The Former Chaebol Heir Excels as President

Chapter 1: The Chaebol Returns

Seoul Detention Center entrance.

After finishing my visit with Father, I stepped outside and was immediately swarmed by countless reporters.

“President Jung Chanseong! Is Chairman Jung Yongho still holding firm to his position?”

“I will address that later.”

“Do you still refuse to admit that you provided 5 billion won in political funds?”

“That will be revealed in court proceedings.”

Even though it was broad daylight, I couldn’t understand why they kept firing flashes like that.

“Enough now. I’ll release a statement later.”

“President Jung, do you still maintain your innocence?”

“Stop it!”

Director Park Deoksu and the bodyguards standing beside me blocked the reporters.

“Reporters, our apologies. Let's stop here.”

“Director Park! Why are you apologizing? Didn’t this all start because they wrote whatever they wanted?”

I glared at the three most malicious reporters.

“Don’t write that kind of article! You’ve been living off our company’s ad money all this time, and now you betray us to please the powerful? You insolent bastards!”

“Sir, you shouldn’t be saying that.”

Director Park, standing next to me, tried to calm me and offered apologies to the reporters.

“Reporters, our president is just a bit sensitive today, so please understand. We’ll issue an official stance through the PR office soon.”

“Director Park!”

I suddenly shouted.

“Did I say something wrong?”

Park was in his late fifties, a good five or six years older than me.

I acknowledged his contributions in handling media relations that kept the company well-cared-for.

But now I had no intention of forgiving them, the hyenas who pounced just because the tiger’s leg was broken.

“Sir, if relations with the press deteriorate, the worst could happen.”

“Enough!”

I yelled at the reporters.

“You! Listen up! If you're selling drinks, sell drinks. If you're selling smiles, sell smiles. But if you sell drinks and smiles, you're not reporters—you’re parasites.”

“Excuse me? Are you insulting us?”

“Drinks and smiles? Are you saying we sold our bodies to the powerful?”

“Why? Feeling guilty, you sons of bitches!”

“Sir, you must hold back.”

Director Park was sweating profusely trying to restrain me, but I had no intention of holding back.

“Bastards! You’ll all take a one-way trip straight to Hell. You’ll burn in the fire till your bones and flesh dissolve!”

“Please, sir…”

A sudden chill brushed down my neck.

It was an ominous sense.

“Director Park! Did you plan this?”

“No! What are you saying? Of course not. Please get in first.”

Park pulled me by the arm and helped me into the waiting black sedan.

Before the door shut, I heard a reporter’s voice.

“President Jung Chanseong! Are you planning to enter politics next?”

“Get lost!”

Once the door closed, Ban Hyeongpil, who was sitting in the seat beside me, voiced his concern.

“Are you planning to go into politics by antagonizing the press? What about everything we’ve worked so hard on?”

Ban Hyeongpil was the political affairs chief of the conservative newspaper ‘Jongseon Daily.’

He had just entered his fifties, two years younger than me.

“I have no intention of compromising with that trash!”

“You still can’t shake off your leftist past, sir.”

After graduating high school, I spent ten years in Europe studying business and marketing.

Upon returning to Korea, I started working in the Yongho Group PR office, then the next year transferred to become deputy general manager at Yongho Construction.

Later, I launched a premium-apartment project modeled after high-end German homes, including community facilities, which became an unprecedented hit domestically.

On that achievement, I rose to become president of Yongho Construction, and as I expanded overseas plant projects, I emerged as the heir to Yongho Group.

That was when I met Ban Hyeongpil.

‘You should do something big for our country. Isn’t the people’s biggest concern how to earn a living? Someone with your economic insight should go into politics.’

I had made enough money.

So naturally, I became interested in power—and I had ambitions to develop the nation.

After meeting Ban Hyeongpil, articles praising me poured out.

Even though I had never held political office, I rose to fourth place in presidential preference polls—that was thanks to him.

Isn’t it true that good fortune invites calamity?

A deadly incident occurred.

