Buying Ships, Catching Wind
Tension hung taut in the Chairman's office at Sunjin Group headquarters.
Kim Ja-young sat at the head of the table, with Choi Dong-soo, head of the Management Planning Office, at her right hand. Across from them, Park Cheol-min, CEO of Sunjin Sangsa, kept dabbing at his forehead with a handkerchief.
"Report."
Kim Ja-young's voice was bone-dry, and Park Cheol-min swallowed hard. His eyes kept drifting toward Choi Dong-soo.
Choi Dong-soo. In recent months, the man had come to be known within the Group as the Grim Reaper. He was the head of the Management Planning Office, a division newly created by Chairwoman Kim Ja-young the moment she took office.
He had swept up the financial records of every affiliate and was conducting a punishing audit, examining the books down to the last individual receipt. Complaints were rampant, but Kim Ja-young had handed him full authority.
And now that man was seated at this table.
The unspoken message was clear: no fudging the numbers, no glossing over the truth.
"Mr. Park."
"Y-yes, ma'am."
"Do I make you uncomfortable?"
"Ah... no, that's not it."
"Or is it Mr. Choi who makes you uncomfortable?"
Kim Ja-young stared straight at Park Cheol-min. "I want exactly one thing from you: the situation as it stands, stripped bare. Peel off the wrapping and give me only the core."
Park Cheol-min let out a long breath. There was nowhere left to run. With trembling hands, he opened his file folder.
"...I'll be honest with you. Our core business — the intermediary trading work — has hit a wall. Volumes keep falling."
"Why?"
"China. Now that Chinese factories are running at full capacity, buyers are placing orders directly with Chinese plants and cutting out middlemen like us. Direct deals are cheaper — no commission — and faster."
The decline of intermediary trade. It was the answer she had expected. Kim Ja-young calmly pressed on.
"Then is there no hope at all?"
"The one silver lining is... our ships haven't stopped moving."
"Ships — you mean the merchant fleet?"
"Yes. All five of our container ships are fully booked through the first half of next year. We're turning away cargo simply because we don't have the capacity."
Kim Ja-young's brow twitched. "And the cash flow?"
"The best in our history."
Strength crept into Park Cheol-min's voice. "Intermediary commissions have shrunk, but with shipping freight rates climbing, cash keeps piling up."
Kim Ja-young turned her head to Choi Dong-soo, who nodded silently.
"That's correct. A fair amount does leak out of Sangsa through entertainment expenses and miscellaneous spending, but even accounting for that, operating cash flow is solid. Readily available cash assets alone stand at roughly 400 billion won."
Four hundred billion won. No small sum, by any measure.
Kim Ja-young fell silent for a moment. A few days earlier, her son's words flashed through her mind.
China's about to suck up every raw material in the world, Mom — and there aren't enough ships to carry it all.
She spoke slowly. "Mr. Park."
"Yes."
"What do you think would happen if we decided to grow the merchant fleet?"
"The... merchant fleet, you say?"
"Yes. You told me goods are pouring out of China right now, and there aren't enough ships to haul them. What if we pushed deeper into that business?"
Park Cheol-min fell quiet, thoughts churning. In ordinary times he would have opposed such reckless expansion. But circumstances had changed. He replayed the recent mood on the sales floor in his head.
Not bad at all.
No — frankly, this was the opportunity of a lifetime. Dozens of calls came in every single day, all from Chinese shippers, all begging: we'll pay a premium, please, just secure us space on a ship. Some were offering double the current freight rate.
The cargo is overflowing and there aren't enough ships to carry it. That's the market screaming "name your price."
The essence of the trading business, after all, was resolving the imbalance between supply and demand. And the biggest imbalance in the world right now was a shortage of shipping capacity.
"I think... it's a good idea," Park Cheol-min answered cautiously, but with conviction. "Lately we've been flooded with Chinese shippers asking us to reserve our entire schedule for the second half of next year, and freight rates keep trending upward. If we simply had more ships, profitability would be guaranteed."
He clicked his tongue in frustration. "The problem is, we only have five vessels. With what we have, we can't absorb even a fraction of the demand coming in."
"What if we acquire more ships?"
"I'm sorry — more ships? It's not a bad idea, but even if we ordered now, it would take three to four years. That's the schedule at the domestic shipyards, from what I hear."
"Ah — I'm not talking about placing a new-build order. What if we bought existing ships, as-is?"
Park Cheol-min's eyes went wide.
Kim Ja-young glanced at Choi Dong-soo, who — as if he'd been waiting for exactly this — laid a prepared document on the table.
Thud.
"Western Shipping, out of the United States," Choi Dong-soo began, his tone clipped and dry. "Ten container ships are on the market through a restructuring sale. Nearly twenty years old, all of them."
