#22. Torch of Anti-Communism (2)
Unexpected intruders had breached the boundary of my private forest just as I was fielding a request for additional investment from Ryan Nielsen of the Pioneer Hunter Brigade. It had been a while since I'd last heard his voice, and he started off politely expressing his gratitude.
"Thank you for making time for me."
"No trouble at all."
I pulled up the latest reports from my secretarial office on the monitor and continued the call. "I heard you wanted more investment. Is that right?"
"Yes. After I gained some fame, a bunch of investors and organizations came knocking with offers. But I wanted to approach you first."
As I'd anticipated, Ryan Nielsen had skyrocketed to national fame in America thanks to his moral stand—risking everything to rescue the thugs from the Durton Volunteer Cavalry. Add in his Silver Star for gallantry and the sob story about his lawsuits with toxic clients, and private donations alone had poured in over a million dollars.
Given all that, snagging 25 percent of the equity for a mere three million, plus earning Nielsen's personal goodwill, made my investment look like a steal. Business-wise, pure and simple, he'd climbed to the point where he could negotiate a formal deal with me on equal footing—not some lucky fluke like before.
"No one's daring to challenge you these days, I bet?"
A windy chuckle leaked through the receiver. "Well, it just worked out that way... Kinda bittersweet about the guys who bailed, saying I'd changed. But in the end, it feels right. Once we established discipline and hierarchy, the brigade finally got on track. If I hadn't taken your advice, I might've gotten personal glory, but the brigade? Who knows."
He'd definitely changed, though I'd nudged him that way myself.
To this model student, I tossed some experience and empathy like I was managing an investment portfolio. "Equality isn't always the best for running an organization. The bigger it gets, and the riskier the business, the more that holds true. The fastest way to impose order is clear lines of authority. Think back to your army days. Society and the military aren't the same, but they're not fundamentally different either."
"I've seen it firsthand now."
"Good... Let's leave it there and get to the point."
"Yes."
"I'm already the majority shareholder with 25 percent. Asking me for more investment—even with my backing—must feel burdensome. So if you're reaching out anyway, the other investors' terms must've been lousy."
"Not lousy, exactly. I just don't want to be tied down."
"Tied down?"
"The financial offers were generous. Almost too good to be true."
"And?"
"Nothing's free in this world. With high-risk hunt demand outstripping hunter supply, investors promise to respect management rights upfront, but once they grab shares, they pressure you to prioritize certain regions. That's the word going around."
Makes sense. Especially public funds managers—they're the worst offenders. Stewardship code at its peak.
Controlling Awakened was tied straight to public security, so even conservatives couldn't bash it outright. But hunters saw it differently, of course.
"What's the point of nominal control if lobbyists are constantly leaning on you? Especially if the government's one of them—and a prime client to boot."
"Indeed."
"Our base is Utah. And with our current strength, we can't effectively operate beyond a tenth of the state yet. Investors see the flashy results and fame and want us expanding outward right away. But that'd tank service quality for our existing members—my call."
"Plenty of businesses crash from hasty expansion. Failed quality control leads to customer exodus, products or services alike."
Nielsen sighed in agreement. "Exactly. Someday we'll stretch beyond our home turf, but not now. High-risk hunting boils down to people—they're the alpha and omega. You can't just throw money at it and expect results overnight. Even for newbies' safety, we need time to build solid foundations."
"I get it. So, what are you asking from me?"
"...First off, I have dual-class shares in mind."
Dual-class shares meant splitting equity into types with tiered voting rights. Classic example: Warren Buffett's Berkshire Hathaway, where Class A shares hold 10,000 times the voting power of Class B.
I asked calmly, "What's the voting ratio?"
"For the Class B shares to you, same nominal ratio as Class A, but full rights only after 10 years of holding. Starts at one-tenth, ramps up yearly by fixed increments. Resets if ownership changes."
"Buying time, plain and simple."
"Yes."
"So, equity and amount?"
