The Inspector Is Getting Promoted! [EN]: Chapter 317

Autumn, 2031.

The heat had subsided, and a cool breeze began to blow.

Only about a year remained until the presidential election campaign would officially begin.

The political atmosphere was unusually calm.

The only people who knew of my presidential ambitions were Yoon Seol-ha, Go Joong-hyuk, and Assemblyman Lee Doo-hyung.

Chairman Woo Gun-young of WG also likely suspected it, but he would never reveal that information.

The more people who knew, the more attention I would attract, which would inevitably draw the attention of my competitors.

Perhaps that’s why the political establishment wasn’t paying much attention to me.

Since resigning as Prosecutor General, I had deliberately avoided actively seeking influence, only attending social events.

Of course, I kept abreast of major issues through Shin Dong-hyun, Lee Doo-hyung, and Assemblyman Kim Kang-jin, subtly pulling strings when necessary. However, there weren’t any significant events that would drastically alter the political landscape; I was mostly just receiving updates.

In fact, some political analysts occasionally speculated that Choi Seo-joon might return to politics after a stint as a lawyer.

Even without immediately taking a position like Minister of Justice, my influence hadn’t waned, and everyone in politics knew I could re-enter the arena at any time.

The possibility of Shin Dong-hyun’s re-election was still on the table.

Even if that didn’t happen, if the MinGuk Party won the next presidential election, I could easily rise to prominence again.

Furthermore, I maintained cordial relations with members of the DaeHan Party.

Above all, considering my public approval, I was confident I could win a National Assembly seat in a key district whenever I chose to run.

However, no one anticipated a presidential run from me.

I had made it clear I wouldn’t run as an independent.

They didn’t believe I would seek the DaeHan Party’s nomination.

Moreover, given my close ties to Shin Dong-hyun, they assumed he would seek re-election despite his low approval ratings, preventing me from challenging him in the party’s primary.

In short, they underestimated me.

That’s precisely when a surprise strike would have the greatest impact.

Of course, I still needed to conceal my intentions.

I planned to gradually reveal my presidential ambitions around this time next year.

Prematurely announcing my candidacy would give my opponents time to unearth any vulnerabilities.

Until then, I would continue my life as a lawyer.

Just one more impactful case before declaring my candidacy.

I needed to find a case that would resonate deeply with the public.

Having recently taken on a chaebol [a large, family-owned business conglomerate] to protect ordinary citizens and small businesses, it would be ideal to pursue a case with a different focus this time.

A case that could inspire ‘national pride’ would be perfect.

That way, I could gain popularity across all generations, not just a specific demographic.

Of course, such opportunities don’t simply materialize on demand.

“Lawyer.”

Yoon Seol-ha entered the office, a clipboard in her arms.

“I’m here to report on today’s schedule.”

“Yes. Let’s go over it while we have some coffee.”

“I thought you might say that.”

She smiled brightly, as if anticipating my suggestion, and held up two cups of takeout coffee.

“Did you buy those?”

“I stopped by the cafe on the way. I was craving a cappuccino today.”

“Cappuccino sounds good.”

I settled onto the sofa.

Yoon Seol-ha took a sip of her cappuccino and began her report, clipboard in hand.

“As usual, we have four consultations scheduled for this afternoon. Three are related to traffic accidents, and the other concerns a child custody dispute.”

“Unless there’s something particularly complex about the child custody case, we can refer them all to the Korea Legal Aid Corporation after the initial consultation.”

“Yes, that’s what I thought. And…”

She took another sip of her cappuccino and continued, “It looks like we’ll have some free time in the morning. I’ve only scheduled one consultation.”

Usually, she scheduled at least two.

“Was there a cancellation?”

“No. Based on the client’s request, I anticipated the consultation would be lengthy, so I deliberately left ample time.”

“Who is the client?”

“The Ahn Jung-geun Patriotism & Culture Foundation.”

The name caught me off guard.

“Is the Ahn Jung-geun Foundation involved in a lawsuit?”

If so, it could be problematic.

I deeply respected Ahn Jung-geun [a Korean independence activist], but a foundation’s lawsuit inevitably involves a dispute with another party.

Helping one side could provoke backlash from the other.

I needed to proceed cautiously.

“To be precise, they’re seeking to file a lawsuit.”

“Against whom?”

“Yes. But I think it would be best if you read their request directly. They provided a very detailed explanation.”

Yoon Seol-ha handed me the clipboard.
The online legal consultation form was filled with dense text.

After quickly reviewing the contents, I frowned involuntarily.

“This is quite a situation.”

“Yes. I just learned about it myself.”

Fortunately, it wasn’t a financial dispute or a conflict with another organization.

It was a lawsuit aimed at restoring Ahn Jung-geun’s honor.

“I’ll need to meet them in person to understand all the nuances, but…”

I stroked my chin and set down the clipboard.

“This isn’t a case to be taken lightly.”

Yoon Seol-ha nodded slowly in agreement.

