The classroom smelled of chalk dust, gym sweat, and hormones. Forty boys were crammed into rows of wooden desks, listening to a teacher drone on about quadratic equations.
Min-jun sat in the back row by the window, the protagonist seat in every web novel he used to read. But he wasn't looking out at the cherry blossoms. He was looking at his notebook, where he was furiously scribbling numbers.
Risk-Free Rate (2010): approx. 3-4%. Inflation (CPI): ~3%. KOSPI Current Level: ~1,615 points.
He spun his cheap ballpoint pen around his thumb—a habit he had picked up during long nights at the trading desk.
The math teacher, Mr. Choi, slammed a ruler against the chalkboard. "Kang Min-jun! Since you’re so focused on your doodle, why don't you come up and solve problem number four?"
The class snickered. Heads turned. Min-jun looked up, blinking. The problem on the board was a standard quadratic function optimization.
Min-jun stood up. His legs felt light. He walked to the board, picked up a piece of yellow chalk, and looked at the equation.
It was rudimentary. It was the alphabet.
In his previous life, Min-jun built algorithmic trading models that executed thousands of trades per millisecond based on non-linear stochastic differential equations. Solving this was like asking a Michelin star chef to boil water.
He didn't just solve for X. He wrote the solution, then graphed the parabola, and almost instinctively started writing the derivative function to find the rate of change before stopping himself.
Don't show off, he reminded himself. You are a ghost. A sleeper agent.
He boxed the answer and put the chalk down.
"Correct," Mr. Choi grunted, clearly disappointed he couldn't hit Min-jun with the punishment stick. "Go sit down. And stop drawing in my class."
Min-jun walked back to his desk. He wasn't drawing. He was mapping out the historical volatility of the semiconductor sector in Q1 2010.
He needed a terminal.
12:30 PM. Lunch Break.
While the other students rushed to the cafeteria to fight over sausages, Min-jun slipped out of the school gates. It was technically against the rules, but the security guard was asleep in his booth—a laxity that disappeared in the surveillance-heavy Korea of 2025.
He ran three blocks to the "Zerg PC Bang."
He slapped a 1,000 won bill on the counter. "One hour. Non-smoking section."
He slid into booth 42, the leather chair peeling and sticky. He booted up the computer. Windows XP. The startup chime was deafeningly loud.
He ignored the icons for StarCraft and Sudden Attack. He opened Internet Explorer and navigated to the finance portal.
KOSPI: 1,615.24 (-0.3%)
Min-jun stared at the screen. To anyone else, it was just a jagged line. To Min-jun, it was a symphony. He could read the fear in the candlesticks. The market was skittish. The memory of the 2008 Lehman collapse was still fresh, like a healing bruise. Investors were timid, taking profits at the slightest sign of trouble.
"Perfect," Min-jun whispered. "Fear creates mispricing."
He typed in a code: 000270.
K-Motors (Kia). Current Price: 22,450 KRW.
Min-jun leaned back, closing his eyes. He accessed the hard drive of his memory.
2010 was the year K-Motors changed its DNA. They had hired Peter Schreyer, the former Audi designer. In just a few weeks, at the New York Auto Show, they would unveil the K5 (Optima).
It was the car that shocked the industry. It didn't look like a cheap Korean taxi. It looked like a spaceship. It was the catalyst that would send the stock on a rally from 20,000 won to nearly 80,000 won over the next year.
Right now, the stock was flat. Institutions were accumulating silently, suppressing the price to fill their bags before the reveal.
I need to get on that train, Min-jun thought. But I don't have a ticket.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
He needed the 10 million won.
7:00 PM. The Basement Unit.
The Kang family lived on the second floor of a crumbling multi-family villa. Min-jun’s grandfather, Kang Byung-ho, lived in the semi-basement unit below them.
Min-jun knocked on the metal door.
"It's open!" a gruff voice yelled.
Min-jun stepped inside. The air was thick with the smell of dried peppers and cheap tobacco. The room was small, lit by a single flickering fluorescent tube. Byung-ho sat on the heated floor (ondol), watching the news on a bulky CRT television.
Byung-ho was seventy years old, a man made of reinforced concrete and stubbornness. He had built half the apartment complexes in Mapo-gu with his bare hands, only to lose his own home during the IMF crisis when the construction company went bankrupt.
"What do you want?" Byung-ho asked, not looking away from the TV. "If you're here to ask for allowance, ask your father. I'm a pensioner."
Min-jun took a deep breath. This was the most important pitch of his life. He had pitched to billionaires in Yeouido boardrooms, but this old man was a tougher client.
Min-jun sat cross-legged on the floor, facing him.
"Grandpa. I need you to open a securities account."
