Chapter 17
Chapter 17
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 17
Chapter Title: Killbangwon (1)
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Inside the airplane.
As I took in the desert scenery visible through the window, Kim Won-cheol beside me opened his mouth with the sound of whiskey being poured.
“I never imagined that the subsidiary holding the Gumi Munitions Factory site also had the rights to supply Iraqi military goods.”
His toes wiggled cutely inside the socks printed with an adorable chick character.
Kim Won-cheol, looking utterly mismatched with his suit.
At least it was a relief that the first-class section wasn’t crowded with people.
It was just… a bit embarrassing, this sight.
“Tell me about it. I didn’t expect we’d have to hand over the insurance company and the Iraq business rights too. But please ease up on the whiskey.”
“Hey, I’m going bald anyway—what’s wrong with enjoying some free booze? Heh heh heh.”
“Ha… drink as much as you want. But at least put on some shoes. Slippers or something.”
I turned my gaze away from the grumpy five-year-old—no, fifty-year-old—mumbling as he slipped on his slippers, and reclined my airplane seat.
As soon as my head hit the cushion, the faint hum of the engines made my eyes drift shut.
And in the darkness, a clear image surfaced: Uncle speaking in my place as the Heavy Industries President Park Han-i at the group’s morning meeting.
‘The Iraqi military reconstruction project—especially the military supplies procurement rights—are tied to that corporation. In other words…’
Uncle, plummeting into an endless abyss, had grabbed the lifeline tossed to him by one of his subordinates in a desperate moment and climbed back up.
His palms, riddled with countless thorns and drenched in blood. His gaze, fixed on me after barely escaping the pit, as he spoke.
‘Isn’t the Strategy Director’s short-sighted plan just selling off the group’s future to dodge the immediate crisis, Director?’
Thinking of Uncle’s hyena-like face furrowed my brow deeply, piling on the fatigue.
Iraq.
Even though I’d investigated everything about the Ammunition Group before my regression, I hadn’t known that those business rights were attached to the Gumi Munitions Factory corporation.
“But that doesn’t mean it’s a problem or anything…”
I knew the future, so it didn’t matter.
The Iraqi military supplies procurement rights. They wouldn’t last long anyway.
Not because of internal group issues. No matter how much a regressed person might try, it was due to the massive global tides that couldn’t be changed.
“By the way, Director. If you’re not sleeping, take a look at this.”
Kim Won-cheol flapped a newspaper reeking of fresh ink and handed me an article.
As if reading my mind, the accompanying photo showed men in turbans holding rifles in front of a truck.
“What the hell? Those Islamic terror groups got pounded by the US so bad, how are they still kicking?”
“They won’t die off in the future either. They’ll keep causing chaos in the Middle East.”
It wouldn’t end with just surviving and stirring trouble.
No… they’d evolve like some mutating organism, to the point where Al-Qaeda in 2008 felt tame by comparison.
Transforming into the nuclear-hot-chicken-level madmen known as ISIL—the Islamic State.
“Hmm, you really think so?”
“Yes. That’s why I suggested abandoning the Iraq business rights. And isn’t that why we’re heading out now to secure an alternative?”
Even before my regression, ISIL had worsened the already shaky finances of Ammunition Heavy Industries.
The Iraqi government they’d contracted with for supplies stopped functioning properly after the chaos.
That’s why we needed an alternative all the more.
Something to maintain the foundation of the Ammunition Group’s core defense industry while replacing the Iraq rights.
—Ladies and gentlemen, Peanut Airlines Flight 1014 is now preparing to land at King Khalid International Airport in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. Please fasten your seatbelts.
Right on cue, the landing announcement chimed in my ears.
Our destination: Saudi Arabia.
The oil-rich monarchy that maintained its government systems even during ISIL’s rampage in the 2010s.
This place would be the touchstone to prove my abilities to the world.
“Huh? Already here? Anyway… I don’t get what you’re thinking, but Bin Salman’s the first prince we need to meet, right?”
As soon as business came up, Kim Won-cheol wiped the drunken flush from his face like it was never there.
I nodded, picturing Bin Salman—the crown prince-to-be, though for now just one among many princes.
Before regression, he’d seized power in Saudi’s Prince’s Rebellion in his early thirties, so now he’d be mid-twenties.
Sure, he was still a green kid… but I knew how sharp his hidden claws were.
“That’s right. Ibn Bin Salman Al Saud. He’s the alpha and omega of this trip.”
“Honestly, I don’t get it. Even if he’s a prince, his succession rank is low, and he’s young…”
Kim Won-cheol’s face showed clear reluctance.
He supported shifting our Iraq focus to Saudi, but questioned the method.
And to that seemingly reasonable query, I had only one answer.
“How could my face foretell a king?”
“Man, what’s that? Some cheesy theater line?”
Ha, this guy really has no sense of drama.
