Reborn in a Chaebol Family: Crazy for Ramen

I was reborn into a chaebol family—and I was obsessed with ramen. How obsessed? I filled nearly all my daily carbs, the kind you'd normally get from rice or bread, with ramen instead. Back in my broke days, I had to pinch every penny on food, and ramen was the perfect substitute. Ramen had infinite possibilities. A single pack could spawn dozens of recipes. Some folks topped it with cheese. Others tossed in kimchi and all sorts of ingredients, turning it into something that didn't even taste like ramen anymore.

My phone buzzed nonstop. I was a ramen maniac, but at the same time, a ramen researcher. Or rather, someone who'd studied every successful ramen from Korea to the world over. In a nutshell, one of the top talents in the industry, fingers crossed. Today, too, all the big domestic food companies were showering me with love calls to scout me.

Sorry.

Of course, I had zero intention of joining any company. No need—money wasn't an issue.

13.8 million YouTube subscribers. The influence of my channel could easily devour a mid-tier food conglomerate whole. I'd showcased countless recipes to my viewers. Over 5,000 videos uploaded. The reactions? Explosive.

Normally, I'd be rolling in sponsorships and ads from ramen companies. But I'd never taken that path. Why? Because...

"Sorry. It's stage 4 pancreatic cancer."

"..."

My remaining life was terminal. Three months, they said. Well, yeah—I'd spent day and night devouring ramen to develop recipes. No wonder my health tanked. Sometimes ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I'd eat nothing but ramen for three straight days.

Can I be reborn if I die?

So many ramens left unconquered. The ones I truly wanted to create, the ones that'd make everyone happy—that's what I'd run toward all this time. And now, just three months left.

At first, I drowned in booze out of sheer despair. Or rather, I was running away. Eventually, I resigned myself. And finally, I wanted to visit that place.

Tomorrow. Gotta go tomorrow.

Truth be told, I'd donated most of my earnings to a ramen museum. Sure, I'd used my packed schedule as an excuse to give money without ever visiting.

On the rattling bus, I read Chairman Han Seongcheol's autobiography.

Hansung Group. People said it was cursed. Why? Because there were no daughters in the family. Sons, sons, sons, sons! The chairman's kids were boys, and their kids were boys.

The autobiography even mentioned it: one of his wishes was to have a cute granddaughter.

Pfft, what a daughter-con...

Ranked 7th in Korea's business world, Hansung Group had been built by Han Seongcheol, a man who'd penned legends throughout his life. They called him the Midas of industry.

Even a titan like him had one flop: the ramen business. Without opposition from his family and shareholders, Hansung Group might've owned Korea's food giant.

"We've arrived. Please check for any forgotten items before exiting."

At the driver's announcement, I shouldered my heavy backpack and got off. A thirty-minute walk brought me to the rundown building. This was the ramen museum I'd funded.

"Oh? Here to look around?"

"Yes. One adult ticket."

"Just one adult?"

"Yes."

You needed a ticket to enter. The woman at the counter said,

"Eh, whatever. Go on in for free."

"Huh? For free?"

"Truth is, some anonymous donor contributes every month. I don't want to tarnish their generosity. Plus, I'm the owner—inherited it from my late grandpa."

I was that donor, but I followed her in without a word. Surprisingly young, she explained each ramen with witty flair. It stuck in my ears like glue. Impressive knowledge. Even I, a ramen researcher, was awed.

The museum housed thousands of ramens, from Korea's first in 1963 to ones up to 2026, neatly displayed in chronological order.

"This is our country's most globally successful fiery chicken stir-fried ramen. Back then, spicy ramen had a clear ceiling—topping out at 3,400 SHU. Then boom, 4,400 SHU fiery chicken ramen drops one day. From then on, we called it the Second Ramen Renaissance."

Fiery chicken ramen. Who could've predicted it'd sell like that?

She went on, eventually reaching one: Hansung Food's first and last ramen. Grabbing the mic, she winced, her face twisting inexplicably.

