The jury room at the Busan Industry Summit crackled with tension as Academician Ni Kwang-soo's proposal to let Park Minho speak hung in the air. Elder He, the stern bureaucrat, had thrown cold water on the idea, warning of Minho's youth and potential recklessness. His words swayed some jurors, who nodded cautiously, wary of the media frenzy a misstep could unleash.
"Elder He's got a point," one juror murmured. "Minho's barely 20. Too green for a stage this big."
Ni's eyes flashed with irritation. He'd seen this before—conservative gatekeeping cloaked as prudence. Sneering inwardly at He's "old guard timidity," he countered sharply. "Nonsense. Minho's no loose cannon. His triple play pitch might've been a fluke, but his producer-to-powerhouse speech? Tight logic, fierce patriotism. He's a thinker, not a dreamer spouting shock value. Even if he says something bold, the public will see it as youthful vision, not scandal. Elder He's blowing this out of proportion."
The room shifted, neutral jurors exchanging glances. Ni's passion was persuasive, but He's caution lingered. One juror hesitated. "Ni's right—Minho's sharp. But He's not wrong about the risks. The speech session's a spotlight. If he flops…"
Ni didn't relent, his voice rising. "Minho's speech wasn't just sharp—it was strategic. His chip focus, his Industry 4.0 tease—they're pieces of a clear plan to make Korea a powerhouse. Don't forget why we're here. This summit isn't just a networking bash; it's about mining ideas for Korea's future. Minho's offering that. Ignoring him is shirking our duty."
The jab hit hard. Elder He's face reddened, his finger jabbing toward Ni, but no words came. Ni hadn't named him, yet the accusation—forgetting their purpose, dodging responsibility—stung. He's objection, flimsy at its core, crumbled under scrutiny. Was he protecting the summit's image, or serving unseen masters? Xu Hua's elite allies, or even Gao Sheng Investment's shadow, loomed as possible puppeteers.
The neutral jurors, sensing He's faltering, leaned toward Ni. "Ni's got a point," one said. "Minho's young, but that's why he's bold. His ideas are fresh. If he oversteps, people will shrug—youth gets a pass."
Another nodded. "Our job's to find vision, not play it safe. Minho's earned a shot."
He slumped, outmaneuvered. Ni's rallying cry—"don't forget our duty"—sealed it. The jury agreed: Minho would speak. Unbeknownst to him, he'd nearly lost his chance, saved only by Ni's fierce advocacy. The chip legend's belief in Minho's vision—chips, automation, Industry 4.0—carried the day.
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**May 25, 2004, 3:00 PM**
The summit's speech session, Korea's corporate Super Bowl, was in full swing. The auditorium buzzed with hundreds of bosses, entrepreneurs, and media, plus thousands watching live on TV. Big Kim of AliKor, mid-speech, owned the stage, his voice soaring with passion.
"From the internet's peak in '99 to its crash in '01, our dream never wavered: to build the world's greatest company, serving all Koreans. We're chasing that chance. I believe the globe's top internet firm will rise in Korea—and AliKor's in the race!"
Applause thundered. Kim's charisma, honed by years of rallying investors, was electric. The room—packed with Korea's elite, from chaebol heirs to startup mavericks—hung on his words. TV cameras beamed his vision nationwide, cementing AliKor's brand.
This was no mere TED Talk. In Korea's relationship-driven economy, the speech session was a goldmine of "guanxi." Bosses swapped cards, sealed deals over tea, and leveraged summit fame to grease future negotiations. A speech here wasn't just exposure—it was a three-point edge in boardrooms, a chance to imprint your face on the nation's power players.
Kim's 10-minute speech was a masterclass. Long enough to inspire, short enough to grip. Dragging to 20 or 30 minutes risked boredom; Kim knew the game—say your piece, leave them wanting more. His exit drew another ovation, bosses nodding in respect.
"Thank you, Mr. Kim of AliKor, for a stellar speech," the host boomed. "Next, we invite our final speaker. His topic: Industry 4.0!"
Minho, seated in the back, felt his pulse spike. Ni had come through. Xu Hua's glare from the front row burned, but Minho ignored it. Saehan's boss, Gao Sheng's Yoon, the giants' looming low-end phones—they faded. This was his moment.
Rising, Minho strode to the stage, his *Ultimate Imitation Emperor System* feeding him poise. His draft, polished overnight, was a weapon: chips as Korea's lifeline, Industry 4.0 as its future. The system's future glimpses let him paint a vision—smart factories, AI-driven supply chains, chip-powered automation—that felt prophetic yet grounded.
"Thank you," Minho began, his voice steady, eyes sweeping the room. "Industry 4.0 isn't a buzzword—it's Korea's path to becoming a production powerhouse. It's factories that think, machines that learn, systems that adapt in real-time. At its core? Chips. Without them, we're chasing the West's tail."
The room leaned in. Xu Hua scoffed, but Ni Kwang-soo's nod urged Minho on. "Korea's chip quest—Projects 531, 908, 909—failed because we leaned on foreign tech. Wassenaar locks us out. To win, we must go all-in on self-reliant R&D. Hansung's betting on that, scaling to 12 million phones a year, building chips for the future."
Murmurs rippled. Minho's tying Hansung to national destiny was bold. "Industry 4.0 means integrating chips with IoT, AI, robotics. Imagine: a Gyeonggi factory predicting demand, auto-tuning production, cutting waste. That's the powerhouse edge. Hansung's Labor Edition 2—tough, cheap, loved in rural Korea—is step one. Chips are next."
Cameras flashed. Big Kim raised an eyebrow; Ni beamed. Minho's vision wasn't just tech—it was patriotic, practical, personal. "Saehan, TLC, others—they're chasing our low-end niche. Fine. Competition sharpens us. But Korea's race isn't phones—it's chips, systems, futures. Hansung's all-in."
Xu Hua's face darkened. Minho's jab at Saehan's copycat move stung, but his pivot to chips sidestepped petty rivalry, framing Hansung as a national champion. The crowd clapped, warming to his audacity.
Minho closed strong. "Industry 4.0 is Korea's detour to the mountain's peak. Chips are the fuel. Hansung's building that road—for us, for Korea. Join us."
Thunderous applause erupted. Ni stood, clapping fiercely. Kim nodded, impressed. Even neutral bosses whispered, reassessing the "Gyeonggi minnow." TV viewers, glued to screens, saw a 19-year-old redefining Korea's tech dream. MaumNet would explode tonight.
Xu Hua seethed, his low-cost model suddenly small. Gao Sheng's Yoon, watching from a live feed, frowned—Minho's speech dodged their trap, rallying public support. The giants' low-end push loomed, but Minho's vision—chips, Industry 4.0—made Hansung untouchable for now.
Minho stepped offstage, heart pounding. He'd shocked the summit, won the nation. Ni's faith, the system's edge, MaumNet's buzz—they'd carried him. Xu Hua, Gao Sheng, the giants—they were hurdles, but Minho saw the path. Hansung's name was rising, and Korea was his stage.
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(end of this chapter)