The meticulously charted "Precipice Map" for the 1997 crisis was complete, its chilling precision a constant reminder of the chaos to come. With the blueprint of economic collapse firmly in place, Min-jun, now seventeen and increasingly attuned to the nuances of human interaction, shifted his focus from the macro to the micro. He understood that navigating the storm, and indeed ruling the world, required more than just foresight and algorithms; it demanded mastery over the art of strategy, negotiation, and controlling the tempo of human interaction itself. He found his training ground not in boardrooms, but in quiet, intense games of chess and Go.
Min-jun began to seek out formidable opponents. He frequented secluded clubs and private study rooms, challenging seasoned professionals and retired grandmasters at 3D chess and Go. These were individuals who had dedicated lifetimes to understanding the intricate dance of strategy, patience, and deception. To them, Min-jun was merely a prodigious, if somewhat eerily brilliant, young man accompanied by his quiet "guardian," Mr. Park.
In game after game, Min-jun would consistently win every match. His victories weren't born of brute force or flashy, aggressive plays. Instead, he won by controlling the tempo of the game. He would subtly dictate the rhythm of exchanges, forcing his opponents into uncomfortable positions through seemingly innocuous moves, making them react to his pace rather than their own. He played not just the board, but the mind of his opponent, exploiting their biases, their impatience, their overconfidence. Mr. Park, observing from a respectful distance, often found himself marveling. "He doesn't just see the next move," he once whispered to Seo-jin, "he sees the next ten, and knows exactly how to make his opponent play his moves."
Min-jun decided it was time to bring Baek Ji-hoon, his brightest apprentice, into this crucial aspect of his training. Her unparalleled ability to discern patterns made her a perfect candidate for understanding the complex dynamics of human negotiation. Their sessions moved beyond economic models to the very psychology of influence.
Min-jun meticulously taught Ji-hoon about negotiation using advanced game theory. He introduced her to concepts like ZOPA (Zone of Possible Agreement), teaching her to identify the overlap between two parties' acceptable outcomes. He drilled her on BATNA (Best Alternative To a Negotiated Agreement), emphasizing the importance of knowing one's walk-away point and strengthening it before entering any discussion. "Always know your options, Ji-hoon-ssi," Min-jun would calmly instruct. "The stronger your BATNA, the stronger your position at the table, even if the other side doesn't know it."
The practical application of these lessons came through rigorous mock debates and negotiation simulations. Min-jun would often play the role of a difficult, uncompromising opponent, testing Ji-hoon's composure and her ability to apply theoretical models under pressure. Ji-hoon, armed with her newfound knowledge, would methodically dismantle his arguments, calmly identifying his ZOPA, and leveraging her calculated BATNA.
To the amazement of Mr. Park, who occasionally observed these sessions, Ji-hoon would win every time. She wasn't aggressive, nor was she overly charming. Her strength lay in her impeccable logic and her uncanny ability to understand the underlying motivations and constraints of her "opponent," making her arguments almost unassailable. Mr. Park chuckled. "She's like a quiet, polite bulldozer, Min-jun-ah. They never see her coming until the deal's done!"
Seo-jin, ever perceptive, observed the deepening bond and intellectual synergy between Min-jun and Ji-hoon. She saw Ji-hoon not just as a student, but as a nascent extension of Min-jun's own strategic mind, trained to his exacting standards. One afternoon, after Ji-hoon had effortlessly navigated a particularly thorny mock negotiation, Seo-jin turned to Min-jun, a thoughtful expression on her face.
"Chairman," she mused, her voice soft but direct, "you're not just training a talented assistant. You're building heirs to your mind. People who can think like you, understand your vision, and execute it with similar precision." She recognized the profound implications of what Min-jun was doing—creating a cadre of uniquely capable individuals who could carry forward his legacy.
Min-jun, gazing out at the city where his empire was quietly taking root, nodded slowly. "Precisely, Ms. Han," he affirmed, his voice quiet yet firm. "An empire, however vast, cannot rest on a single mind forever. We build one empire, many minds. The future requires distributed genius, all working in concert. Ji-hoon-ssi is just the first. Our power will be systemic, not singular." His vision was not merely of wealth, but of a new kind of institutional intelligence, capable of enduring for generations.