As the winter of 1996 bit deep into early 1997, a veneer of normalcy still clung to South Korea. Yet, beneath the surface, the subtle tremors Min-jun had predicted were beginning. His preparations were complete, his systems humming, his lieutenants poised. Now, he simply watched, observing the initial, almost imperceptible manifestations of the coming storm. His foresight was about to be validated in a very public, if tragically ironic, way.
Min-jun chose a specific target for his observation: Hanwool Group, a sprawling chaebol deeply entrenched in shipbuilding and heavy industry. Hanwool was an archetype of the traditional Korean economic model—aggressive expansion fueled by massive, often short-term, debt, and an almost unshakeable belief in its own invulnerability.
Months earlier, Min-jun had dispatched a subtle, anonymous warning to Hanwool's executive board. It was a meticulously researched financial analysis, generated by Pulse and Echo, detailing Hanwool's perilous debt exposure to a volatile mix of short-term foreign loans and thinly capitalized domestic banks. The report urged immediate deleveraging and diversification.
The warning was dismissed with a scoff. Chairman Kim, a titan of Korean industry known for his bluster, had crumpled the report in his hand during a private board meeting. "Anonymous drivel!" he'd reportedly bellowed. "Some young analyst with too much time on his hands. Hanwool has always expanded, and we will continue to expand! Our growth is inevitable!" His arrogance, common among the chaebol elite of the era, blinded him to the meticulous truth presented by an unknown source. Min-jun, watching from afar through Pulse's data feeds that monitored corporate sentiment, noted the predictable, dismissive reaction.
Over the next six months, Min-jun watched with chilling detachment as Hanwool Group's decline unfolded exactly like clockwork. The narrative was so precise, it felt like reading from a pre-written script. First came the minor missed payments on obscure European loans, dismissed as "clerical errors" by Hanwool's public relations team. Then, a series of ambitious, poorly timed investments in emerging markets turned sour, hemorrhaging capital.
Their stock price began a slow, inexorable slide, initially dismissed as "market volatility." Murmurs in the financial press grew louder, progressing from quiet concerns about leverage to outright questions about solvency. International ratings agencies began their ominous dance, subtly downgrading Hanwool's debt. Mr. Park, reviewing the real-time data from Pulse and the long-term projections from Echo, often found himself adjusting his spectacles, a nervous habit. "Min-jun-ah," he'd said one day, pointing at a red line plummeting on the screen, "it's like watching a train wreck in slow motion. Precisely as you outlined months ago." Min-jun merely nodded, a calm, almost serene expression on his face.
As Hanwool Group finally hit its absolute nadir, teetering on the very precipice of total collapse, its stock trading at a fraction of its former value, Min-jun made his move. It was a surgical, perfectly timed intervention. He initiated a series of discreet purchases, acquiring precisely 6% of Hanwool Group's shares at the bottom. The shares were bought not by Future Mind Co. directly, but through a complex web of proxies—multiple layers of his untraceable ghost subsidiaries and anonymous foreign investment funds spread across various tax havens.
The cost was laughably low, a testament to the market's panic and Hanwool's desperation. It was just enough to provide a crucial, stabilizing infusion of liquidity, to pull the company back from the very brink without revealing his hand or signaling an intent for a hostile takeover. Mr. Park, executing the intricate sequence of trades, felt a strange mix of exhilaration and unease. "Sir," he reported, "we practically got them for pennies on the dollar. It feels almost criminal."
Days later, Hanwool Group, having miraculously averted total collapse, held a hastily arranged, desperate press conference. Chairman Kim, visibly shaken and his face etched with the recent trauma, announced their unexpected survival. He spoke in trembling tones of "the resilience of the Korean spirit" and the "unwavering belief in our nation's future." Then, his voice cracking with emotion, he declared, "A mysterious, benevolent investor, whose identity remains unknown, has shown faith in Hanwool when all others abandoned us. A miracle investor saved us!" He even dabbed at his eyes with a handkerchief, playing to the cameras.
Min-jun watched the televised press conference from a small screen in his private office, a faint, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips. Beside him, Mr. Park snorted softly. "A 'miracle,' he calls it. If only he knew the 'miracle' was a sixteen-year-old and a supercomputer."
As Chairman Kim concluded his emotional address, Min-jun turned from the screen, his gaze meeting Mr. Park's. His voice was quiet, imbued with a deep, unwavering certainty. "No miracles, Mr. Park." He paused, then continued, his voice firm, "Only machines and memory."
He was referring to his ultimate tools: the cold, calculating precision of Echo and Pulse, and the invaluable knowledge gleaned from his future memories. There was no room for mysticism or chance in his world, only the relentless application of foresight and sophisticated algorithms. This specific event, the salvation of Hanwool Group, served as a chilling microcosm of the larger crisis to come. It demonstrated Min-jun's unparalleled ability to capitalize on systemic failures while simultaneously orchestrating the rescue of key assets, all while remaining an unseen, benevolent force. The stage was now truly set for the market meltdown.