After Queensman was published, the Duke of Grosvenor.
A magazine with his son's face plastered boldly on the cover, no less.
The Duke, upon seeing Queensman, wore a slightly puzzled expression.
"What is the meaning of this?"
"It seems that business and personal matters have become intertwined."
"Intertwined, you say?"
The Duke's eyes glimmered at the tutor's words.
"To begin with the business aspect: since Carl Bernstein's magazine is causing a stir, I believe this could be a form of counteraction."
Given the misunderstanding that Queensman was Tennessee's work, it wasn't an unreasonable assumption.
But small misunderstandings often lead to major errors.
"And what about the personal matters?"
"It seems Carl Bernstein bears a personal grudge."
The hazing tradition of summoning freshmen.
During that process, Park Ji-hoon had taken the fall in Tennessee's place, leading the two to grow close rapidly.
The conclusion? A shared public enemy: Carl.
While the result wasn't far off, the reasoning behind it carried a clear virus of error.
Unaware of this, the tutor continued speaking seriously.
"It's clear Carl Bernstein has his eyes on the young master. Launching his own clothing brand belatedly, for one. Now, with him even handing out freebies to push his magazine…"
"Every move is aimed at Tennessee?"
"Yes. So perhaps the young master has also decided to draw his sword."
"Hm."
"With the other side fighting tooth and nail, the young master isn't the type to laugh it off, is he?"
In the end, it meant Tennessee planned to utterly trample his opponent.
"Because that is the Grosvenor way."
At the tutor's words, the Duke quietly rested his chin on his hand.
He had no desire to meddle in a children's fight.
However.
As the tutor said—
The Grosvenors would never let a dog that bites its master off so easily.
Perhaps that's why the Duke's contemplation didn't last long.
"Investigate where the Harris Group's assets are concentrated."
***
Thanks to Queensman being distributed nationwide, people wearing rugby shirts had noticeably increased on the streets.
Interest in rugby fashion had certainly taken hold.
'But this isn't enough.'
Now, that interest needed to shift naturally to the 1st and 2nd-year match.
In order to do that, I needed some explosive publicity!
Not just to attract the enthusiastic readers buying Queensman, but to ensure even the most ordinary people—those with no interest in teenage culture—would pay attention to our match.
'What I need is aggro, as they say!'
And so, from the early morning, I headed to the headquarters of International News.
A massive media conglomerate with numerous affiliates.
My destination was the most renowned newspaper among them: the London Times.
"Do you have an appointment?"
At the mention of Jo So-deok's name, a man in a suit approached me shortly after.
"You're from JH Network?"
"Yes."
"Please, this way."
The place he led me to was a regular office.
A workspace divided into individual tables and partitions.
"Shall we get started?"
"Here?"
The man shrugged at my question, his expression saying, What's the problem?
"With so many listening ears here…"
"Did you come to have a secret conversation?"
I stared at him intently.
When advertisers visit, it's standard to at least provide a private space.
It's not about special treatment.
Even the bare minimum effort is made to keep contract terms confidential.
And yet, holding a discussion in the middle of an office with staff wandering around?
Hmph.
If this was their way of declaring, 'No amount of money can sway our editorial stance,' then I'd happily accept it.
But—
If they were trying to show off the power of their pens that could knock down kings,
'Naturally, I'd be disappointed.'
So, what was it?
The man didn't avoid my gaze.
Fortunately, his face carried the pride of a journalist committed to integrity and reporting nothing but the truth.
That unyielding confidence to stand tall even before capital.
A sly smile crept across my lips.
'Looks like I came to the right place.'
Alright, then. I'd set aside the talk of money for now!
I subtly shifted the direction of the conversation.
"Apologies, but I'm here to meet with the director."
The man's expression seemed to ask if I knew what kind of person the director was.
"Of course I do. He's the legendary war correspondent who reported the horrors of war and even won the Pulitzer Prize, isn't he?"
"Then you must also know that, publicly or privately, he refuses to meet with any advertisers."
As expected, not an easy opponent.
Fine, then.
"Let's just say I'm here as an individual, not as an advertiser."
"As an individual?"
"Yes. Could you tell Mr. Walter that from the land of freedom that Britain defended with blood— the very Korean soil where he risked his life to capture the truth with his camera flash— a student from the Royal School has finally emerged?"
***
Knock knock.
"Come in."
Creak.
Who would've thought the office of a media director would be so cramped and humble?
The room, barely five pyeong (about 15 square meters), felt even smaller with shelves of books lining the walls.
An old desk surrounded by aging books, and a single telephone sitting atop it.
Walter rose from his creaky chair and greeted me.
"There's no sofa here. Is that alright?"
"Of course."
John F. Walter.
A great journalist in every sense of the word.
From the Korean War to the Vietnam War and countless other conflict zones, he had relentlessly pursued the truth.
Perhaps it was because I mentioned Korea— He wore a gentle expression.
But even within that calm exterior, I could feel his firm resolve, astonishingly clear.
"About ten years ago, I visited Korea again for coverage. It had changed remarkably."
"A lot more has changed in the past ten years."
"Is that so?"
"The fact that I enrolled in the Royal School is the greatest evidence of that."
At my words, he smiled warmly.
Early 60s.
How could the wrinkles, etched quietly by time, look so dignified?
Walter stared at me silently.
"So you want an advertisement?"
"Yes."
