A Wall Street Genius's Final Investment Playbook-Chapter 313: The 100-Billion Race (9)

8 p.m.

Chief Investment Officer of the National Pension Service, Pyo In-hwan, arrived at a luxury residence nestled along the base of Namsan Mountain. Though it appeared to be an ordinary house, it was in fact a discreet hideout frequently used by political and financial elites whenever an off-the-record meeting was required.

When he entered the door-lock code he had been given in advance, *Beep-beep!* The door opened smoothly with an electronic chime.

A staff member dressed in a formal uniform approached and held out a small metal storage box. Without a word, Pyo In-hwan placed his smartphone inside it. This was one of the house’s ironclad rules. No communication devices allowed. No CCTV.

Following the staff member’s guidance, he stepped into the reception room, where a heavy mahogany table under soft lighting immediately caught his eye. On the table sat a bottle of premium whiskey, crystal glasses, and a neatly prepared assortment of simple hors d'oeuvres.

He checked his watch. It was 8:05. There were still about twenty minutes left until his appointment with Ha Si-heon. He sat down, poured whiskey into a glass, and fell into thought for a moment.

‘Why is he going to such lengths just to meet me…?’

The rest of the world praised Ha Si-heon as a national hero, a benevolent philanthropist, a genius of the century. But Pyo In-hwan thought differently.

‘He is terrifying.’

Having completed his MBA in the United States, he knew better than anyone how high the walls of American high society were. And he knew how impenetrable the “bamboo ceiling” was for Asians in that world. He had also spent years in the private financial sector and was well aware of the brutal law of Wall Street.

‘Survival of the fittest.’

And yet, Ha Si-heon had risen to the very top of that world in only three years. That meant Ha Si-heon was not someone who could be dismissed as simply a point of pride for Korea… It meant he was an incomprehensible monster, a cold-blooded beast.

‘And that threat…’

Pyo In-hwan recalled the phone call he’d had with Ha Si-heon.

—I was at Gwanghwamun over the weekend. If that incident had any influence on your decision, please do not misunderstand. I make it a rule not to mix politics with investment.

The more he thought about it, the more skillful the threat seemed. Even if he repeated Ha Si-heon’s words exactly, there was not enough evidence to definitively accuse him of intimidation. And no matter how he insisted that Ha Si-heon’s intent was coercion, no one would believe him anyway.

After all, he was an appointee of an administration now facing impeachment. He was already labeled as part of the “corruption line.”

Meanwhile, Ha Si-heon? This was a calculated method of pressure—using his own fame and influence, and Pyo In-hwan’s vulnerable position, to corner him without ever saying anything overtly threatening.

However, one question still remained.

‘Why me?’

Pyo In-hwan was a parachute appointee of the current administration. But the administration itself was on the verge of impeachment, and the opposition party was almost guaranteed to take power in the upcoming election. When that happened, he too would surely be replaced.

In other words, even if National Pension Service funds were needed, it would be more reasonable to wait until the next administration took office and negotiate with the new CIO. There was no way someone like Ha Si-heon wouldn’t understand such an obvious fact.

So why was he going out of his way to pressure someone whose term was nearly over?

‘What could he possibly gain from moving me now…?’

The answer was singular.

‘Speed.’

Between the presidential election, the launch of the new government, and the appointment of a new CIO, the entire process would take close to a year. Could it be that Ha Si-heon had no intention of waiting? Was there something so urgent that even that time was unacceptable to him?

Just as his thoughts reached that point, the door opened. It was Ha Si-heon.

“So this kind of place exists,” he said, slowly looking around.

Pyo In-hwan swallowed nervously. He had seen Ha Si-heon’s face in various media countless times, but of course, this was the first time he had ever met that Ha Si-heon in person. He was far taller than expected, and his clean, well-defined features stood out immediately.

Yet, despite being frequently mentioned in the media for his philanthropy, there was nothing particularly “kind” about his expression. His face was composed and elegant, yet a faint chill lingered around him. There was even a trace of sensitive tension hidden beneath that calm demeanor.

Once Ha Si-heon took a seat, Pyo In-hwan spoke first.

“You called me here today because you have an investment proposal, I presume?”

“That’s correct.”

