Park Minho wasn't losing sleep over the looming competition from rival manufacturers, even if they churned out near-identical phones. Their systems' smoothness, their phones' sturdiness and durability—none could match Hansung's. Sure, competitors might use the same parts, even mimic the Hansung 2 Labor Edition's look down to the last curve. But they couldn't replicate the mobile operating system. With identical hardware, Hansung's phones would still run circles around them in performance.
Then there was the *Ultimate Imitation Emperor System*. Its absurd production boost ensured every phone was a masterpiece, with a 15% quality edge that left rivals baffled. Same parts, same assembly line—yet Hansung's phones were tougher, more drop-resistant, and longer-lasting. Competitors would scratch their heads, wondering why Minho's phones were built like tanks.
The Hansung 2 Labor Edition's quality and durability would crush any imitators. Minho wasn't worried about losing market share, no matter how hard they tried.
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**Incheon City, Saehan Mobile Headquarters**
"To sum it up, this Park Minho is a genius with big ambitions and freakish R&D skills," declared President Xu, his voice carrying weight in the sleek conference room.
Xu Bo, Saehan's vice president, had been tracking Minho since their last encounter. When Hansung's 3rd-generation phone hit the market, Xu had sniffed out its potential. He'd pulled every trick—some shady—to kneecap Minho's rise, but Minho flipped the script. He crafted a phone for migrant workers that set Gyeonggi Province on fire. Now, every shop in the region was scrambling to stock Hansung phones.
Minho had become a thorn in Saehan's side, a rival destined to challenge their dominance. The Hansung 2 Labor Edition, a 29,900-won bare-bones phone for calls and texts, seemed harmless. It couldn't dent Saehan's mid- and high-end market, right? Wrong. Hansung wasn't just peddling a cheap phone. Their 3rd-generation model, priced at 49,900 won, was a beast: top-tier processor, a two-inch mega-screen, buttery-smooth system, rugged build, sleek design, and a price that undercut phones costing 120,000 or even 200,000 won.
The Hansung 3rd-generation phone was a juggernaut, a mid-range killer that could go viral. With the Labor Edition's success, stores nationwide would rush to stock the Hansung 3. Once they saw its price-to-performance ratio—49,900 won for a phone that outclassed pricier rivals—they'd lose their minds. This was Saehan's nightmare.
One ultra-low-end phone, one mid-range monster. Together, they could dethrone Saehan as Korea's annual sales champion. Saehan's edge came from that crown. People were lazy—they bought the top seller, assuming it was the best. Lose that title, and Saehan would bleed customers who didn't know a processor from a power button but trusted sales rankings.
"Park Minho and Hansung are a serious threat," said Xu Hua, Saehan's founder and Xu Bo's cousin, his face grim as he presided over the meeting.
"How do we deal with him?" a senior executive asked.
Minho's monthly sales were "only" 180,000 units—2.16 million annually. Peanuts compared to Saehan's 11.75 million. But the issue wasn't demand; it was supply. Hansung's factory couldn't keep up. Xu Bo had intel: Minho was expanding his plant and hiring more workers. Once that was done, Hansung's output would skyrocket.
The Hansung 2 Labor Edition was already impossible to find. Customers were storming shops, demanding it by name. A phone that drove that kind of loyalty? Terrifying. It outshone even the meteoric rise of rival KyungTech in recent years. Hansung was a predator, and Saehan was in its sights.
"We need to develop our own mobile operating system and launch a Saehan Labor Edition phone," Xu Bo urged, his voice booming.
As vice president, Xu Bo spent time in the trenches, reading the market like a book. He'd sized up Minho and saw a titan in the making. His plan—build a rugged, cheap phone and a proprietary system—was Saehan's best shot at countering Hansung.
But Xu Hua shook his head. "A labor edition phone? Fine. But a self-developed system? No way. We're burning cash as it is. Why reinvent the wheel when open-source systems are out there?"
He leaned back, skeptical. "Developing a system isn't child's play. Microsoft threw 30,000 people at XP. We can't afford to bankroll thousands of coders twiddling their thumbs."
Xu Bo's face tightened. "How do we know we can't do it if we don't try? Hansung, a tiny company with barely 500 workers, not even top 30 in Korea, built their own system from scratch. Why's the industry leader scared to try?"
His frustration spilled over. Xu Hua was a marketing genius, a master at branding Saehan as Korea's top dog. But R&D? He treated it like an afterthought, pouring cash into ads while starving innovation. Xu Bo saw the future—Hansung's system gave it an edge no hardware clone could match. Saehan needed to step up or get steamrolled.
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Minho, back at Hansung's Seoul HQ, wasn't blind to the storm brewing. The newspaper buzz had made him a celebrity but also a target. Small manufacturers were gearing up to flood the low-cost market within months. Saehan, the goliath, was surely plotting a response. But Minho had his system, his quality edge, and a factory expansion on the way.
His teams were still tearing through rural towns, wowing crowds with phone-crushing stunts. Sales hit 90,000 units in weeks, with 180,000 projected monthly. The new plant, targeting 1 million phones a month, would unlock his 5-million-phone contract's potential. Banks were ready to lend, workers were being trained, and equipment orders were in motion.
Competitors could copy his price or design, but not his soul—the system that made every Hansung phone a gem. Saehan's hesitation on R&D was Minho's opening. He'd keep pushing, outpacing the copycats and challenging the giants. The rural market was his kingdom, and he wasn't giving up an inch.
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(end of the chapter)