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Under the stunned gazes of the crowd, the salesman didn't flinch. He signaled the car to roll back, crushing the phone again. Then, cool as ice, he picked it up, dusted it off, and made a call right there in front of everyone.
The phone's speaker blared loud and clear—no damage. The screen? Not a crack. The crowd gasped.
"This phone's built like a tank," someone muttered, awestruck.
The migrant workers' eyes lit up brightest. They'd dreamed of owning phones but were scared off by sky-high prices and fragile designs. A phone costing over 60,000 won? One drop, and it's game over. Heartbreaking. So, many held off, unable to justify the risk.
But this salesman knew exactly what they were thinking. After showing off the phone's call quality and parading it around, he did the unthinkable—he *tossed* it into the air, soaring three or four meters high.
"What the—?!"
The crowd froze, mouths agape. A 29,900-won phone, chucked like it was nothing? Was this guy allergic to money?
"What a waste!"
"This guy's lost it!"
"Give it to me if you're just gonna break it!"
"A 29,900-won phone, ruined—just like that!"
The square buzzed with shocked chatter. The salesman's stunt had everyone shaking their heads, convinced his brain had short-circuited. They braced for the phone's demise, picturing a shattered screen. Falling from that height—basically a second-story drop onto concrete—no phone could survive that. They mourned the 29,900-won loss already.
*Thud!*
The phone hit the ground with a dull smack. Some in the crowd winced, eyes shut, unable to watch 29,900 won go up in smoke.
But then—a collective gasp.
Those who'd closed their eyes peeked, curious. No shattered screen. No mangled parts. The phone looked… fine?
The salesman strolled over, picked it up, wiped it clean, and showed it off again. The LCD screen was pristine, the interface crisp. He swiped through menus—smooth, no glitches. A phone dropped from four meters, with just a few scratches on the case, still worked perfectly.
The crowd's shock turned to hunger. *This* was the phone they needed—cheap, tough, unbreakable.
"What's this phone called?" a migrant worker shouted, eyes gleaming.
This thing wasn't just a phone—it was a brick you could drop forever. It shattered their notion that phones were delicate little toys. The townsfolk and travelers stared at the salesman, eager for answers.
He grinned, finally speaking. "Folks, farmers, brothers—step right up and test this Hansung phone! If anyone finds a single flaw—can't make a call, screen's busted—we'll hand you this phone for free!
Why's it so tough? Because Hansung Technology designed it *for you*, the hardworking farmers and workers! We guarantee every unit's the same. Toss this model three meters into the air in front of us, and if the screen cracks or it stops working, bring it back. We'll swap it for a new one, no questions asked!"
The crowd erupted in disbelief. "They're *that* confident in the quality?"
"Young man, how much is it?" a migrant worker called out, itching to buy. The loudspeaker had said 29,900 won, but surely a phone this durable had a catch—hidden fees, maybe, or a higher price.
"Hansung 2 Labor Edition, nationwide price: 29,900 won!" the salesman declared.
Eyes widened. They'd assumed a 29,900-won phone would be flimsy, dead in a week. But after watching it survive a car crush and a four-meter drop, their minds were blown.
Like a tidal wave, people surged to the sales desk. Others, caught off guard, scrambled to join the frenzy, shoving forward like tigers pouncing on prey. The square turned chaotic, a mob desperate to snag one.
Clatter!
The old farmer, who'd been grumbling about "shoddy phones," dropped his pipe in shock. "This world's making a fool of me," he muttered, turning to leave. He was headed home to grab cash—this phone was too good to pass up.
Others without enough money followed suit, rushing back to scrape together 29,900 won. A deal like this wouldn't wait.
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(end of this chapter)