The presidential election was now less than a month away.
For a presidential candidate, every single day at this point carried the weight of an entire year.
To gain even one more voter's support, schedules were planned and executed with precision—down to the very second.
Governor Choi Jae-seok was no exception to this relentless pace.
That was why he had agreed to a meeting at dawn, and even then, it could only be squeezed into the short window of a car ride.
"I feel guilty, asking to meet the busiest man in Korea."
"If it's Chairman Kim reaching out—well, even if the Grim Reaper himself came for me, I'd push him aside and come running, wouldn't I?"
Choi Jae-seok was enduring quite literally a mad schedule.
Televised debates, back-to-back interviews, endless campaign rallies—no ten bodies would have been enough to keep up with it all.
Exhaustion still showed on his face, yet paradoxically his whole being seemed more energized than before.
Perhaps it was what they called the election high—politicians who drank in the roar of supporters, drawing fresh vitality from the crowd's boundless enthusiasm.
"This election, experts say, will be decided by razor-thin margins. Our own analysis at Taewoo Group points to the same conclusion. Victory could very well come down to less than a one‑percent difference."
"The ruling party's candidate is formidable, and with the opposition forces working toward unification, this has become an unpredictable contest. That only means I must throw myself in all the harder."
Three candidates, all trapped in the thirty‑percent box range.
It would be a battle where even a single hair pushing out from the box could decide the victor.
Which meant that even the smallest variable could overturn the outcome at the last moment. And anyone who ever ran a company knew—there was nothing more detested than uncertainty.
"At this crucial stage, I have two cards I can place in front of you. Perhaps neither will be to your liking—but would you care to hear them?"
"If the great Chairman Kim offers me a brocade pouch, how could I refuse? I'll open it with the heart of Zhao Zilong himself."
The Golden Pouch Strategy. Zhao Zilong in the Romance of the Three Kingdoms had survived impossible trials thanks to the brocade pouches of plans given to him by Zhuge Liang.
But I was no Zhuge Liang. And Candidate Choi Jae-seok was hardly Zhao Zilong.
Inside this pouch I was handing him were strategies that, to him, might prove merciless—perhaps even cruel.
"First, the opening card is this: we intensify the public‑opinion campaign, pushing it harder. By flooding the space with near smear‑like posts against the ruling party's candidate and the opposition's unified contender, we can cut into their support."
"…That wouldn't be legal, would it?"
"No, it wouldn't. But I can guarantee, absolutely, no one would ever trace it back to us. Not now, not under future administrations, no matter how many times power changes hands."
"Hmm. No matter how desperate my situation, I still cannot bring myself to accept something like that. I do apologize. As the leader of a party, I understand full well that one might have to accept such measures. And yet, I cannot."
I had expected this response.
This was why I had chosen to join hands with Choi Jae-seok rather than with some other politician.
Yes, there would be times I felt impatient with him. But it was exactly this character of his that made me trust him.
"If it isn't your wish, then I'll only stick to the lawful media campaigns we've already been running. But by doing so, the most you can hope for is to keep pace—hovering neck‑and‑neck with your rivals in the polls."
"If I keep taking steady steps forward, doesn't that mean I might still pick up even 0.1% more support?"
"But the other candidates are walking hard too. In a three‑way deadlock like this, it'll be extremely difficult to raise your numbers. In fact, as time passes, the dynamics may well turn against you."
Choi Jae-seok, a man of lifelong experience in politics, grasped immediately what I meant.
"In the end, elections in Korea draw themselves back toward the two major parties. Yes, the People's Economic Party has won its position as the leading opposition bloc. But in the minds of the voters, it still hasn't truly been recognized as one of the two poles of power."
"As time passes, the centrist voters will inevitably drift toward either the ruling party or the opposition alliance. The real danger," I pressed mercilessly at his sorest point, "is that of the three candidates boxed at thirty percent, only your People's Economic Party has a real possibility of slipping."
If he had been leading by two or three percent, my words might not have cut so deeply. But as things stood—neck and neck, within a single percentage point, sometimes polling first, sometimes second—my statement could only sting.
"So what you're really suggesting," Choi said tightly, "is that we resort to illegal methods? If that's what you mean, then I must decline again."
"I won't offer those paths again, since they go against your will. But I'll leave you with a question."
I leaned in slightly.
"Which would you choose: the current election, where you have a thirty percent chance to win—or the next election, where your odds might rise to over seventy percent?"
Choi Jae-seok was famous for his eloquence.
In televised debates, no matter how sensitive the question, he always answered with ease—often even counterattacking with skillful precision.
But this time, faced with my question, he could not open his mouth for a long while.
"…Are you telling me to abandon this election? Do you realize I'm still showing first place in polls, and in some surveys by a clear plurality?"
"That," I said, "is exactly why now is the perfect time. If you withdraw at this moment, you'll command the highest possible price."
"I am a politician, not a merchant. I did not enter this race to put myself on the auction block."
For the first time, Candidate Choi raised his voice at me.
Had there ever been such a moment before? Until now, he had always endured my words, considering them seriously. But to urge his withdrawal—that was something he could not stomach.
