The cybercafe smelled like hot plastic and stale sweat.
Rows of aging desktop computers lined the narrow room, each one humming, each screen washing tired faces in cold blue light. A ceiling fan rotated sluggishly overhead, more symbolic than effective. Outside, the rain still whispered. Inside, the clicking of mouse buttons and keyboards was a kind of background music for hustlers.
Daniel stood at the entrance for a second, the glow of the monitors reflecting in his eyes. The System's interface still hovered faintly in his vision, like an AR overlay only he could see.
> Suggestion:
– Current visible balance: ₦ 3,200.00
– Recommended first expense: Internet Access
Rationale:
– Information.
– Account creation.
– Strategic planning.
"Welcome," the attendant said, looking up from his stool. He was a skinny guy with an Afro comb stuck in his hair and a faded Chelsea jersey on his back. "You wan browse?"
"Yeah," Daniel said. "How much per hour?"
"₦ 300," the guy replied. "Minimum thirty minutes."
Daniel did the math automatically. He could afford a few hours if he was careful. But this wasn't Netflix and chill. This was war planning.
"One hour," he said. "I fit use system number three?"
"Any free one you see, just sit," the guy said, already scribbling something in a notebook. "Your time start once you login."
Daniel handed over a ₦ 500 note. The attendant dug in a metal tin for change.
> Expense Detected: ₦ 500.00
Reward Pending: ₦ 5,000,000.00 Equivalent
Disbursement Mode:
– 70% Crypto
– 20% Local Fintech
– 10% System Pool
Another ding chimed quietly in his skull.
Daniel swallowed.
He still wasn't used to it. The idea that every small movement of money was like pulling a lever on some cosmic slot machine—except the win was guaranteed—felt like cheating in a game he hadn't agreed to play.
He collected his ₦ 200 change and moved to computer three.
The monitor flickered as he shook the mouse. The desktop was a sea of random icons: New Folder (3), WAEC_2021_Questions, Avast, shortcut to shortcut. The wallpaper was a default rolling green hill from Windows XP, stretched and blurry.
He sat, the chair creaking under him, and stared at the browser icon.
"Okay," he murmured under his breath. "Step one: confirm I'm not mad."
> You are not mad.
Step one:
– Learn to access and control System-generated assets.
– Research basic crypto wallet usage, offshore accounts, and fintech platforms.
Caution:
– Do not search for "untraceable money" or "how to hide billions" in public cybercafes.
Daniel snorted despite himself. "You're surprisingly specific."
> You are surprisingly prone to impulsive Google searches.
He muttered something rude under his breath and opened the browser.
For the next hour, his world shrank to the glow of the screen.
He set up a new email address, following System prompts that appeared like subtle highlights over certain options.
> Choose this provider.
– Better encryption.
– Servers in privacy-friendly jurisdiction.
He obeyed.
He created a crypto wallet access portal—nothing fancy, just a web interface to view balances and, if needed, move funds. As he typed, the System occasionally overlaid ghostly tooltips:
> Use a stronger password.
Suggestion: length ≥ 16 characters, mix of words and symbols.
Do not include birthdays, pet names, or "Tasha".
He deleted "Tasha2020!" from the field and replaced it with something more chaotic.
Minutes bled into each other as he read about stablecoins, exchange rates, decentralized finance. He'd dabbled in crypto before—just small amounts, experiments that went nowhere. Now, the numbers on the screen meant something very different.
His newly displayed wallet balance blinked at him.
$236,500.34
He refreshed the page. The number stayed. No error. No "oops, our mistake." No prank.
"Jesus," he whispered.
> Correction:
– My name is not Jesus.
– However, exclamations are understandable.
He scrolled through the transaction history. It was bizarre: a series of deposits, all timestamped within seconds of his restaurant payment. Labels: "System Source A," "System Source B," "Liquidity Redirect," "Unclaimed Dust Consolidation."
"Where did you get all this from?" he asked quietly.
> From everywhere.
Expanded:
– Fragmented, inactive funds.
– Negligible balances written off by institutions.
– Arbitrage opportunities across thousands of markets executed at inhuman speed.
– Statistical anomalies that no one will miss.
No individual or organization has suffered net loss.
In fact, some have gained slightly as a side-effect.
Call it… creative balancing.
"So you're like a… financial Robin Hood," Daniel murmured. "Except you only give to me."
> For now.
You are the Host.
Your choices will determine whether this power benefits many or destroys you.
That sat in his chest like a weight.
He could feel the temptation tugging at him already, like a tide. It was so easy to imagine: walking into a car dealership tomorrow, buying something ridiculous in cash. Moving into an expensive apartment. Flying first class to somewhere with blue water and no NEPA.
