The Hilton Hotel's grand hall buzzed with the clink of glasses and the hum of ambition at the Busan Industry Summit's closing party. Park Minho stood at the center of a small crowd, his summit stardom drawing bosses like moths to a flame. But one figure loomed larger—Yoon Woo-bin of Gao-Seong Securities, his smile a polished mask hiding darker intent. Minho's gut churned; Yoon's warmth felt like a snake's coil, and he wanted no part of it.
"Mr. Park," Yoon began, his voice smooth as silk, "Hansung's fame has exploded thanks to your summit triumph. With Korea's billion-plus population, at least 10 million now know Hansung's name. That's worth billions in ads—rivaling a KBS bidding crown!"
Minho shrugged, unfazed. "A small win, nothing more."
He wasn't swayed by Yoon's flattery. Sure, 10 million hearing Hansung's name was a coup, turning his Labor Edition 12—a rugged, 29,900-won phone—into a recognized brand. But fame didn't equal sales. One percent of those 10 million might buy, drawn by Hansung's summit glow and its "walnut-smashing" MaumNet buzz. They'd trust its quality, not just its name. True success? That hinged on Hansung's phones—durability, price, proprietary OS—not hype. Minho knew this; pride was a trap.
Yoon pressed on, sensing Minho's restraint. "With Hansung's fame, the national market's ripe. Your factory's at 180,000 units monthly—too small for Korea's scale. You need 400,000, minimum. Acquisition's the fastest path. Gao-Seong can fund it—buy factories, solve your 11-billion-won expansion gap, clear obstacles, seen and unseen."
He leaned closer, voice dropping. "We hold stakes in key suppliers—Rulianfuke, others. Join us, and Hansung gets parts cheaper than rivals, boosting profits. Gao-Seong's network is your edge."
Minho's eyes narrowed, the *Ultimate Imitation Emperor System* steadying him. Yoon's pitch was tempting—cash, connections, cost cuts. But it reeked of control. "Thanks, Gao-Seong, but Hansung's growing slow and steady," he said, smiling tightly, rejecting Yoon for the third time.
Yoon's face stiffened, his grin a thin veneer over fury. Three rejections? Minho was a stone wall, unyielding as a "toilet rock," as Yoon fumed inwardly. In ancient tales, persistence won legends; here, Minho's defiance burned. Yoon's eyes darkened—he'd make Minho pay.
The surrounding bosses gasped, their shock palpable. Gao-Seong Securities, a global titan, was begging to invest, offering billions and supplier perks. Its reach—spanning Korea and beyond—meant protection from foreign market traps and local dirty tricks. Rivals wouldn't dare sabotage a Gao-Seong-backed firm; they'd face fair fights. Plus, Gao-Seong's portfolio—stakes in countless firms—slashed costs and opened doors. Every CEO craved this.
Yet Minho refused, point-blank. The crowd's envy spiked, laced with awe and frustration. *He's got what we dream of,* they thought, *and he tosses it away?* Minho's confidence—dismissing a titan like Gao-Seong—was electrifying, maddening. When would they ever have such guts?
"It's a shame," Yoon said, his smile forced, eyes cold as ice. "I've got business elsewhere." He turned, aides trailing, but his mind churned. Minho's rejections weren't just business—they were personal now. Yoon would hit back, hard, ensuring Hansung felt the weight of Gao-Seong's wrath.
As Yoon vanished, Minho exhaled, irritation rising. The bosses around him—pushing daughters and granddaughters, angling for a stake in his future—were relentless. Their flattery hid greed; they saw Hansung's 180,000 monthly sales, its 10-million-unit factory plan, and Minho's chip dreams as their ticket to riches. His phone buzzed—a perfect excuse. "Got a call," he muttered, slipping from the hall to dodge the fawning.
Behind him, an old man who'd pitched his granddaughter sighed, shaking his head. "Pity. He's bright, but fleeting. A shooting star, gone soon."
A square-jawed uncle, who'd offered his daughter, snapped back. "What's that talk? This kid's got potential—maybe Korea's richest! Don't curse him!"
The old man shrugged, unconvinced. Minho's summit blaze—Industry 4.0, triple play, Hansung's rise—had dazzled, but defying Gao-Seong and rivals like Jaehan Mobile's Xu Jia-Hu spelled trouble. Shooting stars burned out fast.
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Outside, Minho leaned against a wall, the cool night air clearing his head. The *Ultimate Imitation Emperor System* hummed, replaying the summit's triumphs. His speech had sparked MaumNet, with posts exploding: *Genius Minho! Hansung's future!* TV coverage—HanFox, eKor, WaveKor, KBS—had beamed his name to millions, tying Hansung's rugged phones to Korea's tech dreams. His 29,900-won Labor Edition 12 and upcoming 49,900-won Hansung 3, both running his proprietary OS, were no longer Gyeonggi secrets.
But Yoon's veiled threat lingered. Gao-Seong wouldn't let three rejections slide. They'd likely fund Xu Jia-Hu's Jaehan or TLC's copycat low-end phones, arming Minho's rivals with billions. Xu, already plotting to flood rural markets with cheap phones, would hit harder. TLC's scale, Amoi's brand—each loomed larger with Gao-Seong's cash.
Minho wasn't naive. Hansung's 180,000-unit factory, scaling to 10 million annually, was a minnow against chaebol sharks. His rural push—sales reps hitting villages—had driven early sales, fueled by MaumNet's viral walnut-smashing clips. But national dominance needed retail chains, not just grit. Stores, once wary of Hansung's "copycat" stigma, now clamored to stock his phones, thanks to summit fame. Yet, Gao-Seong's shadow could tilt the scales, fast.
He saw the detour: chips and systems, Industry 4.0's core. Hansung's proprietary OS, lean and fast, was a start. Chip R&D was next—Korea's failed Projects 531, 908, 909 taught him self-reliance was key. Wassenaar's tech bans choked foreign reliance; Hansung had to build its own. If Minho could deliver, Hansung would leap from phones to tech titan, untouchable by Xu or Yoon.
Back inside, the party churned—bosses swapping deals, flattery thick as smog. Minho's absence didn't dim his glow. Big Kim of JunSeok, intrigued by Minho's consumer-tech talk, eyed e-commerce tie-ins. Motorola's Edward Kang, inspired, drafted plans to pivot toward smart devices. Even Xu Jia-Hu, seething, recalibrated Jaehan's strategy, eyeing robotics and AI fees.
Minho's speech had shifted Korea's tech narrative. His 614-word summit closer—shamelessly plugging Hansung—had cemented its name. Ni Kwang-soo and Choi Sang-Woo's endorsement, MaumNet's roar, and millions of viewers had made him a minor celebrity. Suppliers would bow; stores would stock; Hansung's path was open.
But the old man's words—*shooting star*—echoed. Yoon's grudge, Xu's war, TLC's scale—they'd test him. Hansung's 180,000 monthly sales, its 10-million-unit dream, were fragile against chaebol might. Minho gripped his phone, MaumNet alerts pinging: *Hansung's king!* He smirked. Shooting star? No. He'd build a constellation. Korea was his stage, and the peak was his.
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