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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 10
Chapter Title: Chaebol (1)
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What happens to chaebols when the world ends?
A topic any Korean would wonder about.
Lately active community user Reporter shared an update on one chaebol family.
— Reporter Found Seokju Group Chairman Park Cheol-ju's hideout! It's Iron Pillar Ham~ teehee~
The chaebol update Reporter posted was enough to plunge us doomsday fans into despair in one go.
They'd built a concrete fortress on a gentle hill, big enough for dozens to live comfortably, complete with a self-contained ecosystem handling farming, manufacturing, and even entertainment.
The moment I saw the indoor mini-golf course in the drone footage, a gasp slipped out.
"...Wow."
As expected of a chaebol.
With assets in the trillions, they pull off stuff like that.
Not jealous, though.
I know imitating it is impossible no matter how hard I try.
Besides Park Cheol-ju's post from Reporter, Korea's top chaebols had all prepped for disaster with similar—or slightly worse—strongholds.
Few fled the country; overseas isn't safe anyway, but their Korean clout doesn't carry abroad—that's the real reason.
Most ditched their conglomerates.
From modern lords commanding thousands of employees, they demoted themselves to mere family heads for survival.
Not sure if that's rational in this doomed world, but some chose different paths.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
After our first exchange, I made a point to visit Seoul at least every two months.
Each trip, the scenery grew more desolate, more wretched, and above all, more dangerous.
I always passed through Gangnam entering Seoul. The once top-tier rich district was now a refugee slum packed with tents and rickety shacks.
Tents thinned out each visit, but one shack always stuck out.
A crumbling shack sporting a surprisingly intact sign.
[ Parpung ]
One of the chaebols that once dominated Korea's economy.
This shack went up about a year and four months ago—three months after the war broke out.
Passing through the refugee camp teeming like clouds, I spotted a massive crowd and delicious smells wafting everywhere, so I checked it out.
Turned out Parpung Group had opened a free soup kitchen, funded straight from their own pockets.
Running one when the economy's humming is leagues apart from doing it with trade paralyzed.
Parpung set up several across key Seoul spots and kept them running.
Even for a mega-chaebol like Parpung, wasn't that a stretch?
Anyway, with nothing better to do, I queued for a solid two hours. Somehow, I got braised pork and beef soup—funeral fare, but pretty tasty. Adults even scored half a paper cup of soju.
No booze or smokes in the bunker, but I snatched it right up here.
"Kya~!"
This Park Gyu turns into a Parpung fanboy over one bowl of soup and a shot!
But amid the meal, grim chatter swirled—nothing like my sunny thoughts.
"The chairman's scheming politics."
"Obvious as day."
"Splashing cash like this now? All ulterior motives. 'For the people'? Bull."
Honestly grating.
In these tough times, just be grateful for the grub—why suspect motives?
Not like they're living saints themselves.
Having tasted Parpung's kindness with that soju shot, I wanted to pipe up, but nah—no loyalty there. Swallowed it down.
Once I'd simmered down and stepped out, something snagged my eye.
"Je Phong-ho here."
A middle-aged guy in crisp suit pants under an active jacket forced smiles, flanked by folks, greeting and handshaking diners while announcing his name.
"Enjoy the meal? Je Phong-ho here."
Je Phong-ho.
Parpung Group's one and only.
Behind him, stern-faced men who looked like kin, plus tidy young men and pretty girls—probable heirs—in an awkward lineup.
I drifted over like I'd been possessed.
My aim: shake hands with chaebol daughters.
But the girls hung back; instead, vigorous-faced Je Phong-ho gripped my hand.
"Je Phong-ho."
First time seeing a real chaebol boss up close—and shaking hands, no less.
His eyes gleamed on first sight—not a civilian's gaze, but a hunter's.
His hand felt rough and hard, with some mysterious force beyond mere grip strength.
Later buzz: national assembly elections coming up.
Not 'cause they all died—terms just expired.
But with 18% of Korea's population vanished in the war, assembly death rate at 1%? Ominously telling.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
After scoring that free soup, I arrived under a certain building.
National Crisis Committee headquarters. NatCom, for short.
This extralegal powerhouse—modern-day privy council—holds the most sway in post-war Korea.
Main reason for Seoul trips: contacts embedded there.
Scored big: prime intel, walkie-talkies, military frequencies, spam cans, holiday oil sets—you name it.
Unusually sparse crowd that day.
My go-to clerk for favors was MIA.
Nodded to the familiar guard, milling about, when a total stranger approached.
"Moment?"
Blank face, dead eyes, pure bureaucracy in tone and stance.
Icy vibe from the jump.
"What's the deal?"
"You know the front lines are heating up. Battles escalating; critically short on troops—especially competent ones who can endure..."
Recruiter, right on cue.
War favors quality over quantity, so they cherry-pick fit, promising types at random.
I must've looked good to him. Zero interest in the front.
"Hate to say it myself, but if I had the chops, would I be here begging favors off connections?"
Tried deflecting boldly.
"Heard you were a hunter back in the day."
Bounced right off.
Sighed and asked,
"Who sent you? Director Lee Sanghun?"