"I've run this place for ten years, and I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠still don't get it. Why'd Hansung Food abandon ramen? Hansung Group was a true powerhouse in the '70s—machinery, steel, shipbuilding, petrochemicals, all successes."

They called Hansung Group the comet of industry back then. Growth unmatched.

Did the family and shareholders really oppose it? Why?

It could've been a goldmine. Even I couldn't fathom Chairman Han Seongcheol's intentions. Unless you'd lived that era or been born into the family, internal affairs were a black box. Not even in his autobiography.

"...Truly baffling."

She moved on, but my feet wouldn't budge. I'd spotted a faint glow from the Hansung Food ramen.

"Um, there's light coming from that ramen?"

"Pardon? Light? What do you mean?"

She couldn't see it. The light grew, enveloping me. And then, strange voices.

"Wh-what? What's this? W-wait! I hear weird noises!"

Hallucinations now? Ghosts in the museum, maybe.

"Sir? What's wrong? Why're you gesturing at thin air?"

Ah, she couldn't see or hear it. The light swelled, swallowing my vision entirely. I was sucked into the swirling vortex.

One day, I was reborn into a chaebol household. As their one and only daughter. The daughter of Hansung Group. My name: Han Seoyeon.

From the moment I emerged as the pampered jewel of the 7th-ranked conglomerate, the world's eyes and expectations locked onto me. Because I was Chairman Han Seongcheol's one and only granddaughter.

I pieced together what had happened. Blinding light filled my view, and when I came to, I was in a baby's body. Pudding-soft cheeks that stretched endlessly. Destined to be a nation-toppling beauty. Even as an infant, irresistibly cute.

"Aigoo, babyyy!"

A nanny-like woman scooped me up. Her eyes shot hearts at my wriggling fingers.

"Baby, hang on a sec. I'll finish up in the kitchen. Be good, okay?"

She set me down ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠amid stacks of blankets and hurried out of the study.

Reborn in a baby's body with all my past life's memories intact. As a girl, no less. True to chaebol style, the ceiling loomed dozens of times my height, a massive chandelier forever out of reach.

Books. Books!

I'd always loved reading. That's how a top ramen researcher like me graduated top of Korea University. Pouring a genius brain into ramen? Success inevitable. Korea U valedictorian ramen whiz—that was my past life's flashy title.

"Uwoong!"

I craved a book. Bored out of my skull! With feeble, pre-walking limbs, I strained to flip over, craning my neck forward.

A stack of papers tantalizingly close. Anything to read...

Letters would do. Anything to kill this boredom. I stretched with all my might. Impossible for a baby, but I reached it.

"Kyarrgrr!"

Laughter burst out uncontrollably. I clutched the text-packed sheets.

Eh? Not Korean—Japanese? Never dreamed it'd be that. But who cares? Real ramen researchers eye the world beyond Korea. Ramen conquering China's 1.4 billion, India's masses, halal-certified for the Middle East. Tasting them means mastering local tongues: English, Chinese, Japanese, French, Russian. Essentials for a global stage.

I rolled my eyes to scan ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠it.

This is it, right?

Hansung Food improving imported Japanese ramen for launch. Yeah, the autobiography mentioned Hansung Food's debut around then.

This was Daddy's study, plain as day. Dad, the youngest Hansung son, the one who'd finally produced a daughter. A crack in the family saga of boys. Reward: Hansung Food.

Heh heh, guess that makes me a lucky charm?

I fumbled to turn the page.

Crash!

Glass shattering behind me.

"Ah, babyyy!"

The nanny gaped, ghost-struck.

Ah... bummer. A not-even-one-year-old reading Japanese docs like a fiend? With past-life memories, my body wasn't average. That mysterious voice before rebirth... probably the culprit.

Did it give me special powers?

The nanny clapped hands over her mouth—not shock, but barely contained glee.

"O-our baby is a g-genius?!"

She hoisted me up. About to tattle to Mom and Dad. Her eyes gleamed dangerously.

Scary...

It was 1977, early summer.