He couldn’t immerse himself in the vivid movie quote delivered in my gravelly voice.
—Thud!
The plane’s landing jolt vibrated through my body. The heavy sensation of wheels hitting the tarmac.
At the same moment, I pulled sunglasses from my bag, slipped them on stylishly, and flashed a smile.
Like some famed physiognomist from the movies.
“I can’t see king potential on my face, but I spot crown prince vibes like a pro. You’ll get it once we meet him.”
* * *
Ammunition Group headquarters, 45th floor.
In the office of the absent Finance Director Han Hwa-gi, three men in the separate reception room raised their voices just enough not to leak outside.
A chubby man slammed down an empty teacup, veins bulging in his neck.
The first to erupt was Park Han-i, president of Ammunition Heavy Industries.
“You guys are alive thanks to me, seriously? Let’s judge the situation properly here!”
“Ah, what do I owe to you, Senior…? We were just flailing to survive, and it hit the jackpot by coincidence.”
Na Deok-sul, president of Ammunition Construction, looked bored.
He acknowledged that Park Han-i had halted Han Seo-jun’s Strategy Director blade dance.
But since it was ultimately for Park’s own skin, Na wasn’t retracting his pout.
“Huh? Hey, President Na. What’s that way of talking?”
“Not gonna lie—it got us past the KS Industries mess where we nearly died, and Heavy Industries’ implosion is on hold. What do I gain from it?”
“Ugh, you blockhead. Think about it.”
Park Han-i pounded his chest with a clenched fist.
His beet-red face like a radish, he lowered his voice as much as possible and spoke.
“Don’t you think about what’s at stake in Iraq? If the military procurement deal blows up, what about the seawater desalination plant there? You think it’ll be fine?”
“Ah…”
The Iraq seawater desalination plant project.
Such a massive scale that Ammunition Group’s Heavy Industries, Construction, and Shipbuilding & Marine had teamed up.
But after ISIL’s rise in a few years, it would vanish into thin air, leaving only huge losses.
“Ahem… Yeah, Senior. That’s why I said we should ditch the desalination back then. Now it’s blowing up in our faces.”
Na Deok-sul frowned and leaned back.
Ammunition Construction wasn’t the lead, but as an affiliate president, he’d heard plenty.
Massive losses during construction, covered up with accounting fraud.
His face looked like he’d swallowed a ticking bomb, and Park continued in exasperation.
“You’re killing me. Look at President Seong over there. Can’t you see his brain calculator already clacking away?”
Seong Won-sik, president of Ammunition Shipbuilding & Marine, who’d been silent since entering.
As the overall lead on the Iraq desalination project, shadows darker than pitch draped his face.
“Whew, the Iraq seawater desalination plant—if that gets exposed, we’re all dead. We have to push to completion, no matter what.”
“This is insane. I knew roughly, but… all three of us losing our heads?”
Seong Won-sik covered his face with both palms.
Usually cool-headed, he was different this time.
Then came his weary, barely uttered voice.
“It’s not about keeping our president seats… If the shoddy construction blows up and the loss-hiding accounting fraud gets out, we’ll be swapping suits for prison uniforms—all three of us.”
“Ha… fuck. Seriously. Because of that Strategy Director Han Seo-jun or whatever that bastard’s spy, this mess.”
Na Deok-sul, head aching, lit a cigarette.
Gray smoke as thick as his worries billowed into the air.
Through that acrid, despairing haze, Park Han-i spat out a resolute declaration.
“You two get the situation now. Skin-deep, we all know there’s only one rope to grab, right? Yeah?”
Three men in the same sinking ship.
They didn’t nod, but their choice was singular.
“Han Seo-jun, Strategy Director. We have to stop that punk from opening the Saudi channel instead of Iraq. To do that…”
Park Han-i paused.
He rested his interlaced hands on his protruding belly, sighed, and ignited flames in his eyes.
Fear and rage mixed into pure survival fire.
“We stick tight to Finance Director Han Hwa-gi. Like it or not, if we wanna live, we intervene in the succession game.”
“Haah, life really… Thought I’d coast through retirement easy, but nope. Caught in a bloodbath I never asked for.”
Seong Won-sik’s lament from Shipbuilding & Marine sank the mood into a murky swamp.
As the three presidents brainstormed survival plans, a knock came from outside.
—Knock knock!
It was Han Hwa-gi’s female secretary.
“The Finance Director has just returned. I’ll escort him straight in.”
“Oh, thank you, Secretary Kim, thank you. You’re as kind-hearted as you are pretty.”
Park Han-i from Heavy Industries, who’d normally bully a mere secretary with arrogance.
But now, he had to be sweeter than anyone.
“Let’s go, hurry! But Secretary Kim, how’s the Director’s mood right now? Heh heh heh.”
“Um, honestly… not great.”
“Huh? Why? What’s wrong?”