Maybe we're being a little too rigid?
A few reporters quietly asked themselves the question.
Sensing that the atmosphere had grown heavy again, the host swiftly intervened.
"Thank you for your answer, Mr. Luke. Next, we'll hear from Chosun Ilbo."
The Chosun Ilbo reporter stood up.
"Mr. Luke, you're widely regarded as a legendary martial artist. Whether on screen or off, your skills are undeniable. I'd like to ask—what is your favorite martial art?"
The question landed, and the entire room relaxed.
Martial arts.
Safe territory.
No history debates. No cultural minefields. No awkward silences.
At least, that's what they thought.
Luke, on the other hand, was delighted.
Finally, he thought. Here we go.
He smiled lightly.
"My favorite martial art is Tai Chi."
A few reporters nodded, unsurprised.
Luke continued calmly, "Because Tai Chi is the martial art most closely tied to a complete philosophical system. It reflects a worldview, not just a fighting method."
Internally, Luke was amused.
In truth, Tai Chi wasn't what he relied on most in combat. Precision weapons, distance control, and technique efficiency—that was where his real strength lay. But Tai Chi wasn't about practicality today.
It was about meaning.
And Luke knew exactly where this was going.
The symbol at the center of the Korean flag—the taegeuk—was visually linked to Tai Chi. He also knew that while the symbol was widely recognized, its philosophical depth was often simplified or misunderstood in popular discourse.
Sure enough, the Chosun Ilbo reporter leaned forward.
"Mr. Luke," he said carefully, "while we respect your expertise, Tai Chi is also deeply connected to Korean philosophical traditions."
Luke didn't argue. He smiled.
"Interesting," he said. "Could you explain how you understand Tai Chi?"
The reporter straightened, clearly prepared.
"In our classical philosophy, Tai Chi represents the One—the origin of all things. From it emerge yin and yang, heaven and earth, and ultimately the world."
Several reporters nodded. This was the standard academic explanation most people were familiar with.
Luke nodded as well.
"So, in your view," he said, "Tai Chi is the original 'One.'"
"Exactly," the reporter replied confidently. "It's the conceptual starting point of everything."
Luke paused—not dramatically, but thoughtfully.
"I understand that interpretation," he said. "But philosophically speaking, I believe that explanation skips a step."
The room stirred slightly.
Luke continued, his tone measured and instructional.
"In classical philosophy, Tai Chi is not the 'One.' It's what exists before the One."
A few brows furrowed.
"Before?"
"What does that mean?"
"How can something exist before the One?"
Luke gestured lightly toward the window.
"Let's think in simple terms," he said. "Everything we recognize has attributes—shape, size, color, function."
"When I say a specific object—say, a locust tree—you immediately form a clear image."
"But if I say 'tree,' that image becomes less specific."
"Then 'plant.' Then 'life.' Then simply 'existence.'"
"With each step upward, the concept becomes broader and more abstract."
He paused again.
"So if we follow that logic all the way to the source—before distinctions, before attributes—what remains?"
Silence.
Luke answered himself.
"Nothingness."
The word hung in the air.
"Not emptiness in the sense of absence," Luke clarified, "but undifferentiated potential. No form. No boundary. No definition."
"That is what Tai Chi represents."
Several reporters exchanged looks.
Luke continued, "Only from that state does the 'One' emerge. And only from the One do yin and yang arise."
"This isn't a modern reinterpretation," he added. "It's consistent with classical philosophy."
He didn't quote ancient texts directly. He didn't need to. The logic spoke for itself.
The room went completely still.
The reporters realized, slowly, that they weren't being corrected aggressively—just precisely.
No one could easily refute what he'd said.
Finally—
Clap.
One reporter began applauding.
A moment of hesitation followed.
Then another joined in.
Soon, the applause spread across the room.
Not because anyone felt defeated—but because Luke had given them an elegant way out.
His explanation was convincing, and applauding turned an awkward silence into respect.
The tension dissolved.
Luke smiled, sensing the shift, and eased back into lighter answers as the remaining questions came in. The room filled with laughter again, the earlier discomfort gone.
"At last," the host said, "we'll take a final question from Dong-A Ilbo."
The reporter stood up.
"Mr. Luke, the Korean public has an enormous affection for you. Do you have any plans to deepen your involvement here—perhaps through business or investment?"
Luke smiled warmly.
"I'm very optimistic about Korea's entertainment industry," he said. "In particular, K-pop. I'm considering investments in a few companies."
"In fact," he added casually, "I already have a meeting scheduled with the CEO of SM Entertainment."
The room buzzed.
"Seriously?"
"He's investing here?"
"So he'll be back often?"
"Back? Sounds like he's staying connected."
Luke stood, thanked the press for their time, and exited with Samsung Group staff.
The cameras followed him until the doors closed.
The press conference was over.
But the real negotiations—
the ones that actually mattered—
were just beginning.