Park Minho's voice carried a weight of conviction as he addressed the Busan Industry Summit, his words slicing through the room's earlier murmurs. "Chasing others' tails won't let us surpass them. They've had decades—centuries, even—of head starts. How can we outpace that in just a few years?"
The audience fell silent, the gravity of his point sinking in. Korea's ambition to leapfrog global giants wasn't just a race; it was a near-impossible sprint against history. Minho sighed, his tone shifting to one of calculated optimism. "To avoid this endless chase, we must detour. We need to see the future's direction clearly and sprint toward it with focus. That's how we outmaneuver the leaders."
He paused, letting the idea settle. "By studying history—modern science's arc—many already sense the path forward. One force has driven technological and industrial leaps more than any other. Some nations, like Germany and the U.S., are already betting big on it. What is it? The chip."
A murmur rippled through the crowd. Chips? Minho's focus on such a specific, technical cornerstone raised eyebrows, but the tech-savvy nodded, recognizing the truth in his words. Chips weren't just components; they were the pulse of modern progress.
Minho's voice grew heavier, laced with frustration. "Chips are where compromise ends. They're high-tech's pinnacle. Look at the Wassenaar Agreement—chip tech and equipment are locked down tight, embargoed against us. Chips embody a nation's strength. You can cobble together appliances or machinery, maybe using lower-grade tech or paying patent fees. But chips? You can't fake them. Nanometers, tens of nanometers—how do you copy what you can't even make?"
He sighed deeply, his gaze sweeping the room, imploring Korea to wake up. "For chips, there are no shortcuts. Other tech—appliances, equipment—we can license, adapt, pay for. But chips? The ecosystem—design, production—is too vast, too guarded. You can't just import it."
Minho's voice hardened as he recounted Korea's struggles. "Look at our history. Projects 531, 908, 909—all flops. The best we got was KorChip, barely scraping by, ranking who-knows-where globally. Buying tech hasn't worked. Sure, KorSemi broke through 90 nanometers last year, outdoing Project 909 on paper. But they're a house of cards."
He leaned forward, intensity rising. "KorSemi's 'success' relies on foreign equipment—lithography machines, etchers, ion implanters. If the West sees them rising too fast, they'll choke off supply. One embargo, and KorSemi's done. Chips are a nation's arsenal, and no country sells their arsenal, no matter the price."
Minho's words landed like a gavel. "The Wassenaar Agreement bans advanced chip tech from reaching us. What they sell is third- or fourth-rate gear, or stuff we've already cracked. They use it to kneecap our R&D, flooding our market with their outdated tech so our firms can't compete. Our equipment makers sink under massive investments, unsold stock, and crushing losses."
He shook his head, resolute. "In the end, we're alone. There's a shortcut to being a major producer—licensing, partnerships—but for chips, for a true powerhouse, there's only one path: self-reliance. We must research and build our own."
Applause erupted, fervent and sustained. Minho's speech struck a nerve. Korea's decades-long chip quest, met with Western stonewalling, was a raw wound. No open tech, no olive branches—just treaties and embargoes. Minho's call for self-reliance wasn't just rhetoric; it was a rallying cry, a blueprint for Korea's ascent.
His words clarified the stakes: chips were the gatekeeper to powerhouse status. The past decades proved it—chips fused with machinery, driving automation, reshaping industries. They were the core of progress, an unavoidable hurdle. To rise, Korea had to master them.
Tech and internet bosses clapped loudest, seeing Minho's push as a boon for their sectors. "Well said," one called out. "He's laid bare the chip's role."
"This kid's sharp," another added. "Clear thinking, deep knowledge. Shatters the stereotype of reckless youth."
"Not bad, young man," a third chimed in, half-joking. "Fancy a VP spot at my firm?"
Minho clapped back, smiling, his eyes scanning the crowd—judges, reps, and all. "Thank you. That's my speech."
An elderly judge, stirred by Minho's earlier tease, spoke up. "You're Park Minho, right? You mentioned Industry 4.0 earlier. I'm intrigued. Care to elaborate here?"
Whispers broke out nearby. "Who's that?"
"You don't know Elder Ni? From the Hanbit Academy?"
"Never heard of him."
"That's Ni Kwang-soo, the U.S.-trained conscience of Korean tech!"
"Oh, *that* legend. No wonder he's on the panel—an academician's clout."
Minho's gaze locked onto Ni Kwang-soo, a figure he knew well from history. Ni, a chip pioneer, had warned of Korea's tech vulnerabilities decades ago, his pleas often drowned out by short-sighted capital. When the U.S. later choked Korea's chip supply, Ni's foresight—his anguished calls for independent R&D—proved prophetic. Later generations mourned the missed chance. Had Ni's vision prevailed, Korea's chip industry might've stood taller.
Minho's heart raced. Ni's question wasn't just curiosity—it was a door to cement his impact. But he hesitated. Industry 4.0, the fourth industrial revolution, was a future paradigm—smart factories, IoT, AI, all chip-driven. Spilling it fully now risked diluting his focus or sounding too speculative. He'd teased it twice, building intrigue. A third dodge might frustrate, but a partial reveal could keep the hook.
Smiling, Minho leaned into the mic. "Elder Ni, thank you for your interest. Industry 4.0 is the next leap—where chips, networks, and automation converge to create smart, self-regulating systems. Think factories that think, machines that learn, supply chains that adapt in real-time. It's the backbone of a true powerhouse."
The room buzzed. Ni's eyes gleamed, but Minho pivoted again, maddeningly. "But let's ground this. To reach Industry 4.0, chips are step one. Without them, we're building on sand. Korea must prioritize chip R&D, not just for phones or PCs, but for the automated future. That's where we detour past the West."
Ni frowned, half-irritated, half-impressed. Minho's tease kept Industry 4.0 mysterious, amplifying his aura. Xu Hua of Saehan Mobile, who'd tried to silence him, seethed in the front row. Big Kim and Ren leaned forward, reassessing the kid. The judges whispered, noting Minho's knack for commanding attention.
Minho's chip focus wasn't random. His *Ultimate Imitation Emperor System* gave Hansung an edge in phones—180,000 units sold monthly, scaling to 1 million. But chips were the summit's pulse, tying to triple play and now Industry 4.0. His foresight, drawn from future trends, let him speak with authority, framing Hansung as visionary. The mockery from Xu Hua and Motorola's Liang Ho had backfired—Minho was no fluke.
The applause lingered, louder now. Minho's youth, once a liability, was his strength. His bold call for chip self-reliance, paired with the Industry 4.0 hook, painted him as a forward-thinker, not a lucky upstart. The summit's final speech session loomed, and Minho's second standout moment edged him closer to a slot. He'd shocked the room again, but his eyes stayed on the prize: making Hansung a national name.
Xu Hua's glare burned hotter, sensing a rival no longer dismissible. Ni Kwang-soo, still mulling Industry 4.0, jotted a note. The summit wasn't over, and Minho, with his system and vision, was poised to strike again.
---
(end of this chapter)