The courtroom smelled like pencil shavings and lies.
So-young sat stiffly between Grandfather and their lawyer, watching as Kim Sang-chul adjusted his tie for the cameras. The evidence table between them might as well have been a battlefield—on Moon & Son's side, stacks of pristine land deeds; on theirs, a single burlap sack of Seong-ho's flour, its faded apricot blossom stamp facing the judge.
"Your Honor," Kim began, "Han Foods is clearly—"
A thunderous thud cut him off. Old Man Park had kicked open the courtroom doors, trailing a comet's tail of reporters. His grandson dragged a wooden cart piled high with ledgers older than the judge.
"Evidence," Park announced, dropping the first book onto the defense table with a dust explosion. "From my grandfather's mill. 1970."
The judge sighed. "Mr. Park, this is highly—"
"Page forty-two." Park flipped the brittle pages with his thick fingers, stopping at a spread yellowed with age. "Lease agreement between Park Mill and Han Seong-ho. For underground grain storage." He jabbed at the signature. "Still valid."
Kim's lawyer scoffed. "A personal contract can't override—"
"Exhibit B." Park's daughter slapped down a black-and-white photo: Seong-ho standing in the silo, surrounded by sacks, his arms slung around farmers. The date stamp read October 15, 1971—three weeks before his death.
So-young's breath caught. She'd never seen him smiling before.
The judge adjusted his glasses. "This proves occupancy, not ownership."
Grandfather stood slowly. His cane tapped against the floor as he approached the evidence table. Without a word, he reached into his breast pocket and unfolded a single sheet of rice paper—Seong-ho's cramped handwriting visible even from the gallery.
"Last will and testament," Grandfather said, his voice like gravel. "All grain stores to be held in trust for 'future bakers of the Han family.'" He looked at Kim. "Not the company. The family."
The gallery erupted.
Han Bakes Kitchen – 11:47 PM
The dough wasn't just rising—it was climbing.
So-young watched as the mixture overflowed its proofing basket, tendrils of gluten stretching like reaching fingers. The starter they'd revived from Seong-ho's flour had tripled in volume overnight, its sour scent shifting between honey and salt and something unnameable.
Li Na poked it with a chopstick. "This is why people fear carbs."
Dae-ho, hunched over his laptop, suddenly gasped. "Guys. Guys." He spun the screen around. "I found Seong-ho's patent filings. For *HK-49*."
The document glowed onscreen—a 1971 application for "Novel Fermentation Process Using Heritage Grain Endophytes." Rejected for "lack of commercial viability."
So-young's finger traced the diagram. "He wasn't just making bread. He was breeding yeast."
A crash came from the alley. They found Grandfather standing over a shattered jar, its contents—a black, tarlike substance—seeping into the cracks between paving stones.
"Strain samples," he said quietly. "From our labs. What they were really working on."
The stench hit So-young like a fist—chemical and sweet, like rotting fruit soaked in gasoline. Moon & Son's "innovation."
Li Na covered her nose. "And we're breathing this why?"
Grandfather's cane scraped against the concrete. "So you remember what we're fighting."
Jeonju Fields – 3:33 AM
The combine harvesters sat idle under the moon, their hulking shapes like sleeping beasts. So-young moved between the stripped barley stalks, her flashlight beam catching on something the machines had missed—tiny green shoots already pushing through the churned earth.
Min-jun crouched beside her, his calloused fingers brushing the new growth. "Second generation. From fallen seeds." He grinned. "Moon & Son's property my ass."
From the road came the rumble of engines. A convoy of trucks rolled into the field, their headlights off. Farmers spilled out, carrying sacks and sickles.
Old Man Park limped toward them, a shovel slung over his shoulder. "Time to plant some truths."