The torrent of profits from Future Search and FM Angel Investments continued to swell Future Mind Co.'s coffers. Meanwhile, the Invisible Classroom was meticulously shaping the minds of future leaders. But Min-jun, always thinking decades ahead, knew that human intellect needed fertile ground to truly blossom. He needed to plant seeds not just in minds, but in the very bedrock of technological innovation itself. It was early summer 1995, and Min-jun, just fifteen, turned his gaze to the most fundamental of all future assets: pure code.
Min-jun spent countless hours immersed in the deeper layers of the Omni-7's archives, delving beyond market trends and into the fundamental paradigms of future coding. He wasn't just looking at finished software; he was dissecting the theoretical breakthroughs that allowed such software to exist. He studied early concepts of blockchain technology, intrigued by the principles of distributed ledgers and cryptographic security – ideas that in 1995 were barely whispers in academic papers, if they existed at all. He absorbed the nascent theories of neural networks, understanding their potential for artificial intelligence, years before "AI" became a household term. He even glimpsed the foundational architecture of cloud computing, seeing how distributed systems would one day redefine data storage and processing.
Translating these 2030 concepts into the limited technological vocabulary of 1995 was a formidable intellectual exercise. It was like trying to describe a skyscraper to someone who had only ever seen mud huts. He focused on abstract principles, logical frameworks, and challenging theoretical problems that, if solved, would naturally lead towards these future paradigms.
Min-jun decided his method of dissemination had to be subtle, a gentle nudge rather than an overt revelation. Too much too soon would raise suspicion, or worse, be dismissed as the ramblings of a madman. He would leak ideas subtly into the open-source community, anonymously, through existing online developer forums. For this delicate task, he relied on Mr. Park.
"Mr. Park," Min-jun instructed, showing him a series of cryptic, highly technical forum posts drafted on the Omni-7, "I need you to post these. Use different anonymous accounts, created through various proxy servers. Post them on obscure, niche forums – 'comp.ai.research,' 'alt.computer.science.theory,' forums where true enthusiasts debate abstract concepts."
Mr. Park squinted at the screen. One post read: "Query: Theoretical framework for self-organizing, distributed timestamping systems. Potential for immutable ledger structures?" Another: "Hypothesis: Can a network of simple computational nodes, without centralized control, learn to optimize complex pattern recognition?"
"Min-jun-ah," Mr. Park sighed, rubbing his temples, "are these… riddles? What is 'immutable ledger'? And 'computational nodes' sounds like something out of a science fiction comic."
Min-jun simply offered a patient smile. "They are questions, Mr. Park. Questions that will eventually lead to answers that will reshape global finance and artificial intelligence. You don't need to understand them. Just ensure they appear online, under different anonymous names. The right people will find them. Think of it as leaving breadcrumbs for future pioneers."
"Breadcrumbs for geniuses, then," Mr. Park muttered, already logging into a virtual private network. "I just hope I don't accidentally start a global conspiracy theory with your 'immutable ledger.'" He fumbled with the keyboard, carefully copying and pasting the lines of bizarre, futuristic code-speak. The comedy of the situation was not lost on Min-jun – a dignified, elderly CEO acting as an unwitting prophet, unknowingly seeding the next tech revolution into the nascent internet.
To create a more direct incubator for these ideas, Min-jun decided to secretly fund an underground coding meetup in Seoul. This wouldn't be a formal Future Mind event, but a grassroots gathering for young hackers and students, a place where uninhibited discussion and collaborative coding could flourish.
"Find a suitable venue, Mr. Park," Min-jun directed. "Somewhere unassuming, perhaps an old warehouse or a basement space. Equip it with basic computers, reliable internet access – the fastest available for 1995 – and, crucially, an abundance of instant noodles and coffee."
Mr. Park, ever resourceful, located a disused basement near a university district. He discreetly outfitted it, ensuring anonymity. Word spread quickly through student networks and online bulletin boards about the "Seoul Cypher Collective" – a free space for coders to gather, share ideas, and work on open-source projects. Min-jun, observing from afar through Mr. Park's detailed reports, envisioned a dynamic environment where his leaked ideas could organically spark innovation. The place buzzed with raw, unbridled energy. Young programmers, fueled by caffeine and an insatiable curiosity, tapped away at keyboards, their minds alight with possibility.
It was in one of the niche online developer forums that Min-jun, while monitoring the impact of his subtle leaks, found him. A single, unassuming post, in response to one of Min-jun's own cryptic queries about distributed processing, stood out. The code snippet attached was incredibly elegant, solving a complex problem with a simplicity that belied its sophistication. The accompanying text, though terse, demonstrated an intuitive grasp of systems logic that was truly exceptional. The username was simple: "Hyun-woo_Codes."
Min-jun immediately ran a background check using the Omni-7's future knowledge. Yoo Hyun-woo. Currently a reclusive, slightly awkward high school student, diagnosed with a mild form of autism. He struggled with conventional social interactions, preferring the unambiguous logic of code to the unpredictable nuances of human conversation. But his future profile was unmistakable: a pioneering CTO of a major AI firm in 2020, renowned for his ability to architect complex, scalable systems from the ground up. He was a genius in the making, currently overlooked by a world that didn't yet understand his unique way of thinking.
Min-jun observed silently. He saw not just a brilliant mind, but a foundational pillar for Future Mind Co.'s future technological endeavors. He wouldn't approach Hyun-woo directly, not yet. The timing wasn't right, and the boy needed to develop naturally. Instead, Min-jun began to subtly engage with Hyun-woo on the forums, posing specific, challenging questions that nudged his thinking, providing obscure resources that would spark his curiosity, always maintaining his anonymity. He was nurturing him, like a gardener tending a rare, valuable sapling, planning how to eventually bring this quiet prodigy into the fold, to become the future CTO of his sprawling tech empire.
The Seoul Cypher Collective thrived, an unseen engine of innovation. Mr. Park continued to innocently post Min-jun's "riddles" online, sometimes chuckling at the bewildered but intrigued responses they generated. Min-jun watched, a ghost in the machine, systematically seeding the future tech tree, limb by invisible limb, preparing the ground for an era of unprecedented digital growth. The real world had no idea the future was being coded in the shadows.
Min-jun is now planting seeds for future tech