Eve of the Storm
On the eve of the storm, Jeong Haewon couldn't believe her eyes. The game Han Seoyeon had just played was notorious for being insanely difficult. It was the kind of game where you couldn't even dream of a high score without hundreds of attempts.
"N-No way!"
Haewon's personal best was 17,485 points. But Seoyeon's score? A whopping 88,132. The gap was so massive it was hard to believe they'd even played the same game.
The rules were simple: dodge obstacles to survive, and your score climbs higher the longer you last. Of course, "obstacles" was putting it mildly. As you progressed, they got increasingly bizarre and unpredictable.
"Wh-When did you ever practice this?"
"I didn't. First time playing."
"Then how are you this good?"
"It seemed pretty easy?"
"E-Easy?!"
Haewon stared down at her fingers. She'd spent sleepless dawns glued to this game with these ten fingers, grinding out that 17,485-point record. She'd even hatched a grand plan to one day flatten Seoyeon's smug nose with it.
The game was undeniably tough. Hugely popular in the US, it demanded more than simple controls—it pushed human reaction speed and focus to the absolute limit, earning its infamous reputation. Even top local scores there barely cracked 150,000. Yet here was Seoyeon, on her very first try, breaking 90,000.
"……"
A wave of post-nut clarity crashed over Haewon. Her drive, her rivalry—all of it evaporated in an instant. The time and effort she'd poured in felt utterly pointless.
And worst of all: 0 wins, 4 losses. Win rate: 0%. Every matchup ended in defeat. They said even a tree falls after ten strikes? No way. This tree wouldn't budge after a hundred.
"H-Hmph, n-not bad, huh?"
She tried to play it cool, but her trembling hands betrayed her. And still, Seoyeon just...
"Am I good? Yeah, the game's on the easy side."
"……"
At the word "easy," Haewon's face drained of color. This was a game infamous even overseas for its brutality. Yet Seoyeon was yawning through it like a bored kid toying with a plaything—pure nonchalance.
That was the moment all light faded from Haewon's eyes.
Phew, felt good to stretch my fingers after so long. Haewon's game had been a real thrill. It started with basic traps, but later they burst from above, below, left, right—even unexpected spots through the floor. I nearly game-overed more than once.
Word got out I was heading to a friend's, so the nanny arrived with security. We rode in a shiny new Pony sedan back to Bukchangdong.
"Did you have fun, little miss?"
The nanny looked intimidated amid the grand mansions lining the street. Well, I'd warned her ahead of time about visiting the Hyundai place. Otherwise, she might've lamented how Korea had so many rich folks.
Seongbukdong was no slouch either—rivaling Bukchangdong for wealth.
"Yeah, it was fun. I should tag along with Haewon unnie to the Hyundai mansion more often."
"R-Really? That's wonderful, little miss! I've been so worried with you buried in books all the time."
"Is that so? Still, munching sweet snacks while reading beats visiting a friend's house any day."
Haewon would've freaked and triple-locked the gates if she heard that. I gazed absently out the window at my favorite nanny. People bustled by. Here and there, folks sat at supermarket outdoor tables slurping Chilgyejang Bowl Ramen.
The blockbuster success of Chilgyejang Bowl Ramen. It was reshaping street scenes across the country.
Ramen started as a hunger-filler. Now it had seeped into daily life—not just for beating hunger, but as a casual hobby snack.
I picked up the newspaper beside me. A big Hansung Food headline dominated the front page.
I chuckled. Sure, there were those ridiculous sticker frenzies over ramen sometimes. Hot pro baseball player stickers fetched premium prices. The priciest ones reportedly topped a salaryman's monthly wage.
A short blurb in the corner: someone bought whole cases for a star player's sticker, then donated the ramen to the needy.
That's why Gukjin Bread blew up big time.
Gukjin Bread—named after comedian Kim Gukjin's character, it skyrocketed thanks to the "Dibidibisticker" inside. In my past life, Pokemon Bread filled that niche, but this showed stickers could be a killer business weapon.
We can sell way more!
With the right triggers, ramen sales could multiply several times over.
