Ten Minutes to Perfection
My parents wanted me to grow up like a normal kid. The problem was that Grandpa wanted me to enter the world sooner through early admission and showcase my talents.
“Seoyeon, are you sure you'll be okay?”
“Yes.”
Dad and Mom asked in voices thick with worry. But I was thrilled, actually. I couldn't keep hanging out with kids playing with toy bulldozers or dolls forever—not when I'd been reincarnated with all my past life's memories intact. Sure, my body was that of a six-year-old, but my mind was a battle-hardened veteran who'd seen it all.
After bidding farewell to my kindergarten friends, who were full of regrets, I headed to Yeonhwa Elementary School.
Yeonhwa Elementary School—the kind of place where the kids of the upper crust went. A prestigious academy that gathered only the so-called golden spoon heirs, the elite of the elite.
To gain early admission, you had to take an aptitude test to see if the child could keep up with classes. It was like a qualification exam.
We arrived at Yeonhwa Elementary in the latest Pony car. Even though it was just an elementary school for kids, its scale and facilities were overwhelming, rivaling any university and exuding an intimidating presence.
“Wow... the school is huge.”
Dad chuckled at my words.
“A lot of chaebol kids like you go there. Must be getting tons of funding from behind the scenes.”
The aptitude test lasted two hours and was divided into four parts. First, basic learning ability. Second, comprehension and reasoning. Third, concentration and personality assessment. Fourth, a simple intelligence test—or so I'd heard.
“Hello?”
After exchanging warm greetings with the principal, I met the female teacher who would guide me to the exam room. Her neatly pinned-up hair and crisp suit gave her an air of benevolence, like a gentle goddess. She smiled warmly and led me quietly to the room.
“Wait here for a bit.”
“Yes~”
Early admission after just one year at kindergarten. Normally, I'd have stayed another year before entering elementary school, but with help from Grandpa—the chairman of Hansung Group—I'd made it here.
Soon, a stern-looking man entered the classroom.
“Hello. You're Han Seoyeon, right?”
“Yes. Hello, sir.”
“Good. Such a polite child. You know this is the aptitude test, don't you?”
“Yes!”
He handed me the test paper. Looking down at the neatly printed problems on the white sheet, I couldn't help but curl my lips into a smile. I wouldn't even need to dig into my past life's memories for this.
Because...
“I'm done!”
I stood up less than ten minutes after starting.
Oh Sejun had graduated near the top of Korea University—an elite teacher by any measure. His assignment to Yeonhwa Elementary at such a young age was proof of his talent.
Now, he was proctoring the early admission test for a girl named Han Seoyeon.
Can she handle it?
Yeonhwa Elementary was for the cream of the crop. Sure, there were minimum standards, but they were notoriously vague and tough.
Early admission required this aptitude test. Even for a chaebol kid, it wouldn't be easy, in his view.
The test had four parts. First, basic learning ability—which actually demanded simple calculations for a good score. Basic arithmetic was a must, and he'd say you needed up to first-year middle school level for top marks.
Second, comprehension and reasoning: scenarios laid out, pick the most fitting paragraph. Grasping context and intent to choose the smoothest continuation—tough within the time limit.
Third, concentration and personality: sitting still without distraction for a good while, plus choices in given situations to gauge attitude and temperament. Most kids cracked by this point, bursting into tears from lost focus.
He was personally curious how far this Han Seoyeon would go.
Finally, a simple IQ test: shape-matching, pattern-finding—visuospatial puzzles to check flexible thinking and inference, measuring innate cognition over rote memory.
Can a kid finish this in two hours? The volume alone was daunting for a child.
If asked why give elementary kids such tough problems, he'd answer without hesitation: This wasn't your average public school. It was Yeonhwa Elementary, for the nation's elite kids.
“Teacher, I'm done!”
Oh Sejun snapped out of staring blankly at the ceiling. It had been just over ten minutes since the test began.
This fast? Impossible.
The record set by a scion of Daeyhan Group—Korea’s top conglomerate—was 78 minutes. Ten minutes? Not even half an hour.
