What happens to conglomerates when the world collapses?

    It’s a question that any Korean would find intriguing.

    Recently, a prominent community user, "Gijayangban" ("Reporter Guy"), shared an update about one such conglomerate family.

    gijayangban: "Discovered Chairman Park Cheol-joo’s hideout from the Seokju Group! It''s Cheol-joo ham~ ham~!"

    The update on the conglomerate, posted by Reporter Guy, was enough to send us doomsday enthusiasts spiraling into despair.

    On a gentle hill, they had constructed a concrete fortress large enough to accommodate dozens of people. Within it, they had established a self-sufficient ecosystem capable of handling agriculture, manufacturing, and even entertainment.

    When I saw the drone footage of their fortress''s miniature golf course, I couldn’t help but let out an involuntary gasp.

    “...Wow.”

    It’s exactly what you’d expect from a conglomerate family.

    When you have wealth measured in trillions of won, you can afford to build something like that.

    Not that I’m jealous.@@@@

    There’s no point in aspiring to it when you know you can’t replicate it, no matter how hard you try.

    Besides Park Cheol-joo’s fortress, other leading conglomerate families in Korea had built similar or slightly less impressive strongholds to prepare for the apocalypse.

    Few of them had chosen to leave Korea. The rest of the world wasn’t any safer, and the influence they wielded in Korea didn’t translate abroad. That was likely the main reason for staying put.

    Most of them had abandoned their corporations.

    From modern-day monarchs commanding thousands or tens of thousands of employees, they had reduced themselves to the heads of single families, focusing solely on survival.

    It might be a rational choice in this doomed world, but not everyone followed that path.

    *

    After my first trip to Seoul, I tried to visit the city at least once every two months.

    With each visit, the surrounding scenery grew bleaker, more miserable, and, above all, more dangerous.

    I always passed through Gangnam on my way in. Once one of the wealthiest districts in Korea, it had since decayed into a sprawling refugee camp filled with makeshift tents and crude shelters.

    Among the dwindling tents, one structure always caught my eye.

    A dilapidated shack with a surprisingly intact sign still hanging above it:

    [Pafung Group].

    The name belonged to one of Korea’s most influential conglomerates, a titan that once dictated the flow of the nation’s economy.

    This shack had been constructed approximately one year and four months ago, around three months after the war began.

    Back then, as I was passing through the bustling refugee camp, I noticed a massive crowd gathered, lured by an irresistible aroma.

    Upon inquiry, I learned that the Pafung Group had set up a free soup kitchen using their own resources.

    Running a soup kitchen when the economy is stable is one thing; running one when global trade has collapsed is a monumental feat.

    Pafung had established multiple soup kitchens at key locations throughout Seoul, providing free meals.

    Even for a conglomerate as powerful as Pafung, this seemed like a stretch.

    With nothing better to do, I queued up for nearly two hours. When my turn came, I was surprised to find the menu consisted of steamed pork slices and beef soup—dishes usually reserved for funeral banquets. The food was genuinely tasty, and to my astonishment, they even offered half a paper cup of soju to adults.

    While I abstain from drinking or smoking in my bunker, here, I gladly accepted the drink.

    “Cheers!”

    This was me, Park Gyu—so easily swayed by a bowl of soup and a half-cup of soju, I was ready to pledge my loyalty to Pafung!

    As I ate, however, I overheard some unsettling conversations that contrasted sharply with my newfound admiration.

    “That chairman bastard must be planning to go into politics.”

    “Isn’t it obvious?”

    “There’s no way he’s spending this kind of money out of goodwill. Screw his so-called compassion for the people.”

    Honestly, the remarks were grating.

    In times as dire as these, shouldn’t they at least be grateful for a decent meal? Why constantly question someone else’s motives?

    It’s not like they were paragons of virtue themselves.

    I wanted to say something in defense of Pafung, but after some reflection, I realized I wasn’t loyal enough to warrant the effort.

    Suppressing my irritation, I left the dining area, only to have my attention drawn to an unusual sight.

    “Introducing Je Pung-ho!”

    A middle-aged man in an active jacket paired with neatly pressed suit trousers was making rounds, accompanied by people forcing smiles. He shook hands with everyone eating and introduced himself repeatedly.

    “Did you enjoy your meal? I’m Je Pung-ho!”

    Je Pung-ho.

    The owner of the Pafung Group.

    Behind him stood a lineup of similarly distinguished-looking men and women, most likely family members. A smartly dressed young man and a beautiful woman, presumably his children, stood awkwardly at the end of the group in descending order of hierarchy.

    As if bewitched, I found myself approaching them.

    My initial intent? To shake hands with one of the daughters from the conglomerate family.

    But when I got there, the daughters had been shuffled to the back, and the hand I ended up shaking was none other than Je Pung-ho’s.

    “I’m Je Pung-ho,” he said.

    It was my first time seeing a real conglomerate chairman up close, let alone shaking hands with one.

    Looking at him, I realized for the first time that even a non-hunter’s eyes could shine so brightly.

    His hand was rough, firm, and exuded an unexplainable strength beyond mere grip.

    Later, I heard rumors that a parliamentary election was approaching.

    Not because all the National Assembly members had died—only about 1% of them had, despite 18% of the South Korean population disappearing in the war.

    It was because their terms had expired.

    This startlingly low mortality rate among the nation’s lawmakers hinted at something deeply significant, though I wasn’t sure what it was.

    *

    After finishing my soup, I arrived at the base of a building.

    This building belonged to the National Crisis Management Committee, or simply "Gukwiwon."

