The initial investments in Dell and Cisco had yielded spectacular returns, far exceeding even Min-jun's projections for such an early stage. The burgeoning capital, managed through Mr. Park's personal accounts, was rapidly becoming unwieldy. While Mr. Park was diligently layering transactions and diversifying portfolios, Min-jun recognized an impending problem. The sheer volume of money, growing exponentially, would soon attract unwanted scrutiny from financial regulators if kept under a single individual's name, regardless of how expertly disguised its origins. More importantly, his grand vision extended beyond mere financial accumulation; it encompassed technological innovation, and for that, he needed a legal entity.
One crisp autumn evening, as the leaves began to turn crimson in the Seoul streets, Min-jun presented his next strategic imperative to Mr. Park. They sat at the small dining table, Min-jun with a glass of milk, Mr. Park with his usual barley tea, a stack of freshly printed financial reports between them.
"Mr. Park," Min-jun began, his voice calm, his eyes fixed on the older man, "our profits are growing at an incredible rate. While your efforts to diversify are excellent, we are approaching a scale where holding these assets solely in personal accounts will become a liability. We need a corporate entity."
Mr. Park nodded slowly, already anticipating the direction of Min-jun's thought. "A company, you mean? To manage the funds?"
"Precisely," Min-jun affirmed. "But more than just managing investments, this company will serve a dual purpose. It will be a legitimate front for our financial activities, providing a robust legal shell to absorb and grow capital without drawing undue attention. And, crucially, it will be the legal owner of intellectual property."
Mr. Park raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Intellectual property?"
"Yes," Min-jun confirmed. "In the future, intellectual assets—patents, algorithms, innovative technologies—are often far more valuable than tangible ones. To truly leverage the knowledge I possess, we need a vehicle that can legally own and profit from these creations." Min-jun's tone conveyed the weight of this strategic shift, moving beyond mere trading to laying the groundwork for a technological empire.
The conversation turned to the company's identity. Min-jun had already chosen the name. "I have considered a few options, Mr. Park, but I believe this one best represents our vision. We will call it 'Future Mind Co.'" He wrote the Korean characters, 미래 마인드, on a notepad for Mr. Park. "It is simple, memorable, and reflective of our innovative approach."
Mr. Park liked the name. It sounded modern, forward-thinking. He didn't realize the deeper, almost literal meaning behind it – a mind that literally accessed the future. It was a subtle, elegant nod to the Omni-7, a secret joke only Min-jun would ever understand, hidden in plain sight.
Registering a company in 1990s South Korea, while not as complex as in some Western nations, still required navigating a labyrinth of paperwork, certifications, and government approvals. Mr. Park, however, was a master of this domain. His decades as an accountant had given him an extensive network of contacts within legal and financial circles.
"I can handle the registration, Min-jun," Mr. Park assured him, already mentally outlining the steps. "We will register it as a technology consulting and investment firm. That will provide ample scope for both our current activities and future ventures into intellectual property."
Over the next few weeks, Mr. Park worked tirelessly, utilizing his old connections. He met with lawyers, filed documents with the Ministry of Trade, Industry, and Energy, and handled all the bureaucratic minutiae. His reputation for meticulousness and integrity ensured a smooth, if not swift, process. By early 1991, Future Mind Co. (미래 마인드) was officially a legal entity, ready to serve as Min-jun's strategic arm.
While Mr. Park was busy with the legal groundwork, Min-jun was engaged in his own profound work. He spent countless nights immersed in the Omni-7, not just financial data now, but the deeper recesses of future technology. He focused specifically on the history of software development, scrutinizing the evolution of digital information and its management. His target: data compression.
He eventually found what he was looking for: GitHub archives from the early 2020s. Among them were elegant, revolutionary data compression algorithms – protocols so advanced they dwarfed anything available in 1990. These algorithms could shrink file sizes by factors unimaginable in his present, opening up possibilities for faster data transfer, more efficient storage, and entirely new applications that were currently theoretical.
Min-jun didn't simply copy the code. That would have been too simplistic, too risky. Instead, he employed the Omni-7's advanced learning capabilities and his own formidable intellect to reverse engineer the genius. He studied the foundational theory behind the algorithms, dissecting the mathematical principles, the logical constructs, and the innovative approaches to data redundancy. He internalized the logic, running simulations in his mind, understanding the intricacies of the code as if he had personally conceived it. He grasped not just what the algorithms did, but why they were so effective, reaching a level of comprehension equal to, if not surpassing, their future creators. This was true mastery, not mere replication.
Once he had thoroughly assimilated the theoretical and practical knowledge, Min-jun set about "creating" the patent. He understood that the presentation had to be perfectly aligned with the technological understanding of 1991. He couldn't use future terminology or hint at underlying principles that wouldn't be discovered for decades.
He used a basic 1990s desktop computer, borrowed from Mr. Park, to type out his white paper. He deliberately chose a standard word processor program, ensuring the formatting was simple, professional, and entirely consistent with the era. The language he used was precise, technical, and detailed, but framed within the context of current computing capabilities, subtly hinting at future potential without revealing its impossible origins. He described the algorithm's novel approach to entropy encoding, its efficiency gains over existing methods (like LZ77 variants), and its broad applicability across various data types. He carefully avoided any mention of quantum computing or neural networks, focusing on classical mathematical and logical foundations.
He dubbed his creation the "Chronos Compression Algorithm," a name that subtly referenced the concept of time, a private jest for himself. The white paper was a masterpiece of calculated deception, a brilliant future innovation cleverly disguised as the singular insight of an unparalleled contemporary genius.
With the white paper meticulously drafted, Mr. Park oversaw the patent application process. Again, his connections proved invaluable, guiding the application through the national intellectual property office. The examiners, while recognizing the profound implications of the algorithm's described capabilities, processed it based on its presented merits, seeing it as a groundbreaking advancement rather than an impossibility.
In mid-1991, the patent for the "Chronos Compression Algorithm" was officially filed and swiftly approved, registered under the name of Future Mind Co. It was the company's first official, non-financial asset – a ghost in the machine, a piece of impossible genius that now legally existed in a timeline years, even decades, ahead of its true conceptualization. It represented more than just a technological breakthrough; it was a testament to Min-jun's unparalleled strategic foresight, a quiet declaration that Future Mind Co. was not merely playing the market, but fundamentally reshaping the future. The game had truly begun.