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Translator: penny
Chapter: 002
Chapter Title: Practice Game Skipped
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Demographically speaking, low birth rates are defined by a total fertility rate of 2.1 children per woman.
That's the threshold needed to replace the existing population with new generations.
Below 2.1, it's classified as low birth rate. Drop under 1.3, and it's "ultra-low," signaling a severe population crisis.
And right now, South Korea's fertility rate is...
"0.68."
Even looking at it again, it's a truly insane country.
It's on the verge of dipping to 0.5 soon. No, it actually hit that point.
Do you know what a fertility rate of 0.5 means?
It means 100 women give birth to just 50 babies over their lifetimes.
Will those 50 babies then produce 25?
No.
Of those 50, the arithmetic mean splits them into 25 boys and 25 girls. Unless the rate rebounds from 0.5, the next generation will see only half of those 25 women—12.5 girls—born.
And those initial 100 women come with 100 husbands as a given.
What does that imply?
A population of 200 crashes to 12.5 in just two generations.
Even Thanos with Infinity Gauntlets on both hands couldn't pull that off.
And on the flip side, it means 62 young and middle-aged people have to support 200 elderly. No wonder radical youth groups spring up.
'I need to raise this to at least 2.1.'
Just imagining it makes my head spin.
But there's no other way.
Ten years left.
'The day I get assassinated in some unimaginable, hair-raising way that I can't even fathom now is April 11, 2033.'
Yoon-hyuk ran the numbers.
Today's date: April 11, 2023.
South Korea at this point had just wrapped up the general elections.
And Yoon-hyuk right now was working as a staffer in the presidential campaign of a three-term Hanmin Party assemblyman. In the policy planning division, specifically.
The person calling Yoon-hyuk now...
[Assemblyman Park Dae-man]
That was the campaign's lead—the man who'd just become an assemblyman.
In his first life, Yoon-hyuk had slaved away for four years under Assemblyman Park as a Grade 7 secretary.
'But I don't need to do that now.'
Park Dae-man was a Hanmin Party heavyweight with killer political instincts and a sharp mind, but his personality was a nightmare.
If things didn't go his way, he'd scream at his underlings and hurl objects. And dump all the grunt work on them, too.
Of course, surviving that hell taught Yoon-hyuk plenty—both as reverse lessons in what not to do and hands-on experience.
'But I already know it all.'
Yoon-hyuk was just a fresh 31-year-old on paper, but inside burned a five-term assemblyman who'd spent 40 years rolling in the gutters and peaks of Korean politics, licking every layer clean.
He didn't need entry-level youth aide experience anymore.
"Assemblyman."
Yoon-hyuk hit the call button, aiming to wrap it up politely.
"I have something to tell you."
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
Here's a funny fact.
Park Dae-man, a near-personality wreck and borderline psychopath, had transformed into a dignified gentleman.
He'd switched to life mentor mode, calmly offering Yoon-hyuk advice and well-wishes.
So he booked a private room at a bar and summoned Yoon-hyuk.
'Hilarious.'
Yoon-hyuk found the act ridiculous.
'Screaming, throwing files, acting like a maniac when I was under him—and now that I'm leaving, suddenly his tone turns sweet.'
Shouldn't you treat your subordinates well while they're still there?
Not for Park Dae-man.
There was a reason he was laying these breadcrumbs.
"You want to run in the next mayoral election?"
It all boiled down to Yoon-hyuk sticking with politics.
"Yes. I could learn a ton working as your secretary, sir, but I want to kick off my own political career sooner."
Even if Park was a psycho, he carried the weight of three terms. If Yoon-hyuk had said he was taking over his dad's convenience store, this drink wouldn't be happening. But since he was staying in politics—who knew what the future held?—Park was planting an insurance policy.
"You did great in the campaign, Yoon-hyuk."
"Thank you for the kind words."
"But becoming mayor isn't easy. Mir City isn't a metro area, but it's no small town either."
Park's district—and Yoon-hyuk's hometown. The city was called Mir City.
A 490,000-population hub in southern Gyeonggi, drawing young people thanks to its proximity to Pangyo, but development lagged.
Yoon-hyuk had decided to launch his career here.
"What about your party affiliation?"
Yoon-hyuk had none. He'd built a following with steady policy columns on his blog, then joined Park's camp independently through connections.
"You're not thinking of joining the Freedom Party, are you?"
Park saw politics in stark black-and-white. Most assemblymen did, but he was hardcore. His Hanmin Party was the patriotic one; the Freedom Party, traitors.
"No, sir."
"Then join ours. Here's a tip: Don't aim too high at first. Skip straight to mayor—start as a city councilor instead. Do party work, snag the nomination, become a councilor, then go for mayor."
Park's path was the textbook elite route. But Yoon-hyuk politely declined.
"I'll treasure the advice."
