Skipping the Practice Game
Demographically, a low birth rate is defined based on a total fertility rate of 2.1.
This means a country must maintain at least that value to replace the existing population with a new generation.
Anything below 2.1 is classified as a low birth rate, and anything below 1.3 is considered ultra-low, signaling a severe demographic crisis.
And South Korea's current fertility rate is...
"0.68."
No matter how many times I look at it, this country has truly lost its mind.
At this rate, we'll be seeing 0.5 soon. Actually, that is exactly what happened.
Do you know what a fertility rate of 0.5 actually means?
It means 100 women will give birth to only 50 babies over their lifetimes.
Will those 50 babies then go on to have 25 babies?
No.
Statistically, those 50 babies consist of 25 boys and 25 girls. Unless the 0.5 rate rebounds, the next generation will yield only 12.5 babies—half of the 25 women.
And of course, those original 100 women presuppose the existence of 100 husbands.
What does that mean?
It means a population of 200 plummets to 12.5 in just two generations.
Even if Thanos came with an Infinity Gauntlet on each hand, he couldn't wipe out a population this fast.
On the flip side, it also means 62 young and middle-aged adults would have to support 200 elderly people. Extreme youth extremist groups would inevitably form under that kind of pressure.
I have to raise this to at least 2.1.
Just imagining it made his head spin.
But there was no other way.
Time remaining: ten years.
The day I get executed by firing squad in some absurd way I can't even fathom right now is April 11, 2033.
Lee Yun-hyeok calculated the dates.
Today's date was April 11, 2023.
In South Korea at this point in time, the general election had just ended.
And at this point, Lee Yun-hyeok was working as a strategist in the presidential campaign of a three-term National Assembly member from the Hanmin Party. Specifically, in the policy planning department.
The person calling Yun-hyeok right now...
He was the star of that campaign and a newly re-elected National Assembly member.
In his first life, Lee Yun-hyeok had joined Assemblyman Park Dae-man's office as a Grade 7 secretary and spent four grueling years there.
But there's no need for that now.
Park Dae-man was a senior member of the Hanmin Party. While he possessed remarkable political acumen and a sharp mind, his personality was atrocious.
Whenever things didn't go his way, he would scream at his subordinates and throw whatever objects were within reach. He also dumped all the tedious grunt work onto them.
Granted, enduring that ordeal had taught Yun-hyeok a great deal—both as a negative example of leadership and through the sheer volume of practical work he had to handle.
But I already know all of it.
Although Lee Yun-hyeok was only thirty-one years old in this body, inside him resided a five-term National Assembly member who had spent forty years rolling, crawling, and running through the political arena, tasting everything from the absolute gutter to the highest echelons of power.
At this stage, he had absolutely no need for the entry-level practical experience of a young aide.
"Assemblyman,"
Lee Yun-hyeok pressed the accept button, deciding to wrap things up as politely as possible.
"I have something to tell you."
Here is a rather amusing fact.
Assemblyman Park Dae-man, who was practically a sociopath with a broken personality, had suddenly transformed into a refined gentleman.
Having adopted the persona of a wise mentor, he seemed determined to offer calm advice and warm wishes to Yun-hyeok.
To that end, Assemblyman Park had booked a private room salon and invited Yun-hyeok over.
How amusing.
Yun-hyeok found the display utterly laughable.
When I was working under him, he screamed and threw documents like a madman. Now that I'm leaving, his tone suddenly becomes so sweet.
Shouldn't a decent person treat their subordinates well while they are actually working for them?
But that wasn't how Park Dae-man operated.
There was a clear reason why he was laying down this groundwork.
"You want to run in the next mayoral election?"
The reason was simple: Yun-hyeok intended to stay in politics.
"Yes, sir. I know I would learn a great deal working as a secretary under you, but I want to kick-start my own political career as soon as possible."