My father was arrested for allegedly providing 5 billion won in political funds to a politician.

This was the exact thing he had said:

‘Park Sang‑un is my closest friend. A few years ago, before Chuseok, I handed him a shopping bag with ginseng at a hotel. That CCTV evidence is proof. Claiming that 5 billion won was in a shopping bag is absurd. Are you saying 5 billion won fits in a shopping bag?’

Park Sang‑un.

He was a five-term MP, former vice‑speaker of the National Assembly, and ranked second in next‑president preference polls.

‘They promised: if I confess, they’d grant bail and try me. They’d charge me only with political fund law violation, not bribery or embezzlement, so I’d get probation.’

Father felt uneasy.

He didn’t want to lay false guilt on an innocent friend, but he worried about the fallout if the court later declared him innocent.

An entrepreneur’s priority is a company’s future.

‘If the court absolves Park Sang‑un, the company won’t survive. It’s like being asked in dark times during the Korean War whether you’re with the North or South Korean army.’

With the situation like that, rival companies whipped the press into attacking us.

“Yongho Construction President Jung Chanseong entertained subcontractors.”

“Dark shadow falls over President Jung Chanseong’s legend.”

“Suspicion of corruption in material supplier selection for Hannam‑dong’s Seven to Nine Apartments.”

When my father, Chairman Jung Yongho, was arrested, the rivals were ecstatic.

They thought that once they removed me, they could regain the lost market—and they launched a fierce assault.

“Deputy Ban! Is it all over for me now?”

“Your image is too damaged—it’s hard to recover. That’s why I told you: if Chairman admitted it, we could massage public perception to treat him as a victim extorted by politicians.”

“Damn! And then if innocent verdict comes? Do you think we’ll be safe under the next administration?”

“Presidents are made by the press. Didn’t I promise you? In two years’ time, you could be the next president.”

I glared at him and asked:

“Is there no other way?”

“Persuade the Chairman to testify that he gave the money. Then we’ll use our force. Anyway, the election’s two years away.”

“What if the Supreme Court delivers a verdict quickly because he’s an important politician?”

“That won’t happen. You can stay in the third zone, then join the Korean Unity Party. We’ll back you. News director Seo Inha will throw weight too. If we use this chance to topple Park Sang‑un, it’ll be advantageous for you.”

Ban Hyeongpil smirked slyly.

At that moment, the driver spoke.

“Sir, hold on tight. We must shake off the reporters on our tail.”

I gripped the handle and braced myself.

Beep—beep—

Car horns blared as we blew through the intersection ignoring signals.

Then we darted through alleyways and stopped in front of a small park.

We needed to switch cars.

The driver opened the door, and Ban Hyeongpil urged me.

“Sir, the public doesn’t care about truth. They judge by packaging and appearance. I still believe you’ll be the standard bearer of the right-wing.”

“Try persuading Father.”

I got out and climbed into the foreign-made car waiting there.

“Bro, you’ve had it rough.”

“Let’s go. I’m tired of magnets sticking to us.”

My younger brother, Jung Junseong, sat in the driver’s seat, clicking his tongue.

“You got into another fight?”

“How’d you hear?”

“A reporter I know told me. Why are you fighting with the press like that? If you grease their palms enough, they’re on our side.”

Jung Junseong.

He ran Yongho Distribution, a Yongho Group affiliate.

Every business he touched failed, earning him the nickname “Minus Hands.”

But the real issue was his strongly political SNS activity.

“Quit social media immediately. This isn’t the era for anti-communist, red scare talk! And how dare you mock victims of accidents! Do you even think?”

“That’s not why I failed businesses. I was just ahead of my time.”

“You idiot! What kind of business do you run by making half the world your enemy!?”

“You—studied in Europe so you’re contaminated by reds.”

“You crazy bastard! You’re young and still stuck on red scare talk!”

If Junseong hadn’t been driving, I would have punched him on the spot.

“Mark, that’s why the media has turned their backs on you. Don’t forget that the inner circle of our country is conservative.”

