While Park Ji-hoon devoted himself to rugby, Peter spent every day glued to his computer.
Weighed down by the burden of his scholarship obligations due to his tough circumstances.
But then.
Encouraged by Park Ji-hoon, he ran for the position of freshman vice president!
(Effortlessly, in true Tennessean style) he won and received an incredible prize: a one-year tuition waiver…
Now, he had no choice but to pledge absolute loyalty to his benefactor!
Ji-hoon had it all—looks, athleticism, money, you name it.
'How can I possibly be of help?'
After much deliberation, Peter finally landed on an idea: game development.
Hadn't Ji-hoon been urging him at the start of the semester to release a game?
'Hmm.'
Sure, he'd dabbled in making games for fun before.
But creating something polished enough to release for real?
'Yeah, like that's ever happened!'
Ugh.
His goal was simple: to create a game that would amaze Ji-hoon.
But… maybe he'd set the wrong goal.
'What if he's more shocked than amazed?'
It all began as a rugby game.
A simple sport where carrying the ball forward is offense and blocking with your body is defense.
'I could make this with my eyes closed.'
That was the problem.
Just rugby felt too dull…
'It's only natural for fights to break out when bodies clash, right?'
What started as a little extra spice somehow transformed into a full-blown fighting game disguised as rugby.
'Ah, whatever.'
If he was going to do it, he might as well go all out. So, each character gained special abilities—headlocks, flying knee kicks, cobra twists, and more.
Scratch, scratch.
He'd scrap the whole thing if it wasn't at least fun.
'But man, it's oddly addictive.'
Could this even be launched under Ji-hoon's company?
Peter had his doubts, but what choice did he have?
If he wanted it ready before the rugby match, he'd have to pour everything into it.
Tap, tap, tap.
Peter kept furiously typing on his keyboard, his eyes bloodshot with intensity.
***
Harris Department Store, Carl Bernstein's Boutique.
Carl, who rarely showed up at the store, was present for once.
Then again, it made sense—he hadn't created the brand out of any passion for business.
Park Ji-hoon's success in business during his early teens had sparked something in Carl Bernstein.
"Why? You think I can't do it too?"
Fueled by emotion rather than reason, he had impulsively opened a store.
Expertise? It was never in question. But passion? He had none.
So naturally, the store fell to the wayside.
But today was different.
Carl was seated in the VIP room at the back of his store, receiving a report that left him dumbfounded.
"What are you talking about?"
"J-just as I said. We've run out of vicuña wool…"
"You said it was secured!"
"I made it very clear. I warned them that if they crossed the boss, they wouldn't just lose their spot in this department store—they'd struggle to do business anywhere in Europe."
"Are they asking to retire? Or did their ranch catch fire or something?"
What followed was even more shocking.
"Well… it seems the Tennessee scion personally swept up all the remaining fabric…"
What? Why was Tennessee being mentioned now?
The staff member pulled a book out of a document envelope and handed it to Carl.
"This is the latest issue of Queensman. If you look at the marked section, there's a feature on vicuña… and its fabric."
It was true.
Near the middle of the magazine, an article titled The Jewel of Fibers was given extensive space as a special feature.
Not only had Tennessee taken the fabric meant for Carl, but he'd even gone so far as to have it featured in a magazine.
'Is this a coincidence?'
At this point, even the densest person would have realized the truth.
'Queensman… It's Tennessee's work, isn't it!'
Carl had dismissed the possibility entirely, thinking no nobleman would ever create something like that.
But now, scenes that had seemed puzzling began to make sense.
Why Tennessee had purchased perfectly fine clothing only to toss it into the trash…
Why he'd run for student council president and initiated a rugby match between the grades…
'Was it all to keep his rivals in check?'
Clever bastard.
Acting all lofty and righteous on the surface while scheming behind the scenes.
But his anger didn't last long. Deep down, Carl felt a hint of pride.
The great Grosvenor had him on his mind this much?
A sly grin spread across his face.
"Is that so? Then I suppose I should play along."
Carl made his way to the office of his mother, Leona Harris.
"What brings you here today?"
Leona was seated at her executive desk, framed by the light streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
In contrast, Carl had to face the blinding sunlight head-on, making it hard to keep his eyes fully open.
To report to Leona, Carl had to bow his head to avoid the sun's glare.
Every piece of furniture was deliberately placed, of course.
To ascend to a throne, even such details must be calculated.
Carl was impressed as he began to speak.
"Mother, I've come to ask for a favor."
"..."
"I want to give our magazine more traction."
The goal was to distribute it to bookstores nationwide and outsell
That would surely humble Tennessee.
But Carl kept these inner thoughts to himself.
"If you want to sell magazines, you should consult an expert. Why come to me?"
"Because I need your help, Mother."
"My help?"
Carl's plan was as follows:
To establish their magazine's presence among the public, they needed two large-scale promotions.
First, to implement a special discount for a limited time.
Even if selling the magazine at a loss, it needed to reach as many readers as possible.
Thus, he wanted his mother to cover these initial losses.
"And that's not all, is it?"
"No. Just lowering the price won't be enough."
Carl also wanted to offer gifts to all buyers.
Imagine gifting a luxury lipstick worth £50 with a £5 magazine.
