Butterfly Effect

A sushi restaurant in Tokyo.

Exquisite high-end sushi arrived, so visually stunning that saliva practically poured at the sight of it.

Tak!

A sushi master with a full fifty years of experience formed each piece by hand. The taste of the botan shrimp nigiri shaped by that stubborn old craftsman's fingers was enough to pull a reaction straight out of anyone.

The botan shrimp was so enormous you could barely tell whether it was shrimp or baby lobster, melting together with the rice grains inside the mouth.

Tak!

Mushi-awabi — Japanese-style steamed abalone. Premium abalone, steamed with refined care, trimmed for easy eating, and laid atop the rice. The springy texture that snapped cleanly with a satisfying tok made the eating itself a pleasure. The deep savor of the abalone liver brushed on in place of wasabi needed no further praise.

There simply wasn't enough time to eat it all. That was the only way it could be. Even otoro — bluefin tuna belly — was still waiting its turn. And this was no ordinary otoro. The finest tuna, transported under ideal conditions, then hand-prepared by a fifty-year master. People came from all over Japan and the entire world just for this one piece. Even with a reservation, the wait stretched into years.

The guest declined. Instead of the kind of premium sushi that belonged in Sushi King, he had chosen egg nigiri. Of course, it was still crafted with a master's pride — a castella-soft, cloud-fluffy egg omelette that took over thirty minutes just to cook. A masterpiece, no question.

Eating it at a Michelin three-star restaurant was, admittedly, a bit of a waste. Even so, the party polished off the egg sushi to match the man's request and moved on to the next venue.

A golf course. They had brought professional staff along — caddies, of course, and even a currently active pro.

Plus a dedicated reaction crew. After a warm, cheerful round of golf, they headed to the next stop. Stomachs full, bodies lightly tired — the perfect moment for something to watch.

Japan's traditional sport, viewed from the absolute best seats in the arena. They had even prepared a sofa for the man who found sitting cross-legged uncomfortable. Sushi, golf, and sumo viewing — a one-day ultra-luxury tour. Japan had rolled out a reception more lavish than anything imaginable.

President Trump's visit to Japan was being covered as lead news even across the sea in Korea. The image of an unhinged Trump beside an Abe whose smile was not really a smile was enough to draw a laugh. And for good reason.

It had been pouring water into a bottomless jar. Despite Japan's full-court diplomatic offensive, he forced his will through.

The impact on Japanese industry was enormous. Japan's auto sector took a direct hit — but Korea caught the shrapnel too.

Not a direct hit, but the ricochet was unavoidable. Certain Korean sectors took damage — especially autos, which got swept up in the Japanese car sanctions. Stock prices that had finally turned onto an upward trend collapsed all over again, as if the climb had never happened.

For five years the prices had been pressed down, and now they were being pressed down all over again. Shareholders could only heave deep sighs. They clung to hope — that this drop was nothing more than a passing wave.

A broken trend does not recover easily. And once broken, it shakes even harder under bad news. US rate hikes. Massive new-model recalls. Trump floating the scrap of the Korea-US FTA. Even those who had bought after confirming a bottom got bagged. Corpses piled into mountains as the stock price plunged into the abyss.

How could anyone not wonder? How had a market overflowing with nothing but euphoria turned into a living hell overnight?

The experts had clearly been screaming long! Even if it couldn't go up, people thought, at least it wouldn't fall.

Hindsight explanations were endless. But they offered no comfort to people already bagged. This wasn't pocket change. Hundreds of thousands of won at the low end, hundreds of millions at the high end. People who had poured in their entire net worth were everywhere. Shareholders were genuinely wailing.

A situation with nothing left but despair. People would grab at any straw. Stocks are bought on the hope of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a future. Without hope, you can't buy — and even if you do, you can't hold. What if it falls further? Hope was needed. Someone to lean on. And a student who had already known the future began to look like a savior.

This was how disciples were made.

My recent daily life. Nothing much had changed, really.

"No, Professor — realistically, that just isn't going to happen."

I was the same. What had changed was always the same thing.

"No way?"

"Whoa, I think that's the senior!"

"The one who turned the professor into a Water Rocket…"

The world. The way people looked at me. People who had belonged to the majority.

There's no majority vote in stocks.

Just because a lot of people support something doesn't make it right, and the reverse doesn't make it wrong either. But if someone consistently pointed out the correct path—

"Just what… is the problem supposed to be? Are you saying there's an error in my lecture right now?"

"Yes."

"Wh-what is it?"

"Analyzing stock prices and evaluating a company's value with nothing but the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠financial statements is way too amateurish."

Fame was inevitable. It was the single surefire way to make a name in the economic world.

I hadn't exactly planned on it.

But that was how it went. I could sit quietly through the professors' lectures. I didn't particularly want to pick fights over every little thing either. The reason the conditioned reflex still fired—

"Stock prices… don't always move exactly according to predictions, you see."

"If you're an economics professor, you should at least get that much right."

"Ahem! Economics professors tend to focus on theory, so their stock returns are often rather low."

—was that they took the economy far too lightly. An economics professor was allowed to be bad at stocks?

Does that make any sense?

They blamed their failures on the world. An arrogant mindset that never even considered putting in the damn effort.

"By your logic, Professor."

"Hmph! What now?"

"You're saying it's useless in practice — so why exactly are we supposed to learn it?"

"…"

They hammered the younger generation about effort nonstop — so why didn't they do it themselves? Why should anyone sit through a lecture from a professor who admitted with his own mouth that he had no ability?

Is there some law that says being a theory genius means you're allowed to suck at stocks?

Theory alone was enough to generate returns. Low risk, low return. Swing investing calculated around the economic cycle. It took time, and the profits were modest, but you could lock in gains for certain. They were plenty old — the "I didn't have time" excuse wouldn't fly.

Words poured out from sheer frustration. The classroom atmosphere should have frozen solid. Not long ago, criticism and dirty looks would have rained down.

"He's revving up!"

"Looks like he's about to go for it?"

"Is he gonna fire it? That thing!?"

Lately it had flipped a full one-eighty. With the Korean auto stock prediction landing dead-on, he was being reappraised both online and inside the department.

This is getting a little annoying.

A brand-new life. He'd wanted to enjoy a leisurely existence, and already he was getting tangled up in incidents. And somehow it seemed to have become a catchphrase. They were expecting it. But if he actually did it, his college life would get seriously twisted.

"Water Rocket — FWOOSH~!"

Ah, whatever.