"Then why come to me?"
I didn't answer and simply waited for him to continue.
And, as expected, he did.
"While my staff may be a bit particular, there's a clear process here. If you followed that, you'd get what you want. So, what reason do you have for asking to see me directly?"
"Of course I do."
This time, Walter waited for me to speak.
Under the dim light, worn out and flickering with age, I calmly opened my mouth.
"What I want is a rather special advertisement. Since it's a format the London Times has never attempted, I needed permission from the final decision-maker."
"Are you planning to slap a nude photo on the front page of the paper or something?"
"Something similar."
Walter had asked jokingly, but the answer that came back was absurd enough to stun him.
While his brows furrowed, I elaborated.
"You've heard of Ultimate, haven't you?"
"Ultimate? Oh, that noisy thing everyone's been talking about?"
"Yes. What I want is an advertisement for Ultimate."
The London Times, a paper considered the most traditional, dignified, and gentlemanly bastion of journalism.
And on its front page—without a single article—just the Ultimate logo and the date of the 1st and 2nd-year selection match printed boldly.
'What? On the London Times of all papers?'
It would be like seeing an eighty-year-old gentleman suddenly show up wearing a snapback cap.
The shock the public would feel at that moment!
'Conversely, the internal resistance within the London Times would be unimaginable.'
That's exactly why I had sought to meet Walter personally.
After hearing my explanation, Walter neither agreed nor refused. Instead, he looked into my eyes and quietly spoke.
"I've spent my entire life conveying the truth."
"..."
"Let me ask you just one thing. What truth, exactly, lies within that message?"
If it had been a simple advertisement, he wouldn't have asked that.
However— The front page of the paper must contain an article.
If I wanted to break that principle and place an ad instead, there needed to be a justification.
"Let me ask again. What journalistic value does this advertisement carry?"
Rather than answering directly, I asked if I could borrow a sheet of paper.
I filled the relatively large memo sheet with carefully chosen words and handed it back to Walter.
"What is this?"
"These are the titles of books I've personally funded to have translated into Korean. They are invaluable works that serve as the foundation for various fields of study."
What I had written down was only what immediately came to mind; in reality, there were far more.
"It's difficult to fully explain the purpose of this advertisement here and now. However…"
"...?"
"I trust that my past actions, my footsteps, prove that I have not lived only to fill my own belly."
At my words, Walter fell into thought.
Tick. Tick.
The clock hanging on the wall moved its second hand heavily for a while.
"I'm not questioning your intentions. I'm merely saying that it must have journalistic value. Whether it's to keep great powers in check or contribute to the public good—that's what matters most to us."
A difficult condition.
But I couldn't back down here.
"In the end, I believe it will satisfy both."
"Both?"
"Yes."
As soon as I gave that answer, Walter's instincts as a journalist seemed to kick in.
"Is this related to the Harris Group?"
Walter asked again, his question sharp and deliberate, as if pressing a camera shutter.
"You're not planning to stop at rugby, are you?"
"..."
I neither confirmed nor denied it.
But sometimes, silence is the most definitive answer of all.
"It seems there is journalistic value here."
A man who had once jumped into the chaos of war for the sake of truth.
In that moment, Walter's eyes burned with unwavering conviction.
***
At the hotel, in James Faber's room.
Faber checked the quality of every sample before collapsing onto the bed as if he were being thrown down.
'Is it really over?'
He stared blankly for a moment, repeatedly checking to make sure nothing was left undone.
'Did I really finish everything?'
It was Gucci.
Though the brand had been stumbling a bit lately, it was still a luxury house steeped in history and tradition.
He had prepared the collaboration single-handedly, and today, at long last, he had finally placed the period at the end of the sentence.
Now, all that remained was the product launch…
'It's hard to believe.'
But the sense of accomplishment lasted only briefly, soon giving way to an overwhelming wave of anxiety.
They needed to sell no less than 50,000 units per item.
'Is that number even… possible?'
Whenever that flicker of doubt arose, he remembered what the boss had told him countless times.
"You don't need to worry."
"...?"
"As a designer, your duty is already fulfilled the moment you create something the world has never seen."
"...!"
"Promoting the product is my job, and if sales fall short, the responsibility lies solely with me."
What kind of leader would say something like that?
A grin crept onto Faber's face.
A small smile had just appeared on Faber's lips.
Ring! Ring!
At that moment, the phone by the bedside began to ring.
It was almost as if someone knew he was feeling anxious.
As he picked up the receiver, a welcome voice greeted him.
(I didn't wake you, did I?)
"Of course not, sir. Must be the coffee—I was wide awake anyway."
Faber was so overjoyed that he immediately sat upright.
This was the man who first recognized his talent when he was lost and wandering, the man who gave him an opportunity and believed in him fully.
Even on the phone, though faces couldn't be seen—
"..."
Faber wanted to be as respectful as possible.
As he straightened his back and adjusted his grip on the receiver, the voice continued.
(Faber, do you remember the promise I made to you?)
"A promise… sir?"
(I said that, ultimately, we'd sell your lifestyle, didn't I?)
Ah!
How could he ever forget those words?
The moment when everyone came to admire Faber's life—at that point, even a simple Ultimate logo on a newspaper would sell out completely.
Even thinking about it again sent shivers across his body, every hair standing on end.
And then—
(I think I'll be able to keep that promise sooner than expected.)