The humid air of the Seoul night felt heavy, thick with the scent of exhaust and the distant, frying oil of street stalls. I didn't return to my Goshiwon. Instead, I stayed in the PC Bang, the blue light of the CRT monitor washing over my face, making me look as ghostly as I felt. Around me, the room was a symphony of chaos—shouts from teenagers playing Starcraft and the rapid-fire clicking of mice. But inside my cubicle, there was only the cold, silent flicker of the stock ticker.
By the end of the month, the 500,000 won I had poured into Samsung had begun its slow, inevitable climb. It was a solid start, but "solid" wasn't going to build an empire. I wasn't waiting for a miracle; I was waiting for a glitch in the matrix—a moment of market panic that I remembered with the clarity of a physical scar.
I leaned back, my eyes tracking the prices of a small-cap gaming company called 'NetZone.' In this era, NetZone was the laughingstock of the KOSDAQ. Their latest release had flopped, their CEO was rumored to be fleeing to Japan, and every analyst on the news was screaming for investors to cut their losses.
I watched the red numbers drop. 1,200 won. 1,100 won. 950 won.
In my first life, I had watched this crash from the sidelines, mocking the "idiots" who held on. But I knew something the analysts didn't. I knew that at exactly 9:00 AM tomorrow, a major Chinese internet portal—the precursor to a multi-billion dollar giant—would announce an exclusive distribution deal with NetZone that would turn their "flop" into a gold mine.
With a hand that didn't tremble, I moved my cursor. I sold my Samsung positions—liquidating every cent of my modest profit—and dumped it all into the falling knife of NetZone.
5,000 shares. 8,000 shares. I spent every won I owned. If I was wrong—if the timeline had diverged even by a day—I would be penniless by morning. But as I sat there, the ancient soul inside my young body remained perfectly still. I wasn't a gambler; I was a man who had already seen the end of the movie.
I slept in the chair, my head resting on the plastic desk. When the market opened the next morning, the PC Bang was nearly empty. I refreshed the page.
The news broke at 9:02 AM.
The screen didn't just move; it exploded. The stock didn't rise in increments; it "teleported," hitting the upper circuit limit almost instantly. My 10 million won potential was flashing in green. Then 15 million. By the time I closed the position two hours later, my account balance stood at 32,000,000 won.
I didn't cheer. I didn't pump my fist. I felt only a cold, clinical satisfaction. I logged out of the terminal, the mechanical click of the keyboard sounding like the cocking of a hammer.
I walked out into the sunlight, the world looking sharper, more detailed than it had yesterday. I had enough now. I had the capital to move from the shadows into the light. I walked to a nearby payphone—a silver box that felt like a relic—and dialed the number for the 'Seoul Mirae Private Clinic.' It was a place for the ultra-wealthy, the kind of place my mother would never even dare to look at.
"I'd like to register a patient for a full-body preventative screening," I said, my voice projecting the calm, bored authority of a high-level executive's assistant. "The name is Han Suyeon. It will be paid for in full by an anonymous educational foundation. She is to be told that she was selected via a government lottery for senior citizens. Do you understand?"
"Of course, sir," the receptionist replied, her tone shifting to one of deep respect. "We can schedule her for this Thursday."
I hung up the phone and leaned my forehead against the cool glass of the booth. In my past life, her cancer was found when it was the size of a fist, after she had collapsed on a subway platform. This time, we were going to find it when it was a grain of sand. This time, money wasn't just numbers on a screen; it was the power to rewrite the biology of fate.
I checked my flip-phone. No new messages from Dohyeon. Good. He was still focused on his petty club games, unaware that the "penniless freshman" he tried to recruit was currently liquidating enough capital to buy his father's favorite golf club.
The first harvest was over. It was time to prepare the soil for the next. And this time, I was going to need a lot more than 32 million won. I was going to need an army.