The next morning, the lingering effects of my memory awakening were still potent. Every glance out the window, every interaction, was filtered through the lens of my past life and the shocking reality of my present one. The rough wooden houses of Holy Spirit Village, the unpaved dirt roads, the simple clothing of the villagers – it was all a stark contrast to the gleaming skyscrapers and bustling metropolises of my old world. Yet, in many ways, it was terrifyingly similar.
Walking through the village square with my mother, my eyes snagged on a sight that twisted something deep inside me. A group of children, barely older than myself, huddled together, their clothes patched and grimy, their faces gaunt. They were begging, their small hands outstretched, their eyes holding a desperate plea that I recognized all too well. It was the same look I'd seen in documentaries about poverty, in fleeting glimpses of the homeless on city streets, even in the resigned expressions of my call center colleagues.
Nothing has changed. The thought was a bitter bile in my throat. Despite the dragons and gods, the Spirit Masters and magnificent powers, the fundamental harshness of human existence for the unfortunate remained. The sight of these children, their innocence already eroded by hunger and neglect, struck a chord that vibrated with the deepest frustrations of my previous life. I had always felt helpless then, a cog in a giant, uncaring machine. This time, it would be different. This time, I would do something.
My own circumstances were, by comparison, privileged. I had parents, a roof over my head, and enough food. And crucially, I had knowledge. Knowledge that, while not technologically advanced enough for a spacefaring civilization, was revolutionary for this medieval-fantasy setting.
I had three years until the Spirit Awakening Ceremony. Three years to lay the groundwork, to build something. My goal wasn't just personal wealth; it was to create a haven. A place for those lost, forlorn children. A place where their innate spirit, even if it was "trash," wouldn't condemn them to a life of despair.
But how? I was a child. A six-year-old. How could I convince my simple farmer parents, with their unspoken past as runaway sect members, to invest in what would seem like outlandish schemes? I needed ideas, small enough to be plausible, impactful enough to generate significant wealth, and subtly introduced so as not to arouse suspicion.
First, food. Everyone needed to eat. Restaurants were common, but how could I make mine stand out? Hygiene. A concept often overlooked in this era. Cleanliness, both in preparation and presentation, could be a selling point. And then, new flavors, simple innovations.
My mind raced, cycling through countless recipes and food trends from my past life. Fried dough with sugar. Simple, yet addictive. Or perhaps a specialized noodle dish, different from the local fare. Instant noodles. Too complex to produce at scale yet, but the concept of quick, delicious meals was a goldmine.
What about a simple sweet treat? Candies, easily made from local honey or sugar cane, flavored with wild berries or nuts. Something that could be sold cheaply but in high volume. The packaging could be simple wax paper, another small innovation.
"Mama," I said that evening, as she knitted by the dim light of an oil lamp, "I had a dream today." I'd learned that dreams were a good cover for sudden insights. "I dreamed of a store, a small shop, selling the most delicious, sweet dough balls."
My mother smiled, indulging my childish fantasy. "Oh? And what did these dough balls taste like, little Junwoo?"
"They were soft and warm, covered in sugar," I described, trying to ignite her imagination. "And everyone loved them! People lined up to buy them."
My father, polishing a small, rusty tool, chuckled. "Sounds like a good dream, son. Maybe when you're older, you can open such a shop."
"But Mama can make them now!" I insisted, "We have flour and sugar, right? And oil for frying." I knew my mother was an excellent cook, making the most of their meager ingredients. If I could guide her…
"Frying takes a lot of oil, Junwoo," my mother said gently, "and sugar is expensive."
"But if we sell many, many of them, we can make more money than it costs!" I reasoned, trying to channel my inner business pitch. "And the children would love them! We could sell them cheaply, so even the poor children could have a treat." I injected a note of genuine sadness into my voice when I mentioned the poor children, hoping it would resonate with her maternal instincts.
My parents exchanged a look. My father, surprisingly, seemed to consider it. Perhaps the idea of a simple, quick way to earn a few extra copper coins was appealing.
"It's just an experiment, Mama, Papa," I pressed. "If it doesn't work, we stop. But if it does… we could help people. Like those hungry children in the village."
The seed was planted. It was a small beginning, a tiny crack in the dam of my future plans. But if I could prove the viability of these simple ideas, if I could show them a path to prosperity, then perhaps they would listen to my grander visions. Visions of a thriving enterprise, a safe haven, and a future where I wasn't just surviving, but truly living, and making a difference along the way.