Building a Conglomerate in Another World

The morning mist curled lazily above the golden rice paddies, shrouding the valley in a soft, quiet calm. At the foot of a gently sloping hill, a small station stood modestly beneath a slanted tiled roof, its wooden frame still smelling of fresh lacquer. A sign hung above the entrance: Yangjin Station — Est. 1899.

Inside, a young boy pressed his nose to the glass window, his breath fogging the pane as he waited eagerly for the morning train.

His name was Seo-jun, and he was ten years old. Today would be the first time he'd ride the train into Seoul with his father—not for a festival, not for an errand, but to visit his elder sister Hae-won, who now worked at a printing press in the city.

His father, Kim Dae-wook, stood nearby in a neatly pressed cotton hanbok, holding a paper-wrapped parcel filled with persimmons, tea leaves, and pickled radish—gifts for Hae-won's new dormitory. He glanced down at his son with a small smile.

"Don't squish your nose, Seo-jun. You'll scare the conductor."

Seo-jun grinned, not budging.

The whistle came faintly through the mist, then louder. Moments later, the steel creature rolled into the station, puffing steam like an awakened dragon. Its body gleamed in the morning light, and its windows reflected the fields they passed.

The conductor tipped his cap as passengers disembarked: a middle-aged schoolteacher carrying a suitcase of books, a woman with twin babies strapped to her back, a trio of engineers in dark blue uniforms.

"Train to Seoul departing in five minutes!" the stationmaster called.

Dae-wook and Seo-jun climbed aboard, finding seats beside a window. The interior smelled faintly of pine and machine oil, and the cushions were softer than Seo-jun expected. The boy stared wide-eyed at the brass fixtures and ceiling fans that hummed gently overhead.

As the train lurched forward, Seo-jun pressed his hand to the window. The fields began to slide backward, then blur. Within minutes, Yangjin disappeared behind them.

"Is this how fast it goes the whole time?" he asked.

"Faster near the city," his father replied. "They say you can ride from here to Pyongyang now, and still be home for dinner."

Seo-jun's eyes widened. "That's farther than uncle's ox cart can go in a week!"

Dae-wook chuckled. "Maybe Uncle should buy a ticket."

As the countryside zipped by, Seo-jun imagined the people who must ride the same train each day: students, merchants, farmers heading to market, even soldiers on leave. He saw a boy not unlike himself on the opposite seat, clutching a letter in both hands. A girl sat beside her grandmother a few rows ahead, knitting something colorful from red and yellow yarn.

And somewhere in Seoul, his sister would be waiting, ink stains on her fingertips and a grin on her face.

—

September 25, 1899 — Outside Jinan, Shandong Province, Qing Empire

The village of Liangshan sat nestled between hills and sorghum fields, its earthen homes framed by bamboo groves and waterwheels. For generations, the nearest city had been a two-day walk—three in poor weather. Now, thanks to the new branch station, the journey took less than an hour.

In a shaded courtyard, Mei Yulan adjusted the cloth over her mother's lap and tightened the string on the traveling basket. Her mother, now in her sixties, had agreed—reluctantly—to visit her brother in Jinan for the first time in two decades.

"You know how long it's been since we saw him," Yulan said, tying her braid with a red ribbon. "And besides, he says his boy is marrying in October. You'll miss it if you don't come."

"I'll miss my vegetables," her mother muttered. "Who will water the cucumbers?"

"The neighbor's boy. I paid him in eggs."

At the station, villagers bustled around the new platform. Some traded gossip; others carried crates of fresh mushrooms, medicinal roots, or handmade straw hats bound for Jinan markets. A few sat quietly under the awning, waiting with patient hands folded across their laps.

The train arrived with a low rumble, and Yulan's mother blinked at the sudden rush of steam. Her daughter guided her gently up the steps, steadying her as they entered the cabin.

It was her first time on a train.

The old woman clutched the armrest. "I feel like I'm sitting in a flying house."

Yulan laughed. "That's because you are."

They passed villages and bridges she'd only known from folk songs. As the train picked up speed, the old woman's knotted hands began to relax. She looked out at the horizon, eyes misting slightly.

"Imagine," she whispered, "if your grandfather had lived to see this."

—

September 24, 1899 — Nanjing to Changsha Express

Aboard the overnight express, a young couple sat together in a private booth. Li Wei, a civil engineer, had just completed his first six-month assignment on the new railway segment near Suzhou. His wife, An, had traveled from Changsha to meet him halfway.

Their reunion was quiet, punctuated by shared tea and small laughter. They had not seen each other since spring.

"We're halfway through the extension," Wei explained. "Next month we begin installing the automatic switches."

An tilted her head. "Is it hard?"

"More than hard. But the hard part isn't the machines. It's convincing the older foremen to trust them."

She smiled. "They said the same thing about the trains."

They shared a simple meal—cold noodles, pickled bamboo, and a peach they split between them. As night fell and the train curved south through the valleys, they held hands in silence, listening to the rhythmic clatter of wheels against rails.

"Next year," Wei said softly, "we'll move to Suzhou. There's a new apartment block going up near the western yard."

An didn't reply, only leaned her head on his shoulder.

For them, the train wasn't just a way home. It was home—unfolding mile by mile, toward a future they were building together.

Their train rolled steadily through the darkness, lanterns flickering inside each carriage, casting golden halos across wood-paneled walls. Beyond the glass, hills sloped gently under the starlit sky. Somewhere ahead, a city waited—lit not just by lamps, but by the hopes of two young hearts journeying toward tomorrow.