Cherry blossoms in full bloom.
From newly sprouted buds, bright yellow forsythias poke their heads out, and when the mountains and fields fill with people going on picnics or flower-viewing outings, people naturally think this: that it’s spring.
And that it’s the off-season.
“Alright, everyone, winter has finally passed and spring has come. Ah, I’m not speaking metaphorically. I mean it literally—spring has really come!”
Lee Shin’s voice announcing the start of the meeting was as cheerful as could be.
And for good reason—now that they were in League 3, the tutorial newbie zone was over, it was fair to say the real guild wars were about to begin.
A beast’s world where strength decides strength.
Just thinking about all the new content being added was already thrilling. Lee Shin’s face was flushed red with excitement.
“Alright, since it’s the start of a new season, let’s go at it full force. Mir…”
“Boss!”
“Whoa, you startled me.”
But that high energy was inevitably cut short by Chae Dong-ha suddenly bursting through the door.
Lee Shin looked at him—holding the doorknob, panting, eyes half-lidded.
“Come to think of it, you’re late, hyung. You’ll have to pay a fine.”
“This is no time for that!”
“What? What is it? If it’s not something shocking enough to surprise me, I’ll really get mad.”
And I’m not the type to be easily surprised.
Lee Shin crossed his arms and looked down at him, boasting.
Chae Dong-ha caught his breath, then spoke.
“The Secretariat just called…”
“And?”
“They said our guild’s promotion will be difficult.”
“Yeah, promotion will be diffi—”
Huh?
“What?”
Why…?
________________________________________
< Dynasty Guild > Conference Room.
Lee Myung-hwan gazed calmly at the podium.
Up on the stage was the coach, giving a presentation.
But something was off. Compared to Myung-hwan’s composure, the coach’s face was like a blank sheet—utterly tense.
Looking around, it wasn’t just the coach. Everyone seemed equally restless. The one speaking was just the coach, but cold sweat was standard, no one could sit still, and even breathing was careful.
It was no wonder.
This was the first meeting after Dynasty Guild narrowly failed to get promoted to League 1.
In other words, it was a chance to hear the defeated commander’s excuses.
Many things were said: “We lacked focus,” “We learned from the loss,” “With this experience, we can do better next time.” Blah blah blah…
Pathetic, pitiful excuses—and yet Myung-hwan’s expression didn’t move a muscle.
Because the fate of that pig bastard was already decided.
“That’s enough. I’ve heard you. Secretary Jang.”
At his words, his secretary bowed and opened the conference room door.
Myung-hwan wordlessly pointed.
And then—
“The exit is that way.”
Get out.
He issued the eviction order.
“P-Pres… sir, y-you’re joking, right? I’m Coach Kim! I’ve been loyal to Dynasty Guild for twenty years…”
“Secretary Jang.”
“Let’s go.”
“PRESIDENT!!”
The coach struggled, but the men in black suits led him out the door.
Click. The door shut.
And the meeting—no, the hearing—no, the condemned man’s final plea—continued.
“Next, Chief Scout, please present.”
“…!!”
This was the guild’s spring. This was the off-season.
The off-season you see in dramas about the “stove league”?
Where the heroine rallies the dejected with “Let’s try again!” and “We can do it!”—while the hero pretends to be aloof but is actually moved?
Utter crap.
In a massive business market where hundreds of millions, and later trillions, of capital change hands, the idea of romance is absurd.
Except for the few guilds that won or were promoted, in this harsh winner-takes-all league, the vast majority were losers.
And since so much was at stake, someone had to take responsibility for a loss.
That’s why romance vanishes from the off-season—and why it’s inevitably so brutal.
“Keep this in mind. Incompetence is a crime. A coach stuck in outdated tactics, the scout who recommended him, the recruitment manager who listened to that scout and handed out long-term contracts—they’re all serving a life sentence in my book. HR Manager.”
“Y-Yes!!”
“The three positions vacated by today’s resignations will be filled by these people. They’ve proven their skills in the Japanese league, so make sure you handle them with special care. Understood?”
“Y-Yes, sir! I’ll personally see to it!”
And so Myung-hwan sacked the coach, the chief scout, and the training coach all at once, wrapped up the meeting, and entered his office.
He locked the door, yanked open a cabinet, pulled out whiskey—and downed it straight.
-Gulp, gulp.
“…Pig bastards! What, second place? ‘Second place is good enough’?!”
Did those pigs outside even realize how desperate this missed opportunity was for Myung-hwan?
To him, the league wasn’t just the league—it was a war for the LeeDo Group empire.
In this climate, where the board of directors (the raccoons) were gauging which side to back, he needed to prove his value—with league results.
Which was why Myung-hwan now looked so ridiculous.
Just days ago, he’d been leading the war.
But now, having missed League 1 promotion, it meant nothing. Everything was lost.
Some might say:
The league was never easy, and getting promoted within a year of acquisition was nearly impossible. That second place in the season was an incredible achievement.
Even his other cousins in League 2 had done no better.
Sure. If literally everyone had failed, maybe—just maybe—he could’ve found some comfort in relative comparison.
But there was one guy who had pulled ahead, even if just a little.
“Lee Shin, you bastard…”
Of all the guilds LeeDo Group had invested in, only Lee Shin’s Mir Guild had been promoted.
And not just any promotion—
They shattered every existing record, setting a new one with 38 consecutive wins.
It was such a monumental achievement that belittling it as “just League 4” would only make oneself look pathetic.
“With that already overbearing old man being a pain, if the board sides with him after this…”
No!
With the rush of alcohol came a wave of urgency.