Byung-ho froze. He slowly turned his head, his eyes narrowing into slits. "What did you say?"
"I want to invest."
"Invest?" Byung-ho scoffed, a harsh, barking sound. "You mean gamble? Like your uncle who lost his taxi license playing go-stop? Get out."
"It's not gambling," Min-jun said, his voice steady. "And I know about the money."
Byung-ho flinched. "What money?"
"The black plastic bag under the floorboard in your bedroom. Beneath the old electric blanket."
The silence in the room was absolute. The sound of the news anchor talking about the weather seemed to fade away. Byung-ho looked at his grandson with genuine shock, and then, danger.
"Did you steal from me?" Byung-ho asked, his voice low and dangerous.
"No," Min-jun said. "I would never touch it. I know what that money is. It's for my college tuition. Maybe for my wedding, if there's any left. It's roughly 10 million won, right?"
Byung-ho sighed, his shoulders slumping. The anger drained out, replaced by a weary defensiveness. "It's 10.5 million. It took me seven years of pouring concrete to save that after the IMF took everything. It is sacred money, Min-jun. It stays under the floor until you get into Seoul National University."
"Grandpa," Min-jun leaned forward. "Under the floor, that money is dying."
"What?"
"Inflation is at 3% this year. The price of rice is going up. The price of tuition is going up. Every year that money sits there, it loses value. You are literally burning 300,000 won a year just by letting it sit."
"Banks are thieves," Byung-ho spat. "They take your money and freeze it when the economy crashes. Cash is king."
"Cash is trash," Min-jun countered instantly. "Not in a recovery market."
He pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket. He had drawn a chart on it during math class. It was a crude drawing of the K-Motors stock chart, with a projection line shooting upward.
"Grandpa, lend me the money. Just for six months."
"Absolutely not. You are a child."
"I am the top student in my grade," Min-jun lied smoothly (he was technically ranked 4th in this timeline, but he would fix that). "I have read every financial newspaper in the library for the past year. I have a thesis."
"A thesis?" Byung-ho raised an eyebrow.
"K-Motors. Code 000270. They are releasing a new car in April. The K5. It will change the market perception of the brand. The foreigners—the big investors from America and Europe—are already buying quietly. We need to buy before they announce it publicly."
Byung-ho stared at the drawing. He didn't understand the lines. But he understood the look in Min-jun's eyes.
He had seen that look before. It was the look of a foreman surveying a site before breaking ground. It was the look of competence.
"If you lose it..." Byung-ho started, his voice trembling slightly. "If you lose that money, Min-jun... you lose your future. I can't save it again. I'm too old."
"I won't lose it," Min-jun said. "But to be safe, let's make a contract."
"A contract?"
Min-jun took a red ink pad from the desk. He wrote on the back of the paper.
I, Kang Min-jun, borrow 10,000,000 KRW from Kang Byung-ho. Condition: Principal guaranteed. Upside: 70% to Min-jun, 30% to Byung-ho. Penalty: If the principal is lost, Kang Min-jun forfeits his right to college and will work at a construction site to repay the debt.
He signed it and pressed his thumbprint.
Byung-ho looked at the contract. He looked at his grandson's unblemished hands.
"You're a crazy bastard," Byung-ho muttered. "Betting your life on a car company."
"I'm betting on myself, Grandpa."
Byung-ho stood up. He walked into the bedroom. Min-jun heard the sound of furniture being moved, then the crinkle of plastic.
The old man returned holding a dusty, black plastic bag wrapped in duct tape. He slammed it onto the low table. It landed with a heavy thud.
"Tomorrow," Byung-ho said gruffly. "We go to the securities firm. But I hold the passbook. I hold the stamp. You just... press the buttons."
Min-jun reached out and touched the bag. He could feel the bundles of 50,000 won notes inside.
This was it. The seed.
In his past life, this money was slowly eaten away by his father's debts and his mother's medical bills. It had vanished without ever growing.
"Thank you, Grandpa," Min-jun said, bowing his head.
"Don't thank me yet," the old man lit another cigarette, his hands shaking slightly. "Make me money, you punk. Then I'll thank you."
Min-jun smiled. It wasn't the polite smile of a grandson. It was the shark-like grin of the Shadow Sovereign of Yeouido.
"Oh, I will," Min-jun whispered. "We're going to rob the foreigners blind."
[TRANSACTION LOG - PENDING]
- Date: March 2, 2010
- Capital Secured: 10,500,000 KRW (Cash)
- Source: Private Equity (Grandfather’s Floorboard Fund)
- Cost of Capital: 30% of Profits + "Construction Labor" Penalty Clause.
Target Asset: K-Motors (000270)