“If so, I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do to help you. You must already know that.”

He smiled bitterly. A short sigh escaped him, tinged with helplessness and resignation.

“The National Pension Service is not like an overseas sovereign wealth fund. The CIO is not the decision-maker here. There is authority to execute, but not the final say.”

“You mean you don’t hold the decision-making power?”

“That’s right. The CIO merely submits the agenda. Final approval is granted by the Investment Management Committee.”

On the surface, it seemed like a safeguard within the system. The problem was in the committee’s composition.

“The chair is the Minister of Health and Welfare… besides him, officials from the Ministry of Strategy and Finance and the Ministry of Employment and Labor all sit there.”

In other words, the committee was structurally designed to represent the government’s position.

“On top of that, representatives from business groups such as the Federation of Korean Industries and the Chamber of Commerce are included, along with labor representatives from the KCTU and FKTU, and even appointees recommended by civic organizations.”

“As a result, more than half of the committee members have no expertise in investment at all.”

He let out a faint, derisive laugh.

“The National Pension Service is strongly perceived as a public utility. So the committee evaluates not based on ‘returns’ but on ‘public interest.’ It’s not about how much we can grow the assets, but about whether deploying those assets is politically safe and socially acceptable.”

Practically speaking, it was not an investment decision structure—it was a political clearance procedure. For someone like Pyo In-hwan, who had studied abroad and built his career in global asset management, the system was incomprehensible.

‘They expect returns out of this structure? Are they out of their minds?’

If there were an excess of funds, it might have been tolerable. But the reality was the exact opposite. The National Pension Service was on track to be depleted by 2050.

That was why he had tried to reform the system. He first attempted to change the portfolio composition. He sought to dismantle the distorted structure where 80 percent of the assets were tied up domestically, and instead increase allocations to overseas infrastructure, alternative investments, and private equity.

By doing so, he believed he could raise returns, reduce volatility, and implement global standards. Then perhaps, there might still be a chance to save the fund. But each time, the committee blocked him.

—Why are you investing the people’s money overseas? Shouldn’t we focus on revitalizing domestic industries first?

—What matters more than returns is stability and social responsibility. Investments that create domestic jobs are more desirable.

Pyo In-hwan’s focus on overseas markets had been clear. Portfolio diversification, volatility management, and maximizing returns. Keeping all investments within Korea meant putting all eggs in one basket. Even if the Korean economy entered a downturn, the pension fund’s returns still had to be secured. And in the long run, overseas markets overwhelmingly offered higher returns. Over five, ten, or twenty years, the answer was obvious.

However... such logical explanations held no sway in the committee. Still, there was no need to share these internal affairs with Ha Si-heon.

“For now, the committee will not make any decisions. As I mentioned, there are four political appointees on the committee, and they will never move. The political risk is too great.”

Officials appointed by a government facing impeachment were backed into a corner. With the opposition party all but guaranteed to take power in the upcoming presidential election, any decision made now would inevitably be scrutinized—and punished—once the new administration took office. Therefore, from their perspective, doing nothing was the safest choice.

“So it’s a waste of time. No matter how good your proposal is or how much I agree with it, the higher-ups will never approve it.”

Ha Si-heon, who had been listening quietly, finally spoke.

“As far as I know, there have been cases where a CIO acted independently without the Investment Committee’s approval.”

Pyo In-hwan’s eyebrows shot up. His voice carried a restrained note of irritation.

“Are you referring to… my predecessor?”

“That’s correct.”

“In other words, you’re talking about the man who executed an investment unilaterally—without committee approval—and is now being prosecuted for breach of trust.”

It was the scandal that had rocked the entire nation: the National Pension Service’s involvement in the succession of a major conglomerate. At the center of the controversy was the merger of two affiliated companies. Despite the merger clearly harming corporate value, the National Pension Service, as a major shareholder, voted in favor. It was not a committee decision—it had been made solely by the former CIO.

He had bypassed the committee altogether under the pretext of an “operational judgment.” As a result, he was now under criminal investigation for allegedly causing losses to public funds through unilateral decision-making. And now, Ha Si-heon was citing that very example while pressing Pyo In-hwan to make a decision.

