Episode 2. Division 1, Section 7
Assistant Manager Su-min began a rough briefing.
[Project: Design of a connecting bridge at the Korea Institute of Science and Technology.
Site: Cheongnyangni-dong, Dongdaemun-gu, Seoul.
Objective: Create a bridge on the third floor that allows movement between Building 7 and Building 8 within the site.]
The Korea Institute of Science and Technology is a national security facility that only authorized personnel may enter. Conducting research on everything from the brain to semiconductors, it is a nature-friendly place that blends into the surrounding mountains.
Because the institute’s main building was designed by the late architect Kim Su-in, first CEO of Yeongjo Architects, it also holds architectural significance. Yet most of its buildings were erected in the 1960s and ’70s, so repairs and remodeling are now required.
What they were requesting was a bridge that would directly link Building 7 and Building 8 on the third floor—especially, a bridge that would not stand out and would harmonize with the existing structures.
Team Leader Seung-jin asked sharply,
“How long is the bridge?”
“Approximately twenty-five meters.”
“Approximately?”
“Ah… The distance between the two buildings is twenty-four point four meters.”
“There’s no ‘approximately’ in architecture. On site, even a one-millimeter error is called a defect. Are you planning to create a six-hundred-millimeter defect?”
“I’m sorry.”
In architectural drawings, the basic unit is not centimeters but millimeters. To architects, one meter is usually referred to as one thousand millimeters; the idea is to minimize defects.
Right. I remember the last project I worked on at Yeongjo: a connecting bridge.
Back then, Geonshin had one question: Why would such a big firm do a low-profit bridge design like this: just twenty-four point four meters, neither a lab nor a building?
He later learned Yeongjo was not after a simple bridge.
This job was a kind of calling-card service, meant to snag the massive research-facility and dormitory projects that would follow. If the client liked the bridge construction, there was a high chance they would award the subsequent jobs to the same firm. In 2002, the estimated design fee for those projects alone exceeded two billion won, so everyone was practically salivating.
Of course, a client would never hand a huge project over just because one bridge was nicely done. But a large firm like Yeongjo had to keep the pipeline filled and had long offered such loss-leading service work as bait.
Therefore, the heads of the various sections disliked taking on speculative service projects, and after much shoving, the task landed with the weakest group, Division 1 Section 7.
Everyone in this conference room belonged to Yeongjo’s outcast Section 7, its problem children.
Most of all, Geonshin knew something else: the bridge designed by Yeongjo would not be selected, and the later big projects would be taken by another firm through lobbying.
That firm was Sam-in Architecture.
Small and unimpressive now, Sam-in would later become Yeongjo’s strongest rival. Geonshin felt sure his return to August 2002, the end of his temp stint, was no coincidence.
At that moment a status window floated before his eyes, letters appearing in mid-air.
What the—?
[Pritzker-Prize Project]
Goal: Level 100 (1 / 100 Lv)
At commission: +2 Lv
At completion: +2 Lv
Mission 1. Complete the Korea Institute of Science and Technology connecting bridge.
Reward: Creativity 5 SP (1 / 100 SP) | Skill 5 SP (1 / 100 SP)
Attachment: Ten coupons for using a 3-terabyte folder.
Are you saying I can actually win the Pritzker?
Geonshin smiled before he realized it. After all, he had already regressed; a floating window in mid-air was hardly shocking now. In that instant, the purpose of his regression and his future goals began to crystallize.
For twenty years he had lived as a CAD monkey, never daring to call himself an architect. They say “Having no dream is miserable, but clinging to an impossible dream is miserable too.” The Pritzker had once been his proud dream, yet he had come to hide his face whenever it was mentioned.
As a mere manager at a small firm, Na Geonshin had neither the right nor the ability to dream such a dream.
But now, returned to age twenty-three, the status window was telling him to dream again.
Pritzker? Hah, are you crazy?
Know your place.
Be glad if you can just earn a living—you’re nobody…
Everyone had called it absurd, a laughable fantasy.
In truth, he had given up on it himself.
A neighborhood cram school chemistry teacher winning the Nobel Prize in physics was beyond a bar joke. Yet in this world, an assistant director writing scripts in a café corner could win an Oscar, and kids who danced in an underground studio could top the Billboard chart.
