As the final months of 1996 bled into the fragile hope of a new year, Min-jun's focus sharpened to an almost unbearable point. His global network, his AI intelligence, his media channels, and his academic influence were all operating with chilling precision. He had prepared for the storm. Now, he needed to finalize the blueprint of the collapse, mapping every tremor and every opportunity within the impending 1997 Asian Financial Crisis.
This wasn't just about predicting the crisis; it was about dissecting it into its core components. Min-jun's Omni-7 hummed with unprecedented activity, crunching historical data, economic indicators, and behavioral models to create the most comprehensive, real-time projection of a coming disaster ever conceived. It was the culmination of his foresight, translated into actionable intelligence.
Min-jun oversaw the creation of the full collapse timeline for the 1997 Asian Financial Crisis. This was no mere forecast; it was a granular, hour-by-hour, day-by-day map of economic implosion. It charted the precise sequence of events: the initial signs of foreign capital flight, the panic in the Thai baht, the inevitable contagion across Southeast Asia, and finally, the direct hit on South Korea. He had seen this future once as a nightmare; now, he viewed it as a complex, solvable puzzle.
Every financial artery of the nation was analyzed. He meticulously mapped each opportunity: the exact moments of bank runs as public trust evaporated, the dizzying plummet of collapsed currencies as foreign reserves vanished, and the catastrophic real estate implosions that would wipe out fortunes overnight. Mr. Park, reviewing the chillingly precise projections, felt a cold dread settle in his stomach. "Min-jun-ah," he murmured, his voice barely audible, "this isn't a prediction; it's a script. A tragedy waiting to unfold." Min-jun merely nodded, his expression unreadable.
Beyond the immediate chaos, Min-jun's analysis extended to the aftermath. He understood that collapse bred opportunity for those prepared to seize it. Leveraging the capabilities of Echo and Pulse, he created a detailed flowchart of acquisition targets and recovery cycles. This wasn't just a list of companies; it was a strategic roadmap for rebuilding.
Each acquisition target was categorized by its fundamental strength, its post-crisis potential, and its strategic importance to Korea's future economy. The flowchart outlined not just what to acquire, but when—the optimal window during the deepest troughs of the crisis, ensuring maximum leverage for Future Mind Co. It plotted the anticipated recovery cycles for each industry, indicating when strategic investments would yield the most significant returns. Seo-jin, her legal mind usually sharp and incisive, found herself overwhelmed by the sheer scale. "Chairman," she confessed, her voice strained, "the audacity of this plan… it's almost terrifying. You're not just reacting to a crisis; you're orchestrating its resolution before it even begins."
Mr. Park and Seo-jin, his most trusted lieutenants, were both visibly overwhelmed by the scale and chilling precision of Min-jun's "Precipice Map." The weight of the impending disaster, coupled with the immense responsibility of executing Min-jun's intricate plan, settled heavily upon them. They saw the detailed timelines, the specific triggers, the precise economic fallout that would devastate millions. It was a vision of pure, unadulterated economic determinism.
Despite their personal anxieties, their loyalty and faith in Min-jun were absolute. They had witnessed his uncanny foresight too many times to doubt him now. They exchanged worried glances, their faces etched with a mixture of awe and apprehension, but they obeyed completely. Every instruction was meticulously followed, every detail double-checked. They were soldiers preparing for a war only their general could truly foresee. Mr. Park often found himself nervously adjusting his tie, while Seo-jin would discreetly clench her jaw, silently bracing for the onslaught.
In a final act of summation, Min-jun stood in his study, the holographic projection of the collapse timeline shimmering before him. The comprehensive map of despair and opportunity was complete. He reached out, touching a point on the timeline representing a specific date in late 1997—the precise moment when the crisis would fully engulf Korea.
He then sent the entire, meticulously crafted chart to his secure printer. The machine whirred to life, printing the complex web of interconnected events, financial triggers, and strategic opportunities onto a single, large sheet. It was a chillingly elegant document, a prophecy manifest on paper. As the final sheet emerged, Min-jun's hand reached for a black marker. With a decisive stroke, he wrote a stark, prophetic title at the very top of the chart:
"The Day the Clock Breaks."
The words hung in the air, a silent testament to the coming upheaval. For Min-jun, the crisis was not a random act of fate, but a precise, predictable event. And he was ready.