Semua Bab The Accidental Rebirth: The Troubles of a Three-Year-Old CEO: Bab 21 - Bab 30

The midday sun blazed like an overzealous spotlight on a stage, casting long shadows across the kindergarten playground. A whistle blew, and the doors to Classroom 1-B flung open. Children tumbled out with the chaotic energy of a Wall Street opening bell, their laughter and shrieks echoing like a stampede of tiny investors.Amid the noise, one figure remained calm—composed, calculating.Takuto Kimura, age five, adjusted his invisible tie and leaned against the jungle gym with arms folded. His eyes, shaded beneath the brim of a snapback worn backwards with tactical precision, scanned the playground like a battlefield commander preparing for market war.In his previous life, Takuto had been a thirty-year-old CEO—sharp, feared, and unforgiving. Then a freak accident involving a vending machine, an umbrella, and one poorly-timed lightning strike had thrown him into a reincarnation scenario straight out of a niche light novel.Now, trapped in the squishy body of a kindergartener, he had on

The day of the kindergarten graduation dawned bright and breezy, a perfect spring morning filled with the scent of freshly cut grass and the distant screech of overly energetic children being wrangled into pastel-colored formalwear. Inside the auditorium of Little Sprouts Early Learning Center, the air was electric with anticipation.Colorful streamers zig-zagged across the ceiling like confetti cobwebs. Dozens of helium balloons bobbed and swayed in time with the fans humming above. Tiny wooden chairs were arranged in neat rows at the front of the stage, each bearing a hand-lettered name tag scribbled in crayon. The teachers, dressed in their finest cardigans and clutching laminated programs, buzzed with nervous energy.Parents filled the folding chairs behind the children, clutching camcorders, phones, and tissues with equal intensity. Someone had already started crying, and the ceremony hadn’t even begun. The music teacher was hunched over a keyboard, whispering what seemed to be t

Takuto Kimura stood in front of the full-length mirror for the third time that morning, adjusting the knot on his miniature navy-blue tie. The knot had to be just right—tight enough to convey gravitas, but not so tight it wrinkled his pre-shrunk shirt collar.His reflection stared back, stern and composed: the face of a child preparing for battle. Not finger-painting or recess—not today. This was war. And the battlefield was an elite private primary school’s entrance interview.Tucked into the breast pocket of his tailored blazer—cut from imported fabric and tailored by his reluctant grandmother—was a gold-plated fountain pen. Real ink. Real nib. Paid for with his red envelope money from New Year’s.Behind him, his desk was a paper battlefield. A dog-eared copy of "100 Interview Questions for University of Tokyo MBA Candidates" lay open, marked with sticky notes. Next to it sat several sheets of thick paper, densely packed with diagrams, color-coded pie charts, and handwritten titles

The morning sun cast long shadows across the elementary school playground as the bell rang, signaling the start of recess. The children of Class 1-A burst out of the classroom like a herd of wild antelopes—some sprinting toward the jungle gym, others huddling around the hopscotch grid, and a few already negotiating the exchange of snacks. But in the far corner of the yard, one student had a far more ambitious plan in mind.Takuto "Wolf of Wall Street" Kimura (self-proclaimed) stood before a meticulously drawn grid of colored chalk lines, his tiny hands planted on his hips in a pose eerily reminiscent of a certain cinematic stockbroker. The grid was no ordinary hopscotch court—it was a fully operational Pencil & Eraser Futures Market, complete with price indexes, trend arrows, and a crude but functional "Big Board" displaying the day’s most traded stationery."Ladies and gentlemen!" Takuto bellowed, clapping his hands to gather attention. "Welcome to the First-Grade Financial District!

Takuto Kimura’s father, Kenichi, stared at his son's report card with trembling fingers. His eyes flicked across the sheet, confusion and disbelief growing with each line.Math: 100 — next to it, a hand-drawn golden currency symbol.Life Skills: Excellent — followed by the comment: “Recommended: mandatory financial literacy curriculum.”PE: Pass — with a red note scrawled underneath: “Physical ROI too low. Consider acquisition of athletic talent assets.”Kenichi turned to his wife, Yukiko. “This… this is a first grader’s report card?” he asked, dumbfounded. “Are you sure this isn't a business school term paper?”Yukiko didn’t even look up as she stuffed documents into her bag. “Dear, I’m more concerned about this.” She handed him a neatly bound stack titled:“1st Grade, Class B: White Paper on Financial Activities”The cover bore a childish but meticulous signature:“Published by Kimura Financial Group, Inc.”When Kenichi opened the door to his son’s classroom, for a moment he thought