He navigated to the rating tabs.
A genuine, unforced smile spread across Dong-seung's face as he read the comments. The words "Easy to use" and "Good explanations" landed not as faint praise, but as a massive victory. For so long, his work had been invisible or, worse, a source of shame. This was tangible proof he was building something good.
His eyes lingered on "I found your Easter egg!" A chuckle escaped him. Someone had taken the time to play his stupid, pointless Doodle Jump clone. The connection felt strangely personal.
He leaned back, the fatigue from the 48-hour crunch melting away, replaced by a fresh surge of purpose. The 2x EXP penalty on Photoshop suddenly felt less like a punishment and more like a challenge he was willing to accept. He reopened the program not with dread, but with determination. The users had spoken. Now he had to get better for them.
"See?" Seo-yeon's voice came from over his shoulder, making him jump. He hadn't heard her come in. She pointed at a comment about the UI. "They're saying exactly what I did. It's functional, but it's holding you back." Her tone wasn't critical, but excited. "But this one," she tapped the screen where 'Dark theme for the win!' was written, "this is your core audience. They're tech people. They get it."
She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Imagine the reviews if the UI were as sleek as the functionality. If the dark theme wasn't just a default, but a beautifully crafted one. They wouldn't just be satisfied; they'd be raving."
She quickly darted away.
He immediately dialed his uncle.
"Uncle, since I have this income now," Dong-seung began, his voice steadier and more professional than the excited, naive tone he'd used before, "how can I register a company to properly tax this income?"
He didn't need to explain further. The NTS was still out there. There was no need to pick a fight with a heavyweight champion who could beat you to death with penalties and interest.
There was a beat of silence on the other end, but this one was different from the last call. It wasn't suspicious or worried; it was approving.
"Good," Uncle Tae-shik said, the single word carrying the weight of a proud smile. "That is the first intelligent business question you've asked me since you graduated. You're finally thinking about defense, not just offense."
Dong-seung could hear the rustle of papers and the clink of a glass—his uncle was already shifting into problem-solving mode.
"Listen carefully. You have two main paths. The first is to remain a sole proprietor. It's simple, but your personal assets are exposed. With the income you're describing, that is an unacceptable risk."
"The second path is a corporation. For you, it's the right choice. It's a separate legal entity. If your business gets sued, they can only take what the company owns, not your personal savings, not this apartment. It's a shield."
"But," his uncle's tone turned grave, "it is not a simple shield to forge. You will need a lawyer. You will need to draft articles of incorporation and have a minimum of 50 million won in capital—though don't worry, I will provide that as an investment. You will open a corporate bank account and keep separate books."
He paused, letting the scale of the task sink in.
"This is no longer a side project, Dong-seung. This is you building a fortress. It will be complicated, it will be frustrating, and it will cost you money upfront. But it is the only way to grow properly and sleep well at night."
"So, the real question is not how. The question is: Are you ready to be a CEO?"
Dong-seung didn't hesitate. "I am ready to be a CEO. But Uncle... I must decline your offer for the capital."
Silence. This one was stunned. "What? Dong-seung, be practical. Where will you get 50 million won?"
"I will earn it," Dong-seung said, his voice firm with a newfound conviction. The memory of his near-death experience flashed in his mind—not the fantasy of Truck-kun, but the slow, suffocating death of his old life, of the bitter, dependent man he had been. The memory of how he had treated Min-jun, seeing a friend as a rival to be defeated, shamed him. "This path I'm on... It's about more than just money. It's about building something with my own two hands. Rightfully. I can't do that if I'm leaning on you for every major step. I need to stand on my own."
He took a deep breath. "I will use the money from the Detangler. I'll save, I'll take on more gigs, and I will fund this company myself. It will take longer, but it will be mine."
On the other end, Uncle Tae-shik was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke again, his voice was different. It wasn't the voice of a benefactor, but of a proud relative.
"Then you are already a better businessman than I was at your age," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "The fortress you build with your own hands will always be the strongest. Call me when you're ready for the lawyer. I'll only give you advice from now on. No more handouts."
…
Payout Tab
He didn't hesitate, immediately clicking to transfer the full amount to his bank account.
BRRRRRR
[Shinhan Bank: Your Balance is 6,767,500 ₩]
"It's all mine. For now," he laughed, a faint, villainous smirk touching his lips.
With newfound purpose, he opened Excel. The clean grids of a new spreadsheet became a canvas for his ambition. He meticulously added columns for expenses, earnings, and—most importantly—an approximate tax reserve.
The only problem? His tax knowledge was dangerously limited. He understood business operations, but the labyrinth of deductions and filings was a different beast entirely. Time to find a tax advisor, he mentally noted, adding it to his to-do list. Later, of course. He coughed, acknowledging his own procrastination.
For now, the sheer terror of the NTS was a powerful motivator. He'd do the bare minimum—manually report the income on their portal. It was like putting a bandage on a bullet wound, but it would stop the bleeding for now.
His focus returned to his product. "I'll have to find a Graphic Designer; a redesigned UI would elevate this from a tool to an experience."
