The Return of the Ruined Chaebol's Third-Generation Heir - Chapter 41

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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The Regression of a Ruined Chaebol’s Third Generation — Episode 41
“Why’d you come in on a weekend?”
Saturday morning. The third floor of the Shinwha Welltech Research Institute should have been wrapped in weekend silence.
A senior researcher who’d come in early and was poring over data looked up at his junior colleague pushing through the lab door, tilting his head in confusion.
“Oh, the project we’re running is almost done. I just couldn’t focus at home, you know? Figured I’d come in and wrap things up properly. Feels better that way.”
“Take it easy. You’ll wreck your health. People’ll think someone’s cracking the whip on you.”
“My health’s not worth worrying about these days. Besides, they actually pay overtime when we work weekends—real bonuses every time. I never even dreamed of this before.”
The junior researcher grinned and shrugged on his lab coat with practiced ease.
Just half a year ago, this place had been nothing short of a sinking ship. Paychecks came late. At lunch, people nervously scanned for cheap restaurants, afraid the corporate card would be frozen. Whispers of job openings circulated in the shadows among staff, and the air itself hung thick with anxiety.
But everything changed like a lie the moment the new owner appeared. Within hours of the acquisition announcement, back wages were settled in a lump sum—merely the beginning. When bonus money hit their accounts a few days later—thick envelopes of “condolences,” they called them—a few employees actually wept at the company dinner. The hollow shell of an R&D team was elevated to a proper corporate research institute. Decrepit equipment was swapped for state-of-the-art machinery.
“If this keeps up, I’d be willing to spend my bones here.”
“No kidding. Back then it was all… they just harassed us to patch up production-line defects. Real research? We didn’t even dare dream of it.”
“Exactly. But now I’m doing the foundational research I actually want to do, so I don’t mind coming in on weekends anymore. I must be crazy.”
The air of the research institute had transformed.
The employees’ eyes had come alive. Once they felt certain that their creations would be recognized and rewarded fairly, results followed naturally.
The two were deep in heated discussion over monitor data when familiar faces passed beyond the glass corridor.
“Wait—isn’t that the director and the institute head? What’s going on on a weekend?”
The junior researcher craned his neck to peer out.
The company’s managing director—someone rarely seen on the research floor—and Park Jin-hyuk, the institute director who almost never left his lab, were walking down the corridor as though escorting someone. Their manner was almost excessively courteous.
And between them walked an unfamiliar young man.
“Who is that guy?”
“Oh, I heard he’s the company owner’s grandson.”
“His… grandson?”
“The director mentioned it earlier, actually—said an important visitor was coming and we should just keep working.”
“The owner’s grandson visits and they’re treating him like he’s the chairman himself? Seriously?”
The junior researcher’s eyes widened.
The young man looked at most like an undergraduate, or maybe a fresh recruit just starting his career.
Yet the managing director with graying hair and the institute head Park Jin-hyuk were both bowing slightly, hanging on his every word.
This didn’t feel like a simple factory tour by the owner’s grandson.
“Maybe he’s supposed to inherit the company or something like that.”
The senior researcher watched the three receding figures for a moment, then turned his attention back to the microscope without particular interest.
“Never mind it. Those guys upstairs know what they’re doing. We just need to squeeze out good tech.”
“Right. Let’s earn that weekend pay.”
The two returned their focus to the work.

