The waiting was interminable. With anticipation churning in his gut, Song Eun-woo found it impossible to sleep.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the digital clock on his nightstand flickered to 00:00.
Seeing the numbers change, Eun-woo could wait no longer. He flipped over, sat up, and eagerly grabbed the small cardboard box from beside his pillow. To be absolutely safe, he simply reached in and scooped out a handful of the ceramic shards, clutching them tightly in his palm.
With everything ready, he took a steadying breath and called out inwardly to the system.
'System. Decompose these porcelain fragments and reconstruct them into a complete antique.'
Whoosh.
The moment the thought formed, the weight in his hand vanished. A cool, mechanical voice echoed in his mind.
[A quantity of fragmented ceramic ware has been recovered from the Host. Commencing decomposition. Screening and optimizing molecular components… Complete. Initiating reconstruction. Host has obtained: One Blue and White Porcelain Moran (Peony) Pattern Paranggul (Stem Cup) from the late Joseon Dynasty.]
As the system's voice faded, Eun-woo felt a solid, cool object materialize in his now-empty hand. He instinctively tightened his grip. Looking down, he saw a complete, small porcelain cup resting on his palm.
The cup was modest, about half the size of his palm, standing maybe ten centimeters tall. Its shape resembled a modern wine glass, but the upper bowl was wider, more like a small, shallow dish mounted on an elegant, slender stem.
To Eun-woo's untrained eye, it didn't look particularly spectacular—just an old, bluish-white cup.
But he knew. This item was almost certainly valuable.
"Heh. System, you're legit," he whispered, a grin spreading across his face. "You actually made me an antique. Perfect. Tomorrow, after school, I'll take you to Insadong and get my first capital."
The exhaustion from staying up most of the night melted away, replaced by a jolt of adrenaline. He carefully placed the stem cup on his desk, then booted up his computer—high school students weren't allowed phones at his school, and his mother had confiscated his weeks ago in a final Suneung crackdown.
The value of antiques was notoriously opaque, especially porcelain. A piece could be worth hundreds of millions of won… or just a few hundred thousand. As a complete amateur, he had no way to gauge the true worth of this cup. The last thing he wanted was to be swindled out of a fortune for pocket change.
The easiest route would be to ask his father. With his dad's years of browsing flea markets and reading antique journals, he could probably give a rough estimate—at least tell if it was in the cheonman (tens of millions) or baekman (hundreds of millions) won range.
But Eun-woo couldn't show him. Not yet. How would he explain where it came from?
Remembering the system's description, he typed into the search bar: "Joseon Dynasty Blue and White Porcelain Moran Pattern Paranggul."
He hit enter.
A moment later, his eyes widened. "Ssi-bal… Are you kidding me?" he breathed, shock locking his voice to a whisper.
The search results were staggering. If this little cup was genuine, it was worth a minimum of 200 million won.
A nearly identical stem cup had been sold at a Seoul auction house two years prior for 271 million won.
His mind went blank for a second, then erupted. Who would have thought? Who would have thought my first pot of gold could be literal financial freedom?
Two hundred million won. What did that mean? Based on his father's monthly salary, it would take over thirty years of saving every single won to amass that.
A wave of giddy excitement washed over him. When he looked back at the delicate stem cup, his eyes no longer saw porcelain—they saw the shimmering symbols of wealth.
He was sorely tempted to pick it up and kiss it.
First, he had to secure it. He grabbed a roll of toilet paper and meticulously wrapped the cup, layer after layer, until it was a soft, padded lump. Still not satisfied, he found some packing tape and reinforced it into a tight, bulky parcel.
Looking at the final product—resembling a giant, mummified tteok (rice cake)—Eun-woo finally nodded in satisfaction.
"Heh. Foolproof. You could drop this down the stairs now, my little treasure."
He carefully nestled the package in his school backpack, then flopped back onto his bed, his mind racing with plans for the sudden fortune that now felt tantalizingly close.
---
The next morning, the first thing Eun-woo did after opening his eyes was unzip his backpack. Seeing the bulky parcel still safely inside, he let out a long, relieved sigh.
As the saying goes, good news brings boundless energy, and Eun-woo was brimming with it.
"Calm down, calm down," he muttered to himself as he wheeled his bicycle out of the apartment complex. "You're a man with a system. You can't get this excited over a little money. Huu… Calm down."
He was pedaling down the narrow neighborhood street, forcing himself to take deep breaths, when—
BEEP! BEEEEP!!
A sharp, impatient car horn blared directly behind him, startling him so badly he swerved.
He checked his position; he was already hugging the right side of the lane. What was this driver's problem?
Just as he turned his head, ready to see if it was some ajumma on her phone, an angry shout cut through the morning air.
"Ya! Kid on the bike! Did your family pay to pave this road yourself? Didn't you hear me? Move over! If you scratch my car, selling you wouldn't cover the repair!"
Eun-woo frowned and looked back.
A sleek, black Porsche Cayenne had pulled up alongside him. Through the open window, a middle-aged man with slicked-back hair and a caked layer of foundation glared at him.
When the man saw Eun-woo's face, his expression shifted from anger to a condescending smirk of recognition.
"Ah, if it isn't the Song's boy. The Suneung is soon, isn't it?" the man said, his tone dripping with false warmth. "I heard from your Auntie Yoo that your grades are… well, let's be honest, not great. So, what's the plan? Looking for work? Come to my company. Other interns get 1.5 million won a month, but for you… I'll make it 1.8. How's that sound?"
The man in the car was Joo Dae-sik, who lived a few buildings over in the same apartment complex. His wife, Yoo Mi-kyung, was a colleague of Eun-woo's mother. Their relationship had never been warm, but it had turned actively frosty in recent months. Rumor had it Dae-sik had been promoted to a senior director position at some mid-sized conglomerate two months ago.
Eun-woo often heard his mother vent at home. Ever since Yoo Mi-kyung's husband got that title, she acts like she's queen of the department store. Looks down her nose at everyone, and every other word out of her mouth is a humblebrag or a put-down.
[To be continued…]