Perfect Score, Perfect Leverage

The radio had been streaming news the entire drive, ever since we left the house that morning.

One month earlier, the Constitutional Court's ruling on customary constitutional law had turned the entire Republic of Korea upside down.

The logic was simple: because Seoul's status as the capital rested on unwritten custom, the capital could not be relocated without a formal amendment to the written constitution.

In the ruling's wake, speculative capital that had flooded into the Chungcheong real estate market drained out like an ebbing tide, leaving only the late-arriving retail investors to wail over their losses.

Without my advice, Han Jae-yi would have been joining that chorus of wailing herself.

"Shall I turn the radio off?"

The driver's careful voice broke through while I was deep in the news. He was trying not to disturb a student on exam day.

"No, leave it. It's nice, like white noise. Takes the edge off."

I offered the rearview mirror a smile, then turned my eyes to the summary notes in my hand and my ears back to the broadcast.

So it's begun.

Degussa's entry into Ulsan. It was far more than a simple factory acquisition.

In this era, Korea's wet chemicals and specialty gases for semiconductors and displays were, in effect, an exclusive stage for Japanese companies.

Japan's major corporations in particular held the lion's share of the ultra-pure hydrogen fluoride market — a substance indispensable to semiconductor fabrication lines around the world.

Localization.

Determined to break that dangerous dependence, the government and Korea's semiconductor conglomerates had begun staking their survival on domestic materials development, deploying staggering sums of investment capital.

And global chemical companies that had caught the scent of money were never going to sit still. Chemical firms from Germany, Belgium, and the United States — all hungry to beat the Japanese — were racing one another into Korea, establishing joint ventures as they advanced.

It won't just be Germany and Belgium. Japan's mid-tier players will come pouring in soon too. If we don't want the market snatched away from us.

Barely a year ago, Ulsan's chemical complex had been a graveyard of unsold assets; now its properties were selling like hotcakes and land prices were surging.

The war across every field — semiconductor materials, components, and equipment — was beginning.

We're not the ones in a hurry.

I thought back to Shinei Chemical's proposal. By now, with their competitors' rush to Korea becoming visible even within Japan, Shinei's management had to be burning up inside.

To them, Shinhwa Weltech must look like a savior — a way into the Korean market without major bleeding.

The longer I stall, the more their composure crumbles. All I have to do is make them hungrier.

The initiative in these negotiations belonged entirely to me.

"We've arrived."

The car rolled to a stop while I was still running calculations in my head.

"Young master, just stay calm like you've practiced, and you'll be fine. Good luck in there."

At the driver's heartfelt encouragement, I closed my notebook and gave him a smile.

"Thank you for all the early-morning drives. This afternoon I'll hang out with some friends before heading home, so don't come pick me up."

"Understood, sir. Fighting!"

I raised a fist toward him, opened the door, and stepped out.

"Waaaaah—!"

The moment I left the car, the biting November air stung my nose, and a wall of cheering slammed against my eardrums.

"Go Sunjin High! Seniors, you've got this!"

"No retakes! Get out of here and into college!"

The school gate was blazing with the enthusiasm of underclassmen from every school in the district. Gongs and cymbals clanged, students screamed their school songs until their voices cracked, and their breath bloomed white in the cold.

I raised my head to the banner stretched across the gate.

In truth, today was the second time in my life I had sat for the CSAT.

"Whew. What is it about this thing that makes me nervous, even the second time around?"

I'd been through every kind of battle imaginable, but the crushing weight the word CSAT carried was beyond my control. As I drew the cold air deep into my lungs, I could feel the tension seeping all the way down into the pit of my chest.

And yet — I didn't hate that tension. In my previous life I had taken this exam like a man fleeing a fire. This time was different.

"Well, I prepared as well as I knew how. Let's do this properly and come out."

I pulled my coat tighter and moved through the clamoring crowd toward the testing center doors.

Early December 2004.

I was leaving through the school gate after classes when I sensed that something in the air was off.

Reporters with cameras and notebooks had set up camp in front of the main gate, and students on their way home were clustered around them, watching.

I stopped in my tracks, instinct taking over.

Oh, damn it.

I pulled out my phone and dialed Jung Tae-sung.

"Director Jung, I think you should come around to the back gate, not the main—"

"Hey, there! He's coming out — over there!"

A reporter with the eyes of a hawk spotted me and shouted, and at that signal the whole pack came surging toward me.

In an ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠instant, dozens of microphones were shoved into my face.

"A word from the CSAT perfect scorer, please!"

"You received a perfect ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠score on this exam — are you aware you're the first ever from a chaebol family?"

"Do you have a university in mind?"

"Any secret to your studying? Did you have expensive private tutoring?"

The questions rained down like a sudden squall. Camera flashes strobed, whiting out my vision. It ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠was dizzying.

I steadied my breathing and raised a hand to hold the reporters back.

"One moment, please!"

My voice was firm, and the murmur of the crowd died down.

"I'll answer your questions one at a time. But I'm only taking three. I have to get home."

As I directed traffic, the reporters exchanged surprised looks at a composure that seemed almost too mature for a high schooler. One of the quicker ones jumped in first.

"A perfect score on the CSAT — how does it feel?"

"It feels good. When I picked up my score report today, it finally sank in. Seems all that preparation paid off."

In truth, I had earned a perfect score in every single subject. Even I hadn't expected it. But the moment I stepped into the exam hall and took the test paper in hand, the knowledge in my head seemed to overlap the answer key, as if I were simply reading the correct answers off the page.

"You're the first member of a chaebol family ever to score a perfect mark. Any thoughts on that?"