    Known as the modern-day “Board of Military Affairs,” this extrajudicial organization held the greatest power and influence in post-war South Korea.

    The primary reason for my visits to Seoul was the number of acquaintances I had embedded within the Gukwiwon.

    These connections had proven invaluable, providing me with crucial information, military-grade walkie-talkies, encrypted radio frequencies, spam, and even holiday gift sets of cooking oil.

    That day, the place was unusually quiet.

    The receptionist I usually badgered for favors was nowhere to be found.

    As I exchanged nods with a security guard I recognized and loitered in the lobby, a man I had never seen before approached me.

    “Do you have a moment?”

    His face was expressionless, his eyes dead, and his tone and posture exuded nothing but cold professionalism.

    I couldn’t help but wonder.

    Are they still getting paid? What about the performance bonuses they used to brag about?

    Je Pung-ho, who had smiled warmly and shaken hands with everyone at the soup kitchen, now sat at the far end of the conference table, his back turned toward the room.

    He didn’t react when I entered.

    Instead, a man who appeared to be his secretary—a sharp-looking gentleman in his mid-50s—addressed me.

    “Mr. Park Gyu, correct? I understand you’re a former hunter.”

    He conducted a brief interview, asking about my career, combat experience, and rank.

    Most of my records had been erased anyway, so I gave straightforward answers.

    “I’m D-rank. I’ve been to the gates and have some combat experience, but I was never a main player.”

    At that, Je Pung-ho let out an audible, uncomfortable cough.

    I ignored it.

    What piqued my curiosity was the reason behind this.

    Why would the head of a conglomerate suddenly decide to hunt monsters?

    Even if trade had collapsed and business was impossible, wasn’t this too drastic of a career shift?

    Unfortunately, none of the suit-clad individuals in the room provided answers to my unspoken questions.

    From the moment I revealed my unimpressive credentials, I was no longer seen as a person but as an expendable office tool.

    After a short while, someone said, “You may leave now.”

    Without ever being given the chance to speak, I was politely dismissed from the conference room.

    Not that I had much to say.

    But I did have one question.

    In the hallway, separate from the somber atmosphere of the conference room, another group of people was gathered in clusters. Spotting someone who seemed approachable, I tried to ask a question, but they merely smiled awkwardly, nodding like a foreigner who didn’t understand a word I said.

    I kept my mouth shut, starting to get the picture of how I was being perceived.

    Unexpectedly, someone approached me.

    “Can I help you with something?”

    It was a young woman.

    Her face was familiar—she had been part of the entourage standing behind Je Pung-ho at the soup kitchen.

    She was strikingly beautiful, which made her memorable.

    “I have a question. If you don’t mind?”

    At first, her cold demeanor made her seem unapproachable, but as we spoke, she quickly adopted a polite, trained smile and responded kindly.

    “You want to know why the chairman is doing something like monster hunting?”

    Unfortunately, she wasn’t wearing an ID badge, so I couldn’t catch her name. Judging by her demeanor, though, she seemed like she could be the chairman’s granddaughter or niece.

    She glanced around to ensure no one was listening, then let out a sigh and explained in a hushed tone.

    “Do you know about the chairman’s plans to run for parliament?”

    “Yes.”

    “They fell through.”

    “Why?”

    “The current lawmakers essentially extended their terms indefinitely.”

    “Figures.”

    Later, I learned that this had passed almost unanimously. There had been two abstentions, but I found those individuals to be even more contemptible scumbags.

    “The chairman’s plans were completely derailed. He had been providing substantial support to both ruling and opposition parties—offering convenience to individual lawmakers, repairing the damaged National Assembly building, and so on. When the group protested, the parliament responded by saying they would provide him with a seat if he could secure an open constituency. That’s how this mess started.”

    “The ‘constituency’ in question—where we’re headed, isn’t it?”

    “I’m not going. The chairman and his loyalists will, though.”

    Contrary to my first impression, the woman didn’t seem to be fully aligned with Pafung.

    So, I pressed her further.

    “Me? I’m not part of the Pafung family. To be precise, I’m just an underling. My father runs a first-tier subcontractor under Pafung.”

    She sighed, her eyes filled with resentment as she glanced toward the conference room door.

    “...I don’t understand why anyone clings to a corporation that’s already collapsed.”

    I finally understood.

    This woman held no affection for Pafung.

    In fact, she seemed to harbor a clear animosity toward it.

    With the floodgates open, she poured out her thoughts, as if she’d been waiting for someone to listen.

    “They’re all insane. We’re not bound by blood; it’s just a transactional relationship. Why do they still act like it’s the same as before the war?”

    “No idea...”

    “Hey.”

    Suddenly, her eyes sparkled.

    “You’re a hunter, right?”

    “Not anymore.”

    “I have a favor to ask.”

    She stepped closer, and her subtle perfume, which had only been faint before, filled the air around me.

    “Could you talk my father out of this?”

    She handed me her father’s business card.

    “Please. Tell him to stop this madness.”

    At that moment, the conference room door opened.

    Leading the group was Je Pung-ho himself.

    With a serious, imposing face, his piercing eyes lit with determination, he strode down the hallway with confident steps.

    Behind him trailed a dozen suited individuals, each wearing their own expression of resolve, silently following his lead.

    The executive who had spoken to me earlier noticed me and curtly said, “Hunter Park, let’s go.”

    “Do I have to go too?”

    “Yes.”

    I turned back to look at the woman.

    As the throng of people moved between us, her gaze remained locked on me alone.

    I hesitated for a moment, but not for long.

    “It might not work out,” I said quietly.