"You think I'm lying? They said 29,900 won, and it's 29,900 won!" the farmer snapped, glaring at Kim Sang-ho and Lee Jae-ho like they were wasting his time. "If they didn't sell out so fast, I wouldn't be here begging for a Hansung 2 Labor Edition. I had to run home for cash, and they were gone!"
Kim, the wiry shop owner, stood frozen, muttering in disbelief. "29,900 won? How's that even possible?"
The price was a gut punch. Compared to other phones, the Hansung 2 Labor Edition was a steal—a dagger to the heart of competitors. No migrant worker could resist a phone that cheap, especially one tough enough to survive a four-meter drop. Kim's mind raced. Sure, selling these might mean slimmer margins—maybe he'd need to move two Hansungs to match the profit of one pricier phone. But with demand this high, volume would make up the difference and then some.
The farmer's insistence said it all. He wasn't just shopping; he was on a mission for *that* phone. Hansung's grip on the rural market was ironclad. Customers weren't browsing—they were hunting for the Hansung 2 Labor Edition, and nothing else would do.
"I've got to call Hansung Technology," Kim declared, snapping out of his daze. "Forget Saehan Mobile. They're dead to me!"
This was a goldmine, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Margins be damned—sales would skyrocket. Worried about rumors of Hansung's past returns? Who cares when money's on the table? Kim needed those 29,900-won phones in his shop, pronto.
This scene wasn't unique to Saejo Mobile. Across Seoul and Gyeonggi Province, shops were waking up to the Hansung craze. Phone lines at Hansung's headquarters were jammed with desperate retailers. One call barely ended before another flooded in.
"Hello, Hansung Technology? This is Lego Mobile on Gangnam Road. Send me 100 Hansung 2 Labor Editions, now! What? Out of stock? Are you kidding me? I'm offering cash upfront! Get me those phones! Apologize? Save it—You don't know who I am??! I need those phones, don't you dare hang up!"
A shop owner's rant echoed in another store, frustration boiling over. Months ago, these same retailers had scoffed at Hansung, refusing to stock their phones. Now, they were eating crow, unable to get their hands on the hottest product in Korea. Regret was a bitter pill.
Park Minho knew about the retailers' desperation but wasn't budging. Why should he? Hansung was selling every phone it made through its own teams, direct to the rural market. Cutting in retailers meant shaving his profit—maybe down to 3,000-3,500 won per phone from 4,000. Sure, supplying stores was easier—no need to pay sales commissions or manage rural campaigns. But stores had their own costs: rent, staff, utilities. Those ate into margins.
Direct sales were the smarter play. Minho's teams were raking in cash with no middleman. Until sales hit a ceiling or the new factory's 5-million-phone contract created pressure, he'd keep retailers dangling. They'd rejected Hansung before; now they could stew in their mistake. Minho held the golden ticket, and he wasn't sharing it yet.
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**May 16, 2004**
It was an ordinary day in Seoul, but a local newspaper dropped a bombshell: Hansung Technology's phones were setting the market ablaze. The article detailed a 29,900-won phone that was sparking a buying frenzy across Gyeonggi Province. Loud, durable, with a battery that lasted days, the Hansung 2 Labor Edition was a rural sensation. In just over two weeks, it had sold 90,000 units, with projections of 180,000 monthly and 2.16 million annually.
The news sent shockwaves through the province. When had Seoul birthed a mobile phone giant? An annual sales forecast of 2.16 million units wasn't Saehan Mobile's 11.75 million, but it was no small feat. Seoul's electronics scene was robust, but no local brand had hit these numbers. Hansung's rise was turning heads.
Newspapers across Seoul and Gyeonggi dispatched reporters to dig into the story. Hansung—and Park Minho—became overnight sensations. The media lauded Minho's genius for targeting migrant workers with an ultra-affordable, rugged phone. Who else would've thought to capture the rural market like that?
But fame was a double-edged sword. While the coverage boosted Hansung's brand and fueled expansion plans, it also painted a target on Minho's back. Small mobile manufacturers in Gyeonggi were green with envy. They saw the rural market's potential and wanted a piece. Within a month—two or three at most—competitors would flood the ultra-low-cost phone segment, gunning for Hansung's throne.
Minho wasn't naive. He'd known competition was inevitable, but the media spotlight had sped up the timeline. His factory was already stretched, producing 6,000 phones daily. The new plant, targeting 1 million monthly, was still two months from completion. He needed to scale faster, hire more workers, and secure those bank loans to fund the 8-9 billion won in equipment.
The *Ultimate Imitation Emperor System* was his ace, keeping production costs low and quality high. Every phone was a masterpiece, with a yield rate that made rivals weep. That edge let him sell at 29,900 won while pocketing 4,000 won per unit. But competitors were coming, and they'd try to undercut him or mimic his strategy. Minho had to stay ahead.
He leaned on his sales teams, still storming rural towns with their dramatic demos—crushing phones under cars, tossing them skyward. The crowds ate it up, and sales kept climbing. But Minho knew he couldn't rely on theatrics forever. The new factory was critical, as was expanding his workforce to 1,000 to ease the brutal 13-hour shifts. Overtime bonuses were keeping workers afloat, but morale was shaky.
Banks were his next move. With 550 million won in cash and a monthly turnover of 5.38 billion, Minho had leverage. A loan for the equipment was within reach, especially with Hansung's profit margins—540 million won monthly after costs. He'd pay a deposit, get the gear installed, and cover the rest later. Slow payments and a bank loan would bridge the gap.
Retailers like Kim Sang-ho were still clamoring for stock, but Minho held firm. Direct sales were too lucrative, and he wasn't ready to share the pie. Let them beg. They'd learn to respect Hansung's name.
The newspaper article had lit a fire under Gyeonggi's mobile market. Minho was a hero to some, a disruptor to others. Small manufacturers were scrambling to copy his playbook, but they didn't have his system or vision. Still, the clock was ticking. Within months, the ultra-low-cost segment would be a battlefield.
Minho didn't flinch. He'd signed a 5-million-phone parts contract, a bet on his ability to dominate. With 90,000 sold already and demand showing no signs of slowing, he was confident. The rural market was his, and he'd fight to keep it. Hansung wasn't just a company—it was a revolution, and Minho was its immortal leader, ready to outlast the competition.
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(end of this chapter)