People would flock to buy it.
The problem was securing the lipstick supply.
'If only the department store brands could make a small sacrifice for just one month.'
As Carl finished explaining,
"...!"
Leona's expression twisted in a peculiar way.
Had it been anyone other than her cherished late-born son, she might have scolded him and sent him away on the spot.
But contrary to her internal thoughts, Leona said something unexpected.
"Let's say the magazine somehow becomes a bestseller. But after the promotion ends? Can you maintain those sales?"
"They'll drop, of course. But I have strategies to prolong the momentum as much as possible."
Leona knew she should discourage him.
She knew the correct course of action.
And yet, despite knowing the answer…
"..."
Leona found herself lingering on the wrong choice for a long time.
***
The thought of earning money through a magazine had never crossed my mind.
'Making money from selling books isn't easy, is it?'
In Korea, publishing was practically a hobby.
It certainly felt that way back home.
But… things are a little different here.
The population of the UK is just around 55 million.
The domestic market isn't small, but it's not exceptionally large either.
Yet, what's going on?
Perhaps it's because neighboring countries are so accustomed to English?
The sales of
Scratch, scratch.
I only meant to do a bit of promotion…
And now it's actually making money?
As I muttered to myself, a phone call came in, almost as if on cue.
(Boss, how have you been keeping yourself?)
A playful voice—it was Jo So-deok.
"Thanks to you, I'm doing well. How about you, Professor?"
(I start my mornings at Central Park with a coffee and a donut.)
"You've become quite the New Yorker, haven't you?"
(Thanks to you, I'm living the high life.)
I chuckled at Jo So-deok's words.
(Are you still dedicated to your training?)
"Of course. Training, competing, rinse and repeat."
(So, does that mean you've completely stepped away from business?)
Well, that's not entirely true.
"I still check in occasionally during my free time."
(Wow, even with just occasional check-ins, you've achieved such results?)
"Pardon?"
(Your magazine! People in the U.S. are clamoring for it to be published here too.)
His tone was smoother than usual.
No need to guess—he was getting to the real point.
(So, here's what I'm suggesting. How about launching it in the U.S.? You wouldn't even need a translation, just print it over here.)
Not a bad idea.
Our magazine carries a distinct aristocratic flair.
There'd likely be a decent demand, especially in the Ivy League and other areas of the American East Coast.
'But the West Coast might be a different story…'
While I was busy analyzing the market demand, Jo So-deok, ever perceptive, caught on to my hesitation.
(Well, we could edit the content differently for the East and West Coasts. The free-spirited West would probably go crazy for
"And who's going to handle the editing?"
(Since it's my suggestion, it's only natural that I take responsibility.)
"No one asked you to do this, so why…?"
(If I only planned to do what I was told, I would've stayed in Korea, comfortably teaching.)
Fair point.
(Now that I've come all the way to the land of freedom, don't I deserve the chance to freely showcase my abilities?)
They say people are wealth, after all.
Did close associates in the past also step up to grow their leaders' fortunes like this?
Anyway.
(Boss, may I proceed right away?)
"You're not particularly free these days, are you?"
(…Pardon?)
"Judging by how you're taking initiative, it seems like you've got some spare time. Should I give you more work to keep you busy…?"
(Oh dear, what's going on? Is it the international call? Suddenly the connection is breaking up. Boss? B-bo-bo-oss?)
I smirked.
"Professor, please handle the U.S. market."
(Ah, now I can hear you clearly. Yes, of course. I'll give it my best effort.)
Beep, beep, beep.
It had been a while since we last talked, and it would've been nice to catch up.
'Why am I like this?'
Talking to Jo So-deok always made me want to tease him a little.
Heh heh heh.
Fine. Hurry up and retire.
I'll buy a massive cruise ship, and the two of us will drink expensive wine every day.
Yes, let's look forward to that day!
For now, rugby calls.
With that, I headed toward the field.
***
The stands were lined with large cameras.
In addition to Queensman, there were quite a few external reporters present.
They pointed their lenses at Tennessee, but…
"If you publish anything without my permission, I will ensure my family holds you accountable."
At Tennessee's cold voice, they quickly gave up and turned their cameras elsewhere.
Hmm.
Sometimes I wondered if Tennessee was a bit harsh toward me.
But seeing how he treated others… he seemed like an angel in comparison.
Anyway.
Up to now, the matches had been limited to scrimmages between freshmen.
But today, there were quite a few unfamiliar faces.
'They're huge.'
They definitely weren't our age.
Many had beards, and some sported tightly curled hair.
'What's going on?'
As we all exchanged confused glances,
Thud, thud.
Devon approached us.
Maybe because of his particularly thick thighs, he always had to walk with a waddle.
"We can't keep slacking off, just playing between first and second strings. So, I brought some special guests."
"...?"
"The Cambridge University rugby team."
Cambridge—a world-renowned university, easily in the top ten.
Naturally, their rugby team had to be formidable.
Devon turned to me with a smirk.
"Why don't you give it a shot?"
"Pardon?"
"You've been holding back since you've only been playing with your peers, right?"
"...."
"Today, you're up against older guys. So, go all out. What do you say?"
Go all out, huh.
"I'm curious to see how it'll turn out myself."
Devon flashed me a strange smile.