The World's Most Special Child
Late at night, when all the children of the world were asleep, I sat quietly at my desk, lost in thought. With the ad director and radio host now secured, all that was left was to produce the commercials themselves.
The image of the wildly successful Haeguri ad from my past life floated vividly in my mind. I picked up my pencil and jotted it down in my notebook. A melody I couldn't help but hum filled the quiet room.
Chewy chewy♬ Oh~ plump plump♬
Hansung Haeguri!
Everyone, take a Haeguri with you~
"Heehee!"
Having memories from my past life really was like a cheat code. I'd just copied it down exactly as I remembered, but it already felt like I was standing on a path guaranteed to lead to success.
Whatever. No one would sue over copyright issues here.
In my past life, Nongwon had snatched up all the hit items, but not this time. They never dreamed I'd bring over even the Chilgyejang Bowl Ramen they'd given up on.
Hansung Jjapaghetti. Sichuan Hansung Jjapaghetti. Hansung Jjapaghetti cup ramen. Haeguri. And now Chilgyejang.
Every single one was a blockbuster that sold hundreds of millions of units. Who could have guessed? That someone already knew which products would flop and which would soar—and was just picking the winners.
Who could even imagine a mere five-year-old girl shaking up the entire ramen industry in this country?
The U.S. Olympics are just the prelude.
If Haeguri got picked as the Olympic ramen—specifically, the '88 Seoul Olympics—that's when it would really begin.
As everyone knew, the Olympics in Seoul would draw hordes of tourists. Unlike my past life, ramen was still an unfamiliar food here. I could already picture foreigners wide-eyed, marveling at Hansung ramen in awed tones. The thought made me grin.
They say ten years can change mountains and rivers, but tastes don't shift that easily. Suddenly, I recalled the day Korean ramen earned the nickname "K-Ramen," following in the footsteps of K-pop's Hallyu wave.
Even Japan, the so-called homeland of ramen, had bowed down to Korean ramen on bended knee. The flood of copycat products proved just how seriously this country took its ramen obsession.
The mountain of ramen products I have yet to develop...
I swung my dangling feet under the chair, my pencil flying across the page without pause. Knowing the future left no room for hesitation at my fingertips—just calculations instead of doubts, certainty instead of trial and error, filling the paper steadily.
In short: Just release the products, and the money would roll in!
What will I do when I make a fortune later? So many dreams. Before reincarnating as the chaebol family's only daughter, my life had been limited to uploading videos on NewTube or driving a nice car to some food spot, living for views and comments that shook my fragile heart.
But if someone asked if I'd achieved my dreams? I'd say no in a heartbeat. I'd made money, sure, but what I truly wanted was something else.
If only I weren't so introverted, I'd have started my own ramen company and created my signature noodles. Hell, I hadn't even launched a proper product through a company—Gukgukmyeon was all I'd managed.
Still, my days intertwined with ramen had been pure bliss. Each new product felt like birthing a child with a parent's pride.
Just as I eagerly filled my notebook with wild imaginings—
"Huh?"
A sudden realization hit me. Beyond ramen itself—what if I carved out the distribution channels with my own hands?
Wait, hold oooon!
Reincarnating as Han Seoyeon came with perks. My memory was photographic, and my physical abilities outpaced other kids my age. Especially now, ideas exploded like lightning in my brain, branching into dozens of paths at once.
One in particular made my heart race. There was something you never skipped with ramen.
Triangle kimbap!
Japan had already commercialized onigiri—triangle kimbap—in the late '70s, selling it in convenience stores. Separating the seaweed and rice to prevent sogginess? Pure genius.
Page after page—ten and counting—my pencil wouldn't stop. If ramen raked in the cash, I'd found a new investment frontier.
I'll build convenience stores across Korea! Monopolizing and dominating from the start!
In my past life, as a ramen researcher and developer, I didn't obsess over ramen alone. Countless pairings transformed it into bold new flavors. Triangle kimbap, of course. Boiled eggs, hot bars, cheese—gulp.
My mouth watered. Just thinking about it made me crave bowls of ramen on the spot.
If my convenience stores blanketed the nation—hundreds, thousands strong—it'd be a distribution empire worthy of the name.
Manufacturing? Mine. Distribution? Mine. Trends? I create them. But Hansung Food would need to grow tenfold for that.
The first convenience store in this country opens in May 1989. Seven whole years away.
That Japanese chain even launched its first branch in the Seoul Olympic Village apartments. It was revolutionary at debut, spreading nationwide in just a year.