“When did the client say they would arrive?”

“They’re scheduled to arrive in 30 minutes.”

“Then, please verify the information they’ve provided before the consultation ends. If it’s accurate, I can’t simply stand by.”

“Yes, I understand.”

***

“Hello, Lawyer.”

The elderly man with white hair bowed respectfully.

“Thank you for seeing us.”

“It’s my pleasure.”

The business card he handed me identified him as the ‘Chairman of the Ahn Jung-geun Patriotism & Culture Foundation.’

Given the sensitive nature of the matter, we got straight to the point.

“I’ve reviewed your request… the situation is concerning. Is everything you’ve stated accurate?”

“Yes. Unfortunately, it is.”

The chairman continued in a somber tone.

“The Japanese side continues to insist that Ahn Jung-geun was a terrorist.”

I sighed and rubbed my forehead.

Ahn Jung-geun was sentenced to death on February 14, 1910, for assassinating Ito Hirobumi [the first Prime Minister of Japan].

He was executed on March 26, a month later.

But the problem was the flawed ‘process’ by which Ahn Jung-geun was condemned.

Simply put, Ahn Jung-geun assassinated Ito Hirobumi on October 26, 1909.

He was apprehended by the Russian army at the scene.

However, existing laws lacked provisions for extraditing criminals arrested in Russia to Japan. Despite this, Japan forcibly transferred Ahn Jung-geun to the Japanese consulate through a secret agreement with Russia.

Subsequently, Ahn Jung-geun requested treatment as a prisoner of war and demanded judgment under international law, but Japan ignored his pleas and sentenced him to death.

That wasn’t the only issue.

At the time, Japanese courts lacked the legal authority to try Koreans.

Nevertheless, Japan tried, convicted, and executed a Korean citizen.

In essence, it was judicial murder.

Two principles are fundamental to international law.

First, guerrillas are to be treated as soldiers and, if captured, are entitled to prisoner of war status.

In 1907, Japan disbanded the Korean army, but Ahn Jung-geun served as the Chief of Staff of the Korean Guerrilla Army in 1908, entitling him to prisoner of war status as he claimed.

Second, prisoners of war can be detained and repatriated to their home country after a post-war agreement.

While not explicitly codified in the Geneva Convention, most nations adhered to these international legal norms.

However, Japan disregarded these practices, carrying out an illegal arrest, an illegal trial, and ultimately, judicial murder.

In short, the entire process leading to Ahn Jung-geun’s execution was riddled with irregularities.

Yet, instead of acknowledging these flaws, Japan continues to defend its actions, denigrating Ahn Jung-geun and other independence activists who sacrificed their lives for Korea.

“Haa…”

A sigh escaped my lips.

The chairman spoke with difficulty.

“It’s been 30 years since I took over the Ahn Jung-geun Foundation. My lifelong ambition is to restore Ahn Jung-geun’s honor before I die.”

He grasped my hand.

“Please, Lawyer…”

He couldn’t continue, his eyes welling up with tears.

I deeply empathized with the chairman’s feelings.

I fully grasped the gravity of the situation and believed it needed to be rectified.

Allowing Japan to continue labeling Ahn Jung-geun as a terrorist was tantamount to denying Korea’s very foundation.

There was only one way to restore Ahn Jung-geun’s honor.

Not through the International Court of Justice, not through domestic courts.

We needed to sue in a Japanese court, forcing Japan to acknowledge its judicial murder of Ahn Jung-geun and obtain a ruling that their trial was unjust.

It wouldn’t be easy, that was certain.

In fact, it would be incredibly difficult.

Blood is thicker than water, and Japan would inevitably side with its own, regardless of the injustice.

But that’s precisely why I had to sue.

In modern society, ‘law’ is the only way to expose these irregularities and dismantle their flawed logic.

If we could prove their wrongdoing using the very laws they created, Japan could no longer perpetuate these false claims.

To achieve that, we had to be prepared for a fierce battle.

I took the old man’s hand and said,

“I will take the case and sue.”

The moment I accepted this case, it would undoubtedly become a major news story.

Moreover, the public would rally behind me.

Because it concerned Korea, transcending political divides.

However, my decision wasn’t solely motivated by political ambition.

I felt a deep sense of duty as a Korean to address this injustice.

Of course, a victory would bring widespread praise and admiration.

But I wasn’t doing it solely for the sake of a presidential election.

It was for Korea.

Because it was the only way to honor the sacrifices of those who died for our country.

I had said at my retirement ceremony:

Although we may take steps backward at times, Korea is ultimately moving towards a more just society.

If my past dealings with chaebols and politicians had set back the cause of justice in Korea, now it was my responsibility to move it forward.

“I will win this case and restore Ahn Jung-geun’s honor.”

“Thank you, Lawyer!”

The old man bowed deeply.

But then…

Beep, beep.

A text message arrived.

A future text message offering assistance with the lawsuit in Japan.