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The Hilton Hotel's grand hall pulsed with ambition, but outside on the balcony, Park Minho gripped his phone, staring at the name "Kim Soo-jin" flashing on his Hansung Labor Edition 12. His head throbbed. The *Ultimate Imitation Emperor System* kept him calm, but this call—his "sister" in this reborn life—stirred unease. He wasn't the original Minho, and the unfamiliarity of this family, this life, gnawed at him.
Inside, the summit party churned, bosses circling like sharks. The old man's words still echoed: *Lin Xuan's a shooting star, doomed to crash.* His warning, shared with the square-jawed uncle, painted Minho as arrogant, too brash to navigate Korea's guanxi-driven business world. Rejecting Gao-Seong Securities twice? Suicide. Yoon Woo-bin, the "Smiling Viper," wouldn't forgive. The uncle, once eager to pitch his daughter, now wavered, spooked by Minho's defiance and Gao-Seong's shadow.
"You don't get it," the old man had insisted, his voice heavy with decades of dealmaking. "Minho's too young, too cocky. He thinks talent's enough—genius ideas, sharp speeches. But business isn't brains; it's connections, favors. He won't bend, won't flatter. That's his doom. I give him six months—bankruptcy, debts, maybe a river jump."
The uncle, heart pounding, had faltered. The old man's certainty—backed by years in Korea's cutthroat markets—felt prophetic. Minho's rejections of Gao-Seong, his aloof charm, his refusal to play the fawning game—they spelled trouble. Gao-Seong's Yoon, all smiles, hid venom. The uncle sighed, abandoning his daughter-pitching plan. *A shooting star, not a tycoon.*
They were wrong, Minho knew. Korea's business world prized guanxi, but global giants like TLC thrived on hard power. TLC's edge? Self-made parts, slashing costs, outlasting flashier rivals like Jaehan Mobile, whose marketing-first model crumbled against smartphone tides by 2010. Human connections helped, but tech—real tech—won wars. Minho's *Ultimate Imitation Emperor System* gave him that: black tech, future glimpses, chip and OS designs to crush chaebols. Let Yoon plot, Xu Jia-Hu scheme—Minho's phones, his vision, would make consumers vote with their wallets.
Back in the hall, the old man's warning lingered. "If Minho groveled like us, kissed up to chaebols, sent holiday gifts—he'd thrive. But that's not him. Korea's game chews up purists." The uncle nodded, glancing at Yoon exiting with Motorola's Edward Kang, likely plotting against Minho. *Genius, but fleeting.*
They missed the point. If Korea's future hinged on favors, it'd stagnate, outrun by global tech powers. Minho's path—hard tech, self-reliance—was Korea's detour to the top. His Labor Edition 12, selling 180,000 monthly at 29,900 won, and the upcoming Hansung 3 at 49,900, weren't just phones; they were Korea's pride, powered by his proprietary OS. MaumNet's viral clips—walnut-smashing, rural-loved—proved it. Gao-Seong's billions couldn't match that.
Minho stared at his phone, Kim Soo-jin's name pulsing. This body's sister, a stranger to his reborn soul. The original Minho's memories were faint—her voice, her face, a blur from their father's funeral. He'd been wooden then, silent, overwhelmed by this new life. His mother and Soo-jin hadn't judged, assuming grief locked him up. When he moved out, they let him, though his mother called weekly, her voice warm, concerned. Soo-jin, though? First call ever. Trouble.
He couldn't dodge forever. This body's wealth—Hansung, the villa—was theirs by right. Ignoring them felt wrong, but closeness risked exposing his secret: he wasn't their Minho. Suspicion might only strain ties, not ruin him, but guilt gnawed. He sighed, answering. "Hey."
"Brother, it's me, Soo-jin," came a light, melodic voice, hinting at beauty even over the line.
"I know," Minho said, wincing. "Why the call?"
Her tone shifted, hurt. "You sound like you don't want me calling."
Minho's heart sank. The original Minho doted on her—spoiled her, she'd said once. This Minho, a stranger in her brother's skin, was cold, distant. "No way, always glad to hear you," he lied, forcing warmth.
"Really?" Soo-jin's voice softened, but doubt lingered. "I saw you on MaumNet—summit star! Congrats, brother."
"Thanks," Minho said, a faint smile breaking through. "Just doing my thing."
He leaned against the balcony rail, Busan's skyline glittering below. Soo-jin's call, innocent as it seemed, stirred a storm. How did he play brother to a sister he didn't know? The *Ultimate Imitation Emperor System* could mimic poise, feed tech, but not family ties. Her voice carried memories he didn't share, expectations he couldn't meet.
"You've changed," she said softly, unprompted. "Since Dad… you're different. Distant."
Minho froze, pulse spiking. Did she suspect? "It's been rough," he said, dodging. "Business keeps me buried."
"Business, sure," she teased, but her tone held an edge. "Just don't forget us, okay? Mom worries. I do too."
"Never," he promised, throat tight. Guilt twisted harder—he was using their family's wealth, their trust, while hiding his truth. But he couldn't linger. "Got another call coming, Soo-jin. Talk soon?"
"Fine," she huffed, playful but hurt. "Don't be a stranger, genius."
The line went dead. Minho exhaled, staring at the city. Soo-jin's call was a reminder: his new life came with strings. He couldn't ghost his family forever, but closeness risked cracks in his facade. For now, he'd keep them at arm's length, out of sight, out of suspicion.
Back inside, the party roared on. Yoon's absence with Edward Kang spelled trouble—likely plotting with Motorola to squeeze Hansung. Xu Jia-Hu, Jaehan's CEO, was probably rallying TLC and Amoi, flooding rural markets with cheap phones to choke Hansung's 180,000-unit sales. The old man's prophecy—six months to ruin—loomed, fueled by Yoon's venom and chaebol might.
Minho smirked. Let them come. His *Ultimate Imitation Emperor System* gave him an edge: chip designs, OS tweaks, Industry 4.0 blueprints. Hansung's factory, scaling to 10 million units, would pivot to chips, dodging Wassenaar's bans. His summit fame—10 million knowing Hansung's name—meant stores clamored to stock his phones. MaumNet's buzz, KBS headlines, Ni and Choi Sang-Woo's nods—they'd made him untouchable, for now.
The mobile war was heating up. Jaehan's low-cost flood, TLC's scale, Gao-Seong's billions—they'd hit hard. But Minho saw the detour: tech, not favors. His Labor Edition 12, tough as nails, and Hansung 3, sleek and cheap, were just the start. Chips, AI, smart factories—that's where he'd crush them. The old man called him a shooting star. Minho would prove him wrong, building a constellation Korea couldn't ignore.
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