Chapter 06
2009. Monaco.
A driver died.
It was his third year since making his Formula One debut as the youngest rookie in history.
The entire world had been raising their glasses in celebration, praising the once-in-a-generation genius who stood on the verge of becoming World Champion.
The young flame, who had been transcending ordinary glory and edging toward true greatness, was extinguished by a shockingly meaningless tragedy. Those left behind gathered before his gravestone, offering chrysanthemums instead of champagne.
Lim Rampa.
Better known around the world as Rampa Lim, the Korean-Australian disappeared into history amid a tide of mourning.
He was twenty-one years old.
Twenty-two by Korean age.
Painfully, tragically young.
♧
When Rampa Lim died, I was just a middle school girl with a mushroom haircut.
The social impact of his death had been so enormous that even a sports-ignorant teenage girl like me could never forget it.
That’s how extraordinary Lim Rampa had been.
The dazzling, flamboyant genius of the century.
Even his death came while he was still so young—it was enough to make him the racing world’s James Dean.
Sure, he’d been born in Australia, spoke English as his native language, and looked every bit the black-haired foreigner.
But none of that really mattered.
Long before the Korean Wave swept across the globe, Lim Rampa never stopped shouting out Korea. He cherished his mother country more than anyone.
Formula One had always been strangely unpopular in Korea, but even people who knew nothing about F1 knew Lim Rampa.
So…
How could I possibly not recognize him?
Black hair. Silver-gray eyes.
Even among mixed-race Asians, those features were incredibly distinctive.
I couldn’t stop sneaking glances at him.
‘Even the beauty mark at the corner of his eye is exactly the same.’
He looks just like he did in that Netflix documentary!
So he was handsome even as a kid.
Standing face-to-face with the legendary Silver Eyes—albeit the child version—made everything feel unreal.
I came upstairs to deliver rice cakes… and ended up meeting RL? Am I dreaming?
‘But why is he here?’
I’d already managed to move into a top-tier neighborhood…
…but was it really okay for my surroundings to change this dramatically?
For a second, I wondered if he was just someone who looked similar.
That thought shattered the moment introductions were made.
His name was actually Lim Rampa.
How many Korean-Australian kids born in 1988, with such an unusual name and Australian English, could possibly exist?
“[Can she really walk? She’s so tiny. Let’s just take the elevator.]”
“Don’t bother the adults.”
“[Then I’ll carry her. She’s so little. She’s about the same size as the rice cake she’s holding.]”
“It’s tteok (rice cake), not 턱.”
The number of confusing things happening right now was already overwhelming…
…but the most confusing part was—
“[And stop speaking English. It’s really rude to keep talking in English in front of her.]”
These little kids’ English skills.
‘Well, okay. The Australian whose native language is English gets a pass…’
But Jung Hyun-gyo?
What’s his deal?
There weren’t even English kindergartens back then.
How was his pronunciation so good?
Was this really the standard for kids in 1990s planned cities?
‘The poverty is hitting me hard…’
Mom…
I want to study abroad.
“I know~ But my Korean sucks.”
“I’ll only get better if I keep trying. Ssinga, you don’t like it when we keep talking weird, right?”
“Yeah… it’s annoying…”
“Sorry. Rampa hyung, what about you? Hurry up and apologize too.”
“‘Annoying’… what’s that…? Uh… sorry.”
The reason the three of us were walking together was simple.
After delivering the housewarming rice cakes, the two boys had followed me around, and my mom had assigned them the mission of “looking after the little sister.”
After thinking about it for an absurdly long time—for reasons I couldn’t understand—Jung Hyun-gyo decided we’d go to the playground.
He also insisted we couldn’t take the elevator because we’d disturb the adults.
So now…
We were walking down all ten flights of stairs.
I’d only met him today, but this kid practically radiated Confucian values.
‘Ugh… my legs are killing me.’
The Korean-Australian boy, who’d grown up healthy on Australian food, had been looking at me with pity this whole time, clearly wanting to carry me.
Little Rampa wanted to give me a piggyback ride?
Believe me, I wanted that too.
I desperately sent him a please carry me look.
But Little Mr. Confucian kept blocking him.
Apparently children were supposed to walk on their own.
