77: Chapter 77 Advanced Layout

On the first Monday of March, Seoul had not yet completely warmed up. The conference room at Shunyi Foods headquarters was well-heated, and a thick stack of reports was spread out on the table, the smell of toner mixing with the aroma of coffee. Marketing Director Lee Jung-hoon sat to Chairman Wang Shunyi’s right, pointing at the bar charts on the large screen with a stylus. Beads of sweat on his forehead reflected the light—not from the heat, but from nervousness.

“Chairman, these are the survey data for the low-calorie fire chicken noodles. With a sample size of five thousand people, it covered Seoul, Busan, Daegu, Incheon, and Gwangju. Seventy-two percent of respondents expressed interest in purchasing, mainly due to health and low calorie count. However, at the same time, forty-five percent are worried the taste won't be as good as regular fire chicken noodles.” He shot a quick glance at Chairman Wang Shunyi, who was flipping through a physical copy of the report, his expression unreadable.

“What else?” Chairman Wang Shunyi didn't even look up.

Lee Jung-hoon quickly flipped to the next page. “For the instant bibimbap series, sixty-eight percent are interested, with convenience and rich flavors being the main selling points. But thirty-eight percent worry the ingredients won't be fresh, and thirty-two percent feel the price is a bit high. We need to focus our promotion on the frozen-lock freshness technology. For pricing, the Sales Department suggests 4,900 won for the first month, a twenty percent discount off the original price, paired with a buy-two-get-one-free offer at convenience stores.”

Chairman Wang Shunyi’s hand stopped mid-page. “4,900? What’s the original price?”

“The original price is 6,500,” Sales Director Park Jae-beom took over. “We’re giving up 1,600 won in the first month mainly to attract new customers. Once the market is established, we’ll adjust the price back to around 5,500, which is two to three thousand cheaper than CJ, so consumers won't complain.”

“What about the ready-to-drink makgeolli series?” Chairman Wang Shunyi turned his gaze back to Lee Jung-hoon.

“Sixty-one percent are interested, with convenience and novel flavors being the selling points. However, fifty-two percent are afraid the alcohol content is too high, and twenty-eight percent fear the taste won't be traditional enough. We need to clearly label it as six percent on the packaging while emphasizing the traditional brewing process.”

Chairman Wang Shunyi closed the report, leaned back in his chair, and tapped his knuckles twice on the table. The conference room was silent; the three men didn't dare make a sound, even slowing their breathing. Lee Jung-hoon knew exactly how much money he’d spent on the research firm for that five-thousand-person sample; data could be dressed up, but trends didn't lie—the biggest obstacle for low-calorie fire chicken noodles wasn't price or brand, but the fact that consumers didn't believe they could taste as good as the regular ones.

“Focus the promotion for low-calorie fire chicken noodles on ‘unchanged taste.’ Television, YouTube, social media—all channels must use the same slogan: fewer calories, same great taste. Find food bloggers to do blind tests, putting the regular and low-calorie versions together and having them guess which is which after eating. Don't edit the footage before it’s finished; do it in one take.”

He looked at Park Jae-beom again. “The first-month price for the instant bibimbap is 4,900, but don't just put that price on the shelves. Place a signage with the original price of 6,500 next to it, so consumers know how much they’re saving. The buy-two-get-one-free deal at convenience stores can go ahead, but the free one must be the same product. Don't use something else just to make up the numbers.”

His gaze finally landed on R&D Director Kim Tae-ho—this man hadn't spoken since entering, shrinking into his chair like a student who had done something wrong and was waiting for a parent’s judgment. The development cycle for the low-calorie fire chicken noodles had been three weeks longer than planned, and Lee Chang-ho had nearly slammed the table in frustration with him; Chairman Wang Shunyi knew all of this.

“Ya, Kim Tae-ho. When was the konjac powder ratio for the low-calorie fire chicken noodles finalized?”

Kim Tae-ho immediately sat up straight. “On the twentieth of last month. It was the version finally confirmed by Team Leader Lee Chang-ho.”

“How many times did you perform the noodle elasticity tests?”

“Seven times. Compared to regular fire chicken noodles, the elasticity deviation was controlled within three percent.”

Chairman Wang Shunyi looked into his eyes. Kim Tae-ho didn't look away, but his Adam's apple bobbed once.

“Good. Tae-ho, if consumers say it doesn't taste good after it hits the market, you can write your resignation. I won't approve it; you'll have to leave on your own.”

The corner of Kim Tae-ho’s mouth twitched. He wanted to say something but swallowed it back.

After the meeting ended, just as Chairman Wang Shunyi was about to stand up, Choi Soo-jin pushed the door open and entered. She wore a white shirt and a black skirt, her ponytail tied high, clutching a voice recorder and a small notebook in her hand.

She was a reporter for the Korea Economic Daily and a university classmate of Park Min-ji. Minji had mentioned last month that Choi Soo-jin wanted to do an in-depth report on Shunyi Foods, and Chairman Wang Shunyi hadn't agreed or refused at the time. Today she had come on her own, and the front desk couldn't stop her—since she used the name of 'Director Park's friend,' Kim Tae-min couldn't easily block her and had to let her in.

“Chairman Wang, may I trouble you for a few minutes?” she said with a smile—a professional and precise smile that revealed exactly six teeth.

