One has to truly understand the full weight of the mandatory military service in Korea to grasp why Jihoon reacted the way he did.
In South Korea, all males become eligible for conscription the year they turn eighteen. Even though the legal obligation begins at eighteen, most men actually serve between the ages of eighteen and twenty-eight.
It's common for them to enlist right after high school, before entering university, or sometimes after finishing their undergraduate degree.
University students like Jihoon have the option to postpone their service until they graduate or reach the upper age limit—but no matter what, they must complete it by their twenty-eighth birthday. Some graduate students can delay until thirty, but that's the absolute ceiling.
In other words: the mandatory enrollment period starts at age eighteen, mandatory registration at nineteen, and the service must be completed by twenty-eight.
And in Jihoon's circumstance as a third-year SNU student, he can delay, yes—but the delay is not a ticket to escape responsibility.
The policy is strict: finish the service before turning twenty-eight. No exceptions. No shortcuts.
That's the rule.
That's the policy.
That's the iron framework every Korean male is expected to follow.
But anyone who knows Korea—really knows Korea—also understands the unspoken truth hidden behind these rules.
Korea is a country ruled by chaebol families.
Companies, influence, legacy, wealth—everything flows upward into the hands of a small, privileged circle.
Yes, policies exist, written neatly on paper for the public to see.
But the moment those policies enter the real world, their shape changes.
They twist quietly, bend invisibly, and always—always—tilt in favor of the wealthy. Justice is written with the ink of the rich, and welfare leans toward the best interest of those who already hold power.
So to summarize it simply: Korea is a city where everything is controlled by the rich and powerful.
And with that understanding, it becomes painfully easy to imagine what CJ ENM is planning to do to Jihoon.
Lee Sooman didn't bring up military service because he was bored or nostalgic about national policies.
He didn't mention Jihoon's age, his SNU status, or the deadlines tied to conscription as a casual side note.
He brought it up because he knew exactly what kind of pressure it created.
He knew what buttons it pressed.
He knew that once the topic was spoken aloud, Jihoon's trajectory would be dragged toward them again—pulled back into the orbit he had fought to escape ever since his reincarnation.
Mandatory military service is supposed to be a tool to solidify a country's defense—a straightforward mechanism found in many nations.
Countries like Singapore and Israel apply the same protocol: small nations surrounded by tension, relying on a system that ensures, if the day comes, every eligible citizen can pick up a gun, recall their training, and defend their land.
From a national perspective, when executed properly, this system doesn't just strengthen military capability; it can foster moral backbone, social unity, and a sense of patriotism.
But that's the theory.
That's the textbook explanation.
In Korea, none of that noble ideal exists.
In this god-forsaken country, mandatory military service feels more like Dante's nine circles of hell than any form of patriotic duty.
Here, conscripts aren't simply serving their nation—they are tossed into an environment where the wickedness of human nature grows like mold in a damp, forgotten room.
Violence, bullying, corruption, hierarchy abuse… call it an exaggeration if someone wants to soften the truth, but honestly, this description isn't far from reality.
If anything, it's one of the closest ways to capture how terrifyingly dark the experience can become.
Let's start with the most basic thing: remuneration.
Once a conscript enters the system, a private-tier soldier earns around 100,000 KRW per month—roughly 68 USD. Some people might counter saying serving your country shouldn't be measured in profit or financial reward.
And sure, in theory, that's a noble claim. But reality doesn't care much for noble claims.
Because aside from the miserable wages, the food served there is terrible too.
In recent years, countless enlisted men posted videos on TikTok showing their meals—dishes that honestly look more like something picked from a charity bin than food meant for people undergoing harsh physical training.
Sometimes all they get is rice, kimchi, and a watery soup.
Medically speaking, feeding a young adult male—who is supposed to withstand eight hours of military drills—such an unbalanced diet is borderline unethical.
And by now, many readers can already smell the corruption behind this.
Money that should go toward nutrition ends up evaporating somewhere between budgets and bureaucracy.
Regardless of the reason, it's absurd. These young men are expected to serve the country and protect it… so shouldn't they be treated, at the bare minimum, like human beings?
Then comes the second part: mental and physical care—or rather, the lack of it.
Most readers have surely come across articles or videos about this before, whether on Facebook, TikTok, or even traditional news outlets.
Many enlisted men suffer severe mental and physical hardship during service.
The causes vary—some from bullying by bunkmates, others from abuse inflicted by their superiors.
And let's be brutally honest: bullying in Korea is basically a standard vocabulary word.
You find it in schools, workplaces, and naturally, it spills straight into military camps. The ugliness is rooted in Korea's rigid sunbae–hoobae hierarchy system.
This system, originally meant to teach moral values and virtue during the Joseon era, has long since transformed into a weapon.
Monarchy used it to control citizens; now modern politicians and chaebol families use it to suppress anyone under them, to stop them from challenging authority.
