The first thing Kang Jin-woo felt was the humidity.
It was not the sterile, filtered air of his penthouse office in Gangnam. It was thick, sticky, and smelled faintly of chalk dust and teenage sweat. It was a smell he hadn't breathed in twelve years.
Jin-woo opened his eyes.
He didn't gasp. He didn't scream. His body simply rebooted, his heart rate spiking from a resting sixty to one hundred and twenty beats per minute in a fraction of a second. His instincts, honed by a decade of corporate warfare and assassination attempts, screamed one word: Threat.
He sat up, his muscles tense, ready to snap the wrist of whoever was standing over him.
But there was no assassin. There was no blood pooling on a mahogany table.
"Kang Jin-woo! Are you planning to sleep through the mock exams, too?"
The voice was sharp and irritating. Jin-woo slowly turned his head.
Standing at the front of the room, holding a piece of chalk like a weapon, was Mr. Park. He was wearing that same cheap, checkered shirt Jin-woo remembered mocking a lifetime ago. The man had retired in 2021. He had died of a stroke in 2023.
Yet here he was, shouting about page 42.
The class snickered. It was a hollow, collective sound—the laughter of children who had never seen a man bleed out, never signed a death warrant disguised as a merger.
Jin-woo looked down at his own hands.
They were pale. Uncalloused. The scar on his left thumb—a souvenir from a negotiation gone wrong in Incheon—was missing. He touched his face. His skin was smooth, lacking the deep lines of exhaustion that had defined his thirties.
He looked at the digital clock hanging above the blackboard. The red LEDs burned into his retina.
[ May 12, 2020 ]
The realization hit him with the force of a freight train, but on the outside, Jin-woo's expression didn't flicker. He went still. Absolute zero.
Five years, he thought. I have returned to the starting line.
"If you're done daydreaming, Mr. Kang, perhaps you can solve the equation on the board?" Mr. Park sneered, tapping the chalkboard.
Jin-woo didn't answer. He simply stared at the teacher. It wasn't a glare of teenage rebellion. It was the look of a predator deciding if an animal was worth the calories to kill. It was a gaze that had made grown men wet themselves in boardrooms.
Mr. Park faltered. He lowered the chalk, suddenly uncomfortable. The laughter in the room died out, replaced by a confused silence.
"Just... pay attention," Mr. Park muttered, turning back to the board, his voice losing its edge.
Jin-woo turned his gaze to the window. The reflection in the glass confirmed it. He was eighteen. He was a high school senior.
And he was alive.
The bell rang for lunch, a shrill sound that pierced Jin-woo's sensitive hearing.
The classroom instantly devolved into chaos. Chairs scraped against linoleum, boys shouted about soccer, and the smell of cafeteria food wafted from the hallway.
Jin-woo stood up. His movements were precise, lacking the wasted energy of a teenager. He checked his pockets.
A wallet. Old, faux leather, peeling at the corners.
He opened it. One Student ID card. One photo of his younger sister, Eun-ji, smiling in her hospital gown. One bank card with a zero balance. And a single, crumpled 5,000 won bill.
5,000 won.
He had built a conglomerate worth three trillion won. He had owned shipping lines, politicians, and the night sky of Seoul. Now, his entire net worth was the price of a cup of coffee.
"Jin-woo-ya!"
A hand landed heavily on his shoulder.
Jin-woo's body reacted before his mind could intercede. He grabbed the wrist, twisting it sharply outward—a control technique designed to dislocate the shoulder if applied with full force.
"Ah! Hey! Ow!"
Jin-woo stopped just before the bone popped. He looked at the owner of the hand.
Park Min-ho.
The Traitor.
Currently, Min-ho was Jin-woo's "best friend." He was smiling, his hair styled with too much gel, wearing a watch that cost more than Jin-woo's entire life savings.
This was the man who would stand by Jin-woo's side for five years. The man who would call him "brother." The man who would eventually sell Jin-woo's private itinerary to the Golden Circle Group for a seat on the board, leading to Jin-woo's death.
"Relax, man!" Min-ho laughed, rubbing his sore wrist. He didn't notice the killing intent radiating off Jin-woo. He was too arrogant, too comfortable. "You've been acting weird all day. Did you bomb the test that bad?"
Jin-woo stared at Min-ho's neck. The carotid artery was pulsing right there, just beneath the skin. One strike. He could end it. He could save himself five years of work and betrayal.
No, Jin-woo thought. The rage inside him was a cold, solid thing. Inefficient.
If he killed Min-ho now, he would be a murderer. He would go to prison. Eun-ji would be left alone in the system. He had no lawyers. No judges on his payroll. No power.
To kill a monster, you didn't use your fists. You used capital. You bought the ground he stood on and swallowed him whole.
"I'm fine," Jin-woo said. His voice was deeper than Min-ho remembered. Rougher.
Min-ho blinked, unsettled by the tone. He quickly recovered his smile, pulling out a thick, designer wallet. "Forgot your lunch money again? I got you. Want a loan? Interest is just one milk bread from the convenience store."
He waved a 50,000 won bill in Jin-woo's face.
In the past life, Jin-woo had taken that money. He had been grateful. He had been a dog eating scraps from his master's table.
Jin-woo looked at the money, then at Min-ho's eyes.
"Keep it," Jin-woo said softly. "You'll need it for your funeral insurance."
"Hah? What does that mean?" Min-ho laughed, but the laugh was nervous. "You're really weird today. Whatever. I'm going to the cafeteria. Don't starve."
Min-ho walked away, joining a group of loud boys.
Jin-woo watched him go. He picked up his bag. He wasn't going to the cafeteria. He had no appetite for school food.
He walked out of the classroom, down the hallway, and past the school gates. The security guard yelled at him, "Hey! Student! Where do you think you're going?"
Jin-woo didn't even turn his head. He kept walking, stepping out of the school and into the noise of the city.
He pulled out his cracked smartphone and opened the news app. He needed to confirm the timeline.
[Breaking News: NK Tech announces delay in new semiconductor chip production. Stock plummets 15%.]
Jin-woo stopped on the sidewalk. A small, cruel smile touched the corner of his lips.
He remembered this.
Today was Tuesday. The market was panicking. Everyone was selling NK Tech. But Jin-woo knew something the rest of the world wouldn't know until 8:00 AM tomorrow morning.
The delay was a lie. A market manipulation tactic by the CEO to lower the price before announcing a massive merger with a US tech giant.
By tomorrow morning, NK Tech wouldn't just recover. It would skyrocket by 300%.
Jin-woo looked at the 5,000 won bill in his hand.
If he could turn this 5,000 won into 50 million won by tonight, he could ride that wave. He could turn 50 million into 200 million in a single morning.
It was the seed. The start of the empire.
But to get that initial capital, he couldn't use a bank. He couldn't use a job. He needed high risk, high reward. He needed the darkness.
He turned left, away from the bus stop, walking toward the entertainment district where the neon lights flickered even in the daytime.
He was going hunting.