But another image pushed in: his mother, sitting on a plastic chair in their small village house, fanning herself slowly, pretending she wasn't worried about money whenever he visited.
No. He couldn't afford to be stupid.
He minimized the wallet tab and opened a new one.
Search: "How to start a small online business in Nigeria with low capital".
Links popped up. Blog posts, YouTube videos, half-baked Twitter threads. He skimmed, filtering the usual nonsense—"Just believe!"—and focusing on concrete ideas.
Drop-shipping. Social media management. Copywriting. Digital products. Agency models.
"You are supposed to help me with this," he muttered to the System. "You're the one that came with all your ding-ding."
> I provide leverage, not brains.
However:
– I can highlight high-probability success paths based on your skills and environment.
Analyzing…
A faint progress bar appeared at the top of his vision, filling quickly.
> Analysis Complete.
Your strongest leverage points:
– Web design & app development skills.
– Understanding of local SMEs' pain points.
– Existing laptop (recent purchase).
– Capacity to work absurd hours.
– Emotional drive: Prove them wrong.
Suggested path:
Service Agency → Productized Services → Scalable SaaS.
In human:
– Start by offering clear, packaged digital services to businesses.
– Standardize and systematize.
– Convert most requested solutions into software products later.
Daniel sat back.
He'd already been somewhat on that path, in his head. Build a few websites, apps, save up, then try something bigger. The difference now was that every expense along the way was nuclear fuel.
"I still have to start with ₦ 3,200," he said. "Ten dollars. Your quest."
> Correct.
You must demonstrate the ability to build something sustainable without immediately relying on large System injections.
Think of it as a tutorial level.
Constraints build character.
He rolled his eyes. "Says the omnipotent money engine."
> Thank you.
He checked the timer in the corner of the screen. Thirty minutes left.
He used them to outline a rough plan in a Google Doc, fingers flying clumsily over the sticky keyboard.
PLAN: TURN ₦ 3,200 INTO A FOUNDATION
1. Use part of it tonight for:
Internet (already done: ₦ 500).
Small data bundle for his phone (so he could work at home).
2. Use the rest tomorrow:
Transport to a local business district.
Print a simple one-page flyer or business card for a freelance brand (even cheap black-and-white).
Buy a cheap notebook/pen if needed.
He paused.
"That won't bring instant 'profit,'" he said. "But it sets up pipelines."
> Correct.
Quest does not require profit first.
Quest requires:
– Creation of a legitimate structure through which future income can flow.
– Evidence of strategic thinking, not emotional spending.
"A bottle of Hennessy is emotional spending," he muttered. "Got it."
> Very.
He saved the document under a random name and logged out of everything carefully. No traces. Old cybercafe habits mixed with new paranoia.
His time ran out shortly after. The browser spluttered and returned to the desktop. He stood, joints stiff, and went to the front desk.
"All done?" the attendant asked.
"Yeah," Daniel said, passing back the system number slip.
He stepped outside, back into the night.
The rain had stopped entirely now, leaving the air heavy and humid. The road shone with reflections — headlights, shop signs, the moon trying to peek from behind clouds.
He checked his phone: 9:42 p.m.
His stomach growled suddenly, reminding him that heartbreak and miracle systems didn't cancel the need to eat.
Across the road, the akara woman from earlier was still there, the oil in her wide pan crackling as balls of dough turned golden brown.
Just the smell made his throat tight. He hadn't eaten since afternoon, when he'd forced down a plate of rice so he wouldn't look awkward at the restaurant later.
He crossed carefully, dodging a puddle.
"Aunty good evening," he said.
She looked up, recognition dawning. "Fine boy! So you finally remember say corn and akara exist," she teased. "Wet tin you go buy?"
He checked his wallet again. The ₦ 500 cybercafe payment and ₦ 200 change meant he now had roughly ₦ 2,700 in cash, plus ₦ 3,200 in the bank—though mentally, he was treating the account as near-zero. If he could avoid touching it, he would.
> Note:
– Physical cash expenses are also valid.
– All legitimate spending is logged.
"Four pieces of akara and fifty naira bread," he said. "And one sachet water."
"Na ₦ 250 be that," she said, already wrapping the akara in old newspaper with long-practiced hands.
> Expense Detected: ₦ 250.00
Reward Generated: ₦ 2,500,000.00 Equivalent
Disbursing…
Daniel let the ding wash over him, now a weirdly comforting part of his sensory palette.
He took the warm bundle, the bread in its smaller nylon, and the cool sachet of water. The first bite was embarrassingly good, hot and salty and soft.
He leaned against a shuttered shop and ate in silence, watching traffic slow as people began heading home.
