Morning sunlight spilled through the thin curtains, painting soft gold lines across the small apartment. Outside, Seoul's old neighborhood hummed with life—vendors opening their stalls, buses grinding up narrow hills, metal shutters clanging open.
He lay in his crib, pretending to nap while his mother prepared breakfast. Her movements were quiet and efficient—as if sound itself cost money.
She placed a bowl of rice porridge on the foldable table and sighed.A sigh heavier than any winter wind.
Rent was due soon.Food was running low.Her sewing work barely kept them afloat.
His tiny hands curled into fists.
He hated this feeling—this helplessness that reminded him too much of the night he died in 2025. The hunger. The fear. The darkness.
Not this life.Never again.
He pushed himself into a sitting position, wobbling like all toddlers do. His mother turned and blinked in surprise.
"Oh, you're up already?"
He stared at her.A moment passed.
Then, testing the strength of his newly forming vocal cords, he parted his lips.
"Um…ma…"
A half-formed sound.Barely audible.
Yet her eyes widened instantly.
"Oh my—! Did you just…? Say it again!"
He swallowed, took a breath, and tried again.
"Ma…ma."
Not perfect.Still rough.But real.
Her hands flew to her mouth, eyes shining with sudden joy. She scooped him up and twirled once—something she had never done before, not in the recent memory of this small apartment.
"My baby said his first word…!" she whispered. "Mama… Mama…"
He rested his head against her shoulder.Warm.Safe.Loved.
In his old life, he never got to make his mother proud.He died before he could give her anything.
But here…in this life…this tiny accomplishment meant the world to her.
And that meant everything to him.
Over the next few weeks, he pushed himself carefully—never too fast, never too perfect.
He wanted to be seen as smart…Not impossible.
He practiced crawling with purpose, dragging himself toward objects in a straight line instead of random wandering like other babies. His mother noticed.
"You're very focused," she chuckled. "Are you going to be a serious man like your father?"
He didn't know much about his father yet.From the way she avoided the topic, the answer was probably painful.
So he didn't react.He simply reached for a plastic cup and tapped it against the floor—testing durability, sound, weight.
Analyzing.
As he played, his mind drifted.
This neighborhood is lower-income. Rent is cheap. Shops are small. Workers look tired. Korea in this era is still recovering… meaning wages are low, unemployment high.But that means prices are low too. Perfect for early investment later…
He watched two men from the window—factory workers judging by their uniforms—talk about layoffs. For most children, those words meant nothing.
For him?
It was information.
Economic atmosphere.Social pressure.Job market instability.Early 2000s tech boom preparation.
Everything mattered.
One afternoon, while his mother was away taking sewing orders, the landlady knocked again. Hard.
The door shook.
He lay quietly in the crib, pretending not to exist.
"Rent is next week," the landlady snapped through the thin plywood door. "Last warning."
His mother bowed deeply, though the landlady couldn't see it."I understand. I will pay. Just… give me time."
"Time doesn't pay bills."
Footsteps faded.
His mother closed the door with trembling hands. For a moment, she leaned her forehead against it… breathing shakily.
He watched from the crib.
His chest tightened painfully.
She whispered to herself, barely audible:
"I wish… I wasn't alone…"
His heart broke cleanly in two.
In his previous life, someone said something similar to him—right before he lost them due to financial stress. The memory burned.
He would not let that happen again.
That evening, she set him on the mat and tried to sew, but her right hand kept cramping. The needle slipped. The thread knotted.
She flinched.Her fingers were raw.Eyes red.
Without thinking, he crawled to her knee again, just like before.
But this time, he did something different.
He lifted her hand—tiny fingers pressing against her calloused palm—and kissed it.
A baby's kiss.But full of meaning.
She froze.
Then tears fell silently down her cheeks.
"Oh, sweetheart…" she whispered, voice cracking. "I'm okay. Don't worry."
But he did worry.And he would never forget this moment.
The moment he swore to remove every obstacle from her life.No matter what it took.
In this life, he wasn't reborn to play.Or to live quietly.Or to simply exist.
He was reborn to dominate the world—and protect the woman who kept him alive with her own hands.
That night, as she sang him to sleep, he stared up at the ceiling again—the same cracked line, the same shadows.
But unlike before, he didn't feel small.
He felt unstoppable.
Once I speak, I'll learn.Once I walk, I'll act.Once I grow, I'll build.Once I earn, I'll rise.
His fists closed tightly around the blanket.
"This time," he vowed silently,"I won't break.I'll break the world if I have to."
And in the dim Korean apartment,a tiny spark of ambition lit the darkness—the kind of spark that would one day burn the entire global market.