Saehan Mobile's annual budget was a lopsided mess: 25.8 billion won on advertising, but a measly 4 billion on R&D. That was the strategy of Xu Hua, Saehan's founder and head honcho, and it drove his cousin, Xu Bo, up the wall.
"Enough with the aggressive tactics, Xu Bo!" Xu Hua snapped, his face darkening.
If they weren't family—and if Xu Bo wasn't so damn good at his job—Xu Hua would've sacked him for constantly challenging his vision. Did Xu Bo not see the company's financial tightrope? Saehan needed cash to keep the lights on, and Xu Bo's obsession with pouring money into R&D ignored the reality. More R&D meant cuts elsewhere—there was only so much money to go around.
Take a proprietary mobile system. Microsoft threw 30,000 people at Windows XP. Even if a phone OS was simpler, it'd still need, what, 1/30th of that? A thousand developers. Skilled ones, with fat salaries. The cost would be astronomical. Xu Hua fumed at Xu Bo's naivety, his reckless push for innovation without a plan to fund it.
The two were at a stalemate. Xu Bo saw a future where Saehan needed its own system to compete; Xu Hua saw only the balance sheet. As founder, Xu Hua held the reins. Xu Bo, just a vice president, had no real sway.
Ignoring Xu Bo's frustrated scowl, Xu Hua turned to a bald, middle-aged man. "Director Lee Hwan, can you develop an ultra-low-cost phone for migrant workers in a month?"
Lee Hwan, Saehan's technical director and resident tech wizard, nodded. "Easy. We can tweak an old Saehan model—low-end tech, smaller screen, bigger battery, louder speaker, reinforced casing. That's your migrant worker phone. Profit's tight, though—maybe 3,000 won per unit. If we use MediaTek chips, we could bump that up by 1,000-2,000 won, but it'll take two months. We're used to Texas Instruments chips, so MediaTek's a learning curve."
"Do both," Xu Hua ordered. "Rush the 3,000-won-profit phone now, but design the MediaTek version too. I want it in two months."
"Got it," Lee Hwan said, unfazed. Building a bare-bones phone was child's play for him.
"That's it, then. Everyone, back to work," Xu Hua said, scanning the room's key players before adjourning the meeting. The executives filed out, Xu Hua included.
Xu Bo stayed behind, slumped in his chair, muttering, "This company's gonna crash if we keep this up."
It wasn't his first time pushing for more R&D, but as a hired hand, he had no real power. Saehan's blind optimism was a ticking time bomb. Beating Motorola this year to claim Korea's sales crown had inflated egos. The company was drunk on its own success, acting like no one—domestic or foreign—could touch them.
That arrogance fueled reckless acquisitions and wild expansion. Xu Bo saw the cliff ahead, but no one listened. History would prove him right. In 2005, Saehan would post a staggering 50-billion-won loss—twice their annual ad budget. That blow would gut the company, setting it on a path to collapse years later. The Motorola victory and the overzealous expansion that followed were the seeds of ruin.
"The enemy isn't out there," Xu Bo sighed, staring at the empty conference room. "It's in here."
He felt like a doomed emperor, caught between emboldened foreign rivals and internal chaos. Saehan's real threat wasn't Hansung or Motorola—it was its own shortsightedness.
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"President," came a knock at Park Minho's office door in Seoul.
"Come in," Minho called, looking up from a stack of reports and contracts.
Secretary Chen Ho stepped in, holding an envelope. "President, this is an invitation to an industry summit in Busan."
"Busan industry summit?" Minho said, surprised.
He knew the event. The Busan Industry Summit was a big deal, even in 2004. By the internet era, it'd be a global spotlight, drawing eyes for its reveals: national tech strategies, company performance reports, product launches, and bold goals from Korea's top firms. It was a one-stop shop for industry insiders, CEOs, and even the public to gauge market trends, track corporate moves, and spot business opportunities.
Held annually, the summit was a media magnet. Any announcement—new product, new strategy—would ride the news wave to instant fame across Korea and beyond. For a rising star like Hansung, it was a golden chance to cement its name.
Minho took the invitation, his mind racing. Hansung's meteoric rise—90,000 phones sold in weeks, 180,000 projected monthly—was already news. The summit could amplify that, showcasing his vision for the rural market and the Hansung 2 Labor Edition's dominance. But it'd also draw more eyes from competitors like Saehan, who were already plotting their counterattack.
He wasn't fazed. The *Ultimate Imitation Emperor System* gave him an edge no one could match. His phones were tougher, smoother, and built to last, thanks to a 15% quality boost that baffled rivals. Saehan could rush out a cheap phone, but without a system like his, they'd fall short. Minho's factory was scaling up, aiming for 1 million phones monthly. With banks ready to lend and workers in training, he was ready to dominate.
The summit was a stage, and Minho was ready to step into the spotlight. Saehan's internal squabbles—Xu Hua's marketing obsession, Xu Bo's ignored pleas for R&D—were their weakness. Hansung, lean and focused, was built for the fight. Minho would show Korea, and the world, that his phones weren't just cheap—they were the future.
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(end of this chapter)