For a few minutes, he allowed himself to just be a person, not a newly appointed demigod of money. The heartbreak, the betrayal, the humiliation in that restaurant—they all ebbed and flowed in his chest like the tide.
He replayed the scene in his mind, wincing at certain lines.
He's been supportive.
He helped with my mum's bills.
What men do.
He crushed an empty sachet of water in his hand.
"I was always going to make it," he muttered to the ghost of Kelvin's cologne. "With or without you. This just… changed the timeline."
> Correct.
Previous path to success:
– 7 to 10 years with high risk of burnout and failure.
New path:
– 6 months to establish significant, sustainable wealth.
– 2 to 3 years to achieve global impact.
Note:
Emotional healing process still required.
System cannot fix heartbreak.
He snorted. "You're pretty useless there, yeah."
> Affirmative.
Try time, therapy, or new experiences.
"Or petty revenge," he added under his breath.
> Not recommended.
Revenge-driven decisions have a 68% correlation with catastrophic outcomes for System Hosts.
Host.
The word still felt strange. Like he'd unknowingly signed up to be the main character of a sci-fi thriller.
He finished his food and stuffed the nylon in his pocket to avoid littering. Old habits. He started walking again, this time towards home.
His apartment building was in a quiet part of Surulere, not fancy but not exactly a slum either. The kind of place where the paint peeled in some corners, children played football in the dusty compound, and everyone knew everyone else's business after a while.
By the time he got there, it was almost 10:30 p.m. The gate creaked as he pushed it open. The security man, Baba Musa, sat on a low stool near the entrance, small radio pressed to his ear, listening to late-night commentary.
"Good evening, Baba," Daniel greeted.
"Dan-jay!" the older man said, his face splitting into a smile. He was one of the few people who'd adopted that nickname. "Welcome. Rain beat you?"
"Small," Daniel replied.
"Your girlfriend never come today," Baba said with innocent curiosity. "The fine one wey dey wear wig. She dey come again?"
Daniel's heart did a slow, painful roll.
"Ah… we're not together anymore," he said, trying to keep his tone casual. "She don go marry Dangote's junior brother."
Baba frowned. "Ah-ah. Wetin happen? You no treat her well?"
"It's complicated," Daniel said. "But I'm fine."
Baba shook his head. "Na so life be. No worry. Another one go come. This time, rich pass her papa."
Daniel smiled faintly. "Amen, sir."
He climbed the stairs, each step creaking slightly. Third floor, end of the corridor. His door—metal, painted brown, with a simple key-and-bolt lock—came into view.
He unlocked it and stepped inside.
The familiar smell of his small self-contained apartment greeted him: a mix of detergent, old books, and the faint hint of air freshener he'd bought months ago.
The room was compact: bed on one side, small table against the wall, a single wardrobe that complained every time it was opened. A coding textbook lay open on the table where he'd left it days before. His recently purchased laptop sat beside it, closed.
He dropped his keys in the small metal tray near the door—a habit he'd picked up to avoid losing them—kicked off his shoes, and collapsed onto the bed.
For a moment, he just lay there, staring at the ceiling, listening to the distant hum of a neighbor's generator.
That was when the weight of the day really hit him.
Tasha. Kelvin. The restaurant. The bill. The System.
His throat tightened. Before he could stop it, the first tear rolled sideways into his ear.
He clenched his jaw, angry at himself.
Crying wasn't going to change anything. It wouldn't rewind time to before Tasha met Kelvin, before the financial pressure squeezed the love out of their relationship.
But grief never really cared about logic.
Images flashed behind his eyelids: Tasha asleep on his chest after their first long night of reading for exams. Tasha dancing foolishly in his tiny room to a song only she could hear. Tasha tasting burnt stew and saying, "It's fine, we'll just add more Maggi," before laughing.
He covered his face with his hands and let the sobs come, quietly at first, then harder.
The System, mercifully, stayed silent.
When he finally ran out of tears, his throat felt raw, his eyes swollen. The pillowcase was damp. He lay there for a while, breathing in the damp cotton smell, feeling emptied out and hollow.
After a long silence, the System spoke again, softer than before.
> Emotional release detected.
Good.
Suppressed grief correlates with poor decision-making in 72% of Hosts.
"Can you not turn my heartbreak into a pie chart, please," Daniel croaked.
> Noted.
I will reduce statistical commentary during acute emotional episodes.
He rolled onto his back.
"So what now?" he whispered.
> Now:
– You sleep.
– Tomorrow, you execute.
But before that, we should outline the Ten-Dollar Protocol.
"The what?"
> A simple framework for using your remaining ₦ 3,200.00.
