He spent the next days in silence—not because he wanted to, but because a one-year-old body simply couldn't form the words racing through a 27-year-old mind.
His mother carried him everywhere in their tiny apartment, her steps soft but tired. The place was so small he could see almost the entire layout just by turning his head when she held him:
A mini kitchen with two small cabinets.
A foldable table pushed against the wall.
A low bed with thin blankets.
A single window facing an alley where laundry hung like flags of survival.
A cheap TV that flickered whenever someone upstairs turned on their microwave.
Though small, the apartment was clean—cleaner than anything he lived in during the darkest moments of his previous life.
His mother had pride.She had discipline.She had that quiet strength that reminded him of all the families he saw struggling in 2025 yet refusing to give up.
And that alone… made him love her instantly.
He observed everything with impossible calm.
The way his mother counted coins carefully before buying groceries.How she cut vegetables so thin it made them stretch into two meals instead of one.How the heater was turned on only at night, never during the day.How she worked on a sewing machine late into the night, stitching clothes for neighbors.
She's struggling quietly, he realized.
This mother wasn't wealthy.She wasn't supported by a husband.She wasn't educated.She worked and worked and worked, earning just enough to raise a child in a country where living costs could crush even strong men.
He watched her hands—red from soap, cracked from winter—and his vow grew stronger.
"I will protect her… no matter what."
Even as a baby, his mind was processing everything:
Prices in shops
People's fashion
TV commercials
News headlines
Words he recognized from his past life
Exchange rates on the small news ticker
The tech level of the electronics around him
He was building a timeline.
Year estimate: 1999 or 2000.Right after the IMF crisis.Korea's economy was slowly recovering but still unstable.
He could use this.Every piece of knowledge was a weapon.
He knew the future.
He knew which companies would rise.Which investments would explode.Which technology would shape the next 20 years.Which crises would come.Which opportunities everyone else would miss.
But before all of that…before stocks, crypto, real estate, AI, marketing…
He needed to grow up.
Slowly.Smartly.Naturally.
He couldn't be a "genius baby."That would attract danger.
Instead…
He would become a "quietly smart child."One step at a time.
He lay on the mat, staring at the rotating mobile above him.
Plan 1: Learn Korean perfectly.He needed perfect fluency.Accentless speech opened doors in Korea.
Plan 2: Learn English early.Global business demanded it.
Plan 3: Build mental strength.This life needed discipline, not luck.
Plan 4: Develop skills early but quietly.Computers, math, memory.
Plan 5: Start saving money by age 6.The smallest coins would matter.
Plan 6: First business by age 10.School kids were the best early customers.
Plan 7: By age 14, build online income.Before competition even existed.
Plan 8: By age 18, invest in future giants.Samsung, Apple, early tech stocks.
Plan 9: Prepare for 2020 pandemic.This time, he would be ready.
Plan 10: Never let poverty touch his mother again.Never.
A knock came at the door.
His mother jumped a little, wiping her hands on her apron. She carried him to the entrance and opened it.
A landlady stood there, arms crossed.
"A month late," she said sharply in Korean. "You need to pay."
"I… I'm sorry," his mother whispered. "Work was slow. I will pay soon."
"No excuses. If you can't pay by next week, you leave."
The baby in her arms stayed perfectly still.But inside?
A fire lit in his chest.
He remembered what it felt like—being threatened with eviction,begging for one more day,trying to survive with no food.
Not again.
This time, he would break this cycle.
That night, his mother was sewing again, eyes drooping with fatigue. He lay beside her on the mat, pretending to sleep.
A sudden loud crash made her gasp.
Her needle slipped, nicking her finger.A drop of blood.
She winced, clutching her finger.
He couldn't speak.He couldn't stand.He couldn't comfort her with words.
So he crawled—slowly, wobbling—to her knee, and held her pant leg with both hands.
She looked down in surprise.
"Oh… are you awake?" she whispered.
He reached up, tiny arms open.
She lifted him instantly.
"You're such a sweet boy…" she murmured.
No.He wasn't sweet.
He was determined.
He pressed his forehead against her chest and swore silently:
"Mother… I will make sure you never bleed over money again."