At 10 a.m., in the grand conference hall of the Shilla Hotel, reporters from every major outlet had already gathered, waiting in anticipation.
This was a closed press conference. Only journalists personally vetted by Samsung Group staff were allowed inside. Judging by the forest of cameras, microphones, and sharply dressed reporters, anyone walking in blind would've assumed a major political figure—or a world-shaking announcement—was about to take the stage.
The atmosphere was solemn, almost tense, reflecting just how seriously the Korean media was treating this event.
To outsiders, Korea's intense focus on Luke might have seemed excessive. But the mindset behind it wasn't unique—it mirrored a familiar pattern seen in many countries that had spent decades trying to gain recognition from Western cultural centers.
For much of modern history, global influence had been concentrated in Europe and North America. Countries outside that sphere often struggled to gain acknowledgment, leading to an unspoken belief: true success only counted if it was validated by the West.
This wasn't limited to Korea. Japan had gone through the same phase. So had China. In China, filmmakers obsessed over entering Hollywood or winning awards at Cannes and Venice. In Korea, entertainment companies poured massive resources into breaking into the U.S. market, often at great cost and risk. Many failed spectacularly, sometimes destroying careers in the process.
That was what made Luke different.
He had succeeded outright—on Western soil, by Western standards, and in industries notoriously difficult for outsiders to penetrate. His achievements became a symbol not of race, but of cultural breakthrough: proof that someone from outside the traditional power centers could still command global influence.
The media hype quickly elevated him into something larger than an individual. He became a representative figure—much like how certain Olympic victories or international awards are often framed as milestones for an entire nation's soft power rather than just personal success.
Luke understood the danger of that pedestal. When expectations grow unrealistically high, admiration can turn to resentment just as fast.
But he wasn't worried.
He had no intention of slowing down—and he was confident that he could continue delivering results strong enough to silence any backlash.
As the doors to the conference hall opened, Luke entered with his team and took his seat on stage. Instantly, the reporters erupted into chatter.
"Luke looks incredible today. That's not a suit, is it?"
"It looks historical—almost like royal ceremonial clothing."
"Wait, I recognize that style. That's Ming Dynasty attire from China. Korean royal dress during the Joseon era was heavily influenced by Ming court standards, so that's why it looks familiar."
Luke sat calmly, dressed in a white inner robe beneath a black-and-gold Flying Fish robe, topped with a Winged Crown. The cloud brocade fabric, meticulous craftsmanship, and tailored silhouette gave him a commanding presence—refined, dignified, and unmistakably deliberate.
He hadn't chosen this outfit simply for aesthetics or cultural promotion. This was strategic.
Cultural narratives had a habit of blurring over time. Influence turned into ownership. Inspiration slowly became misattribution. And once a version of history gained traction internationally, correcting it later became nearly impossible.
Luke was here to leave a clear, public record.
While cultural debates between neighboring countries hadn't yet escalated to their later extremes, the early signs were already visible. Historical reinterpretations were beginning to circulate quietly, often framing borrowed traditions as purely domestic innovations.
Luke knew how these narratives developed. If left unchallenged early, they hardened into "accepted truth."
So he chose to act now—openly, publicly, and on record.
By presenting unmistakably Chinese cultural elements on a global media stage, while the audience still acknowledged their origins, he was creating something irrefutable: documented evidence.
Years from now, if anyone tried to rewrite the story, this footage would still exist.
At the time, China's global cultural preservation efforts were still fragmented and reactive. Luke saw this as an opportunity—not just to defend history, but to take the initiative.
Today's press conference was only the opening move. A statement of intent. The real work—protecting and formalizing intangible cultural heritage—would require long-term investment and infrastructure.
But every campaign needed a first shot.
And today, that shot was clothing.
The Flying Fish robe was the anchor point.
"Mr. Luke is now ready to take questions," the host announced. "Let's begin with SBS."
"Mr. Luke," the reporter said, "your outfit today resembles clothing from Korea's Joseon Dynasty. Could you explain why you chose to wear it?"
Luke smiled and lifted the microphone.
"As everyone knows, I'm Chinese," he said calmly. "For important occasions, I prefer wearing traditional attire from my own cultural heritage. It feels appropriate and meaningful."
"What I'm wearing today is a Flying Fish robe from China's Ming Dynasty, along with a Winged Crown. This style evolved from earlier Tang Dynasty ceremonial clothing."
"I'm glad you find it visually appealing."
"As for the resemblance to Joseon-era attire, that's not a coincidence. Historically, Joseon court dress followed Ming Dynasty ceremonial standards, adapted within certain limits."
His words were measured, polite—and precise.
He showed respect by honoring tradition, but he also clearly established origin, influence, and historical context without aggression or accusation.
The message was unmistakable: cultural exchange was real—but so were its sources.
With that foundation laid publicly and professionally, future disputes would have far less room to distort the narrative.
Luke leaned back slightly, eyes calm.
This wasn't confrontation.
It was documentation.
And in cultural battles, documentation was power.
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