“Are you telling me to follow in his footsteps?”

Pyo In-hwan openly displayed his displeasure, but Ha Si-heon only gave a light shrug.

“The issue wasn’t that his decision was unilateral. The issue was that it resulted in losses. But if he had generated overwhelming returns? Would anyone have had a problem with it then?”

A confident smile appeared on his face.

“More importantly, my proposal isn’t just about participating as an LP. I’m looking for an anchor investor to lay the foundation of a new fund.”

“An anchor investor…”

A crease formed between Pyo In-hwan’s brows. An anchor investor is the lead player who contributes a massive amount of initial capital. The larger the capital, the greater the responsibility if losses occur. In other words, from Pyo In-hwan’s perspective, this was an offer with substantial risk.

But Ha Si-heon smiled gently.

“Yes, this isn’t merely participating in a fund. It’s effectively becoming a co-partner.”

His voice dropped slightly.

“I’m sure you understand the significance of the title—‘Ha Si-heon’s partner’—in the global market.”

Ha Si-heon was now the most sought-after name on Wall Street—no, in the entire world.

“That’s why I’ve been extremely selective about choosing partners. So far, there are only three I’ve publicly acknowledged: Icahn, Stark, and NextAI.”

Gulp.

Pyo In-hwan swallowed instinctively. Each of those names represented a giant—Wall Street legend, business magnate, and industry-leading AI firm. Becoming Ha Si-heon’s anchor investor would instantly place the National Pension Service among these titans.

“You understand this ecosystem better than anyone. You know exactly what this means. This would elevate the National Pension Service to the ranks of core players in the global capital market.”

Ha Si-heon paused for a moment. Then, he added meaningfully:

“Now imagine that decision was made unilaterally—without the committee.”

“But the committee would oppose it—”

“Of course they would. But…”

A smooth arc formed at the corner of Ha Si-heon’s lips.

“Isn’t that actually a good thing? It would send a message that you broke away because your principles didn’t align with theirs.”

“...?”

“In that case, wouldn’t it appear as though your cooperation with the current administration was merely a reluctant choice—an unfortunate necessity in pursuit of a greater goal?”

“...!”

Pyo In-hwan felt his breath stop. To the public, he was unmistakably part of the President’s faction. With impeachment now all but assured, that label had become an indelible stain. No matter how desperately he tried to distance himself, no one would listen.

But if he clashed head-on with the committee now? At the very least, he could sever that connection and forge an image as an independent reformer. Even if Ha Si-heon’s investment didn’t yield extraordinary returns, he could still salvage his honor. And if it did succeed—if it exceeded all expectations—he could even emerge as the savior who revitalized Korea’s future.

It was a perspective he had never considered.

“After all, haven’t you always dreamed of making this kind of bold investment?”

It was true. His long-cherished dream was to transform the National Pension Service into a true global player—to break the old structure and carry out reforms. Ha Si-heon’s proposal simply aligned with that vision.

“And besides, if you stay quiet like this…”

Ha Si-heon looked at him with faint pity.

“Once the administration changes, you’ll be dismissed anyway. Branded as a red tape appointee of an impeached government… do you have anywhere to return to?”

In truth, he had already been worrying about exactly that. After his term ended, who would ever hire him?

“The choice is yours. Will you quietly fade away, carrying your stain to the grave? Or will you let your legacy blaze with one final spark?”

To hide in disgrace as a political leftover from a fallen administration… Or to be remembered as a reformer who brought glory to the nation.

The scale had already tipped. As if in a trance, he asked,

“I’ll hear the details and then decide. How much are you thinking for the anchor investment?”

In truth, he was prepared to take on any amount. With everything about to be lost, he was willing to risk everything to gain it all.

A satisfied smile spread across Ha Si-heon’s lips.

“Twenty billion.”

A sigh of relief escaped. That amount was something he could still manage within his discretion—

“Of course, in dollars.”

“Ah, twenty billion dollars is just the starting point. Please keep that in mind.”

Twenty billion dollars was over 22 trillion won. But Ha Si-heon wasn’t finished.

“The total assets under management for the fund will be one trillion dollars.”

Pyo In-hwan stared at him in disbelief.

‘Is this guy insane?’