"Twenty years of service age means they're small, and repair costs could eat us alive."
"Even pushing their service life, they can hold out another four to five years. The inspection is complete." Choi Dong-soo presented the figures with calculator precision. "Around 15 billion won per vessel. We have ample cash on hand, but by folding in a portion of cash with ship-collateralized loans, we can acquire all ten."
Park Cheol-min stared blankly at the two of them.
The research was already done. In some areas, they knew more than he did — they even understood that when buying ships, leveraging bank money alongside cash instead of paying a lump sum was what supercharged the returns.
He hadn't been summoned to give an opinion. He'd been summoned to be informed.
Which meant he needed to start thinking proactively.
Ten ships.
Ten added to the existing five made fifteen. At that scale, Sangsa could leap from a mere trading company into a mid-tier shipping line. And if he ran fifteen ships in a market where freight rates were going insane?
We'd rake the money in with both hands.
He was a trading man to the bone, and the old instinct for the scent of money stirred in his gut. Risk? Of course there was risk. But given the explosive growth China was showing right now, four to five years would be a harvest that paid for itself many times over.
"Our team ran the numbers over the past few days," Choi Dong-soo continued. "Even at today's rates, we recover the full investment within three years. And if the forecast of further rate increases holds true, we'll earn far more. That window is our bridge period — the time we'll need to survive after placing new-build orders with the shipyards."
"So I should understand this as ordering new ships and pushing forward at the same time?"
"That's correct."
"...Then we do it." Park Cheol-min nodded. "Your judgment is right, Chairwoman. In this market, even old ships are worth more than we can use. If you'll approve the acquisition, I'll take personal responsibility for filling every one of them with cargo."
"Then let me confirm one last thing before we decide." Kim Ja-young looked at him. "What if China slows down? Contrary to all our projections?"
"Hmm... I don't see that happening before 2008. The massive investment ahead of the Olympics is still in full swing, and the WTO accession effect should carry for another two to three years." Park Cheol-min answered. "And by then, even the original five ships would be in trouble. We're in a situation where we can't load cargo because there aren't enough ships — if we use this window to recover our principal, that alone is a win."
At his answer, a faint smile spread across Kim Ja-young's lips.
"Good. Proceed. Mr. Choi, coordinate with Mr. Park and make sure this moves quickly."
"Understood. I'll dispatch the negotiation team immediately."
After school, the club room on the third floor of the annex building.
"Ugh, why did the teacher drag the lesson out so long today? I swear I was about to pass out from vertigo." Min-jae grumbled as he dumped his bag on the floor.
It was almost funny — the model student who normally hung on a teacher's every word, complaining like this. But I understood. I'd spent the entire day glued to the clock myself.
It was time for the results — time to see how the portfolio we'd set up had moved in today's market.
"Quiet. I'm connecting."
Han Jae-yi was nearly pressed nose-first into the monitor.
Whirrr—
The fan inside the tower roared loudly, and on screen, a lone hourglass icon spun on and on.
God, this is infuriating.
The school network speed of 2003 was essentially a patience test. This was the kind of moment that made me nostalgic for the days when I could check all of this on a smartphone in one second.
"It's up!"
The instant the screen changed, Han Jae-yi shrieked. "Oh my god! We're third! Third place!"
"Really?"
Min-jae bolted across the room and glued himself to the monitor.
Rank: 3rd
Return: +2.81%
Zenith Games 9,350 ▲5%
"Whoa... 2.8 percent in a single day?"
"Yeah, and Zenith Games is up over five percent. Incredible, right, Seon-woo?"
Min-jae couldn't close his mouth. Han Jae-yi, flushed, clenched her fists.
But I was unmoved. Honestly? I was a little disappointed.
Only third?
2.81 percent in one day was a respectable number. But with our flagship position, Zenith Games, jumping more than 5 percent, it stung that our overall return was only this.
"Who's in first? What's their return?"
At my question, Han Jae-yi scrolled down. "First place is at 3.07 percent."
"And second?"
"Second is 2.93 percent."
We'd missed the top by mere decimal points. I narrowed my eyes and asked them to pull up the other teams' holdings — a quirk of the mock-investment competition was that the portfolios of the top-ranked teams were public.
Click.
I scanned the tickers on screen and let out a breath of relief.
Gwangseong Pharmaceutical / Sinseo Construction / Choheung Bank ...
Both the first-place and second-place teams had loaded up, department-store style, on the one-day theme stocks that had flashed across today's news. They'd clearly been trading headlines — and as far as I could remember, there had been no meaningful catalysts in the second half of 2003 to sustain them.
None of those names ring a bell.
