Staring at the small box of broken porcelain on his desk, Song Eun-woo couldn't help but wonder: if he used Deconstruction and Reconstruction on these shards, would the system hand him a complete, restored antique?
These days, the antique market was a minefield—authentic joseon baekja or buncheong pieces were vanishingly rare, with fakes flooding Insadong and online auctions. A complete set of matching fragments still held value for skilled restorers, but these random, mismatched pieces? They were practically worthless, not even worth the cost of the glue it would take to fake something from them.
He lifted the box from his desk and gave it a gentle shake, listening to the dry clink-clatter of ceramic. A spark of excitement flickered in his chest.
His father's humble collection had one unexpected virtue: while the pieces didn't form a whole, they all appeared to date from roughly the same historical period—likely late Joseon dynasty. That was a huge relief. If his father had haphazardly collected fragments from Goryeo celadon, Japanese Imari ware, and modern factory rejects all in one box, the system might not have enough coherent "system molecules" to work with after deconstruction.
The only catch was that today's single use of Deconstruction and Reconstruction was already spent. He'd have to wait until after midnight, when the ability reset. Until then, he needed to keep these potential treasures safe. Since they were, technically, his father's prized fragments, Eun-woo carried the entire box into his room and tucked it securely in his closet.
With the porcelain stashed away, his mood lifted. He swaggered into the kitchen, humming a recent K-pop tune as he began pulling ingredients from the fridge.
Four banchan side dishes and a steaming pot of doenjang jjigae were just finished when the front door lock clicked open.
What puzzled him was the strange, appraising look his parents shot him the moment they stepped inside, still in their coats.
"Oh, perfect timing! Dinner's ready. Um… Eomma, why are you looking at me like that? Let me be clear—I didn't get in any trouble today!"
He jumped to defend himself out of habit. In the past, being this unusually helpful usually meant he was softening them up after some mischief at school or at the PC bang.
But this time was different. The awakening of the system had put him in a fantastically good mood.
In truth, his parents' stares weren't accusatory—they were shell-shocked. They had just spent the afternoon digesting an unbelievable call from Teacher Park and barely recognized the confident, relaxed boy standing in their kitchen.
"You… you rascal," his mother, Song Mi-kyung, finally spoke. After slipping off her shoes, she marched over, pinched his cheek, and scrutinized his face as if seeing him for the first time. "Do you seriously have some kind of… photographic memory?"
Hearing the question, Eun-woo instantly understood. Teacher Park had called them. That wasn't necessarily bad news—maybe his status in the household was about to see a significant upgrade, possibly even surpassing the revered "Abeoji."
With that thought, a smug, lopsided grin spread across his face.
"Heh. Since you already know, I'll drop the act. Cards on the table—your son really does have an elite memory! Impressed? Feel free to applaud your future genius."
His cocky posture lasted about thirty seconds before it crumpled.
The moment the words left his mouth, Song Mi-kyung erupted. She slid off her house slipper and swatted his backside.
"Ya! 'Cards on the table,' is it?!" Smack! "Aigoo!"
"Photographic memory, my foot!" Smack!
"Stop putting on a show!" Smack!
Reading the danger, Eun-woo yelped and scrambled behind his father, putting on a pitiful act. "Eomma! That's not fair! Your son shows a glimpse of talent and instead of a reward, it's corporal punishment? What about my human rights? Aish, nobody understands me…"
He rubbed his backside—it didn't hurt much, but he hammed up the tragedy.
"Human rights? You little tokki! Come here, I'll give you rights! Yeobo, move—today I'm straightening this kid out!"
"With a memory like that you lazed around for three years and stayed at the bottom of the class?! Let's see if this doesn't knock some sense into you!"
Only then did Eun-woo realize the misunderstanding. She thought he'd had this ability all along and had simply chosen not to use it. How could he possibly explain? If he said he'd only gained it a few days ago, she'd never believe him.
After a chaotic few minutes of dodging and leaping around the living room, his mother finally tired herself out, breathing heavily.
Eun-woo quickly helped a panting Song Mi-kyung to the dining table and began massaging her shoulders. "Eommonim, Your Highness, was that really necessary? Look, I'm fine—thick-skinned. But if I've tired you out, your loyal son will only feel guilty."
She slapped his hands away, her anger fading into weary exasperation. "Enough sweet talk. Sit and eat. Tomorrow, I'm going to school with you. We need to speak to Teacher Park about you repeating your senior year."
With that, she ignored him and accepted the bowl of rice his father had just served.
Eun-woo froze. "Repeat the year? Wae?"
She set her spoon down with a definitive clack and fixed him with a stare. "What do you mean 'why'? Are you planning to settle for some obscure provincial university or a vocational college?"
Seeing her temper flare again, he hurriedly backtracked. "Eommonim, have a little faith. If you won't believe in your son, at least believe in your own genes. I inherited my brains from you, didn't I?"
He took a breath, adopting a more serious tone. "Fine. No more jokes. I'm laying all my cards down: If I don't score in the top 0.1% on the Suneung, I'll… I'll write our family name, 'Song,' upside down for a year."
It took another hour of earnest persuasion, followed by him flawlessly completing two past Suneung exam papers right at the dining table under their stunned watch, before Song Mi-kyung and Song Min-soo finally, reluctantly, began to believe him.
When the reality sank in—that their son might genuinely test into a top-tier university like Seoul National, KAIST, or Yonsei—Song Mi-kyung's eyes welled up with tears of disbelieving joy. His father, Min-soo, quietly poured himself two extra glasses of soju, a proud, dazed smile on his face.
Later, tipsy and content, Song Min-soo went to bed, completely unaware that his precious box of ceramic fragments had migrated from the living room to his son's closet.
Back in his room, Eun-woo placed the box of porcelain shards carefully beside his pillow. He lay in the dark, watching the digital clock on his desk, waiting for the numbers to click over to midnight.
[To be continued…]