With Hansung Technology's phones flying off the shelves and the future looking bright, banks were practically begging Park Minho to borrow money. They wanted Hansung's accounts parked in their vaults. Why? The numbers were staggering. At 6,000 phones sold daily, Minho was moving 180,000 units a month, raking in a turnover of 5.38 billion won. Monthly profits? A cool 720 million won. After wages, benefits, and other costs, he was pocketing a net profit of 540 million won every month.
Sure, pulling that cash out as dividends meant a 20% tax hit, so Minho left it in the company unless absolutely necessary. But a business churning out 540 million in profit and 5.38 billion in revenue monthly? Banks saw no risk. They weren't just willing to lend—they were desperate to tie Hansung to their institution as its exclusive financial partner.
So, Minho dove into his expansion plan with gusto. Step one: scale up the factory and buy new machines. Step two: recruit and train more workers. His goal? A new plant operational in two months, cranking out 1 million phones monthly—12 million annually. What came after that? He'd figure it out once he hit that milestone. For now, it was full steam ahead.
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**Seoul, Gangnam District, Saejo Mobile Shop**
"Jae-ho, get over here," called a wiry, bespectacled shop owner, his voice cutting through the hum of the store.
The young salesman, Lee Jae-ho, hustled over. "What's up, boss?"
The owner, Kim Sang-ho, adjusted his glasses, his brow creased with worry. "Have you noticed the store's been dead lately? Customer traffic's dropped the past couple of days."
It was true. The shop used to buzz with people checking out phones, even if only one in ten bought something. Now? Foot traffic was down 30-40%. Fewer customers meant fewer sales, and Kim's wallet was feeling the pinch.
"Yeah, boss," Jae-ho nodded. "It started two or three days ago. Just… fizzled out."
"What's going on?" Kim muttered, his frown deepening. A 30-40% drop in potential buyers was a direct hit to his income. He wasn't thrilled. "Heard any rumors? Spill, and I'll treat you to barbecue tonight."
Jae-ho opened his mouth to respond, but a customer interrupted—a farmer in worn work clothes, his face weathered but determined. "Boss, you got the Hansung 2 Labor Edition?"
Jae-ho shook his head. "Sorry, we don't carry it."
The shop had stocked the regular Hansung 2 once, but never the Labor Edition. Kim had scoffed at Hansung phones, calling them cheap junk from a no-name factory. He'd even turned away a Hansung rep pushing their 3rd-generation model. Now, the shop didn't carry a single Hansung phone.
"How about something else?" Jae-ho pivoted. "KyungTech's solid, or there's Saehan Mobile—heard of their slogan, 'Saehan phones, the champion of mobiles'?"
The farmer wasn't biting. "67,800 won? Too steep. For that, I could get *two* Hansung 2 Labor Editions."
Jae-ho blinked. Two phones for the price of one? The farmer's math checked out, but it stung. He'd heard the Saehan slogan plenty, but he also knew Hansung's rep was spreading like wildfire. Still, he doubled down. "Hansung's had issues—big return scandals. Their phones are trash. Saehan or KyungTech are way better."
The farmer's eyes narrowed. "Phones are for calling, not showing off. I've seen the Hansung 2 Labor Edition—tough as nails, loud speaker, doesn't break when you drop it. That's what I need. Not some fancy brand."
Kim stepped in, sensing a sale slipping away. "Brother, 67,800 won isn't bad. Most phones are over 60,000 won these days. Sure, you can find some for 45,000, but can you trust the quality?"
"I trust Hansung," the farmer shot back, unyielding. "That's the one I want."
Kim's patience thinned, but he kept his tone smooth. "Look, Hansung's just a small-time outfit in Seoul. Barely 500 workers, no real brand power. Compare that to Saehan or KyungTech—top players in Korea. If Saehan's too pricey, check out this Pantech model. Top 10 brand, only 55,000 won."
The farmer's face soured, his patience gone. "Pantech, KyungTech, whatever—I don't care about your brands. I want the Hansung 2 Labor Edition, the 29,900-won one. That's it."
Kim's jaw dropped. "29,900 won? Impossible!"
A phone that cheap? It defied logic. The lowest-priced phones on the market were 45,000 won, and those were from sketchy, no-name manufacturers. A 29,900-won phone was 15,100 won less—how could Hansung make a profit? How could retailers survive? Kim stared at the farmer, dumbfounded.
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Back at Hansung's headquarters, Minho was riding the wave of success. The Hansung 2 Labor Edition wasn't just selling—it was reshaping the market. Rural buyers, like the farmer in Kim's shop, didn't care about brand prestige or flashy features. They wanted durability, strong signals, loud audio, and a price that didn't break the bank. Hansung delivered all that and more, thanks to the *Ultimate Imitation Emperor System*.
The system's production boost kept costs low, ensuring every phone was a tank while maintaining that 4,000-won profit per unit. Minho's factory was a well-oiled machine, churning out 6,000 phones daily, but it wasn't enough. Towns across Gyeonggi Province were clamoring for more, and Minho's 5-million-phone parts contract loomed large. He needed to scale up fast.
His expansion plan was ambitious but calculated. The new factory would be a beast, capable of 1 million phones a month. That meant new assembly lines, more workers, and a bigger footprint. The equipment alone would cost 8-9 billion won, a figure that would make most CEOs sweat. But Minho wasn't most CEOs. With 550 million won in cash and banks eager to lend, he had options. A 100-million-won deposit could secure the gear, with the rest paid post-installation. A bank loan, backed by Hansung's soaring revenue, would cover the gap.
The math was simple but brutal. Monthly costs were 180 million won, with wages eating up 158 million. Adding 300 more workers would push that higher, but Minho was banking on economies of scale. More production meant more sales, and with the rural market hooked, he wasn't worried about demand. The Hansung 2 Labor Edition was a cultural phenomenon—farmers and workers saw it as their phone, built for their lives.
Minho leaned back in his chair, reviewing the numbers. 70,000 phones sold in 10 days. 2.09 billion won in turnover. 280 million in profit. He'd already cleared out existing inventory, and orders kept pouring in. Sales teams reported chaos in the towns—people lined up before tents were even pitched, cash ready, no questions asked. The Hansung name was spreading faster than Minho could've dreamed.
But competitors were feeling the heat. Shops like Saejo Mobile were bleeding customers, unable to match Hansung's price or durability. Retailers who'd snubbed Hansung were now regretting it, as farmers and workers bypassed them to chase the 29,900-won miracle phone. Minho's strategy—targeting the underserved rural market—was paying off in spades.
Still, challenges loomed. Training new workers would take time, and the factory was at its limit. Overtime was burning out his team, even with generous bonuses. The new plant and equipment were critical, but they'd take two months to come online. Until then, Minho had to keep the momentum going, balancing production, recruitment, and financing without missing a beat.
He glanced at the calendar: May 2004. By July, he wanted that new factory humming. By year's end, he aimed to hit 5 million phones sold, cementing Hansung as a major player. The system's edge gave him a head start, but it was his vision—building a phone for the people—that was turning Hansung into a legend.
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(end of this chapter)