Chapter 68
Taejong Group (2)
The office looked no different from that of any other large corporation.
A man in a finely tailored suit entered the office, accompanied by an aide. An older department manager immediately jumped to his feet to greet him.
“W-what brings you here, Executive Director Geum?!”
“Sales Manager. It’s nothing serious; I just have a few questions.”
The manager’s exaggeratedly low posture made the employees around him freeze as well.
“Th-then, please, let’s go to the conference room. Hey! Quick, get some tea ready!”
“No need for tea. I’m not that idle.”
“Ah… alright. Then, this way.”
“Don’t worry about us—just continue with your work.”
Once they left for the conference room, the tension among the employees slowly eased, and sighs of relief could be heard throughout the office.
Curious, a new employee leaned over to ask a colleague.
“Who is that guy? He looks about our age.”
“Who? Didn’t you hear how the manager addressed him?”
“…No way.”
Executive Director Geum.
With the surname Geum (琴), he shared the same family name as the chairman.
“Could that just have been the heir to the conglomerate?!”
“In a manner of speaking, yes.”
“The third generation of the Taejong Group… he must have everything in the world.”
The Taejong Group.
From a humble hardware store in the poverty-stricken 1960s to a conglomerate with a market capitalization exceeding 600 trillion won, it had become one of South Korea’s most representative chaebols.
Starting from hardware distribution, the company had expanded into home appliances, culture, fashion, and virtually every sector of Korean industry.
Its workforce numbered over 200,000, and thousands of students received scholarships from Taejong each year.
A company of this scale influenced all of society, and when speaking about South Korea, Taejong was impossible to ignore.
Naturally, one could easily imagine the power wielded by a third-generation heir of such a major corporation.
The new employee whispered, eyes wide, to the colleague next to him.
“But why are they here all of a sudden…? Surely, they’re not coming above us, are they?”
“They already have enough power where they are. No reason for that.”
“Where is he, then?”
The colleague glanced around, then pointed upward with his thumb.
“Up there—the Future Strategy Headquarters.”
“Future… what? What do they do there?”
Geum Kang-tae, the third-generation heir of the Taejong Group, held the official title of Executive Director of the Future Strategy Headquarters.
The department was responsible for planning the company’s future, overseeing various departments, and wielding the authority to cut anyone who didn’t align with Taejong’s vision—without hesitation.
However, the details of the department’s operations—and even the identities of its employees—were kept strictly secret.
“There are rumors they lead national projects… but no one knows for sure.”
“Maybe it’s like…”
“What do you mean?”
“Like they’re backed by the mob! Like in the movies!”
“No way…”
“It wouldn’t make sense otherwise. Why would it be secret?”
“Or maybe the National Intelligence Service?”
“Oh, that’d be cool too.”
“Right? Haha.”
For a moment, they indulged in these frivolous speculations.
Soon, however, the people in the conference room emerged.
“Well, I’ll take my leave then.”
“Please come again anytime, Executive Director. And about the chairman…”
“We’ll discuss the sales department’s performance over a meal.”
The manager bowed so deeply it seemed his head might touch the floor again.
Geum Kang-tae smiled slightly as if to reassure him, but the moment he turned, his expression cooled.
‘No sense of pride, huh?’
Even nearing retirement, the man probably clung to any lifeline he could. But still, to bow so low to someone only thirty years old…
It seemed petty to Kang-tae.
It wasn’t just because he was a third-generation heir with different economic sensibilities than ordinary people.
A few months ago, he had witnessed those who wield power behind the scenes.
‘They’re players,’ he had thought.
A society run by the logic of power alone, beyond money and authority.
As a corporate heir, he had only recently come to understand this hidden world.
When he first stepped into the cracks of society, it had been shocking.
His previous understanding of the world seemed completely destroyed.
And only then did he understand why Taejong had a Future Strategy Headquarters.
“The department I thought was doing nothing… was handling this kind of work…”
Thinking of the responsibility he now bore, Kang-tae clenched his fist.
Just as ambition began to stir within him, his aide hurried over.
“Executive Director, you need to visit headquarters immediately.”
“Why? Is the chairman here?”
“No, it’s… a man is looking for you.”
“What?”
It was absurd. Who could demand a meeting without an appointment?
And the aide’s casual attitude annoyed him.
But the next words made him reconsider.
“He came to become a new partner of the Taejong Scholarship Foundation.”
“…!”
The Taejong Scholarship Foundation was a nonprofit under the Taejong Group.
It had no connection to the Future Strategy Headquarters.