If him, I'd march over for words.
"No. Committee Member Kim Daram."
"Kim Daram?"
Name in ages.
My junior.
Sticky one, always trailed me.
Maybe had a crush.
Memory: brimming enthusiasm but clumsy as hell, botching jobs and leaning on me. Underplayed time's toll.
"Senior Park."
Can five years remake a person?
Back then no kid, but girl-at-heart; now, a bone-dry, unflappable bureaucrat shell—no blood if stabbed.
"Long time, huh?"
Voice alone screamed: not the sweet junior I knew.
Her desk flaunted a photo with hubby and kid.
Mom now.
That Kim Daram.
"Not one for chit-chat, so straight: help once."
"Wanna ask why, but you'd hate that, right?"
"State draft? Or stay free-range?"
"Didn't we deal—no more service?"
"Think promises like that stick now?"
My grim face versus her eye-roll mirrored my rosy reality versus the real deal.
Bitter smile; dodged her gaze.
"...Free-range it is."
"Then one last favor. Sealed it with Lee Sanghun as final."
"Lee Sanghun?"
"Don't hold grudges; guy's all numbers now, not people."
"High horse changes the view, huh."
"You know the shortage. Front-line nightmares?"
Her usual poker face cracked with accusation, staring me down.
"..."
Bitter taste flooded my mouth.
I knew.
Border horrors.
My own guilt.
In the stark quiet, Kim Daram shifted back to papers.
"Je Phong-ho."
"Je Phong-ho?"
Beef soup whiff, sparkling eyes, eerie grip—his face ghosted by.
"Says he'll hunt monsters with his own crew."
She slid over a report.
"This."
If accurate, batshit plan.
Nah—suicide masquerading as op.
Before I spoke, sharp junior cut in cold, eyes elsewhere.
"Just play along."
Knew she'd changed, but that sweet, sentimental kid's shift cut deep.
"Last time."
"Long as I breathe, no front lines for you."
"...Thanks."
Core unchanged, it seemed.
Turning with life's sourness laced by rare warmth—
"Senior."
Kim Daram called.
"Don't look a day older."
I didn't answer.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
Saw Je Phong-ho again a month later.
Spot: Parpung HQ tower, designed by a world-class British architect.
Survived nuke hits, but power and elevators busted; rode outdoor construction temp lift to 55th floor—painfully slow.
"Ugh."
Brutally cold.
The meeting room—once for Korea's power elite—held a suited crew holding seats.
ID badges pegged them as staff. Kept up appearances despite export freeze.
Curious: paychecks? Those vaunted bonuses?
Soup-kitchen warm-and-firm Je Phong-ho sat back-to-room at dead-center far end.
No nod as I entered.
Instead, sharp mid-50s secretary handled me.
"Park Gyu, right? Ex-hunter?"
Quick Q&A: career, fights, rank.
Most records wiped.
Bluffed.
"D-rank. Faced gates, some scraps, never led main assault."
Je Phong-ho hacked uncomfortably.
Ignored.
Wonder: why's a chaebol kingpin monster-hunting?
Trade dead, sure—but this career pivot's wild.
No suits answered.
Post-resume dump, I registered as office furniture.
Shortly,
"You're dismissed."
No floor time; polite boot.
Nothing to say anyway.
One question lingered.
Corridor buzzed with another crew, vibes off from room. Grabbed a friendly face; giggled and nodded—no words, like a tourist.
Got the vibe; zipped it.
Then unexpected approach.
"Trouble?"
Mid-20s stunner.
Familiar face.
One of the young backups at the soup line.
Beauty burned in.
"Mind a question?"
Cold at first glance, but chatty warmth kicked in—trained smile, polite.
"Why's the chairman monster-hunting?"
No badge; face screamed granddaughter or niece.
She pondered, scanned, sighed, spilled tea.
"Recall his assembly run?"
"Yeah."
"Tanked."
"How come?"
"Incumbents extended terms—basically forever."
"Figures."
Later intel: near-unanimous. Two abstains? Slimier scum.
"Wrecked his plans. Backs both parties heavy—personal perks to parliament repairs."
"Group griped; assembly: claim one vacant district, seat's yours."
"That district's our target?"
"Not me. Chairman and his diehards."
Not blood vibe.
Went for it.
"Me? No chaebol. Dad's primary contractor CEO."
Sighed, glared door with resentment.
"...Why cling to a dead group."
Clicked.
Zero attachment.
Even hostility.
Floodgates opened; heart poured.
"All insane. No blood ties—just biz—why pre-war act?"
"Beats me..."
"Hey."
Eyes lit.
"Hunter, right?"
"Ex."
"Favor."
Stepped in close.
Perfume teased nostrils.
"Rein in Dad?"
Slipped business card in my hand.
"End this madness, please."
Door swung.
Je Phong-ho led: stern mug, fierce eyes primed, bold strides down hall.
Dozens suits trailed silent, faces mixed.
Exec who'd grilled me barked,
"Hunter Park, move."
"Me too?"
"Yes."
Glanced at the woman.
Crowd streamed between; her eyes locked mine.
Hesitated—briefly.
"No guarantees."
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