The year of Gapjin, the year of the Blue Dragon, had dawned.
The Yeouido financial district was full of the energy of the first trading day of the new year.
On the faces of the employees settling into their seats after the opening ceremony, anticipation for new hope and the stale fatigue of last year’s hangovers coexisted in a curious way.
In one corner of that bustling office.
Instead of opening his trading window with practiced hands, Assistant Manager Kim Taeseong picked up his smartphone out of habit and launched his bank’s application.
Biometric login completed, and numbers appeared, printed clearly in the center of the screen.
[Account balance: 1,254,300,000 KRW]
1,254,300,000 won.
Every time he looked at the number, Taeseong felt a thrill run up his spine.
After the DS Danseok trade, Taeseong’s company assets under management (AUM) had swollen in one stroke to 9,124,800,000 won.
Taeseong had renegotiated his incentive rate to 15%, and as a result a fortune of roughly 1.2 billion won had landed in his personal account as year-end performance pay.
But Taeseong had no time to be drunk on that sweet number. 1.2 billion was certainly a large sum, but he had acquired the ability to earn as much as the company’s managed funds themselves.
‘It’s time to open my eyes to a bigger world.’
Of course, an investor receiving an incentive in the billions was something only the very top prop traders in the industry could manage.
And unlike an individual investor, because the seed itself was company money, there was the safety net that a sudden accident and a liquidation would not bankrupt him personally.
There was also the advantage of unrestricted access to the risk management and research information the firm provided.
But there was one great disadvantage: employees of a securities firm are strictly forbidden from investing personally.
And Taeseong was now slowly preparing to step outside the company’s fence.
‘I should graduate from a life of drawing incentives within the year.’
He had gathered a solid pile of seed money.
Now it was time to move to Taeseong’s own personal investing.
It was possible, of course, because he had the most reliable and accurate information in the world.
Digital gold, as the fortune cookie Wopora had given him described it.
Which is to say, he intended to chase Bitcoin.
‘With Bitcoin there shouldn’t be a legal problem even for someone in finance like me...... but just in case, I’d better not tell anyone around me.’
Bitcoin.
A fragment of data released into the world in 2009 by an anonymous developer called Satoshi Nakamoto.
To some, the greatest invention in human history, one that would overthrow the existing financial system; to others, a fraud for the ages, nothing but a scrap of data with no substance.
And regrettably, in this place where he worked — the Woojin Securities Investment Team 3 office — it was plainly treated as the latter.
“Ah, honestly, the clients are all going on about coins from first thing in the morning. Why call a securities firm to ask about the Bitcoin price? Are we Upbit? Are we Bithumb?”
Department Head Park Geonil slammed the receiver down and shouted irritably. There were deep creases between his brows and his tie was crooked.
“No kidding. The news won’t stop yammering about whether they’ll approve a spot Bitcoin ETF, so I suppose the older clients are interested too.”
Manager Jeong read Department Head Park’s mood and chimed in quickly. He was desperate to curry favor with the Department Head in order to make back his year-end losses.
“ETF, my foot. Has the American SEC lost its mind? Bringing that substanceless scrap of data into the regulated system? It’s all a scam. You know the tulip bubble in the seventeenth century? It’s exactly the same. It’s all going to blow up in the end.”
Department Head Park clicked his tongue. He was a textbook old-school establishment finance man.
The old generation who believed that only visible results, financial statements, and companies where you could hear the factory running were fit to invest in.
To him, coins were a vulgar gambling pit no better than the pachinko played by Kangwon Land addicts.
Department Head Park’s gaze turned to Taeseong.
“Assistant Manager Kim, you watch yourself too. I understand you got a fat incentive this time and you’re walking around with your shoulders up, but don’t go too far and start touching things like coins. That’ll wipe you out in one shot. I know a truckload of people who went to the Han River over coins.”
Department Head Park fired the warning off with a pretense of concern. But underneath it clung a sticky envy and resentment of Taeseong’s success.
Suppressing the sneer rising in his heart, Taeseong nodded.
“Yes, sir. I’ll keep it in mind. I don’t understand complicated things like that. Stocks alone are all I can handle.”
But what Taeseong actually thought was entirely different.
‘Gamblers? No, sir. Wall Street is about to walk in and take over that gambling pit. You’re just the last to know. An ear that cannot hear the world changing is simply left behind.’
Taeseong quietly curled the corner of his mouth.
1.2 billion won in hand.
If this seed money met the coming Bitcoin bull run?
10 billion — or more.
According to what Taeseong had dug up on overseas forums through the night, using Wopora’s information as a base, the situation was clear.
BlackRock, the world’s largest asset manager, had filed for a spot Bitcoin ETF.
Larry Fink, the emperor of finance who runs funds in the tens of trillions of dollars, had moved — which meant the board was already set.
The floodgates of an enormous dam were about to open. A vast wave of institutional money would pour into the parched coin market, and only those who rode that wave would switch into the fast lane of wealth.