* * *
“Everyone came in even though it’s the weekend?”
As I walked down the research institute corridor, I could see employees moving busily through rooms with scattered lights on.
The government had recently formalized the 5-Day Work Week policy. Though enforcement wasn’t mandatory for businesses with under 300 employees, Shinwha Welltech had proactively adopted it on my orders.
“You’re not actually running a 7-day schedule, are you?”
My pointed question made the managing director Hong Sang-jin, walking beside me, break into a nervous sweat and wave his hand.
“No, not at all. We follow the 5-Day Work Week exactly as you instructed. It’s just that the researchers seem unusually motivated to come in voluntarily on weekends…”
I glanced at Park Jin-hyuk. This man wasn’t the type to squeeze his staff for quotas.
“Are the research projects behind schedule?”
“Not exactly. We’re emphasizing autonomy, and it seems some researchers just naturally come in on weekends.”
“Autonomy?”
“Yes—rather than assigning specific tasks, we let researchers choose topics that contribute to our technical advancement. They work at their own initiative.”
I nodded. That was the ideal model for any R&D organization.
“They get overtime pay when they come in on weekends?”
“Of course. We pay overtime plus performance bonuses, just as you requested.”
“Good. Still, tell them to take weekends off when they can. Research needs stamina too. If everyone burns out at once, we’re in trouble.”
“Understood.”
I was guided into the institute director’s office.
The office was still barely passable, cluttered with research materials and scattered papers everywhere.
Park Jin-hyuk was born an engineer, not a manager.
Once seated, Hong spoke first.
“As I mentioned, a Japanese company has contacted us about purchasing our technology.”
A familiar logo sat atop the documents he slid across.
Shinei Chemical
“What kind of company?”
“Shinei Chemical is a mid-sized precision chemicals firm based in Osaka. Unknown to the general public, but within Japan they have a reputation as a hidden champion in ultra-high-purity wet chemicals and specialty gases.”
Park Jin-hyuk added his own explanation.
“Think of them as just below major players like Stella and Showa Denko. They have major-level technology with a mid-tier footprint—a classic hidden champion company.”
“Major-level technology… they want our technology? Did we announce something new?”
Not according to my briefings. I’d been keeping tabs on all major developments since acquiring Shinwha Welltech through Jung Tae-sung.
“Well, the thing is…”
Park Jin-hyuk hesitated, gauging my reaction.
“Since we’ve been giving researchers autonomy, we’ve been encouraging paper submissions and academic presentations.”
“Papers?”
“Yes—technology needs to be documented and peer-reviewed to avoid stagnation. And researchers have a strong desire to make their names known. I thought it was necessary for motivation.”
Not a bad call. Though publishing papers did risk diluting our technological monopoly—which explained Park’s cautious demeanor.
“That’s fine. I’d have approved of that approach anyway. So they saw one of these papers, I take it? What was the subject?”
“This.”
Park Jin-hyuk slid a thick Bound Paper across the desk.
Multi-Stage Purification and Micro pH Stabilization Model for Suppressing Metal Ion Re-contamination in Ultra-High-Purity Hydrogen Peroxide (H₂O₂) Purification Processes
The title alone was incomprehensible to me.
“It’s a paper about semiconductor wafer-cleaning chemicals.”
Seeing my confused expression, Park Jin-hyuk rushed to explain.
“Put simply, the existing major Japanese and American purification processes are excellent at the purification stage itself, but trace metal ions leach from pipes and containers during storage or transport, causing re-contamination.”
“Re-contamination.”
“Right. Our team didn’t just push for higher purity in the purification stage. Instead, we designed the post-purification storage and transport process as an integrated system, fine-tuning pH levels to suppress ion leaching in the first place…”
“Ah, I see. Who wrote this?”
“I did.”
At Park Jin-hyuk’s matter-of-fact answer, I let out a short laugh. Now the picture came into focus.
If a regular researcher had written it, we could’ve just poached that one person. But if a Japanese firm is going straight to partnerships and technology acquisition? They must have approached Park first and got rejected.
“So they made you a recruitment offer first.”
Park looked startled at that, then nodded.
“…Yes.”
“And you declined.”
“I did.”
“Why? A Japanese firm would’ve paid much better.”
“Because… it felt like I’d be betraying the representative—Kang Seon-woo. He recognized both my company’s potential and my own when they were at their lowest. Plus there’s the contract issue.”
A ten-year contract. At the time, it was meant as insurance to keep Park. But looking back now, it was a masterstroke.
“So you pivoted toward a technology licensing deal instead?”
“Right. When we published the paper, we deliberately left out the specific recipe for the critical process.”
Now I understood the situation fully. But one thing still bothered me.
“So they think it’s a viable opportunity in Japan.”
“Yes. Japan’s ultra-high-purity chemical purification technology has already hit a physical ceiling. Pushing purity higher means exponential cost increases or yield collapse. What I offered isn’t higher purity—it’s reduced cost of maintaining existing purity.”
From a corporate standpoint, that meant immediate margin improvement—an offer they couldn’t refuse.
“What terms are they offering?”
“Exclusive Use Rights within Japan for the technology described in the paper, plus technical know-how transfer for process line implementation. They proposed six million dollars.”
At today’s exchange rate of about 1,020 won per dollar, that was roughly 6.1 billion won.
We’d spent less than 5 billion acquiring Shinwha Welltech. In just half a year, one technology would recover our investment with plenty left over. For most people, that would’ve been dizzying.
I turned to look at the managing director.
“What do you think, Director Hong?”
“If we could sell, it seems like a good opportunity. They’re only asking for Japanese exclusivity anyway, and applying this technology to our own production lines would take considerable time and capital. Using their resources as a kind of testbed to explore commercialization viability doesn’t seem unreasonable.”
He had a point. I looked back at Park Jin-hyuk.
“What’s your take, Director Park?”
“The terms aren’t bad if it’s Japan-only exclusivity, as the director said. But…”
Park let his thought trail off.
“Forget about business and money. Give me your instinct as a research director.”
“…I don’t want to sell this technology.”
“Why not?”
“It doesn’t feel like they just want the technology. There’s something nagging me—a sense that once we’re at the negotiation table or after we sign, they’ll pursue something else aggressively.”
“Did you catch a whiff of that?”
“No concrete evidence. Just my feeling… my instinct as an engineer.”
“Then we decline.”
My firm decision made both men’s eyes widen.
“I understand how remarkable the technology is and why they need us. And honestly, I’ve got the same uneasy feeling.”
I folded my arms and looked between the two of them.
“Six million dollars feels too cheap. Exclusive domestic rights, process-line application authority, technical know-how based on the paper—they’re taking all of that for just six million dollars? Does technology ever sell that cheaply?”
Park shook his head.
“A breakthrough process improvement like this usually commands either a full company acquisition or a Technology Transfer Fee of at least ten to fifteen million dollars—especially from well-capitalized Japanese majors.”
Exactly. Process stability directly affects semiconductor and display yields, so major firms don’t skimp on spending here.
That’s why I acquired Shinwha Welltech and decided to build our technological foundation first.
“And the terms are too clean. On the surface it looks considerate toward us, right? ‘We’ll only use it in Japan, we won’t touch the Korean market’? That’s a trap.”
In reality, Japan’s high-purity chemical market is controlled by Japanese firms.
Once their standard process takes root in Japan, other companies will have no choice but to follow suit, crying all the while.
Japan-only exclusivity had a high chance of becoming de facto global standard exclusivity.
“Plus, the paper’s still in early stages, unverified. The fact they snapped it up means they want to lock us into a low price while the tech is still raw. Perfect setup to hobble us later once it’s fully developed.”
Both men nodded seriously at my words.
“Let’s decline the offer and watch how they react. I want to gauge their real objective.”
In my experience, companies claiming they want your technology never actually approach with just the technology in mind.

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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