Sociopathic tendencies aside, Park Dae-man possessed the seasoned instincts of a three-term politician. If Yun-hyeok had told him he was leaving to take over his father's convenience store, this drinks meeting would never have happened. But since Yun-hyeok was staying in the political arena, Park was merely taking out an insurance policy, knowing that one can never predict how the tables might turn in life.
"You did excellent work in the campaign, Yun-hyeok."
"Thank you for the kind words, sir."
"But becoming a mayor is no easy feat. Mir City isn't a metropolitan city, but it's not a small town either."
Park Dae-man's constituency, as well as the place where Yun-hyeok was born and raised, was none other than Mir City.
Located in southern Gyeonggi Province with a population of 490,000, it saw an influx of young residents every year due to its proximity to Pangyo, yet its development remained stagnant.
Yun-hyeok had decided to launch his political career right here.
"What are you going to do about a party affiliation?"
Yun-hyeok currently had no party affiliation. He had simply written policy columns on his blog consistently until those writings connected him to Park Dae-man's campaign, which he joined as an independent.
"You're not planning to join the Jayu Party, are you?"
Park Dae-man was a man of intense political black-and-white thinking. While many in the National Assembly shared this trait, Park was a hardliner even among them. He viewed his own Hanmin Party as the savior of the nation and the rival Jayu Party as a band of traitors.
"I won't be doing that."
"Then join our party. Let me give you a tip. Don't get too greedy on your first try. Start as a city council member instead of aiming straight for mayor. Build your presence in our party, secure a nomination to run for city council, and then set your sights on the mayor's office."
The path Park Dae-man outlined was the standard, elite political trajectory. However, Yun-hyeok politely declined.
"Thank you, sir, but I must respectfully decline."
The Hanmin Party and the Jayu Party were both equally, proportionally corrupt.
Furthermore, because sly, old-guard heavyweights held absolute control over the power structures, it would be nearly impossible for Yun-hyeok to propose any innovative reforms from within. They would immediately open fire on him from the inside.
It would also be difficult to leave the party later once he joined. Having already served as a campaign strategist, jumping in and out of political parties would brand him as a political opportunist—a migratory bird.
"I plan to run as an independent."
"Haha."
Park Dae-man burst into laughter.
"I admire your spirit. But it's going to be incredibly difficult."
For an independent political rookie to suddenly become mayor, they had to whip up an unprecedented sensation. But...
"For local government heads, independent candidates don't even get a chance to step into the spotlight."
"I am well aware, sir. But I still want to try."
"If you succeed, just remember that I cheered you on. Though my direct help will be limited. If there's anything you don't know, feel free to call and ask."
Of course, if I actually call, his chief of staff will pick up and block me right then and there, Yun-hyeok thought.
"Thank you for your concern, sir. And once again, congratulations on your election victory."
"Well, it was all thanks to my talented strategists."
Amidst a touch of bitterness and complex calculations,
Yun-hyeok shared a few more drinks before parting ways with Park Dae-man.
"I decided not to work as a secretary."
The news delivered by their son, who returned home at eleven o'clock at night, must have felt like a bolt from the blue.
Yun-hyeok's parents, who had retired and were running a convenience store together, were so shocked they lost their words for a moment. Then,
"Wait, why on earth?"
Yun-hyeok's mother looked incredibly disappointed.
"Good riddance!"
His father, on the other hand, was thrilled.
"You've been hanging around that filthy political swamp since you were young, and I'm glad you finally quit! Your dad approves! Wholeheartedly!"
"But honey! Think of how long our boy prepared for this!"
"Actually, the reason I didn't take the secretary job is..."
Just as Yun-hyeok was about to explain that he was skipping the practice game to jump straight into the real deal—
Beep, beep, beep, click!
The digital door lock chimed, and Yun-hyeok's older sister walked in.
Lee Yun-ha (35).
She was the eldest child of the family, a working mom raising a five-year-old son with her thirty-seven-year-old husband.
Today, she exuded a dark, ominous aura from the moment she stepped through the front door, her face set in a grim expression.
"O-oh, welcome... Where's Subin?"
Yun-hyeok's mother asked, carefully reading her daughter's mood while looking around for her grandson.