The question was timing and selection.
He knew Bitcoin was the flagship, as the name suggested, but within the space there were countless altcoins, and the timing of buying and selling was far faster and more brutal than in stocks.
Taeseong had by now developed a fairly sharp sense in the stock market, but the ecosystem of the coin market ran on an entirely different language.
On-chain data, hash rate, the halving, the movement of whales’ wallets, and so on......
Taeseong needed a helper. Wopora only threw him keywords; it did not point out each concrete entry and exit.
***
That evening, after work.
Taeseong stopped by the gym, came home earlier than usual, and roamed the ocean of the internet all night.
Coin boards, the Bitcoin gallery on DC Inside, paid Telegram information rooms.
‘Most of it is garbage that doesn’t even rise to the level of a rumor sheet.’
At 3 a.m., his eyes gritty from scrolling the mouse wheel.
On a minor cryptocurrency technology forum he had wandered into by chance, one post with five views and not a single comment caught Taeseong’s eye.
[SEC ETF approval scenarios and recent whale wallet movement patterns (feat. the Grayscale supply)]
[Author: ZeroChain]
Even the title was different. Taeseong clicked as if under a spell.
The body was astonishingly precise. It was not on the level of forwarding news items.
[The Bitcoin network’s hash rate is currently setting all-time highs, yet miners’ selling pressure is decreasing. This is an accumulation signal ahead of the halving. Particularly noteworthy is the movement of certain wallet addresses identified three days ago. These wallets interacted with addresses presumed to be connected to BlackRock’s over-the-counter (OTC) trades......]
The author was tracking and analyzing transactions on the blockchain directly.
Right down to a pattern analysis of SEC Chair Gary Gensler’s statements and a chart overlay against the approval of the gold ETF.
Insight far deeper than any Yeouido analyst’s.
‘This person...... is the real thing.’
Taeseong’s heart raced. It felt like finding a pearl in the dirt. To post premium information like this for nothing, and in a place with no views at all.
Taeseong pressed the message button without hesitation.
[From: GoldenCross]
[Hello. I read your post with great admiration. If it isn’t an imposition, I would like to meet and talk. I work in finance in Yeouido and am preparing to enter the coin market. This is absolutely not a solicitation for an investment scheme or a trading room. I am willing to pay a proper consulting fee.]
Would a reply come? It was past three in the morning. Taeseong refreshed the screen anxiously.
Ding.
As if by a lie, a reply came within a minute.
[You want to meet me? Hmm, sounds like a scammer, but if you’re really going to come all the way out to where I am, then come I guess.]
Taeseong burst out laughing.
The tone was fairly impudent, but that made him like the man more.
Because the genuinely skilled are never humble.
Perhaps he was a night owl — the appointment was set for the very next night.
The moment he left work, Taeseong headed for the gym first. The appointment was at 9 p.m., so there was time enough to train.
“Welcome, sir!”
The counter staff greeted him brightly. But when he changed in the locker room and stepped into the weight zone, Taeseong sensed a current unlike the usual one.
Something was off with Trainer Kang Pilgeun.
The man who would ordinarily be roaming the floor bellowing “Sir! Your muscles are weeping! Tear them further!” was sitting slumped on the leg extension machine, staring at the floor.
His enormous traps looked slack today.
“Trainer?”
Taeseong approached and called carefully. Kang Pilgeun startled and raised his head.
“Ah, Mr. Kim Taeseong. You’re here.”
“Yes. Is something wrong? You don’t look well.”
“Ah...... no. It’s nothing. I’m just a little tired. Haha......”
He forced a smile. But his eyes were hollow. The energy that had always overflowed was gone, and he was like a balloon with the air let out.
“You’re not ill, are you?”
“No, my health is fine...... muscle never betrays you. Haha. Now, let’s do back today. We’ll start with lat pulldowns.”
He got to his feet, but the usual force was not there.
Even when he counted reps, there was no soul in it.
Taeseong kept stealing glances at him while he trained. Had something gone wrong with the gym’s business?
Or was it something personal? He was curious, but they were not yet close enough to press him about it.
And more than anything, Taeseong’s head was full of the coming meeting with the unknown figure called ‘ZeroChain’.
‘Let it go for today. I’ll ask him properly what’s going on later.’
Setting the unease aside, Taeseong finished his workout. He showered and changed into the newly fitted 2XL dark grey suit.
Looking in the mirror, it carried rather well.
His body, down into the mid-120kg range, had lost much of its former sluggish look.
The dignity befitting a man running 8.5 billion won of company money and holding 1.2 billion in cash was slowly assembling itself.
***
The meeting place was not Yeouido but a shabby internet café in Mapo, across the river.
Given the nerve of telling a finance man to come to an internet café, Taeseong thought the man might be younger than he had assumed.
Taeseong took a taxi to the address.
The third floor of an old commercial building. Climbing the stairs, stale air thick with mixed cigarette and instant-noodle smells stung his nose. The neon of the café sign was flickering.