"Does that really merit a 'first ever' title? I may belong to a chaebol family, but right now I'm just another test taker. I'll decline any special meaning being attached to it."

"Have you decided on a university and major?"

"I'm planning to apply to Hankook University. As for the major, I'd like to think about it a little longer."

Trivial questions kept coming after that, but I kept my promise — after the third, I bowed my head in greeting, pushed through the crowd, and walked out. The black sedan that had been waiting at a distance glided up beside me, and I slipped quickly into the back seat.

Jung Tae-sung turned from the driver's seat.

"I apologize, sir. I wanted to intervene myself, but I was afraid that a bodyguard in the picture would only turn public opinion against you."

"It's fine. It's not your fault, Director. You know what reporters are like."

At my light joke, Tae-sung visibly relaxed and pulled the car out onto the road.

"A perfect score on the CSAT. My sincere congratulations."

I chuckled. "Thank you."

"I knew you were a sharp one, sir, but I never anticipated a perfect score on top of everything else. Truly remarkable."

"I didn't see it coming either. Just good luck."

"It's because your skill backs you up that you were able to catch that luck."

"Ah — Director, you're giving me chills. Let's skip the flattery, shall we? How about we talk business instead?"

At the change of subject, Tae-sung smiled faintly and glanced at me through the rearview mirror. His expression turned gravely serious.

"Yujin Pharmatech hit its daily limit again today. Twelve consecutive sessions at the upper limit. We're currently up 300 percent on the positions we established."

The entire country was in the grip of a stem cell frenzy. The research the media had been breathlessly sensationalizing for days on end had, in truth, nothing directly to do with Yujin Pharmatech. But the market had lost its mind. Yujin Pharmatech was being treated as the flagship of the stem cell theme stocks and was rocketing upward with reckless abandon — money summoning more money, madness driving the price ever higher. A textbook bubble.

"How much did we put in, again?"

"SJ Holdings invested 90 billion won, Ribbon Capital 21 billion."

A 300 percent surge in a matter of weeks. SJ Holdings' paper gains were approaching 270 billion won, and Ribbon Capital had already booked over 60 billion. With principal included, the sums had grown astronomical.

"Good. Sit on it for now, and be ready to dump the entire position the moment I give the sell signal — no looking back."

"Understood. And sir — Shinhwa Weltech called yesterday."

I nodded. The news I'd been waiting hardest for.

"Shinei has reached out again, asking once more to form the joint venture."

"No conditions attached?"

"None, sir. Though they added one thing that differs from the first offer — they say they will unconditionally defer to us on the time and place of the meeting."

They're getting desperate. Can't blame them — no one wants to miss the golden window into the Korean market.

"Call them back. Tell them we'll meet in Japan."

"You intend to travel there yourself, sir? There's really no need to go that far—"

"There is. You saw what happened today. My name and face are going to be all over the media for a while, which leaves me far too little room to maneuver at home. Too many eyes on me."

Part of me wondered if acing the exam had been such a good idea after all — but the perfect-score title would bring me plenty of benefits, and that much discomfort was the price worth paying for them.

"I understand, sir."

"You, me, and Director Park Jin-hyuk will go. We'll settle this in person."

"What dates shall I propose?"

"Winter break's coming, so set it for late December. Right after Christmas."

"Yes, sir. I'll relay that through Shinhwa Weltech."

"Oh — one more thing."

I looked at Jung Tae-sung, my expression hardening.

"Get me a list of other Japanese mid-tier companies interested in breaking into Korea."

The same hour — Osaka, Japan. The CEO's office at Shinei Chemical headquarters.

"Haah......"

Nakamura Kenji closed the report lying on his desk and let out a long, heavy sigh. The anxiety etched into his face was unmistakable. He rubbed his weary eyes and wiped his face with both hands, as if washing it dry.

"Stella is forming a joint venture with Hansung Chemical?"

"Yes, sir. The official announcement ran in this morning's papers."

The situation was deteriorating by the hour. The Japanese majors' march into Korea was no longer a declaration — it was execution.

"Stella has announced a JV with Hansung Chemical. Morita and Otsu Industries have already begun scouting sites."

Nakamura bit his lip and groaned at length.

"All of them in Ulsan, aren't they."

"Yes. The Korean government has tightened environmental regulations around the capital region, so everyone is converging on the Ulsan petrochemical complex — fewer restrictions, and the infrastructure's already in place. The tax incentives are extraordinary, too."

If the majors seized the Korean market as well, Shinei would never escape the fate of a number two, forever living in their shadow. Being squeezed out at home was one thing — but he could not allow himself to be ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠pushed out of Korea too, a land of new opportunity.

And yet at this moment, when the board was shifting day by day, the one move that mattered most had gone silent.

"Anything from Shinhwa Weltech?"

"......Not yet, sir."

"Check again."

"We sent our proposal once more two days ago, but there has still been no reply. Complete silence."

It made no sense. He had laid down the audacious card of a joint venture, and the other side had shown no reaction at all — neither yes nor no. That silence was burning Nakamura up inside, inch by inch.

He was drawing breath for another sigh to relieve the suffocating frustration when—

Knock, knock.

At the sound, the door opened and his secretary rushed in, breathless.

"Sir — a fax has arrived from Korea."

At those words, Nakamura and his subordinate turned to the secretary at the same instant.

"Korea? Shinhwa Weltech?"

"Yes, sir. Shinhwa Weltech says their senior executives will be coming to Japan in person."

Nakamura's eyes flashed.

At last, the other side had come to the table.