RR 04
[004] The Chaebol Patriarch’s Birthday – Part 1
“Gasp!”
The same nightmare again.
For three months straight, I’ve relived that moment on the Moldovan beach—every single night.
Waking up drenched in sweat, forced to vividly recall the terror of staring down a gun barrel—this isn’t resilience. This is torture.
I pray this dream never returns.
6:09 AM.
I switch off the alarm before it rings and sit up.
After showering and changing into my school uniform, I note my so-called “older brother” still snoring across the hall.
The scent of kongnamul-guk (bean sprout soup) wafts from the kitchen—a mandatory hangover remedy for my father, who drinks like a fish nightly.
Outside, dew glistens on manicured lawns under the early summer sun. I collect three newspapers at the doorstep and retreat to my room.
June 26, 1987.
The front page screams with protest photos—tear gas, Molotov cocktails. The democracy rallies won’t stop until June 29, when the Fifth Republic’s president surrenders.
I read every section, even the ads.
“Do-joon.”
The housekeeper knocks, bringing milk and—clandestinely—coffee.
“You didn’t have to. I could’ve come down.”
“Tsk, we both know it’s not about the milk,” she whispers. “Drink the coffee quick before your parents see.”
She watches me sip with maternal pride. To her, my transformation is miraculous.
Three months ago, I—a spoiled 10-year-old chaebol heir—woke up as someone else: Yoon Hyun-woo, a Sunyang Group manager executed for knowing too much, now reborn as Jin Do-joon, the disgraced youngest grandson of founder Jin Yang-chul.
The housekeeper adores this new version: a polite child who cleans his room, helps with chores, and never complains about food.
“Remember,” she says, “today’s the Chairman’s birthday dinner at the main house.”
“I know.”
She ruffles my hair and leaves with the empty cups and newspapers.
Today’s the day.
After three months in this child’s body, I’ll finally meet the legendary Jin Yang-chul—not as an employee, but as his grandson.
Is this rebirth a chance for revenge? Or a cosmic joke about forgiving kin?
.
.
.
Breakfast is eerily quiet.
My 12-year-old brother, Jin Sang-joon—usually a chatterbox—shovels rice in silence. Our father, still hungover, barely touches his soup.
And then there’s her.
My mother.
More stunning than any of the vice chairman’s mistresses.
A 1970s screen goddess dubbed “Korea’s Olivia Hussey”, she retired after one film to marry my father—Sunyang’s black sheep fifth son. Their scandalous union got them exiled from the family.
I know this from past life research. As Sunyang’s fixer, I’d memorized every dirty secret—except theirs. They were invisible. No scandals to clean, no demands to fulfill.
Until now.
“Do-joon?” My mother’s voice snaps me back. “Why so jumpy?”
At 35, her beauty still stuns. I blush every time.
“N-no reason.”
“Look at you!” She pinches my cheek. “My baby’s acting so grown-up!”
Calling them “Father” and “Mother” still feels unnatural. My past-life self was older than them.
“I’m not going!” My brother slams his spoon.
The room freezes.
Ah. The real reason for his mood. He’s terrified of Grandfather.
Can’t blame him. Jin Yang-chul only tolerated my parents’ marriage because Mother was already pregnant. His disdain for this branch of the family is legendary.
But letting a brat disrupt table manners? Unacceptable.
If we weren’t leaving for school, I’d have disciplined him already.
Just wait till we’re home.
.
.
.
In the backseat of our Daewoo sedan, my brother sulks silently.
Our elite private school is a breeding ground for future CEOs, ministers, and judges. In my past life, I’d envied these kids—born with golden spoons and networks. Now, I play the unassuming heir, building connections subtly.
After school, I find my brother in his room, screaming at a Nintendo.
“Who said you could come in? Get out!”
Perfect.
I kick his chair over.
“Shut your mouth, you little shit.”
Dragging him by the hair to the bathroom, I teach him respect with a scalding shower spray.
.
.
.
“Do-joon! What happened to your hand?!” Mother panics at the redness.
“Just hot water. My fault.”
She fusses until the family doctor confirms it’s minor.
My brother, meanwhile, watches me like a traumatized puppy. Good.
A spoiled 12-year-old has never faced real violence. By the time he builds resistance, I’ll own him.
As our car heads to Grandfather’s, Father takes the wheel—unusual for a chaebol heir.
“Pyeongchang-dong,” he says.
My stomach twists.
In my past life, I’d weeded that estate’s gardens as a lowly hire. Now, I return as blood.
The ultimate revenge—or cruelest irony—begins tonight.
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