"Aaaaaaah!"
Trapped in endless regret and terror, Anderson watched helplessly as the figures on the screen broke through the bottom line of "0."
Then it became a horrifying negative number.
-1 billion.
-3 billion.
-5 billion...
He hadn't just lost every cent of his fortune. He was now saddled with astronomical debt.
It was a debt of cosmic proportions, enough to bury him for the rest of his life.
Three short minutes.
From a billionaire worth tens of billions, to the most indebted man on earth.
From the god of capital, to a bankrupt mortal.
A sickly sweet taste rose in Anderson's throat. A mouthful of fresh blood sprayed onto the screen in front of him.
He stared blankly at the screen.
A few seconds later, he suddenly seized the priceless bottle of whiskey from his desk and, with every ounce of strength in his body, hurled it at the screen.
The expensive screen shattered with a crash, sparks flying everywhere.
"Shit!"
Anderson let out a beastly howl that didn't sound human. Then his eyes rolled back and he toppled stiffly backward.
...
New York, Fifth Avenue.
Richard Anderson's top-floor trading room had completely descended into a living hell.
Piercing alarms, the despairing wails of traders, and the thick smoke billowing from shattered screens wove together into a final dirge.
Heavily armed security personnel charged in.
In a flurry of panicked motion, they hoisted Anderson onto a stretcher.
Right behind them, a group of men in suits flooded into this former center of power.
They came from the Monsanto-Kirin Alliance board of directors, lawyers and liquidators, like a flock of vultures who had caught the scent of blood.
"Freeze every personal asset belonging to Richard Anderson, immediately!"
"Seal all trading records! The SEC will be here any minute!"
"He's finished! Because of his arrogance and self-importance, the Alliance's balance sheet now has a multi-billion dollar black hole!"
In the very moment he fell, Anderson, once worshipped as a god, became a sinner whom everyone reviled.
The board removed his name without a moment's delay and launched the harshest internal investigation possible.
What awaited him was not just bankruptcy, but a long stretch in prison. For illegal operations and fraud.
Of course, only if he could ever get out of the psychiatric hospital first.
...
On the other side of the planet, the top floor of the Fujiwara conglomerate's headquarters remained perfectly serene.
Seiji raised his hand.
The massive Eye of Odin floating in midair slowly closed, eventually dissolving into specks of golden light that scattered into the air.
On the tea table before him, a virtual screen quietly materialized.
It displayed a number so long it made the eyes swim.
That was the spoils of this "hunt."
The tens of billions Anderson had vaporized, along with the high-quality assets the Alliance behind him was forced to dump to fill the black hole, all flowed steadily into the Fujiwara conglomerate's accounts through countless hidden channels.
Wealth had merely changed hands.
Seiji glanced at the figure, no expression on his face. As if it were just a meaningless string of code.
He turned and looked at Fuyumi, who knelt beside him.
Her delicate frame trembled slightly from having witnessed the entire "deicide" from start to finish.
He reached out and tipped her chin up again, forcing her to meet his gaze.
"Now this money belongs to us."
His voice was calm. But the word "us" struck Fuyumi's soul like a jolt of electricity.
She was no longer merely his slave, his tool.
She was also the sole witness to this gamble of the century, and... a sharer of the spoils.
She had become the first accomplice to be granted glory by this new king.
That contradictory, twisted pleasure, woven from humiliation and honor alike, made the heart she had thought long dead pound violently once more.
"Yes... Master." She lowered her head and, in a posture close to reverence, kissed Seiji's fingers.
...
Three days later.
Tokyo, Imperial Hotel, Phoenix Hall.
The Fujiwara conglomerate held a grand press conference here. They announced the successful integration of the Irisu Group and the repulsion of the hostile Wall Street takeover.
Camera flashes lit the room like daylight.
Over a hundred top media outlets from around the world packed the venue until there was no room left to breathe.
Seiji walked calmly onto the stage in a finely tailored black suit.
He didn't say a word. He simply stood there in silence.
Yet the entire hall fell instantly silent.
Every gaze in the room locked onto him. A gaze blended of awe, fear, and curiosity.
The earth-shaking financial tsunami three days prior had already turned the name "Seiji Fujiwara" into a legend of gods and demons. One that loomed over the entire global capital market.
But what shocked every reporter and business luminary present even more was the person standing beside Seiji.
Fuyumi Irisu.
She wore an elegant and sharp white Chanel business suit, with carefully done makeup on her face.
The young woman smiled gracefully as she handed Seiji the microphone and arranged his documents.
Her movements were elegant and proper, yet carried an unmistakable deference, the kind that belonged to a subordinate.
The aura between them, plain for anyone to see, far surpassed the usual relationship between superior and underling. Every business figure in the room caught it at once.
Among the attendees were heads of conglomerates who had once stood as equals to the Irisu Family, and political heavyweights who had once shown great favor toward Fuyumi Irisu.
But at this moment, no one felt surprised.
In every mind, only one matter-of-fact thought remained:
The strong possess everything.
They possess wealth, they possess power, and they should rightfully possess the most beautiful, most exceptional women.
In their eyes, Fuyumi Irisu had not fallen.
She had simply found a stronger master worthy of her devotion.
With one decisive, exhilarating victory, Seiji had redefined "common sense" for the entire world.
But as the world's gaze focused on Tokyo...
No one knew.
The final card Richard Anderson had played before his mental collapse had quietly arrived at its destination.
...
Kamiyama Region, deep in the forest at night.
A well-equipped mercenary team was creeping toward the rice paddies of the Chitanda Family under the cover of darkness.
The team consisted of twelve retired special forces operators, moving like phantoms.
Their packs were filled with the latest model of white phosphorus incendiaries.
The financial war was over.
The physical destruction was about to begin.
...
...
The night was deep as the sea.
Under the cold moonlight, the forest of the Kamiyama Region took on a hushed, eerie shade of inky green. The chirping of late summer insects and the rustle of evening wind through the leaves were the only melodies on this ancient land.
But the silence was about to be torn to shreds, on a countdown.
"Ghost, this is Eagle's Nest. Repeat, this is Eagle's Nest. You have arrived at the designated attack position, 1.5 kilometers from the target. Thermal imaging of the target zone shows security forces are negligible. Only a few low-temperature heat signatures moving on a regular pattern, likely elderly patrolmen. Over."
A hoarse voice came through the comms, scrambled by military-grade encryption.
The mercenary squad leader codenamed Ghost slowly lowered the thermal imager in his hand.
He was a former Navy SEAL who had crawled through the scorched soil of Iraq and Afghanistan for ten years.
A cruel, cold smirk hooked the corner of his face under the camouflage paint.
"A pack of pampered farmers. Don't even have a guard dog," he murmured back into his throat mic.
His voice was thick with contempt for the target.
"Eagle's Nest, Ghost copies. Estimated thirty minutes to mission completion. We'll turn this so-called 'land of plenty' into a real hell. The balance gets wired on time after the job's done, right?"
"Don't worry, Ghost. The client paid in full. He just wants results."
"Good."
Once the comms ended, he turned and made a tactical hand signal.
The twelve operators fanned out without a sound, like genuine phantoms. With efficient and cold-blooded synchronization, they checked their gear.
The latest four-tube night vision goggles.
HK416 assault rifles fitted with suppressors.
And M14 White Phosphorus Incendiaries packed into their bags. Enough to scorch an entire football field into glass.
They were Richard Anderson's final revenge.
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