Time was a relative concept.
When you are staring at a Bloomberg terminal watching a flash crash, an hour feels like a second. When you are sixteen years old, sitting in a classroom that smells of damp gym clothes and chalk, listening to a history teacher drone on about the Joseon Dynasty's tax reforms, an hour feels like a geologic epoch.
Kang Min-jun tapped his pen against his desk. Tap. Tap. Tap.
It had been twelve days since he bought K-Motors. The stock was doing exactly what he predicted: absolutely nothing. It was hovering between 22,300 and 22,600 won, trapping retail investors in a boredom squeeze. This was the "accumulation phase," where weak hands got tired and sold, and smart money quietly bought.
Min-jun knew this. He had the discipline of a veteran fund manager. But his sixteen-year-old body was restless. His legs twitched. His stomach growled.
Bang.
A foot kicked the back of his chair. Hard.
Min-jun stopped tapping. He didn't turn around. He knew who it was.
Park Sung-min.
Every school had one. The alpha male of the ecosystem. Sung-min was 180cm tall, weighed 85kg, and had the thick neck of someone who peaked in high school. His father owned three "Golden Chicken" fried chicken franchises in the district, which, in the economy of 2010 high schoolers, made him royalty. He always had the newest Nike Shox shoes and cash for the snack bar.
Bang.
"Hey. Kang Min-jun," Sung-min’s voice was low, a rasping whisper. "Are you deaf?"
Min-jun sighed. He slowly turned around.
"What?"
Sung-min leaned back in his chair, flanked by two lackeys who laughed on cue. "I'm thirsty. Go to the vending machine. Milkis. Strawberry flavor."
He didn't offer money.
In his past life, Min-jun would have scurried away. He would have bought the drink with his own lunch money, hoping that compliance would buy him safety. It never did. It only lowered his credit rating in the social market.
But the Min-jun of 2025 had dealt with loan sharks, corrupt prosecutors, and Chaebol sociopaths. Park Sung-min was a golden retriever compared to the wolves of Yeouido.
"I'm busy," Min-jun said, turning back to his notebook.
The silence in the back of the classroom was instant. The lackeys stopped laughing. Sung-min blinked, processing the glitch in his reality.
"Busy?" Sung-min stood up. His chair scraped loudly against the floor. He walked around and stood over Min-jun's desk, casting a shadow over the notebook filled with stochastic calculus. "Busy doing what? Drawing scribbles?"
He snatched the notebook.
"Give it back," Min-jun said calmly.
"Or what? You'll cry?" Sung-min sneered. "You think because you got into this school you're something? Your dad drives a taxi, right? My dad makes more in a week than yours makes in a year."
Min-jun looked up. He looked at Sung-min’s face—red, puffy, arrogant.
He didn't feel fear. He felt pity. He was looking at a short-term bond about to default.
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"Golden Chicken," Min-jun said.
"What?"
"Your dad runs the Golden Chicken franchise in Bangi-dong. The one near the intersection."
"So? You want a coupon, beggar?"
Min-jun stood up. He was shorter than Sung-min, and thinner, but he held himself with a strange, suffocating stillness.
"Sung-min," Min-jun said, his voice quiet enough that the teacher didn't hear, but loud enough for the surrounding students. "Tell your father to cancel his bulk order for next month. And tell him to pivot to roasted chicken, not fried."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"The news hasn't hit the major networks yet," Min-jun lied smoothly. Well, it wasn't a lie—it was news from the future. "But there are rumors of an Avian Influenza outbreak in the Jeolla province farms. The government is going to announce a cull next week."
Sung-min frowned. "Bird flu?"
"When the news hits, poultry consumption drops by 40%. The price of raw chicken will plummet, but nobody will buy fried chicken because of the fear. If your dad is sitting on a massive inventory of frozen chicken, he's going to hold the bag. And since Golden Chicken is a franchise, corporate won't reimburse him for spoiled stock."
Min-jun stepped closer.
"You're wearing new Nikes. That means your cash flow is good right now. But in three weeks? Your dad is going to be screaming at the TV. So, if I were you, I wouldn't be extorting milk money. I'd be helping your dad liquidate his assets before the market crashes."
Sung-min stared at him. He didn't understand the terms—liquidity, inventory, cull—but the specificity of the threat rattled him. It sounded too boring to be a lie.
"You... are you crazy?" Sung-min stammered, his bravado flickering.
"Maybe," Min-jun gently took the notebook from Sung-min's frozen hand. "But I'm right. Check the agricultural news if you don't believe me. Now, sit down. You're blocking the light."
Min-jun sat. He went back to his calculations.
Sung-min stood there for a moment, his face flushing a deep crimson. He wanted to hit Min-jun. He should have hit him. But the psychological wall Min-jun had built was made of cold, hard data. The bully hesitated, then scoffed, "Crazy bastard," and retreated to his seat.
Min-jun didn't look up.
Market sentiment managed, he thought. Bullying is just a leverage game. If your leverage (information) is higher than theirs (violence), you win.
5:00 PM. Classroom.
The bell rang. School was over.
Min-jun was packing his bag when the classroom TV, usually left on mute, caught his eye. The cleaning lady had turned up the volume.
[BREAKING NEWS: 2010 National Fencing Championship]
Min-jun froze.
On the screen, a young man in pristine white fencing gear removed his mask. He was handsome, with sharp, aristocratic features and sweat glistening on his forehead like diamonds. He smiled at the camera—a smile that practiced humility but screamed entitlement.
Jin Hyuk-jae (17). Daegwang High School. Heir to the Daegwang Group.
"Wow," a girl in the front row sighed. "He's so cool. And rich."
Min-jun felt the blood in his veins turn to ice.
Jin Hyuk-jae.
The man who, in 2024, would throw a glass ashtray at Min-jun's head because a merger deal was delayed by three hours. The man who treated employees like disposable wet wipes. The man whose incompetence Min-jun had spent his entire adult life covering up, only to be betrayed.
On the screen, a reporter shoved a microphone in Hyuk-jae's face.
"Mr. Jin! You've won the gold medal again. Do you plan to pursue fencing professionally?"
Hyuk-jae laughed. It was a charming, rehearsed sound. "No. Fencing is just a hobby to learn discipline. My true duty is to learn from my father and serve the Daegwang Group. I want to contribute to the Korean economy."
"Bullshit," Min-jun whispered.
The room seemed to darken around him. The sounds of the classroom faded.
He remembered the future. In 2019, Hyuk-jae would get bored of "serving the economy" and start an illegal gambling ring in Macau, using company funds. Min-jun had to fly there personally to bribe officials and bury the evidence.
You look so happy, Hyuk-jae, Min-jun thought, staring at the pixelated face of his enemy. You think the world is your playground. You think you were born at the finish line.
Min-jun gripped the strap of his backpack until his knuckles turned white.
Enjoy it. Enjoy your youth. Enjoy your gold medals.
Because I'm coming for you. Not with a sword, but with a ledger. I'm going to buy the ground you stand on, the bank that holds your debt, and the board members who protect you.
I will delist you.
Min-jun turned away from the screen and walked out of the classroom.
He marched down the hallway, his footsteps echoing loudly. He needed to check the terminal. He needed to see his money growing.
Revenge required capital. And right now, he was still just a high school student with 10 million won and a grudge.
[PORTFOLIO STATUS UPDATE]
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Date: March 15, 2010
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Asset: K-Motors (000270)
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Current Price: 22,550 KRW (+0.4%)
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P/L: +46,500 KRW (Unrealized)
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Status: Stagnant.
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Notes: Volatility is compressing. The spring coil is tightening. Just two weeks left until the Catalyst.