Kang Do-hwan did not inherit power — he forged it.
From rusted shipyards to soaring towers, he built an empire so vast it no longer needed Korea. It was its own nation.
Now past sixty, his hair was silver at the temples, his voice low and deliberate. Time had not dulled him; it had tempered him like steel. Age gave him the weight to command a room without raising his tone, and the history to make even government officials hesitate before saying no.
Cheongrim Fortress rose from the eastern coast like a jewel of steel and glass. Within its walls ran the arteries of industry: humming factories, glittering tech corporations, private research labs, and shipping yards that swallowed and birthed cargo from across the world. Day and night, the city breathed profit.
Do-hwan divided his empire into four living engines:
Haneulcheon – The seat of the elite, where wealth dripped like honey and power moved in whispers.
Baekho Ward – Home to senior engineers, military officers, and executives whose loyalty kept the Chairman's machine perfect.
Jiseong District – The mind of Cheongrim, where inventors, scientists, and architects sketched tomorrow.
Gyeongha Block – The muscle within the walls — select laborers trusted to keep the city flawless.
Beyond the colossal gates lay Mudang Strip, the outer slum. Narrow streets tangled under smoke-stained skies. The air was heavy with steel dust and the scent of boiled grain. Yet its people stood tall — forged hard by hunger, made strong by necessity.
To the rest of Korea, Mudang was a forgotten scar.
To its people, Kang Do-hwan was a god.
He gave them jobs in his factories and shipyards. He sent wages that, while meager by the city's standards, meant full stomachs here. And once each year, when the academy gates opened, 20% of the seats were reserved for Mudang's youth — a gesture the media hailed as mercy, and the slum praised as divine.
In truth, it was calculated publicity. Do-hwan didn't waste resources on pity. He saw raw talent as ore — worthless until refined in his schools, then forged into tools for his empire.
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The glass doors of Haneulcheon's Apex Hall parted with a hush.
It was the beating heart of Cheongrim's elite — a place where decisions worth billions were sealed over quiet conversation, and where a wrong word could sink an empire overnight.
Kang Do-hwan stepped inside.
Even without saying a word, his presence rippled through the lobby like a cold wind. Conversations faltered. Eyes followed.
Beside him walked his oldest — and perhaps only — true friend: Seo Min-jae, known in whispers as the Shadow Broker. In another life, Min-jae might have been a chairman of his own empire. In this one, he ruled the invisible underworld, his influence coiling through smuggling rings, private armies, and untraceable fortunes. They were men cut from different cloths, but stitched together by decades of mutual respect.
As they strode toward the executive wing, murmurs bloomed like weeds behind them.
"Tomorrow's his grandson's birthday."
"The boy's never had a party… I don't think the Chairman even likes him."
"Well, he was born to a foreigner, wasn't he? Kang's daughter ran off with one. Tragic thing, that plane crash…"
"His name's Diego… Diego Desuza, right? Took his father's surname."
A young man in a crisp suit — Kang's personal aide, Joon-hyuk — heard every word. His jaw tightened.
When the whispering had faded behind them, he leaned toward Kang.
"They've started talking again, sir."
Kang's expression didn't change. His voice, when it came, was calm steel.
"Let them think what they want. Diego is my only family, my only grandson. Tomorrow he turns seven. He is still a child who lost his parents far too soon."
Joon-hyuk hesitated. "Then… will you bring him here, sir? Introduce him?"
Kang's gaze lingered on the corridor ahead, where sunlight spilled through tall windows.
"When I think he is ready," he said at last. "Diego is a great kid. Right now, he studies at home… and he has only one friend — Min-jae's adopted grandson. The two of them will grow up knowing loyalty before anything else."
Min-jae chuckled low beside him. "Careful, Do-hwan. If our grandsons inherit our friendship, they might just outdo us."
For the first time that day, Kang's lips twitched — the closest thing he ever showed to a smile.
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