ian’s room. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows stretched the night view of Los Angeles. Tens of thousands of lights scattered like constellations, and beyond them the dark band of the Santa Monica coastline blurred in the distance.
Ian stood before the glass wearing gray sweatpants and a white cotton t-shirt. The line of his shoulders showed clearly beneath the shirt. The shoulder he had strained while throwing Viktor throbbed faintly. Even with this body’s strength, lifting over 110 kilograms had been a stretch.
…I need more strength.
He rotated his wrist and twisted his pelvis experimentally. A knock sounded.
“Young Master.” It was Chief Park’s voice.
“Come in.”
The door opened. Chief Park was still in his black suit. In one hand he held a thick envelope.
“The Chairman instructed me to deliver this.”
The envelope was placed quietly on the desk. Ian opened it. Inside was a single black card and a one-page note.
The card resembled a credit card. Its surface was matte black with a small phoenix emblem engraved in the center. Ian picked it up. The metal material made it heavy—easily twice the weight of a normal credit card.
“…What is this?”
“An unlimited card,” Chief Park answered matter-of-factly. “It can be used anywhere you deem necessary, Young Master.”
“…”
“However, a report of all usage will be sent to the Chairman at the beginning of each month.”
Ian set the card back on the desk and unfolded the note. It was written in elegant, powerful Chinese characters with a fountain pen.
Talent is a crown. However, to those unqualified, it is nothing but a burden. Prove for yourself that you can bear its weight.
— Lee Hwang-chul
A faint curve formed on Ian’s lips.
Having completed his task, Chief Park bowed politely. As he turned toward the door, he paused.
“Young Master.”
“Yes?”
“…Viktor asked me to relay a message.”
“What is it?”
A tiny crack appeared in Chief Park’s expressionless face.
“‘Next time, let’s do it without the shirt.’”
Ian let out a short laugh. Come to think of it, Viktor’s white dress shirt had completely torn across the back when he was slammed into the mat. The man outweighed him significantly and had far more experience. The power with which he had crushed Ian’s ribs in the clinch had clearly been no ordinary strength. It was fortunate he had struck before getting properly caught; had it gone to the ground, the outcome would have been uncertain.
“Must have been expensive.”
“Italian direct import, I’m told.”
“…Please tell him I’ll buy him a new one. Since it looks like I’ll be tearing them again.”
“Yes, Young Master.”
After bowing, Chief Park left and the door closed. The room fell quiet once more.
Ian returned to the floor-to-ceiling window. The night view of LA spread out beneath him. In Ji Kanghyuk’s life, there had been no such scenery. A top-tier mansion in California. An unlimited black card. A position as a successor candidate in a chaebol family. Everything felt surreal.
Yet at the same time, strangely familiar. It resembled the sensation he had felt just before stepping into the octagon, facing the crowd beyond the cage fence. The feeling that everything was spread out before him and he stood at its center.
Ian walked slowly to the mirror. An Asian boy stared back at him. A lean frame with underdeveloped muscles. Yet the eyes beneath those horn-rimmed glasses burned from deep within like an unquenchable spark.
“…Starting again from a blank slate.”
The corner of Ian’s mouth drew a slow arc.
“Grappler.”
The boy in the mirror smiled back.
“Since striking is already engraved in my soul, I should immerse myself properly and climb to the pinnacle of grappling.”
His phone vibrated. Ian checked the screen.
He tossed the phone onto the bed and returned to the window. He slowly raised both fists to shoulder height. Feet shoulder-width apart, weight distributed evenly between both legs.
He was already prepared to fight, win, and devour everything that came his way.
Beyond the mansion, the night view of LA stretched endlessly. And in the middle of that view, a single small light in the boy’s room remained on late into the night. Standing by the window, the boy was already sketching out his new stage.