Had dinner and chatted with relatives, and realized I’m the first in the family to make a living through trading. Three generations before me all worked the land, facing the dirt and the sky. But I don’t farm anymore, I don’t work a regular job—I’m making money with my brain. No one can guide me, and every decision I make has no reference point. When I mess up, the cold remarks can drown me. When I succeed, no one’s happy for me. In their eyes, I’m no different from someone gambling at a poker table. What drives me isn’t some lofty ideal—it’s knowing all too well where the path of my ancestors leads. A lifetime of hard labor for a mouthful of food—that’s a dead end. Physical strength has its limits, natural disasters don’t care about fairness, and trying to turn things around by sheer effort? No chance. I refuse to accept that. I chose a harder path—making money with my brain, understanding the rules, and catching signals others can’t see. No one’s walked this road before, so I’m the first. Breaking through class barriers isn’t something one generation can achieve. Someone has to step into the pitfalls, bleed, get mocked, and struggle to hold on. That someone is me—the one breaking the wind. Even if I lose everything, even if I fall in the darkest hour before dawn, I’ll accept it. Because my child will know that his father wasn’t someone who accepted his fate. This family had a madman—someone who didn’t farm, didn’t work a regular job, didn’t bow to anyone, and bet everything on his own judgment. He may have lost at times, but he wasn’t mediocre. In the end, I succeeded.