I gently set down my pencil. The clock read past 2 a.m. Only now did I realize how intensely I'd been blueprinting the future.
What I truly yearned for. Being born the chaebol's cherished only daughter, basking in Grandpa's love, accepting whatever came my way—that life held no regrets.
But I wanted to lay the board myself and watch the world move upon it.
"Baby?"
The nanny peeked through the door, rubbing her eyes.
"Still not asleep?"
"Hehe, heading to bed now."
"Baby, you need early sleep to grow tall. If you can't doze off..."
She stepped in, scooped me up effortlessly, and plopped me in the center of my pink bed.
"Shall I sing a lullaby? Or close your eyes and count sheep—one, two, three... That brings sleep quick."
Sheep, out of nowhere... My mind was counting nationwide stores instead—one, two...
Still, I obediently shut my eyes. Pretty girls need beauty sleep for flawless skin and height.
Pat, pat. Her steady hand on my belly melted the tension away faster than expected. Scheming the future in a five-year-old body must've been exhausting, after all.
"Hng... hmmm~"
I murmured softly, dreaming of becoming the world's top ramen researcher, beyond just Korea.
Choi Jeongja worked as a housekeeper for Han Seongu, the youngest son of the Hansung family. Eight years had passed since she joined the household.
She'd been recommended by Yoon Chaeun, the lady of the house and a former celebrity. At her interview, prejudices about chaebols filled her head—cold, calculating, nitpicky.
But surprisingly, the family was quiet and harmonious. The only issue? The couple struggled to have kids. Yoon Chaeun, dismissed as a "dittara" entertainer, often faced scorn from the Hansungs.
She'd retreat to the master bedroom in tears. "Am I too unworthy for Seongu?"
Jeongja would sit silently, holding her hand. "It'll be fine. Who knows? Heaven might bless you with a beautiful daughter."
To her, the Hansungs seemed cursed. Every son from eldest to third: boys, boys, boys! No daughters, ever.
Just as resignation set in—
A miracle. Yoon Chaeun got pregnant, birthing the family's first daughter.
Han Seongcheol, the icy chairman who'd never visited, not only accepted the "dittara" daughter-in-law but gifted Han Seongu—who'd renounced inheritance—a whole subsidiary: Hansung Food.
For just having a girl? A food company and family recognition. Incredible.
The daughter's name: Han Seoyeon. "Seoyeon"—auspicious seo for fortune, and beautiful yeon. A blessed, beautiful child.
Jeongja hoped she'd just grow healthy. But.
Han Seoyeon showed uncanny traits from birth. Babies cry a lot—yet she rarely fussed, even at dawn.
Turn away a moment, and she'd vanish, staring at foreign-language papers in the president's study. Jeongja nearly fainted witnessing it.
How could a baby under one read such complex texts, fixated as if comprehending? Chills ran down her spine. And toddling everywhere despite unsteady legs.
Over time, Han Seoyeon shattered norms. At her doljanchi, she grabbed the Hansung ledger instead of thread or stethoscope. At three, she spoke a language she'd never heard. At four, she stepped up boldly.
Even as a chaebol housekeeper, Jeongja knew the gossip: A four-year-old had essentially saved Hansung Food from crisis. Fairy-tale stuff.
"Baby, asleep?"
Now five, Han Seoyeon scribbled at her desk late again. Not homework—this scene was alien.
Her walls plastered with dated newspapers from across Korea. Shelves overflowed with disorganized data and books—specialized tomes even college students shied from. Like a researcher's lab.
Chairman Han Seongcheol's study wasn't this chaotic.
"Hehe, off to bed now."
"Baby, it's been a week straight. What on earth keeps you up till dawn...?"
Worried, Jeongja asked. Han Seoyeon's reply:
"Future planning."
"Future planning? You're only five. Plenty of time later..."
"Time's limited. And early education will trend soon, so I'm right on pace."
She often spouted baffling words. But Jeongja, wishing her happiness above all, nodded silently.
Han Seoyeon stunned everyone with her brilliance and drive.
"Ah!"
"Baby!"
Jeongja gasped. Blood dripped from Han Seoyeon's nose.
"Baby! Nosebleed!"
"Hehe~ It's fine."
The mansion erupted at the untimely commotion in the dead of night. Even as blood flowed, Han Seoyeon laughed, rolling tissue into a plug and jamming it in.
Good lord...
Jeongja shook her head helplessly, sighing deeply.