"Bzzz..."
"What's wrong, little miss?"
"Something's on the tip of my tongue, but I can't quite grasp it. Feels like a killer idea's right there..."
The nanny tilted her head at my words.
"An idea?"
"Yeah. Selling more ramen means Grandpa gives bigger allowances. And someday, we'll need emergency funds for the family."
In cash. Fifteen years from now, the IMF crisis would hit Korea hard. A future no one but me knew yet. Thriving companies collapsing overnight. Lifelong employees unceremoniously fired. Streets overflowing with the unemployed.
Fifteen years—long, yet so short.
New Year's had barely dawned when Lee Jeonghun—Dr. Lee—burst into the mansion, looking frantic.
"Little miss!"
"Eh? Dr. Lee? What's up so early?"
"Forget that—look at this!"
I'd just turned six. Next year, elementary school. Prime age for learning how the world works, so my parents mentioned hiring a private tutor the other day.
But Dr. Lee's face was grave.
"Nongwon's up to something?"
"Yes. Unsettling movements detected. They're revamping mass production lines and distribution networks at once."
"Hmm, I see."
Of course, I knew exactly what Nongwon was plotting.
Knowing the future really is cheat-level.
If Nongwon was mobilizing now, it could only be one project: Ansimtangmyeon development.
Ansimtangmyeon—Nongwon's future megahit ramen. While Hansung Jjapaghetti and Haeguri sold billions over decades, Ansimtangmyeon would shatter 15 billion, flipping the market like a nuke.
Without my reincarnation, Nongwon would've overtaken Sam-mi to claim domestic #1 right after launching it.
"Could be about ramen."
"...Ramen?"
"Yeah. They might drop a bombshell product."
"Th-Then?"
"Exactly. Time to gear up."
Dr. Lee's eyes sparkled.
"Gear up? You don't mean...?"
"We make the same product as them."
"...!"
"Copying directly would leave us behind. If it's the ramen they're brewing now, it'd be something like..."
I couldn't spill all the details, but broad strokes were fine.
"Mild, not aggressive. A flavor anyone can enjoy."
"Anyone? Is that even possible, little miss?"
"Totally. It might divide tastes a bit due to its unique profile, but it's a powerhouse ramen."
Tastes vary by person. Yet Ansimtangmyeon won love across generations. How?
Hansung Jjapaghetti, Sichuan Hansung Jjapaghetti, Haeguri, even hot new Chilgyejang Bowl Ramen—all punched with bold flavors.
But Ansimtangmyeon was the ramen world's canvas, pairing perfectly with anything.
I said, "Dr. Lee."
"Yes, little miss."
"What do you feel after eating ramen non-stop?"
"Non-stop? Stomachache, probably."
"Right. Ramen's all about spicy, intense tastes. Eat too much, and your gut rebels."
"...Y-Yeah."
"But what if it's mild and soothing? No gut issues even after a ton?"
"Even if such a ramen existed, wouldn't weak flavor tank sales?"
"Whoa, good point! But what if the base is soybean paste?"
"...!"
"Doenjang's Korea's irreplaceable traditional seasoning. They say no spoon lifts without doenjang jjigae on the table."
I recalled a past-life news story: a grandpa who'd eaten only doenjang-based ramen for 48 years—specifically Ansimtangmyeon.
"A-Are you saying such a ramen exists?"
"That's why we start making it now."
"...Wh-Who?!"
At Dr. Lee's question, I smiled softly.
"Who else? You and me, obviously."
"Whaaat?!"
Nongwon headquarters. In front of the executives, Seo Ji-eun quietly spoke.
"From now on, Nongwon will merge Research Team 1 with Team 2, and Team 3 with Team 4—for the Ansimtangmyeon project."
The conference room buzzed.
Nongwon's youngest daughter—the super-elite who'd studied abroad in the US and returned. Ignoring the murmurs, she pressed on.
"Ansimtangmyeon, based on Korea's native doenjang and beef. That will be Nongwon's next flagship powerhouse product."
Inwardly, she vowed: This time, I'll surpass Hansung for sure.