“Dude! That is conservative? Look at the legacy of conservative presidents after the 21st century! Shouldn’t you feel ashamed!?”

“So you believe you can set conservatism straight? There’s no friendly press left for you. People need room to breathe. Acting like this, who’d like you?”

“Son of a bitch!”

“They say you’ll be summoned for investigation soon too. Father could’ve ended this lightly if he just said what they wanted, but he made it all complicated.”

The prosecution was digging into me.

I was stuck between a rock and a hard place.

“You’re not thinking of using this as a chance to take me down, are you?”

“You know what happens when you mess with me. I won’t do anything like that again.”

The fight for management rights at Yongho Group, which the media called the ‘War of Princes.’

Jung Junseong had tried to take me down twice.

“If that happens one more time, you’ll die.”

“I got it, okay? I was just egged on by people around me.”

Then a voice came through the Bluetooth speaker.

― Junseong, an actress and a model are coming today too.

We’re going to party like crazy, so don’t be late.

“Is Seora coming too?”

― Of course.

“Nice.”

Listening to the conversation, I couldn’t suppress my anger.

“This bastard still hasn’t come to his senses! You’re still messing around with celebrities?”

― Oh, hyung is there too.

Hello, sir. This is Yeon Seokhoon from Sewon Trading.

Congratulations on ranking fourth in the presidential polls…

“Hang up, you bastard!”

Jung Junseong turned off the speaker and continued the conversation.

“My brother’s in a bad mood, so don’t mind him.

Who’s the DJ for today? … Really?

Then we’ve got to make a strong impression tonight.

… Don’t worry about money.

Just pick the hottest girls and bring them.”

I gave up and closed my eyes.

‘Stupid bastards!’

Beep—beep! Beeeeeep!

When I opened my eyes to the blaring horn, we were crossing an intersection despite the red light.

“This crazy bastard…”

CRASH!

Before I could finish my sentence, a deafening bang rang out, and unbearable pain surged through my waist and chest.

“Ugh.”

The pain didn’t last long.

On a black background, a blue line began to ripple like a wave, and then I floated into the air.

An endlessly weightless feeling.

While suspended midair, I looked down at myself, dead with a ruptured organ.

---

“Cheonmyeong! Wake up!”

The Dream of the Butterfly.

The story where one cannot tell whether he became a butterfly in his dream, or the butterfly became him.

I clearly thought I died in a car accident.

Am I dreaming?

I felt nauseous, my head was pounding, and my whole body was stiff.

Smack—smack—

Why the hell is this woman hitting me?

“Cheonmyeong! Are you awake?”

As the sting on my cheeks intensified, my vision became clearer.

A slanted, narrow alley floor.

This place looked like the slums you only saw on old TV shows.

“Drink some water!”

The strange woman began pouring water into my mouth from a kettle.

Nausea.

My stomach flipped, and I began to vomit.

Since I hadn’t eaten anything, only bile came up.

“Yeonhwa, go tell the old lady upstairs he inhaled coal gas and bring back some dongchimi broth.”

“Okay.”

A girl who looked like an elementary schooler ran upstairs, and in front of me, a lumpy-looking young man tilted his head.

“Mom, is hyung gonna die?”

What’s with this stupid way of speaking?

And why is a kid younger than my own child calling me hyung?

Smack—smack—

The woman slapped my cheeks again.

“Get a grip!”

She was a burly woman, and when she swung full force, it felt like my skin was tearing.

Judging from the pain, this wasn’t a dream.

Just as the woman raised her hand again—

I couldn’t let myself be hit anymore.

“Ma’am! Stop hitting me!”

Clang!

A metal bowl hit the ground and dongchimi broth splashed onto my face.

“Mom, oppa must’ve gone crazy from inhaling coal gas! He called you ma’am!”

I couldn’t understand this situation.

Even if I died and came back to life like in a novel, I should’ve returned to my past self.

But this wasn’t Pyeongchang-dong where I was born and raised.

What was this grimy neighborhood, and who the hell was I now?