Which meant those returns wouldn't last. Our portfolio was an engine that had only just begun to warm up.
"What a relief. Honestly, there's nothing to worry about. Give it a few days and we'll flip the board," Min-jae said.
"Ooh, look at that confidence, Kang Seon-woo?" Han Jae-yi smiled, pleased, and clicked on a news article. "Market sentiment's good too. Look — Zenith 2 is drawing buying interest across the whole gaming sector. And foreigners are double-teaming the Zenith Games shares, our pick especially."
"Wow, really? Then it'll go up again tomorrow?"
Min-jae bounced around the room in excitement. But the celebration didn't last long. Han Jae-yi's expression hardened as she scrolled a little further.
"...Huh?"
"What? What is it?"
"Look at this." She pointed at a corner of the screen.
In an account glowing red with gains, it was the only stock flashing blue. The one Min-jae had recommended: Hyunbo Computer.
"Ah..." Min-jae groaned. It had opened higher on expectations of PC-bang replacement demand, then spent the afternoon buried under profit-taking and closed down.
If not for that one stock, we'd have taken an overwhelming first place.
"Th-that one's mine, isn't it..." Min-jae's shoulders slumped. He couldn't lift his head, as if he'd committed a crime. "I'm sorry. We lost first place because of me. It was up this morning, and..."
"Hey, it's fine. Stocks go up, stocks go down. That's the game."
"No, I must have read it wrong. I got too worked up over one magazine article."
His confidence had collapsed to the floor. Min-jae's voice shrank to a crawl. "Noona, this stock... should we sell it tomorrow? If it keeps falling, I'm dragging the whole team down."
He's wavering.
One day. It had been exactly one day of the price dipping, and he was already trying to overturn the thesis he'd built himself.
I quietly watched Han Jae-yi.
How will she handle it?
Of course, I already knew — I knew Hyunbo Computer's direction was up. But it wouldn't be good for me to step in and say so now. Min-jae had to learn it too: that the market doesn't move just because you want it to, and the patience required to sit through that.
Then Han Jae-yi shook her head.
"No. We're not selling."
Her voice was firm. "We're buying more, actually."
"...What?"
"Hyunbo's weight in the portfolio shrank today while Zenith Games went up. So by the rules, we take the money from selling Zenith and buy more Hyunbo to bring it back to fifteen percent."
"B-but... what if it keeps dropping?"
Min-jae asked back with anxious eyes. Han Jae-yi swiveled her chair around and looked him dead-on. Her usual playful expression was gone. Her eyes were cold enough to raise goosebumps.
"Lee Min-jae."
"Y-yes?"
"What we're doing here is not a one-day trade. It's a month-long race."
"I know that, but..."
"You stayed up all night researching this. Was your thesis really so flimsy that a single -3 percent day shatters it? Is that what you recommended we put in our portfolio for?"
Han Jae-yi's voice rang through the club room. "If you believe you were wrong, then sell. But if you're scared just because the price went down, then this isn't investing for you — you came here to gamble."
For a moment, I whistled inwardly.
As expected of her.
That ferocious edge that Yeouido would one day appraise so highly — it hadn't come from nowhere. The roots were different from the start. Cold, utterly merciless in the face of principle.
Han Jae-yi's gaze shifted to me. "Kang Seon-woo, what about you? Any objection to my thinking?"
I smirked and shrugged. "None. I place my complete faith in our team leader, sunbae."
"..."
"And in Min-jae, too. He's not the type to get it wrong."
At my words, Min-jae's eyes reddened like he was about to cry. He stared at me with such a moved expression that it was getting a little uncomfortable.
Min-jae, my friend, I'd love to see you struggle a bit more desperately than this —
but Han Jae-yi had already chewed him out, so there wasn't much more for me to say.
Min-jae. Oh, Min-jae. Lee Min-jae. Count yourself lucky I'm on your team.
If you were truly headed down a road to ruin, I'd have grabbed you by the collar long ago. As long as I'm holding the line, there's no catastrophe this team can't survive.
"Good. Then we rebalance for day one, just like that."
Han Jae-yi turned back to the monitor and started hammering the keyboard. "Realize the Zenith gains, use the proceeds to add to Hyunbo..."
Tap-tap, clack.
The crisp sound of orders going through. As she finished up, Han Jae-yi absently clicked a news banner that had appeared in the corner of the screen.
"Huh?"
Her hand froze.
"What? What is it? More bad news?"
Min-jae asked, clutching his chest in alarm.
"No, it's not market news..."
Han Jae-yi read the article on the monitor aloud. "A typhoon's developed near Guam. The name is... Maemi? That's an unusual name."
At those words, I let out a long, long breath.
Finally.
What was coming was coming at last.