"His dad is watching him at home. I didn't have the confidence to look Subin in the eye with this face, so I came here instead."
Lee Yun-ha had moved out when she got married, living in her husband's studio apartment before recently winning a housing subscription and moving into a brand-new apartment complex.
Ironically, the reason she had sought refuge at her parents' place, leaving her beautiful new home behind, was that very apartment.
"Those absolute lunatics..."
Yun-ha gulped down a glass of cold water, trying to suppress her rage.
"The entire tenant representative association went to protest today, but nothing worked. It felt like talking to a brick wall."
"Aigoo."
"What a mess."
Her parents sighed in sympathy. Her situation, which they already knew about, was as follows:
After moving into the newly built apartment complex, they discovered a major issue with the security cameras.
The security cameras installed in the playground, daycare center, parking lot, and school bus zones were outdated, ancient models with a resolution of only 500,000 pixels.
When the tenant representative association ran a test, they found it was impossible to identify faces or license plates in the dimly lit parking lot.
The outdoor cameras near the playground and daycare center were equally useless at night.
"Does this make any sense?"
Since then, the tenant representative association had been in an uproar, demanding a complete replacement of the cameras from the construction company. The developer, however, refused, claiming they had no legal obligation to do so, leading to a grueling, drawn-out battle.
"How is this even possible? 500,000 pixels? I didn't even know they still manufactured those! In an era where smartphone cameras boast 100 million pixels, how can they install 500,000-pixel cameras?!"
Yun-ha's shoulders trembled with rage.
"There were so many issues during the two years our apartment was under construction. They used window frames from some obscure, no-name brand, there's no landscape lighting, and the landscaping itself is pathetic! But we endured all of that!"
Because those issues, at least, were merely aesthetic.
"But the cameras are different! This is about safety! How can they call it a proper installation when they've put up cameras that don't even work at night?!"
"Can't the residents file a class-action lawsuit?"
Yun-hyeok's father asked, his temper rising.
"They say we'll lose even if we sue. Apparently, there are no legal regulations regarding camera resolution in the first place. As long as they install more than the legally required number of cameras, they're in the clear."
Yun-ha turned to look at her younger brother.
"Yun-hyeok, is this right? I looked it up, and that law was made twenty-five years ago. Who is your assemblyman again? Was it Kim Dae-man?"
Well, she got two out of three characters right.
"Give me that old man's number. Isn't he the assemblyman for our district? How little work do they do in the National Assembly for things to end up like this?! Let me finally get some perks from having a brother who's a congressional secretary!"
"Yun-hyeok said he's not going to be a secretary."
Yun-hyeok's mother quickly shut down her eldest daughter's hopeful train of thought.
"What? You worked yourself to the bone in that campaign because you wanted that job so badly! Why quit?"
"He did the right thing! I'm just glad he quit now!"
Yun-hyeok's father patted his son's shoulder and shouted.
"Actually,"
Lee Yun-hyeok finally brought up the main point he hadn't been able to mention earlier.
"I'm running for Mayor of Mir City."
"Pfft!"
"Cough!"
Yun-hyeok's parents choked on their own spit at the same time, coughing violently.
"Mayor...? Not even city council, but mayor?"
Yun-ha's eyes widened to twice their size.
And his father, still coughing, yelled:
"Do you think just because you want to do it, someone's going to hand you the mayor's office on a silver platter, you rascal?!"
"I've filed so many civil complaints with the city council and city hall over those security cameras. I even met with some city council members,"
Yun-ha said.
"But they all promised to help and then did absolutely nothing! When I call to follow up, they just say there's no legal issue, so it's hard to find a solution!"
"In that case..."
In truth, Lee Yun-hyeok had been keeping his sister's apartment complex in mind ever since he decided to forfeit his position under Park Dae-man right after his regression.
"If I solve that problem, your apartment residents will vote for me, right? In the next local election."
That complex was a massive development of 3,054 households, which meant a goldmine of votes.