Ten-Dollar Protocol:
1. Identify critical tools needed to start generating legitimate income.
2. Allocate minimal funds to acquire or access those tools.
3. Avoid spending on anything that does not have downstream income potential (food exceptions allowed).
4. Document all steps.
This protocol will form the origin story of your empire.
Humans like origin myths.
"Origin myth," he repeated. "You make it sound like I'm going to become some kind of legend."
> High probability.
He snorted, but it came out as a weary half-laugh.
"Okay, System. Let's outline it then. I'm awake anyway."
He sat up, reached for his backpack, and pulled out a battered notebook. The cover was peeling at the edges, but most of the pages were still blank. He clicked his pen, the sound loud in the quiet room.
On the first empty page, he wrote in capital letters:
> 10,000X – DAY 0
Underneath, he scribbled:
> STARTING VISIBLE CAPITAL:
– Cash: ₦ 2,700 (approx)
– Bank: ₦ 3,200
SYSTEM ASSETS:
– Crypto: $236k+
– Others: [Unknown / Not accessing yet]
His pen hovered.
"Should I really not touch the System money at all yet?" he asked.
> You can, but…
Consider:
– If you immediately access large sums, your identity will be tied to financial anomalies.
– This increases detection risk.
Better approach:
– Build a visible, believable story of gradual success.
– Let your "official" wealth grow at a human pace while your actual resources operate in the background.
"So I become two people," he said slowly. "The regular hustler who slowly starts winning, and the ghost billionaire."
> Accurate.
Public Daniel:
– Young entrepreneur.
– Smart, hardworking, lucky with one or two good clients.
Private Daniel:
– Host of a reality-bending financial engine.
The better you play the public role, the safer the private one remains.
He nodded.
He broke the ₦ 3,200 down on the page:
> TEN-DOLLAR PROTOCOL – INITIAL PLAN
1. Data bundle (for phone) – ₦ 1,000
2. Printing (simple B&W flyers/business cards) – ₦ 1,000
3. Transport tomorrow (BRT + keke) – ₦ 800
4. Emergency buffer – ₦ 400
He glanced at the numbers.
"It feels… small," he admitted. "Insignificant. Like I'm trying to change my life with petty cash."
> Correct.
But remember:
– Each of these small expenses will be multiplied 10,000x.
– While the money multiplies quietly, the meaning multiplies loudly.
Money alone is not power.
Money + Narrative + Structure = Power.
He underlined that.
"Money plus narrative plus structure," he murmured. "You sound like one of those startup bros on Twitter."
> Many of them are accidentally correct about some things.
He huffed a short laugh.
Fatigue began to creep over him properly now, the adrenaline from the evening finally draining.
He plugged his phone into the wall socket, flipped the switch, and watched the small charging icon appear. The fan above him, powered by the lightly buzzing extension, oscillated with a reassuring click.
He climbed into bed, pulling the thin sheet over himself.
"So tomorrow," he said, staring at the ceiling fan blades. "I wake up, buy data, design a basic flyer for my services, go out, talk to people, and start building something real."
> Correct.
Recommended Service Focus (Short-Term):
– "Simple, fast websites for local businesses."
– "Online presence packages" (logo, one-page site, WhatsApp integration).
Keep messaging clear.
Avoid jargon.
He nodded, even though the System didn't need visuals.
A thought tugged at him.
"System…" he asked quietly. "Be honest. If Tasha hadn't left me tonight… would you still have activated?"
There was a slight pause—just enough to make him wonder if he'd broken some rule.
> Low probability.
You were on track for slow, painful, moderate success.
Emotional Despair Level tonight created the necessary trigger.
In a way…
Her leaving you saved you from a lifetime of smallness.
He swallowed.
"That's a messed up way to put it," he said.
> Truth often is.
He turned onto his side, facing the wall, the cracked paint forming patterns his tired brain tried to make sense of.
Part of him still wanted to hate her. To curse her name, imagine scenarios where she regretted everything, where she came knocking and he turned her away from his mansion gate.
But another, quieter part recognized what the System was hinting at.
If nothing truly broke… nothing truly transformed.
He mouthed the words, barely audible.
"I'll make it," he whispered. "With or without you. For myself. For Mum. For the life I promised myself when NEPA cut light during JAMB prep and I said, 'Never again.'"
> Statement logged.
New Trait Detected: Unyielding Resolve (Dormant)
As you act on this, it will grow.
System will respond in kind.
His eyelids grew heavy.
The last thing he remembered before sleep dragged him under was the faint, familiar ding in his mind and a new line of text sliding into place at the top of his vision:
> Quest: Turn $10 Into A Fortune – IN PROGRESS
Day 0 Complete.
Tomorrow: Build.