While Min-jun's strategic mind ceaselessly plotted the future of finance, technology, and entertainment, even a visionary orchestrating an empire needed an anchor. That anchor was his mother, Kang Eun-ju. By September 1995, the visible changes in their lives were undeniable: the sprawling new apartment in Gangnam, the top-tier school Min-jun attended, the casual mention of Mr. Park's global business trips. Yet, Min-jun's mother remained grounded, her daily routines a comforting counterpoint to the dizzying scale of her son's endeavors.
Kang Eun-ju didn't understand the specifics of derivatives or search algorithms, let alone distributed ledgers. Her son spoke a language of markets and technology that was entirely foreign to her. But she felt, instinctively, the enormity of his destiny. She saw the quiet confidence in his eyes, the deep satisfaction he derived from his work, and the unwavering respect Mr. Park held for him. She attributed it all to his innate brilliance and the mysterious, benevolent guidance of Mr. Park, her late husband's trusted friend.
She often found herself watching Min-jun, a gentle, almost wistful smile on her face. He was still her son, the boy who loved her kimchi stew and preferred reading to playing outside. But there was an ancient quality to him now, a wisdom that seemed to bypass his youth.
One evening, as she knitted quietly while Min-jun reviewed complex future market charts in his study, she reminisced aloud. "You know, Min-jun-ah," she began softly, "your father always said you were born with 'an old man's gaze.' Even as a baby, you looked at the world with such serious eyes. He said you understood things even before you had words." She chuckled gently. "He used to tease you, saying you were probably born reading a newspaper."
Min-jun looked up from his screen, a rare, soft smile gracing his lips. He cherished these moments with his mother. They grounded him, reminding him of the human element in all his grand designs. Her love was an unwavering constant, a silent source of strength. "He would have been proud of you, Min-jun-ah. So, so proud. And a little bewildered, perhaps," she added with a laugh.
One sunny Saturday, Kang Eun-ju insisted they spend the afternoon together. "Come, Min-jun-ah," she urged, her eyes twinkling. "You spend too much time with numbers and Mr. Park. Your mother wants to spoil you a little. Let's go to the department store."
Min-jun, despite his advanced intellect, understood the importance of these mundane, human rituals. He agreed without hesitation. They navigated the bustling aisles of a high-end department store, a stark contrast to their previous thrifty shopping trips. His mother's delight in the simplest things, like the texture of a cashmere sweater or the gleam of polished shoes, was infectious.
As they browsed the men's section, Kang Eun-ju paused before a rack of finely woven wool sweaters. She pulled out a soft, dark gray one. "This, Min-jun-ah. This looks warm. You spend so many hours focused on your work, sometimes you forget to take care of yourself." She held it up against him, adjusting the imaginary fit. "Even generals need warmth, Min-jun."
Min-jun felt a pang of warmth, a quiet resonance with the sentiment. He knew he was indeed a general in an unseen war, orchestrating moves on a global chessboard. And a general, even one armed with foresight, still needed the comfort of a mother's care. "It's perfect, Mother," he said, accepting the sweater. The transaction, though small, was a profound moment of connection, a reminder of the precious human anchor in his extraordinary life.
That night, after his mother had retired, Min-jun sat in his study. The new sweater lay folded on a chair, a tangible symbol of his mother's love. He opened a new file on the Omni-7, a blank spreadsheet. His mind, always seeking patterns and connections, began to work.
He remembered her quiet admiration for a particular brand of ceramic dinnerware, her wistful glances at a new line of kitchen appliances, her consistent choice of a specific brand of fabric softener. He had dismissed these observations as trivial at the time. Now, they were data points.
Min-jun spent the next hour meticulously listing every brand his mother had expressed affection for during their shopping trip, and from his memory of their home. He then cross-referenced them with the Omni-7's future corporate archives. He quickly identified the parent companies of each: a major electronics conglomerate, a leading household goods manufacturer, a mid-tier fashion retailer.
He was no longer just investing in abstract trends or groundbreaking technology. He was investing in the tangible products that brought his mother joy, in the very companies that enriched her everyday life. It was a subtle, profoundly personal form of market manipulation, driven not by profit alone, but by a quiet, unwavering love. The financial general, who could move nations, also knew how to quietly support the small, precious world of his mother, ensuring her comfort and happiness, one carefully chosen stock at a time. The markets, in Min-jun's world, were not just cold numbers; they were intricately woven with human lives and even maternal affection.