Are you just going to sit there? You can’t let this happen!
His hand gripped the phone, dialing almost on its own.
The call connected.
“Sumi, you’ll have to step in.”
And so, a few days later—
A call from the Secretariat sent Mir Guild into chaos.
“…Promotion will be difficult?”
________________________________________
An emergency meeting was held at Mir Guild.
Once Lee Shin took his seat in the meeting room, filled with all department heads and above, the meeting began.
“Alright, let’s move quickly—we’re busy. Deputy Director Chae Dong-ha, what’s this about promotion being difficult?”
Chae Dong-ha stepped forward.
“Exactly what it sounds like. The Secretariat informed us that due to our guild’s ‘financial soundness,’ promotion is currently impossible.”
The most common phrase used to describe the Guild War League is “the greatest show on Earth.”
For the six billion people on the planet, the league was something everyone could enjoy, compete in, and go crazy over—which meant an absurd amount of capital flowed through this market.
The League Secretariat avoided interfering in this massive market as much as possible.
As long as it wasn’t illegal, any business was allowed, and they didn’t interfere with inter-guild deals.
Even if a single guild threw around stacks of cash to grab all the MVPs, or even bought out an entire rival guild, they wouldn’t say anything.
But—while they avoided it, they didn’t ignore everything. Their stance was clear: A guild must operate like a guild.
In business terms, part of a guild’s operating funds had to be generated directly by the guild itself.
This was referred to as “financial soundness.”
“The Secretariat said our revenue structure is unstable and they’re concerned about liquidity risks caused by excessive spending beyond our means. They danced around it, but in short—they want us to create a proper revenue model.”
They weren’t saying not to take parent company funds. In fact, they could take even more.
The point was: You also need to earn money on your own.
But this raised a question.
The newly appointed CFO voiced it:
“Uh, I’m new here, so I don’t quite get it. You just said excessive overspending was the problem… then why didn’t they point it out earlier? I mean, when Mr. Mountain King joined, why didn’t they say anything then?”
When he was recruited, Mountain King’s value far exceeded Mir Guild’s—so much so that even being compared was laughable.
If the Secretariat wanted to nitpick about financial soundness, they should have done it back then.
So why now?
But Chae Dong-ha gave a simple answer that made everyone understand.
“Well, that’s because we’re now a League 3 guild.”
“Ah~!”
Exclamations burst out here and there.
Those who already knew nodded their heads.
That’s right.
The Guild War League Secretariat implicitly recognized guilds starting from at least League 3. Now that the Mir Guild had risen to League 3, the Secretariat was acknowledging Mir Guild as a “guild” and pressuring them to follow the regulations.
Lee Shin, who had been wiggling his fingers, continued the meeting.
“So, let’s continue the discussion we were having. The Secretariat nitpicked about our financial soundness, and if we can’t resolve this—
If we can’t… they said they would have no choice but to reconsider the promotion.”
“…??!!”
Many people were startled at the stronger-than-expected stance.
What? The promotion? They’d reconsider the promotion? How hard-earned was this promotion, and they’d reconsider it? Is that even allowed? Does that even happen? The meeting room became noisy in an instant.
However, not everyone was puzzled.
With his characteristic good-natured face, Director Jeong Sun-dong, who even in this situation proved worthy of his nickname “Networking King,” and Kim Jong-pil, the raid captain whose career itself was legendary, reacted calmly as if they had already guessed it.
“It’s a common warning, so there’s no need to worry too much. And you don’t have to see financial soundness as entirely negative. There are considerable advantages a guild can gain by running its own business, such as handling taxes and various incidental expenses.”
“This is a rite of passage for making it to League 3, so there’s no veto power. We just need to take some visible action for now. For example, Kirin Guild’s first business was a small resort.”
Chae Dong-ha quickly picked up their words.
“As the two of them said, our Mir Guild now needs our own business. However, there’s still a point we need to be careful about. Unlike other League 3 guilds, we can’t just run a business on a token scale for appearances’ sake.”
“Yes?”
“Why not?”
“Well…”
“Because of me.”
“…!!”
“…??”
Everyone’s eyes turned to Kim Jong-pil.
He shrugged, as if to say he had been expecting this, and answered.
“My market value is included as part of the guild’s assets. Naturally, the percentage of earnings we must generate from business also increases, and the hurdle for financial soundness becomes higher. Is that correct, vice director?”
“…Yes, that’s correct.”
Simply put, because they had more assets, they were being told to move more money.
“To sum it up, our guild needs to do a business that generates as much revenue as possible—one that can put high performance figures in the books.”
The conclusion of the meeting was reached. Now it was time for the decision-maker to step forward. All eyes turned to Lee Shin.
-Clap clap.
Lee Shin clapped to refocus the room.
“Alright, I’ve heard everyone’s thoughts. In the end, what you’re saying is that Mir Guild needs its own business.”
This was the task for the upcoming off-season.
A big, awesome business with maximum revenue and performance—enough to cover even the Mountain King’s market value, as Chae Dong-ha had said.
“So I thought about it, and I think this would be perfect for us.”
Lee Shin scribbled words on the whiteboard: Franchise.
“A large-scale franchise that can certainly boost sales, even if not operating profit, meets all the conditions, doesn’t it?”
But despite Lee Shin’s energetic declaration, there was no reaction.
Employees avoided his gaze. Among them, Chae Dong-ha’s eyes were even cold.
Because—
“I don’t think it’s good for the CEO to bring up business.”
You ruined everything.
Especially with franchises.
“Did I do that?”
Of course, “this” Lee Shin had no idea.