Hanmin Party, Freedom Party—both rotten to the core in equal measure.
The sly veterans had the power locked down, so Yoon-hyuk pushing bold reforms from inside? They'd shoot him down.
Plus, joining then quitting later would be tough. He'd already done a campaign stint; hopping parties would paint him as a flip-flopper.
"I'm planning to run independent."
"Haha."
Park burst out laughing.
"Gutsy. But it'll be tough. Real tough."
A rookie independent storming to mayor? It'd take a miracle gale.
But...
"Local head positions like mayor—independents don't even get a spotlight."
"I know. But I'll give it my all."
"If you win, remember I cheered you on. Can't help much directly, but call if you need advice."
Though his aide would probably screen and block it.
"Thank you for your support. And congratulations on the win again, sir."
"All thanks to sharp staff like you."
A mix of bitterness and calculations swirled.
They shared a few drinks, and Yoon-hyuk parted ways with Park.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
"I'm not doing the secretary thing."
The news his son dropped at 11 p.m. must have hit like thunder.
His retired parents, running a convenience store together, were stunned speechless for a moment. Then...
"What? Why on earth?"
His mom was gutted.
"Gooood!"
His dad was thrilled.
"Finally ditching that filthy political swamp you've been sniffing around since you were a kid! I'm all for it! Totally!"
"But honey! He's prepped for this forever!"
"Actually, the reason I'm skipping the secretary gig is..."
Right as Yoon-hyuk geared up to explain it was to skip practice and jump straight into the real game...
Ding-ding-ding!
The door lock chimed, and his older sister appeared.
Lee Yoon-ha (35).
The family eldest, a working mom raising a five-year-old with her 37-year-old husband.
And today, she stormed in from the entryway radiating menace, face grim.
"W-Welcome... Where's Su-bin?"
His mom eyed her warily but asked for her grandson.
"Su-bin's with his dad at home. I didn't trust myself not to explode in front of him, so I came here."
Yoon-ha had split off after marriage, living in her husband's officetel, but now they'd won a lottery spot in a new apartment complex.
Ironically, that's why she'd ditched her shiny new place for the family home.
"Those crazy bastards..."
Yoon-ha chugged ice water to cool her rage.
"We—the whole residents' committee—went and protested at the construction company today. Nothing. Like talking to a wall."
"Oh no."
"What do we do?"
Her parents pitied her plight, which went like this:
After moving into the new apartment, they discovered the security cameras were junk.
Playgrounds, daycare, parking lot, school bus zone—all equipped with ancient 500,000-pixel relics.
Tests by the residents' committee showed faces and license plates unidentifiable in dim parking garages.
Outdoor ones barely worked at night either.
"Does this make sense?"
The committee flipped out, demanding full camera replacement from the builders. The company refused, claiming no obligation, dragging it into a stalemate.
"Does it? 500,000 pixels? I didn't even know that was still a thing. Phones have 100 million pixels now!"
Yoon-ha's shoulders shook with fury.
"Our complex had issues non-stop during the two years of construction. Weird no-name windows from some small brand, no landscape lighting, trash landscaping! But we endured it all!"
Those were aesthetic gripes, at least.
"But cameras? That's safety! Hanging ones that fail at night and calling it 'complete'? Bullshit!"
"Can't the residents sue as a group?"
His dad asked, fuming.
"We'd lose. No laws regulate camera quality. As long as they install the required number, it's fine."
Yoon-ha turned to her brother.
"Yoon-hyuk. Is that right? I looked it up—the law's from 25 years ago. Who's your assemblyman? Kim Dae-man or something?"
Half the name was close enough.
"Gimme that old man's number. He's our district rep, right? How useless do you have to be for shit like this? Time for sis to cash in on her assemblyman-secretary brother!"
"Yoon-hyuk's not doing the secretary job anymore."
His mom swiftly crushed her eldest's hopes.
"What? You busted your ass in that campaign because you wanted it! Why quit?"
"Smart move quitting now! Better late than never!"
His dad clapped his son's shoulder, yelling.
"Actually."
Yoon-hyuk finally dropped the real bombshell.
"I'm running for mayor of Mir City."
"Pfft!"
"Ack!"
His parents both choked on spit at once.
"Mayor...? Not even councilor—mayor?"
Yoon-ha's eyes doubled in size.
His dad coughed but hollered anyway.
"You think anyone just hands you that if you want it, you punk?"
"I've been flooding the city council and mayor's office with complaints over those cameras. Met councilors too."
Yoon-ha vented.
"They all promise help, then do jack shit! Call to follow up, and it's 'No legal issue, hard to fix!'"
"Then."
Truth was, Yoon-hyuk had this apartment in mind from the moment he ditched Park's offer post-regression.
"If I fix it, your complex's residents will vote for me. Next local elections."
With 3,054 households, that was a ton of votes.