"10 percent Class B for twelve million bucks. Sound good?"
Even with voting limits, that was ten times my initial rate. But factoring in the brigade's growth, it was a fair valuation. Membership had exploded to 17,000 in no time, with a huge waitlist. Government contracts were a lock for bonuses, and volunteer militias were lining up daily.
A promising private security firm valued at 120 million total? Not bad.
They could've doubled that if they met listing requirements.
I was steering toward a yes when my internal line blinked. I frowned.
"Sorry, gotta cut this short. Something urgent downstairs."
"Ah, go ahead."
"Might take a while—don't wait around."
I ended the call with apologies and picked up the direct line from HQ security.
"What is it?"
"Intruders on HQ grounds. They don't look ordinary, so reporting before action."
I tilted my head. "Not ordinary how?"
"Every way. Gear and uniforms scream Army Awakened skirmisher squad, but no Defense Ministry memo on marine salvage ops. Moving in formation—not herding game. Squad-sized, but headcount's off."
"How many?"
"Twelve."
Suspicious as hell, every detail. First, the ministry memo was crucial—not just landowner rights, but because marine salvage always involved automatic weapons. Civilian safety issue.
Like raising flags and warnings at a range, the military sent memos and notified via channels to prevent accidents. Commanders couldn't slack on pensions at stake.
The formation was fishy too. Civilians might think they're just passing, but...
Why trek unlit hills if there's a road?
Awakened hunters were precious assets. The army ran skirmishers like rapid-response teams—twelve at night in the woods? Red flag.
And the numbers: Standard ROK squad was ten. Frontline divisions barely filled them amid birth-rate shortages; rear units often ran eight with gaps.
Not Round Table hounds either—mongrels weren't archmage favorites.
"Share screens?"
"Yeah."
Screens split on my monitor. I rubbed my temple.
North Koreans?
Nah... nah...
But suspicion deepened. Only China and North Korea used 12-man squads nearby—old commie doctrine for small-unit autonomy and firepower edge. China shifted to nine like the US in modernization; NK clung stubbornly due to dysfunction.
The intruders, oblivious to forest sensors and military-grade drones, halted overlooking city lights. Split into watches, unpacked entrenching tools from packs, and dug circular trench lines.
Their superhuman strength made quick work; the design—inner foxholes, outer communication trenches—mirrored old Warsaw Pact manuals. Half-convinced now.
Ridiculous. I snorted and sighed.
Armed infiltrators? For real?
Security caught my sigh. "Boss? You okay?"
"...Fine."
Not fine at all. DMZ fences and coastlines got pierced periodically even pre-magic; outdated systems couldn't stop Awakened.
Fine, retro commie infiltrators slipping south? Possible. But...
Why my land, you red bastards?
Irritation flared, but cooling off, I realized it wasn't pure bad luck. As Governor Kang Jungseong griped, I owned the county's largest private forest. Skirting villages, their route had to cross mine.
They didn't stop at one trench—dug multiples, like awaiting reinforcements. Anti-pursuit layout, securing retreat north. Elites, handpicked from the North—tireless digging proved it.
Annoying prey by my and my boys' standards, though.
"What now?"
"Hmm..."
I propped my chin, pondering. If backups were real, military lines were breached hard. Purpose?
Invasion prep? No way.
KPA was too crippled for full war—no food, fuel, trucks. Tanks stripped engines for brass homes; MGs were rare even in infantry. Invasion? Delusional.
Fuel from southern pumps? Get real. Awakened and grunts alone? NK wouldn't survive retaliation. Self-preservation ruled Pyongyang—no full war option.
Left: sabotage or novel provocation.
While I mulled, they finished trenches, posted sentries, unpacked rations for chow. One pulled a phone, striking a cheesy pose against city lights.
Their casual vibe amid trespassing spiked my anger and headache.
"Tell everyone to stand by."
I snapped irritably. "I'll handle these fuckers myself."