And that twisted moral hazard bleeds into every corner of society—even households.
So inside a military camp, where obedience is compulsory and personal freedom is reduced to nothing, the power imbalance becomes suffocating.
Bullying becomes worse than outside, because orders must be followed.
"Do this," "run that errand," "wash my laundry"—these tasks aren't simply chores.
They become tools of humiliation.
Even the act of washing the clothes of someone who torments you is a form of psychological torture.
And this continues for the entire 18 months. Day and night. Non-stop.
Now imagine the toll this takes on the victims.
Rumors have long circulated that even celebrities—people adored by millions, powerful on screen—are reduced to obedient dogs once they enter camp, sitting quietly and waiting for approval like they're waiting for a pat on the head.
It sounds harsh, but many dramas have depicted similar situations, like Military Prosecutor Doberman.
Sure, it's fiction, but it reflects the cruelty that happens behind closed doors.
And it's not just storytelling. Real reports have shaken the country.
In 2019, one private was forced to consume his own feces and urine.
Another incident in 2022 revealed an officer in a Gangwon-do camp who bullied an entire company—around a hundred recruits—before he was finally arrested.
With this full picture laid bare, we can understand just how brutal Korean military service can be.
The mental fatigue alone is enough to break someone, and for many, it does. Every year, a heartbreaking number of soldiers commit suicide due to the mistreatment and psychological exhaustion they endure.
It's reported that at least a hundred military personnel take their own lives annually, during or after service, because the scars left on them never heal.
This is the reality Jihoon faces—the reality Lee Sooman intentionally evoked. Not a patriotic duty. Not a national necessity.
But a weapon. A threat. A reminder that, in Korea, even the military can be used as a chain to pull someone back under control.
And escaping that chain?
Not an option.
People have tried. Very few have succeeded.
The most famous case was a male celebrity named Yoo Seungjun, known in English as Steve Yoo.
Some younger readers might not recognize the name now, but once upon a time, he was one of the biggest stars in Korea—an icon of the early 2000s pop culture boom, a singer-actor adored by teenagers, a trendsetter with a spotless public image.
Then he became the national symbol of what happens when you try to run.
His case remains the most explosive, the most infamous, and unquestionably the most consequential example of military service evasion in South Korean history.
What he did transcended scandal. It became a story of national betrayal—one that triggered a punishment no one had ever seen before and that still hasn't been lifted decades later.
Back then, Steve Yoo was everywhere. Energetic dance-pop, slick choreography, a wholesome boyish charm—every Korean household knew his name.
And because he was a South Korean male citizen, everyone also knew he was obligated to serve the military.
His enlistment date was announced publicly, with many expecting him to become a textbook "model soldier," a high-profile example of patriotism.
But he showed them different.
In January 2002, just two weeks before he was scheduled to enlist at age 25, he flew to the United States.
And there, without warning, he renounced his South Korean citizenship and became a naturalized U.S. citizen.
This one act meant he was no longer required to serve.
And when the news hit Korea, the backlash was nothing short of a national firestorm.
Gone was the fame he had in Korea.
Gone the name he earned in the industry.
Gone the citizenship he was born into.
Everything—obliterated overnight.
To the public, his act wasn't a loophole.
It wasn't a technicality.
It was a calculated slap to the face.
The sentiment was unanimous: He had used Korea to build his career and earn his wealth, but when it came time to fulfill the one duty every man must shoulder—something viewed as sacred for national security—he slipped away, abandoning his nationality like a worn-out coat.
To many, it felt like the ultimate act of selfishness and cowardice.
And then came the government's response.
The Military Manpower Administration declared that his naturalization wasn't legitimate—they claimed it was a deliberate, illegal act to evade service.
In July 2002, the Ministry of Justice issued a complete entry ban, prohibiting him from setting foot in South Korea indefinitely.
The official stance accused him of violating the Military Service Act by obtaining foreign citizenship with the explicit intent to avoid conscription.
That was the message: Run, and you lose everything.
So with that example burned into his memory, Jihoon knew that escaping wasn't an option.
Not for him. Not with the amount of attention he had already attracted.
Even now, he felt his fist tightening.
He knew the law allowed him to delay his service until age twenty-eight.
But that was a privilege for regular people—people who hadn't caught the eye of those faggot.
He knew, with chilling clarity, that his enlistment papers could be mailed to him anytime—overnight—if CJ ENM decided to whisper a single word.
Policy or not, fairness or not, it was all just one phone call away for the authority to execute their orders like the lackeys they were.
In a country where economy and employment were puppeteered by chaebols, policy could be twisted into a dagger whenever those in power felt like using it.
Jihoon swallowed, trying to calm the furious pounding in his chest.
His jaw tightened, teeth biting down in frustration before he finally forced himself to speak.
"…Is this coming from CJ?"