“How old are you, Ssinga? I’m eight, and Rampa hyung is nine.”
“Ssinga’s six.”
“Nah, I’m not nine.”
“My birthday hasn’t come yet. Korean age is really weird.”
Pouting, Rampa suddenly looked me straight in the eyes.
Then, with the utmost seriousness, he declared,
“But I’m your oppa. If you don’t call me oppa, that’ll be a big problem.”
…
What?
A nine-year-old is already obsessed with being called oppa?
How disappointing.
“Rampa oppa… carry me. Ssinga’s legs hurt.”
Actually…
I like it!
“Okay!”
Jung Hyun-gyo looked displeased, but I ignored him.
I’d reached my limit.
Rampa’s back was wonderfully comfortable.
Mm.
He even smelled like fresh soap.
“My younger sister, Hyun-hye, is your age. She’s out with our mother right now, but you should become friends.”
“Oi, careful. Hyonye’s so wild.”
“What? Hon-ne?”
I seriously couldn’t understand this Korean-Australian accent.
“Rampa hyung, don’t make her misunderstand. Hyun-hye’s a little rough around the edges, but she’s not a bad kid.”
Ah.
So this Hyun-hye brat had quite the attitude.
‘Good information.’
As a reward, I gently patted Rampa’s shoulder.
Just as you’d expect from a future genius.
Strong body.
Ridiculously handsome, even as a kid.
It was far too tragic for someone like him to die so young.
‘Since we’ve met like this… maybe I should give him a hint.’
If I earned his gratitude now…
Maybe, years later, it’d help—if only a little—with my one-trillion-won mission.
Having finished my calculations, I whispered sweetly into his ear.
“Rampa oppa… do you know what saju is?”
“Huh?”
“How does a little kid like you know about saju? Did your mom tell you?”
…And how do you know about it, Mr. Confucian?
‘Wait… did he reincarnate too?’
Suppressing my overwhelming urge to ask him whether he knew Min-su, I began planting the seed.
“Saju is a very mysterious Korean…”
“Hmm…”
“…traditional magic!”
“It can read someone’s entire life just by looking at them.”
“The past… the future…”
“Hoo?”
“I can do it!”
“Wait, what?”
“Hold still…”
“Oooooh… I see it…”
“Hmmm…”
“Got it!”
“You drive cars, right?”
“Like bumper cars!”
“…!”
“…!”
Not only Rampa—
Even Jung Hyun-gyo, who’d been walking ahead of us, whipped around with his jaw hanging open.
The two boys stared at me in utter shock.
“H-How…?”
“R-Rampa hyung… did you tell her?”
“[Are you kidding me? No! I’ve got goosebumps right now! Is this for real? You two planned this to prank me, didn’t you?]”
His already-clumsy Korean completely collapsed under the shock, and he started firing rapid English.
Somewhere along the way, he’d even set me back down on the floor.
While the foreign kid struggled to process Korean mysticism…
…Hyun-gyo, being a native Korean, recovered first.
“Ssinga.”
“How did you really know?”
“Rampa hyung is the state karting champion in Australia.”
“Next year he’s moving up to juniors.”
“He’s already been on the news overseas.”
“He’s pretty famous.”
Yep.
I know.
Your big sister watched the documentary.
Well… at 1.5x speed, but I still watched it.
Beaming proudly at the two stunned boys, I announced,
“I told you.”
“I can read saju.”
“And that’s not all.”
“I can even see a little bit of the future.”
“Rampa oppa…”
“You’re going to become much, much more famous than you are now.”
“But you have to be careful.”
“When you’re arou—”
I was just about to warn him that he’d suffer a terrible accident around the age of twenty-two…
That he needed to be careful on rainy roads…
When—
“Huh?”
“!”
“S-Ssinga!”
Hyun-gyo’s composure shattered.
Rampa rushed toward me, his face frozen in alarm, quickly cupping a hand beneath my chin.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Bright red drops splattered across the apartment stairs.
‘Mom…’
It was blood.
A nosebleed.
Pouring out as though it were raining.
What… what’s happening?
Overwhelmed by a wave of dizziness, I couldn’t stay upright any longer.
My knees gave way—
And I collapsed where I stood.
