The sun hadn't fully risen when Yujhae stood on the Suwon restaurant's rooftop, watching the city wake with a predator's patience. The betrayal had splintered the King's grip; the streets still smelled of smoke and brake dust from the last skirmish. That break in the old order—that fissure—was his invitation. He didn't want half-measures or slow influence; he wanted a clean, total takeover. Phoenix would not just own Suwon's alleys and clubs. Phoenix would own its culture.
He called a single meeting. No long speeches. Taejun, Dojin, Kang Jisu, the core lieutenants, a single sponsor representative who understood investments and muscle. "We take the city in three moves," Yujhae said. "Control the streets. Convert the economy. Make fighters line up." He drew the plan: targeted shows of force to dismantle remaining loyalties, aggressive integration of local businesses, and one public product that would convert adrenaline into revenue — a citywide Fight Club circuit branded by Phoenix and pushed by Reklama marketing everywhere.
The first wave cleaned the streets. Dojin and the Alpha squad executed fast, surgical raids against the King's last loyal pockets—stash houses, phone racks, a clandestine back-channel money courier. Each operation ended the same way: minimal blood, maximum humiliation. Captured lieutenants were left bound in plain sight with Phoenix tags; the message was tidy and televised by the city's rumor mill. Local shopkeepers who'd once paid protection money now accepted Phoenix contracts openly. Security became municipal order. Fear folded into convenience.
While the team stabilized neighborhoods, Taejun launched the Reklama campaign. He'd learned the mechanics on the festival push: QR codes, targeted reels, sponsored posts, and pop-up booths. But this time the product was a spectacle: Phoenix Fight Nights. Posters bloomed across Suwon overnight — neon wings, dates, cryptic taglines. Micro-ads showed quick cuts: fists, cash, cheering crowds, a leather glove closing on a sponsor's logo. Influencers were seeded with VIP invites; small-time fighters were offered prize money and instant notoriety. Each ad funneled viewers to the Phoenix app where registration opened in one click. Reklama didn't ask for permission; it rewired attention.
The Fight Club wasn't a simple underground brawl. Yujhae insisted on structure: weight classes, rules, medical checks, live commentators, and safety nets. He wanted the legitimacy that draws investors and keeps police at bay. Sponsors funded prize pools and camera rigs; the post office network shipped branded gear within hours. Kang Jisu coordinated logistics — secure venues, crowd flow, emergency exits — while Taejun handled the virality engine. Dojin supervised training pods that converted street thugs into athletes; even old rivals found a way to cash in by coaching or handling security.
The first Fight Night lit up Suwon. The main venue was a converted warehouse, its exterior plastered with Reklama posters. Inside, under brutal lights and a ring marked with Phoenix wings, fighters moved like wrecking balls softened by discipline. The crowd's volume became currency; cameras cut to sponsors' banners; feeds trended. People who months ago would never cross Phoenix's threshold now queued for VIP access and merchandise. The King's old men watched from afar as their informal economy was siphoned into official transactions — betting kiosks, ring-side booths, branded drinks. Revenue replaced resentment.
Public relations were surgical. When a journalist sniffed at the legality, Phoenix paraded compliance: EMT teams, licenses, insurance, community tournaments for kids. Yujhae used the language of civic benefit to blunt scrutiny. "We bring order, entertainment, and jobs," he told a livestream. "We give fighters a stage and the city a night to remember." The narrative stuck. People wanted spectacle. People wanted jobs. Phoenix gave both.
Every Fight Night built more than cash. It built loyalty. Fighters who won and rose into Phoenix's inner circuit got paid, housed, and employed by Phoenix businesses. Promoters who sided early got equity in the corporation. Neighborhoods that hosted events received upgrades: lighting, cleanup crews, small grants. The takeover turned civic. The King's name faded in alleyways because it no longer produced meals or money. Phoenix produced both.
When Yujhae finally walked the main boulevard at midnight, he watched clusters of people wearing Phoenix merch laugh under the neon. Taejun reported real-time: app downloads up fifty percent, sponsor engagement exceeding projections, security incidents near zero. Dojin's team moved through the crowd like benevolent ghosts, solving small conflicts before they bubbled. Suwon had surrendered its streets, its culture, and its nights.
Yujhae did not celebrate. He felt the city shift beneath his feet — not as ownership but as responsibility. He'd taken Suwon by design, not by accident. The Fight Club was both engine and emblem: it fed revenue, normalized Phoenix, and turned violence into spectacle that paid taxes and built loyalty. He had created a loop that strengthened the empire and softened its edges. Outside, the neon wings pulsed over wet asphalt. Inside, the ring's lights cooled. Yujhae looked at the crowd and, for the first time in months, allowed himself a small, tight smile. Suwon was his. Now he would make it profitable.