"But what if your 'price' is measured in nothing less than the future of South Korea itself? Would you still refuse to accept it?"
"…Explain what you mean."
"The ruling party and the opposition bloc are locked in a vicious fight. Not just the politicians, but even the citizenry is now divided. And on top of that, with the People's Economic Party jumping in, the race has shattered into a three-way battle."
"I, too, regret that fact," Choi said. "But isn't it precisely through such struggles that healthy democracy is born?"
Democracy was, after all, the clash of many voices.
If there was only one voice, that wasn't democracy—that was communism, or socialism.
"I would agree, if this were a healthy struggle of ideas. But what we see now is far too overheated—and it will only get worse."
"Do you truly believe my resignation could stop such division?"
"If you stepped aside, framing it as an act of national reconciliation and grand unification, couldn't that strike a deep chord within the people's hearts?"
Yes—I was a merchant, not an idealist.
I cared little for political ideology or lofty notions of democracy.
Whether politics divided the nation or not, it mattered little to me.
For me, this was simply the strategy—the next move—for Choi Jae-seok's greater future.
Step down now in the name of unity, and at the next election he could return to win by an overwhelming margin—that was the analysis on the table.
"No matter how loudly a bell tolls," Choi said coolly, "the waves of sound vanish within an hour. Do you expect such resonance to last all the way to the next presidential race?"
"True—what is heard by the ear fades. But what resonates within the heart… that endures. And by stepping down, there is one more reward you stand to gain."
"…What reward?"
"Would you truly be satisfied with five years in Cheongwadae? Shouldn't we, like the United States, aim to stay in the Blue House for eight?"
"…Are you suggesting a constitutional amendment—for presidential reelection?"
Presidential term reform.
It meant restructuring the system to allow reelection—just like in the United States.
This was the fundamental reason I had brought up the idea of his withdrawal.
Right now, the People's Economic Party was Choi Jae-seok.
Even if he won this election, what then? Five years later, there would be no successor, no clear candidate to put forward.
And considering how much I had already invested in building up this party, a paltry five-year window was simply not acceptable.
"If the term is changed to allow reelection, then and only then can we reshape the political landscape of South Korea. That's why I believe one step back, for the sake of two steps forward, is necessary."
"A presidential election is a matter of momentum. The moment you abandon the flow we've worked so hard to build, there may be no second chance to recover it."
"That is why, if you enter the National Assembly in next year's by-elections, you'll be able to extend the momentum."
Every general election left behind violations of electoral law, and this one was no different.
In Seoul's Nowon District, a seat had already gone vacant.
"…So you're telling me to give up the presidency and run for the Nowon by‑election? Hah. From a presidential election… down to a parliamentary election."
"I know. It sounds like exile."
"And Nowon District has long been favorable ground for the opposition. In fact, I hear the condition for their candidate unification was to hand the Nowon seat to one of their own."
Yes. Two opposition candidates had unified their bids, and as part of the negotiation, Nowon had been promised to one of them.
But if Choi himself were to run in Nowon, the entire board would flip upside‑down.
"Nothing's official yet. That's why the sooner you decide, the better chance you have to win Nowon. If you announce your candidacy there, the opposition bloc will abandon it and shift instead to Yeongdo."
"True… both of their candidates have ties to Busan."
"That's why they used Nowon as a compensation seat. If you enter the race there, it ceases to hold any value as a bargaining chip, and naturally they'll turn their eyes to Yeongdo."
There were three districts up for by‑election: Seoul's Nowon, Busan's Yeongdo, and Buyeo in South Chungcheong.
Buyeo was the ruling party's heartland. With more than 70% of the residents firmly supporting them, even a presidential‑level candidate would lose.
Yeongdo, too, leaned heavily toward the ruling party. Rumor said a well‑known heavyweight from their side was already preparing to contest it.
But compared to the name recognition of Choi Jae-seok, the opposition's candidates were no match. For them, shifting to Yeongdo rather than clashing with Choi in Nowon was the most logical move.
Instead of a brocade pouch, I had handed him a pouch of dilemmas.
Whichever path he chose, Choi's political life was destined for hardship.
If he continued running in the presidential race, his chance of victory was only thirty‑three percent.
If he withdrew, the road ahead would be no easier.
"Not a golden pouch, but a bag full of worries you've given me. There's no easy answer here."
"Even so—no matter what you decide—I'll support you to the very end. But for the future of South Korea, I believe you must be president. Not just for five years… but for eight."
It was a cruel multiple-choice.
"Give me some time. I'll discuss this in depth with my advisors and strategists in the People's Economic Party, and then I'll decide."
"There's no right answer here. All that matters is which choice will serve the future of the People's Economic Party—and the future of South Korea—better."
I already had a faint idea of what his decision would be.
The vigor that had once filled his whole body during campaign rallies was beginning, little by little, to drain away.
And sure enough, it took only a few days for him to find his answer.
He then declared his chosen path—not in private, but boldly, in the middle of a live broadcast, during the nationally televised candidate debate.