Chairman Wang Shunyi glanced at her. Lee Jung-hoon and Park Jae-beom tactfully packed their things and left, with Kim Tae-ho being the last to go, closing the door behind him. Only two people remained in the conference room. Choi Soo-jin sat down opposite him and pressed start on the voice recorder; the red light flickered on.

“Last time you mentioned the strategic significance of the three new products, but I didn't get all the details. I’d like to follow up with a few questions today. Is that alright?”

“Ask away.”

“First question: what is Shunyi Foods’ current R&D investment as a percentage of revenue? How does it compare to the levels of Nongshim and CJ?”

Chairman Wang Shunyi folded his hands on the table. “Last year, R&D investment was 42 billion won, about three percent of revenue. Nongshim is less than two percent, and CJ Foods is less than one percent. We spent more than double what they did.”

Choi Soo-jin looked down and took some notes. When she looked up, her smile had faded slightly, replaced by a more serious expression. “Second question: why is the low-calorie fire chicken noodles priced at 2,500 won? Nongshim’s low-calorie product line is priced at 2,200 won and has received good market feedback. Shunyi is 300 won more expensive; where does that confidence come from?”

“The confidence is in the cost. The soy protein and konjac powder we use are of the highest imported grade, while Nongshim uses ordinary domestic grade. Whether consumers can taste the difference is their business. We don't make things where consumers can't taste the difference.”

Choi Soo-jin’s pen slid quickly across her notebook as she asked about the channel strategy for the instant bibimbap and the shelf life technology for the ready-to-drink makgeolli series. Chairman Wang Shunyi answered them one by one. His words were few, but every word was placed exactly where it belonged, like filling numbers into a grid—not too many, not too few, just right.

“One last question, Chairman Wang. Shunyi Foods had a revenue of 1.3 trillion won last year, and this year’s goal is 2 trillion. This growth rate hasn't been seen in the Korean food industry in nearly a decade. How many years do you think it will take to catch up to the scale of CJ and Nongshim?”

Chairman Wang Shunyi looked at her. “CJ Foods' revenue last year was 7.8 trillion won, and Nongshim's was 4.5 trillion won. Although our market share combined with the Kims is already slightly ahead, we are still far behind in terms of heritage and other factors. But the gap isn't scary; what's scary is not being able to catch up. Five years—at most five years.”

Choi Soo-jin turned off the voice recorder, closed her notebook, and stood up. “Chairman Wang, thank you for your time. It will be in the paper next week. I’ll send the draft to Director Park for review first.”

“No need to send it. Just publish it directly. Write whatever there is to write; I don't vet drafts.”

She blinked in surprise and then smiled. This smile was different from the one she had when she walked in; it wasn't the kind that showed six teeth, but a more natural curve at the corners of her mouth.

“Chairman Wang, you are the most unguarded entrepreneur I have ever interviewed.”

“It’s not that I’m unguarded. It’s that I’m not afraid of what you’ll write. If you write it correctly, you're helping me with publicity. If you write it wrong, I'll sue you.”

She laughed out loud, turned, and left. Her high heels clicked against the floor, da-da-da-da, quickly disappearing at the end of the hallway.

Chairman Wang Shunyi sat in the conference room for a while longer. The survey report was still spread out on the table, and Lee Jung-hoon had forgotten his stylus next to the projector. He picked it up and set it aside, then stood up and returned to his office. The hot Americano on his desk had been placed there by Park Min-ji in the morning and was now stone cold. He picked it up and took a sip; it was bitter and cold—just right.

His phone vibrated. It wasn't Park Min-ji, but Kim Young-jun. The message was only one line: “SM has confirmed it. All three candidate debut songs for VIVID have been recorded. Choi Ji-yeon is asking if you want to listen to them first.”

He replied with one word: “Listen.”

An unfamiliar melody came through the earphones—the kind of tune that was instantly recognizable as an idol group's title track. The beats were heavy, the chorus was a total earworm, and the mixing had tuned everyone's voices to near perfection. After listening to all three, he took off the earphones. Did they sound good? Yes. Was there any difference from other girl groups? No. Lee Soo-man had been making music for decades; he knew how to create a song that could top the charts and how to create a song that could make money. Whether it sounded good or not wasn't important; what mattered was whether it could make fans open their wallets.

He messaged Kim Young-jun back: “Ya! Shibal. It's been over ten years, why do these songs still sound like Shinsadong Tiger or Duble Sidekick? Korean audiences are already tired of New Jack swing! Rewrite them!”

Kim Young-jun replied instantly: “Understood. I will communicate with SM.”

“It’s not a communication, it’s an order. This is an important battle for our group's foray into entertainment!”

Outside the window, Seoul was gray and hazy. The sun hid behind the clouds; the light wasn't bright, but it wasn't raining either. Downstairs, a delivery driver was loading goods onto a truck, box after box, stacked very neatly. Chairman Wang Shunyi coiled up the earphone cable and put it in a drawer, then picked up the survey report on his desk and flipped to the last page—a sample size of five thousand, seventy-two percent purchase intent, forty-five percent taste concern. Numbers are static, but the market is alive. Living things can't be understood on paper; you have to reach out and touch them.

He closed the report and picked up the landline to dial the extension. “Kim Tae-ho. When will the last batch of trial production samples for the low-calorie fire chicken noodles be ready?”

“Friday.”

“Once they’re out, send them directly to my office. I'll test them myself.”