Judgment: '93, When Car Sales Stalled After a Fearsome Boom – What Were the Rates?
In 1993, car sales that had been surging at a terrifying pace suddenly faltered. What on earth were the interest rates? Daewon and Gi-yeong Motors' installment rates stood at 19% for 24 months and 22% for 36 months. Considering compact cars cost around 6 million won and mid-sized ones in the mid-10 million won range, these were nothing short of murderous rates. With high school graduates earning 500,000 won a month and fresh college grads in office jobs averaging 600,000 won, it was a massive sum no one could easily commit to, no matter how determined.
Inventory kept piling up as a result. Banks and card companies were burning inside. The auto industry was undoubtedly a golden goose. But capital was woefully short. All they could do was smack their lips in frustration.
They couldn't just sit on their hands, though. Banks rolled out products like new car savings plans out of sheer desperation, but they had a fatal flaw: they took far too long. Something more immediate was needed.
There was only one company with the firepower to solve it. Surging car sales in the trillions of won. The interest income that followed. Taking over JK Card management—what they called the royal family's graveyard—was precisely for this reason.
Min-ho explained step by step so the team could follow. "If the opponent's unarmed, you can take on anyone regardless of weight class. But if they've got a gun? That's a whole different story."
Choi Jong-hoon, the lawyer poring over the materials, raised a question. "These figures show car purchases plummeting sharply since last year. That means they've crossed the average person's purchase limit."
"Average interest is 20%. A car costs a full year's salary. How many people can handle that?"
"Unless you've got cash on hand, you have to give up on buying."
"Cut the rates in half and sign deals with those two companies, and we can dominate this market for a while."
"If we pull that off, it'd be the perfect chance to grow JK Card."
Jo Dong-uk, president of The Times, spoke up next. "What about running ads steadily in advance?"
"There's something we need to do first."
"Pardon? Something before ads—what do you mean?"
"What's the most important thing for office workers?"
"Their salary, obviously?"
It was half right, half wrong. Min-ho zeroed in on the gap others overlooked.
"They call it pride. Face. You can't ignore that convention in Korean society."
"I get stimulating that, but... I have no idea how."
"A car is like a third skin. Especially for men in society—it's a measure of success," Jo replied, nodding.
"True. When I went home driving a decent sedan, everyone said I'd made it."
"How'd that feel?"
"I hadn't really succeeded, but I held my head high among friends and eased my parents' worries. Felt great."
Up to the '80s, clothing signaled status. In the '90s, with living standards risen, success was measured by the car you owned. Social judgment hinged on it, so the sensitivity was natural.
Min-ho led with a strategy to stoke desire, not preemptive ads.
"We can hold off on ads. First, tap into people's aspirations for success."
"Got it. We'll run detailed stories on that angle."
"Key phrase is 'My Car Era.' Stress that cars are essential."
"Understood."
Cheon Dong-gwan, still buzzing from his big-mart trip, had lost his bright expression. Deep worry clouded his face now.
Min-ho smiled at the staring man. "You were all pumped up, and now you're like you've eaten honey and gone mute?"
"I... well..."
After much hesitation, Cheon finally spoke. "I'm not doubting your plan, sir. It's just... different from usual."
"How so?"
"Normally, you'd go for an M&A with minimal capital. But nothing like that here."
"Sometimes quick retreat is smart. Forcing a buyout could shake all of Athena."
The '90s Korean auto market wasn't much different from the 21st century. Aside from a few exceptions, Daewon and Gi-yeong split the domestic pie. Normally, Min-ho would've eyed an M&A, as Cheon said.
So why this path? Post-'80s, autos became Korea's core industry. Labor overflowed; cars sold as fast as they were made. Daewon and Gi-yeong shoveled in cash. Rivals lurked for takeover chances, snapping up shares at any gap.
Sensing threats, management fortified: major shareholders upped stakes, all-employee stock drives, constant treasury buys. They'd built an impenetrable share wall. No matter the money, no shares meant no control.