The years of stubborn effort, mocked yet endured, had turned their impossibilities into reality.
Still, no one had believed Na Geonshin could do the same.
That was in the past.
Whether others had also rewound time he didn’t know, but he had definitely been given a second chance.
Creativity and skill as rewards, what does that mean? One point is already filled… Maybe that’s why abstract ideas are becoming sharper in my head. Concepts keep popping up… Is this the system’s power?
His eyes fixed on a curious line:
Attachment? Ten coupons for a 3-terabyte folder.
When he touched the line, folders appeared before him, golden folders snapping into an orderly matrix. They glittered, beckoning his touch, a hologram like something out of a movie. His consciousness plunged into that sea of folders.
Swoosh.
When he opened his eyes again, he was drifting weightlessly among them.
His eyes widened further when he read the folder names.
Th-these are the archives I gathered over twenty years!
He had always kept three one-terabyte external drives on his desk, filled with vast collections of architectural data sorted by era and architect. It was a hobby others found pathetic for a CAD monkey.
Yet simply looking at buildings born of grueling work had healed him. He felt a vicarious satisfaction.
Just as no two places in the world are identical, each building comes from a unique concept and design. Now, after regressing, those folders seemed to breathe.
So that’s what “ten coupons” means.
No one had taught him how to use them, but like a bird learning to fly or a thirsty man seeking water, he understood instinctively as if he had been born to it.
With a coupon, I can freely use the skill sets of the architects in a folder… That’s enough! Right, this life, I’m not living as a CAD monkey. Whatever happens, I’ll push to the end.
Clenching his fist, Geonshin grinned so broadly he finally understood what it meant for a smile to bubble up by itself.
“Hey. Is he laughing to himself?”
Back to reality.
Team Leader Seung-jin’s laser gaze locked on him, and Su-min looked ready to cry.
“S-sorry. I’ll train him properly.”
I’m still just a temp. I got carried away.
Pulling himself together, Geonshin looked at the site model. The top priority was to install that bridge between Building 7 and 8. Section 7 absolutely had to land the job.
But as a mere temp he could not speak up in the meeting; he kept his mouth shut and watched.
“The span’s fairly long, so we need a solid structural moment. Have you contacted a structural engineer?”
“Yes. I called the engineer from the Daejeon Gymnasium job. If we set the location he can run the numbers.”
“Do we have the drawings for Buildings 7 and 8?”
“Um… actually…”
“What is it?”
“Since this isn’t an official commission, the institute hasn’t given us the drawings. We barely got the site plan… I’m sorry.”
“…You’re telling me we must present tomorrow without a single drawing?”
Public institutions have maintenance teams that keep all facility drawings, but as a security agency, KIST would not hand over plans unofficially.
Today, when data abounds, it would be easier, but in 2002 obtaining drawings was anything but simple.
“Hm. Who’s the facilities manager?”
“Manager Kim Nam-hun and word is he’s from ‘Sam-in Architecture.’ He’s a former team leader there who got his license and moved over.”
At Su-min’s answer, Geonshin silently muttered: Of course.
Sam-in Architecture? That’s why they took this project. The facilities manager is an alumnus.
Facilities Manager Kim Nam-hun.
If Section 7 passed the design pool, they would have to take the proposal to him. But arm bends inward; if a Sam-in alumnus had to choose between Yeongjo and Sam-in, where would he award the construction?
“Sam-in Architecture?”
“A mid-sized firm under a hundred people. They don’t have any famous projects yet, so you might not know them. I only know because a close junior works there.”
No one else in the room cared, but Geonshin pricked up his ears: Sam-in, lackey of Gi-yeong Construction, bully of the industry. It was the firm whose outsourced job had driven him to despair right before the blackout in his previous life.
The situation was clear: the client needs a bridge.
They need a proposal but don’t want to spend much. Yet the upcoming research complex and dormitory will be far more lucrative than this one bridge. Yeongjo must secure this contract to control the future jobs. However, the facilities manager, Kim Nam-hun, is ex-Sam-in. With no other variables, just as before, Sam-in will build the bridge and then snag the complex and dormitory.
They needed something that could flip the situation.
All for a single bridge.
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