Moreover, as a scholarship foundation, it had no partners.
At least, not publicly.
Yet the fact that this puzzle had been pieced together and delivered so calmly… meant…
“…Let’s go.”
He hurried to his office.
Soon, he faced the people looking for him.
“Why are you staring so intently?”
“….”
They were unusually ordinary-looking young people, probably in their early twenties.
The woman wore a decent mask, and the man looked like he had come straight from a workshop.
Young and inexperienced, unaware of proper etiquette. That was about it.
Perhaps that’s why Kang-tae felt the tension drain.
“So… what brings you here?”
After a pause, the aide asked on Kang-tae’s behalf.
“As I said, we’re here to become a new partner of the Taejong Scholarship Foundation.”
“This is the Future Strategy Headquarters, not the scholarship foundation. If you’re mistaken…”
The man sighed in exasperation and turned to Kang-tae.
“Do I have to spell it all out? Really?”
“Spell what out?”
Kang-tae, feigning ignorance, listened.
“That the Future Strategy Headquarters is working with the Foundation.”
“…!”
He couldn’t help widening his eyes.
The Taejong Scholarship Foundation did have official agreements with the Adams Foundation, an international arts sponsorship organization.
But that wasn’t what this man was talking about.
The true purpose of the Future Strategy Headquarters was distributing resources to the Foundation—a shadowy government of players.
“Even if it’s secret, you need connections in the light. You need materials, control over the media…”
“….”
“That’s why Taejong was perfect. No matter the business sector, they had a presence. In fact, they expanded their operations to handle the Foundation’s back-end work.”
This man knew everything.
Taejong supplied materials, including weapons, to the Foundation while covering their tracks between the shadows and the light.
Taejong wasn’t a Foundation subsidiary.
It was purely a business alliance.
Even the material distribution was calculated to maximize profit.
For the Foundation, having an ally who understood the situation was invaluable.
“So it wasn’t difficult for Taejong to become the country’s top company under the Foundation’s protection. Moreover…”
“Enough.”
Kang-tae interrupted. Every word the man spoke was confidential and couldn’t leak.
How could this man know things even players didn’t?
“So… what do you want?”
“Finally, we can talk business.”
The man smiled and handed over a business proposal.
Kang-tae examined it carefully, his expression grim.
The conclusion was clear:
‘All talk, no substance.’
The man’s name was Nam Se-hyeon, affiliated with Pandemonium.
His main business: distributing the “Flag of the Holy War.”
‘They call it an artifact to sound fancy… but it’s basically just a weapon.’
He seemed to think his product was extraordinary.
But Kang-tae knew better.
For players, equipment was just an aid.
Moreover, Taejong already held a near-monopoly on weapon distribution and interstellar arms in Korea.
And yet, he made a fuss over a simple flag-like weapon. The man was out of touch with reality.
Even his proposed profit split was absurd.
‘A 50/50 split for this?’
It was laughable.
“Nam Se-hyeon.”
“How’s it? Have you changed your mind?”
“…Do you know our distribution ratio for weapons?”
Nam tilted his head and shook it.
Kang-tae found him even more ridiculous.
“It’s 80/20. We take 80, of course.”
“….”
“Think that’s greedy? That’s just reality. Who else could sell this?”
Nam was speechless.
All the engineers Kang-tae had seen behaved like this—arrogant and clueless about reality, just trying to inflate their value.
Calling it “new concepts,” “blue oceans,” “new markets.”
“A common misconception. Just because you thought of it first doesn’t mean it’s innovative.”
Once they learned the truth, they’d back down.
It wasn’t that no one thought of it—it was that it wasn’t worth attempting.
Even if attempted, it would have disappeared without a trace.
“No matter the fancy name, no one’s innovating.”
“….”
Kang-tae took out a pen and started cutting down the proposed ratio.
“Production scale—minus. New company—minus. Non-weapon items—minus. If you want a fair deal… this is what I’ll give.”
The resulting profit split: 10/90.
“For a small workshop, that’s still a good deal. The experience matters more than immediate profit.”
“….”
“Even 10% is generous. Better to run your business through us than not be able to sell it at all.”
Nam Se-hyeon accepted the proposal.
The woman beside him looked anxious.
“So? Will you do it?”
Se-hyeon finally spoke, expressionless.
“Let me ask one thing.”
“…Yes?”
“If it were you, would you accept this proposal?”
“….”
“I wouldn’t. Would you?”
Kang-tae was speechless.
It wasn’t a question—it was blatant mockery of his own stance.