She must've guessed.
He'd heard of Han Seoyeon. The first daughter born into the all-boys Hansung family, she'd been the talk of political and business circles. The world's spotlight from birth, the family's precious only granddaughter. Expectations were high, but now...
Convinced she'd just filled in randomly, he felt deep disappointment. Just this level?
Collecting the paper, he subtly checked the basic learning section. No workings shown. Calculations should leave traces, but only crisp correct answers marked the page.
“...Good job.”
“Thank you, sir. You too.”
She stood politely, bowing at the waist. At least manners were impeccable.
“Results in a week. Exam's over—go to your parents?”
“Yes!”
He thought to himself: No need to grade it; failure's obvious. Bold to try early admission, but time says it all.
Heading to the principal's office with her, Oh Sejun erased Han Seoyeon from his mind. Only the rare few who endured to the end and proved themselves would stick in his memory.
Hansung Food Research Building 1. Sitting side by side with Dr. Lee in the lab thick with miso scent.
“How's the miso?”
“Not easy. Regular miso, maybe—but miso that doesn't taste like miso...”
Dr. Lee sighed deeply, eyeing the glass beaker on the bench. In the corner, a large fermenter hummed lowly. Inside, layers of miso from dozens of batches stacked up. Yellowed and matured, it screamed miso—but the nutty aroma hit hard upon opening.
“Lower salt and shorten fermentation to weaken the smell. But flavor dies too—that's the issue.”
He pipetted a drop, carefully blending. Isolating bean-breaking microbes, culturing separately, extracting only aroma components. Ground beans filtered fine, activated charcoal to trap scents.
“Eliminate smell while keeping miso's depth? That's a whole new realm.”
“Yeah, sounds tough.”
“Yes. I get what you want, little miss, but this approach has limits.”
He trailed off, shaking his head slowly.
“Miso's aroma and flavor form together in fermentation. Separating smell is like changing fruit without touching roots.”
As expected. I'd never thought Dr. Lee could fully replicate Ando Momofuku's miso gift.
Ando truly deserves 'father of instant ramen.'
Now I understood why my past life held him in such esteem. He was a creator from nothing—a true innovator.
But giving up? Not my style.
Miso ramen spawned endless variants in my past life— one of ramen's 'big three bases.' Tame fermentation aroma, boost umami by controlling the process itself, and we'd get something revolutionary.
“Dr. Uncle.”
“Yes, little miss.”
“Instead of fully natural fermentation, select strains for single-culture control? Suppress aroma-heavy microbes, amplify amino acid producers.”
“...!”
“And redesign from the start—no post-ferment removal. Block aroma precursors entirely. Salt, temp, moisture activity—stage by stage.”
I tapped the culture vessel lightly. This would block unwanted aromas at source while maximizing umami from protein breakdown.
“If needed, two-stage ferment. Stage one: max protein breakdown. Stage two: minimal aroma.”
“That redefines miso itself.”
“Exactly. We're not making stew miso—we're crafting fermented miso optimized for ramen.”
Great inventions come from tiny shifts. History shows: question common sense, flip perspectives, and innovation changes eras.
Miso ramen was the same. Ansimtangmyeon sold 15 billion packs over 30 years—a national staple.
Surprisingly, foreigners hate miso. That 15 billion? Domestic sales only.
Insane ramen.
Soon, Nongwon would launch Ansimtangmyeon. Brushing aside sour rivals, Nongwon's might would shine. The thrill of witnessing it firsthand bubbled up from deep inside.
Oh Sejun rubbed his eyes. He couldn't believe Han Seoyeon's test paper without rechecking.
Perfect score. 100 points.
“No way!”
No six-year-old girl could finish that volume in ten minutes. The difficulty was off the charts— incomparable to regular tests. If it were easy, everyone would ace it.
How'd she solve it so fast?
His eyes scanned the paper again. No mistakes, pristine perfection. His fingers trembled faintly. Rechecking answers? Still flawless.
Han Seoyeon's paper was undeniably perfect.