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A phone this good? It wouldn't stick around long. The sales team didn't look like they were setting up shop in Donglin Town forever. If you wanted one, you had to act fast.
This scene wasn't just unfolding in Donglin. Across Gyeonggi Province, every small town was buzzing with the same frenzy. Park Minho had hired over 200 new salespeople, adding to the original 30, splitting them into 33 teams—each hitting a different township with seven or eight members. Even smaller towns, less flush with cash than Donglin, were eating it up.
Hansung Technology's factory was in overdrive, churning out phones 24/7. Sales skyrocketed: 10,000, 20,000, 30,000, 40,000, 50,000, 60,000, 70,000 units… and climbing. Even round-the-clock production couldn't keep up with the demand. The factory ran three shifts, but workers were clocking 13-hour days, grumbling despite the overtime pay Minho shelled out.
"Only 6,000 units a day?" Minho sighed, sifting through the complaints. New hires couldn't be trained overnight, so for now, he'd have to lean on overtime bonuses to keep the wheels turning.
The phone's popularity had blindsided him. He'd expected it to sell well, but this? It was a wildfire. Every phone off the line was snatched up instantly—no marketing needed. In towns they'd already hit, the sales team barely had to pitch. Just mention "Hansung phones," and villagers would swarm, cash in hand, ready to buy. Transactions were lightning-fast, no haggling, no fuss.
The buyers already knew the Hansung 2 Labor Edition inside out—its reputation preceded it. Salespeople watched in awe as crowds fought to buy, joking, "This isn't making phones; it's printing money!"
Hansung Technology was drowning in a happy problem: they couldn't make phones fast enough. Workers and equipment were stretched thin, but Minho's generous overtime pay kept spirits high. Everyone was thrilled the phones were flying off the shelves.
"We need more equipment and workers," Minho muttered, eyeing the 550 million won in the company's account. He wasn't worried about sustaining the 6,000-unit daily sales. Confidence surged through him.
The Hansung 2 Labor Edition used MediaTek's MT6205 chip and a tiny 0.5-inch screen from KyungDong Display to keep costs low. Minho had locked in a bold one-year contract for 5 million phones' worth of parts. If Hansung couldn't sell them, those parts would pile up, bankrupting the company and saddling him with billions in debt.
But with 70,000 phones sold in under ten days, wiping out existing inventory, that fear was gone. Could he sell 5 million in a year? Absolutely.
Last year, Saehan Mobile moved 11.75 million units, so 5 million might sound ambitious. But the Hansung 2 Labor Edition was a perfect fit for the times, built for migrant workers' real needs.
"70,000 units sold in 10 days. Turnover: 2.09 billion won. Profit: 280 million won," Minho scribbled, grinning. Earning 280 million in ten days? Faster than a bank heist. With a 2.09 billion won turnover, each phone brought in a 4,000-won profit after costs—parts, accidental damage, utilities, taxes, marketing, all accounted for.
That 4,000-won profit per phone was jaw-dropping. Enviable. A goldmine.
And then there was the *Ultimate Imitation Emperor System*'s secret edge: a production boost that slashed losses. Normal factories lost parts to accidents—dropped components, botched assemblies. But Minho's factory, blessed by the system, had a yield rate far higher than competitors. That saved him 100-300 won per phone in material losses—pure profit conjured from thin air.
The system also ensured every phone was top-notch. In a typical factory, maybe one in a thousand units was flawless. At Hansung? Every single one was a gem. If Minho pivoted to contract manufacturing, orders from global brands would flood in. Quality like that was a dream for any client.
But Minho wasn't interested in being a middleman for others—not yet. With the system's edge, his factory was a cash machine, outearning rivals by 100-200 won per phone on the same model.
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(end of this chapter)