Clackclack, tap tap tap.
He opened the door to the loud clatter of mechanical keyboards. In the dim interior only the monitor light glowed. Curses and cheers broke out here and there.
“Hey! Heal me! Heal!”
“Ah, shotgun, shotgun!”
Taeseong frowned and looked around. As an enormous man in a suit walked in, several students glanced over. He heard someone mutter about a gangster.
The seat number from the message was 54. A corner spot beside the smoking room.
Somebody was there.
A young man hunched in a black hoodie, his chair reclined as far as it would go, glaring at a monitor.
On the desk lay two empty cup-noodle containers, a can of Dr Pepper, and scattered crumbs of snack food.
What was on the monitor was not a game.
Colorful code poured down a black background like rain, and on another monitor were complex charts and documents in English.
“Are you ZeroChain?”
Taeseong spoke carefully.
The young man stopped his hands on the keyboard and slowly turned his head.
The face revealed under the hood looked as if it had not been washed for days.
Greasy hair stuck to his forehead, and the dark circles under his eyes ran to his jaw.
But that gaze alone burned bright, catching the light of the monitor.
He looked Taeseong up and down. Seeing the polished shoes and the perfectly fitted suit, he snorted.
“Who are you? Ah, don’t tell me — the scammer. I mean, the investor?”
His voice was dry. His manner had eaten its manners for breakfast.
But rather than offended, Taeseong found it interesting.
“Yes, I’m GoldenCross. My name is Kim Taeseong.”
Taeseong politely held out a business card.
Woojin Securities, Investment Team 3, Assistant Manager.
He did not take the card, and gestured for Taeseong to toss it onto the desk.
“Woojin Securities? What brings an establishment boomer out here? Isn’t that the sort of place that curses Bitcoin as a Ponzi scheme?”
“Most of them do. But I’m different. Which is why I came all this way.”
Taeseong pulled over the chair beside him and sat. The chair creaked.
“Have you eaten? You should eat something proper, not cup noodles.”
“Can’t be bothered. I hate going outside. Just order it here. The stir-fried pork rice bowl here is great. Ah, and a hot dog and a cola too.”
He demanded it shamelessly.
Taeseong went to the kiosk and ordered generously from what he had named.
He got himself an iced americano as well. While they waited for the food, Taeseong pointed at his monitor.
“What is this? Are you coding?”
“No. It’s a bot that crawls mining pool data in real time. Antpool’s movements have been odd lately.”
“Antpool — isn’t that one of the world’s largest Bitcoin mining pools?”
“You know it? You’ve studied a bit, for a boomer.”
He looked at Taeseong as if surprised.
“You said you read my post? Then you know. How close this market is to exploding.”
“Yes. I know SEC approval is imminent. But opinions vary widely on exactly when, and on how the price moves right after approval. There’s the saying ‘sell the news’ too.”
At Taeseong’s words he snorted.
“Sell the news? That’s ant talk. This ETF is different. This isn’t simply news, it’s a pipeline for capital being laid. If a water main gets connected, does the water not come? There may be a brief dip on disappointed selling right after approval, but it goes up in the end. Insanely so.”
He switched the screen and showed a chart.
“Look at this. The chart from the gold ETF approval in 2004. It rose on expectation before approval, corrected for a few days right after, and then rallied for eight years. Bitcoin is digital gold. Scarcer than gold, easier to move than gold. Market cap? Less than a tenth of gold’s. Catching up is a matter of time.”
His explanation was clear. And full of conviction.
“Then are you currently holding a long position?”
At Taeseong’s question his expression turned sour.
“No money.”
“Sorry?”
“I’ve got the skill and no seed. Last month I shorted futures and got liquidated. Caught by a Binance spike.”
He scratched his head.
“The analysis was perfect, but I used too much leverage, so one slip and I went to zero. That’s why the handle is ZeroChain. Because my account balance is zero.”
A case of genius-level analysis ruined by failed money management. A common enough story.
But to Taeseong he was exactly the benefactor he needed.
Just then the stir-fried pork rice bowl Taeseong had ordered arrived. Taeseong pushed the food in front of him.
“Eat.”
“Don’t mind if I do.”
He began shoveling rice down like a man who had starved for days. He did not care that red pepper sauce was smearing his mouth. Watching him eat, Taeseong quietly spoke.
“Let me make you an offer.”
He stopped his spoon and looked at Taeseong.
“I’ll put up the capital.”
“......”
“Let’s combine your analysis and my capital. The timing of ETF approval, and the altcoin market that follows. Find me the perfect entries and exits. We split the profit.”
He swallowed the rice in his mouth.
“How much have you got? Seed.”
“Enough. Enough that even running spot only, no leverage, it would turn your life around.”
Taeseong held up one finger.
100 million? ZeroChain’s eyes narrowed.
“A hundred million?”
“Ten times that. A billion.”