This software was his baby. It needed care and constant iteration. If he became complacent, a copycat would inevitably swoop in and steal his market. It was a classic strategy in the gaming world, and he despised developers who executed it.
FIVERR.
His fingers flew across the keyboard, scrolling through countless portfolios until he found her. Her work was stunning—clean, modern, and intuitive—yet she had shockingly few reviews. It seemed no one was daring enough to take a chance on her.
He clicked on her "UI/UX Design" gig. His eyes scanned the packages.
Basic: Simple button/icons - $50
Standard: Single app screen design - $150
Premium: Complete UI kit & style guide - $400
He winced. $400? That's nearly 550,000 won. It was a serious chunk of his war chest. The frugal, scared part of him screamed to find someone cheaper.
But then he looked at her portfolio again, and then at the clunky UI of his own Detangler. This isn't an expense, he realized. It's an investment. A premium product needs a premium presentation.
His finger hovered for a second before he clicked "Continue with Premium."
He filled the requirements box, pouring in every detail: references, a thorough explanation of the program's function, and his clear vision for its future. He even attached the executable.
Order Placed. Payment of $400 processed.
BRRRRR
[Shinhan Bank: Your Balance is 6,217,500 ₩]
Now, the hardest part began: the wait.
…
He cracked his knuckles and opened his code editor. With the main pressure off, he could finally scrutinize his own work with a critical eye.
After analyzing the C++ core, he identified minor optimizations—tightening a loop here, pre-allocating memory there. The performance gains would be marginal, perhaps imperceptible to the user, but he decided any efficiency win was a good win. He briefly considered multi-threading the analysis workload but shelved the idea; his current understanding wasn't robust enough to avoid introducing new bugs. Batching, however... that I can do.
His attention shifted to the front end. Now was the time to make it more robust. He implemented double redundancy for the critical data-processing functions. Then, he built an automated report function—if the program encountered a specific class of error, it would gather the logs and send a diagnostic email directly to him. Of course, this function came with a cooldown period, and its trigger mechanism used a careful debounce to prevent spam from a single, flickering error.
Finally, a grin spread across his face as he opened the file for his Easter egg. His spaghetti-logo Doodle Jump clone was about to get an upgrade.
New Hazards: Lasers that periodically sliced across the screen. Homing missiles that lazily tracked the bouncing logo.
Polish: He integrated free, carefully vetted sound effects for jumps and explosions.
Competition: He added a score counter, a local high score, and even a simple global leaderboard.
Integrity: And, as a gamer who despised cheaters, he embedded a compact, homebrewed anti-cheat system to validate scores before they were submitted to the leaderboard.
It was completely unnecessary, horribly unbalanced, and an absolute blast to play. It was perfect.
…
Some time had passed.
A notification chimed. Ah. Finally, the UI elements! He downloaded the ZIP file from the designer. As he extracted the folders—/icons, /screens, /palettes—his eyes fell on one labeled /easteregg.
His brow furrowed. I didn't ask for this.
His curiosity got the better of him. He opened the folder, and his jaw dropped.
Inside was a complete sprite sheet. The protagonist of his Doodle Jump clone was no longer his pixelated spaghetti logo. It was now a custom-drawn anime girl with long, flowing blonde hair, wearing an apron with a small, stylized spaghetti logo on it. She looked strikingly familiar. The designer had included various fluid animations—jumping, falling, celebrating—making it feel like a genuine SNES-era character.
She had gone far beyond the brief.
He was momentarily stunned, then a grin spread across his face. He immediately got to work, painstakingly integrating the new sprite sheets. Her movements were buttery smooth. Very good.
Now, of course, he had to give credit where it was due. He added a new section to the "About" page, right near the copyright disclaimer. Using a font color that matched the new UI palette, he created a credits roll:
Development & Code: Dong-seung
UI/UX & Character Design: Jung-Hwa
Beneath it, he added a personal note of thanks to everyone who had supported his software. And finally, tucked away at the very bottom like a developer's secret, was a short, four-line poem he had written—a small, silent tribute to the joy of creation.
In silent code, where futures frayed,
A spark awoke, not born, but made.
From borrowed breath, a logic fine—
I rewrite the dark, and make it mine.
For the final touch, he inserted the new victory animation. Now, when a player achieved a high score, the spaghetti-clad anime girl would break into a joyful, celebratory dance.
Revision uploaded.
[Practical Grind Reward]
[JavaScript Mastery, EXP (200/2500), LVL 2]
[C++ Mastery, EXP (200/500), LVL 1]
[Photoshop Mastery, EXP (210/1000), LVL 0]
A wave of pure satisfaction washed over him. Nice. I just leveled up my own product. The feeling was euphoric. His mind, ever-strategic, began to map the future. When I have enough capital, I'll host a proper launch. Invite my roommate... and Min-jun. The thought of reconciling with his former rival felt like a necessary part of building this new life.
His to-do list flickered in his mind: Find a tax advisor. And maybe... just maybe... see if that Jung-Hwa would be interested in a more permanent role.
The pieces were falling into place.