Min-ho, knowing this, had ruled out M&A from the start. His hidden truth? Even if acquired now, the IMF crisis hits soon. Gi-yeong becomes a toxic asset, begging for a buyer—as everyone knew. No reason for Min-ho to make that foolish play.
"Your point's valid, Cheon. Let's look at Gi-yeong shares? Next page."
He'd anticipated even this, with Gi-yeong's structure ready.
"Remember last year when Samjeong bought 10.5% and got burned?"
"Yes, the Blue House stepped in, threatening no government approval."
"More issues. Major shareholders 32%, employee shares 3%, plus friendly stakes—minimum 45%."
Numerically, Min-ho grabbing the rest at 55% wins. But only if Gi-yeong does nothing. No such management exists. They'd locked in unbeatable defenses.
"To take over, you'd need nearly all remaining shares... stock surges... funds unmanageable."
"Even if welcomed, winner's curse: huge investment, nothing left, Athena in crisis."
"Got it. One more question."
"Fire away anytime."
Cheon, calculator flying, jumped in as Min-ho finished. "Per your plan, JK Card needs at least 2 trillion won, up to over 4 trillion."
"Right. So?"
"Tough for Athena to handle. How will you manage?"
"Funding plan..."
Min-ho listed all Athena and JK affiliates clearly. "Seems like a misconception. JK Card isn't Athena's."
"So funds from JK Group, not us?"
"Yes. We'll support if needed, but no need to lead."
"If it goes as you say, Chairman's approval required. Sorted?"
"Don't worry about funds."
"Got it."
"Finally, Yu Se-ho, division head."
Yu, tense and note-taking, startled. "Yes, sir!"
His booming voice turned the room to laughter.
"No one's eating you, Yu. Relax."
"Yes, sir."
"You know official acting president is you, not me?"
"Choi the lawyer explained in detail; I get why."
"Good. Start media interviews and public duties today."
Min-ho pulled a card from his wallet. "First, hit the department store. New suit, clean haircut. Easy, right?"
"Yes, sir."
Min-ho clapped to end. "That's it for today. Time's short—move fast."
"Yes, sir."
The team bowed and dispersed. Alone, organizing thoughts, Min-ho faced Choi's question.
"Young master, this plan's flawless too."
"I know—you can tell by my breathing. Just do your part next."
"Sorry, but with astronomical funds, better get Chairman's pre-approval."
"And if Grandpa says no?"
"Exactly. Always plan for the worst."
He'd prepared for that too. "Make it impossible to refuse. Not everything's visible."
"Pardon? Young master, we really need prep this time."
"Don't worry. Head to Gi-yeong president first. Just got word from Mun butler."
***
Finishing lunch in Pocheon, Beom-seong headed straight to Seoul. Mulling Seo Gwang-hun's words only tangled the knot tighter.
"Damn! If Seo's right, Min-ho's a total tiger cub... Wait... VP favors big bro, Min-ho stirs shit—where's that leave me? No soup for me?"
Myeong-seon out as heir was good for him, but Min-ho shaking the board flipped it 180 degrees. Obey Dad, wait, get the juicy cut—or so he'd thought. Unexpected ambush spiked his anxiety.
"If I crack, my boys? Beggars in a flash? That punk Min-ho, cooking hot rice just for himself..."
Emotions could lose everything in a blink. He pulled over, lit a smoke, muttering.
"Never thought the cat that drank booze would climb the ridge first like this..."
He seemed daft with light talk, but a viper lurked in his chest. From a tiny Myeong-dong office, he'd crouched 20 years awaiting Chairman Kang's signal. Knew his place, Dad's temperament perfectly—unique among brothers.
Recalling events, he intuited Myeong-seon's fate. Simple: rash moves meant exclusion from heirs.
"Dad's got eyes on her for sure... Visiting just breeds suspicion... No need to eat shit... He jammed his cig butt into a soda can and called Myeong-seon.