Chapter 36: The Invisible Hands
Ethan finished his remaining schedule at the Golden Dragon with a tired body. He wasn't familiar with management duties, so he had to allocate all responsibilities to Elana and asked her to choose one of the trustworthy managers to stand in as the General Manager, since Elana was busy with the setup of Black Global Holdings. He looked like a man who was quickly outgrowing his own skin. Every nod to a staff member, every signature on a procurement form, felt like a rehearsal for a role he was still trying to master. Once the final document was signed, he followed Bernie Thorne down to the parking garage. They didn't take Ethan's flashy vehicles; instead, they slipped into a discreet, armored black sedan that blended into the twilight of the South River City.
As they drove, the cityscape began to shift. If the Obsidian Heights was the crown of the city—loud, glittering, and aggressive—then the district they were entering now, The Gilded Grove, was the city's soul. This was an environment second only to the Heights, but it lacked the nouveau-riche flash. Here, the streets were lined with ancient, towering oaks whose branches intertwined to form a natural cathedral over the asphalt. The air felt heavier here, thick with the scent of damp earth and the quiet hum of old money. There were no neon signs or glass skyscrapers; only high stone walls topped with wrought-iron spikes and security cameras hidden in the ivy.
They pulled up to the Thorne estate, and Ethan felt a flicker of genuine appreciation. The building wasn't a modern monstrosity. It was a neo-classical manor, a sprawling three-story structure of grey limestone and white marble. Ivy crawled up the pillars of the grand portico, and the windows glowed with a warm, amber light that suggested a home rather than a monument. It looked like a fortress dressed in velvet.
Ethan stepped out of the car, adjusting his trench coat, but stopped dead.
Waiting at the grand entrance wasn't a butler or a servant. It was Bernie Thorne Sr. himself. The patriarch of the Thorne family was a man whose silver hair was slicked back with military precision, his face a map of decades of calculated risks and hard-won victories. Standing beside him was a young woman, sharp-featured and elegant, who Ethan assumed was Bernie's sister, Tanya. Her eyes were like her father's—calculating and unnervingly still.
Ethan was genuinely surprised. In the hierarchy of the South River City, Thorne Sr. was a senior. For an elder of his stature to be waiting at the door for a guest was a level of deference that felt almost heavy. But Ethan didn't let the power of his Overseer title go to his head. He remembered his roots in the dusty streets where respect for elders was the only currency that never devalued.
Before Thorne Sr. could speak, Ethan took a quick step forward and bowed—a deep, respectful tilt of the head, lower than a peer's nod but tempered with the quiet dignity of his new status.
"Mr. Thorne," Ethan said, his voice low and sincere. "You shouldn't have troubled yourself to wait outside. I am the junior here; I should have been the one seeking you out."
Thorne Sr.'s eyebrows shot up. He had clearly expected a brash, arrogant youth intoxicated by a sudden windfall of billions. Seeing Ethan maintain the etiquette of a well-bred junior brought a genuine, warm light to the old man's eyes.
"Wealth can buy the world, Ethan, but it rarely buys manners," Thorne Sr. said, stepping forward to clasp Ethan's hand. His grip was like iron. "Bernie told me a lot about you. It seems he didn't exaggerate. This is my daughter, Tanya."
Tanya stepped forward, offering a hand that was cool to the touch. "The man of the hour," she murmured, her voice like silk. "It's a pleasure to finally meet the Provincial Overseer. I would have attended the meeting if I knew there was going to be something fun to watch." A playful smile ran across her face, accompanied by a slight hint of red.
"I prefer to let the work do the talking," Ethan replied smoothly, not failing to notice the tint of red but choosing to ignore it.
They entered the house, moving through a grand foyer that smelled of beeswax and old books. The interior was a masterpiece of understated luxury—herringbone wood floors, silk wallpaper in muted teals, and oil paintings that looked like they belonged in a national museum. They engaged in small talk for a few minutes, discussing the climate of the city and the recent shifts in the logistics sector, but Ethan could feel the elder Thorne's eyes measuring him, looking for the cracks in his armor.
"Come," Thorne Sr. said, his tone shifting from hospitable to professional. "Bernie, Tanya—entertain yourselves. Ethan and I have matters of the mind to attend to."
He escorted Ethan down a long hallway to his private study. If the rest of the house was a manor, this room was a command center. The study was circular, lined from floor to ceiling with leather-bound volumes and ancient maps of the province. A massive desk carved from dark English oak sat in the center, lit by a single, green-shaded banker's lamp. The air was thick with the scent of expensive tobacco and the weight of secrets.
Thorne Sr. closed the heavy oak door, the click of the lock echoing in the quiet room. He sat behind the desk and gestured for Ethan to take the armchair opposite him.
"Ethan," the old man began, his face losing its warmth. "Do you know how many people have tried to pull up information about you in the last forty-eight hours?"
Ethan stayed silent, his pulse quickening.
"Three," Thorne Sr. said, holding up three fingers. "Three separate, high-level background checks have been initiated on 'Ethan McCain.' One from the municipal government, one from a rival holding group in the Heights... and one from myself."
On hearing this, a cold, predatory glint appeared in Ethan's eyes. The room seemed to drop several degrees. He wasn't scared of people finding out he was rich—he could go into hiding tomorrow, move to a remote island, and spend his quadrillions remotely. Since the only way to gain System Points was by spending, he could do that from a bunker if he had to.
But then, the faces of his parents and Sarah flashed in his mind.
His stomach twisted. He realized in that instant that if he disappeared, his family would become his Achilles' heel. They were civilians. They didn't have 100-point bodies or systems or mercenaries. If the world couldn't find the man with the money, they would find the people he loved and use them like bait to pull him out into the light.
He had thought he was being smart by hiring Mark and the veterans. He had already planned to secretly assign one of those shadows to follow Sarah, to watch over her at the university in the Central District. But if Thorne Sr.—a man who was ostensibly an ally—was performing background checks, it meant his trail was far more obvious than he had realized.
His mind raced, spinning through countermeasures. Should I move them to another city? Should I buy a private island tonight? How do I erase a lifetime of records? The fear wasn't for himself; it was the terror of a protector who realized his shield was full of holes.
Thorne Sr. watched the play of emotions on Ethan's face—the transition from cold fury to genuine, haunted concern. A small, knowing smile touched the old man's lips. He leaned back, his leather chair creaking.
"You don't have to look at me like you're deciding which artery to cut first, Ethan," Thorne Sr. said softly. "You don't have to be scared. I already blocked all information about you. When Bernie mentioned your name after the Apex meeting, I went through your files myself. I saw the gaps. I saw the 'university student' who suddenly became a god of capital."
He leaned forward, the green light of the lamp casting long shadows across his face. "I sanitized the trail. As it stands, your past is a blur of 'private inheritances' and 'offshore trusts' to anyone looking from within this province. You are safe... for the time being."
Ethan didn't relax. "For the time being?"
Thorne Sr. sighed, his expression turning grim. "Lagos—this province—is a pond. I am a big fish here, and I can muddy the waters. But if those people at the Capital... if the powerful people or the central government departments start getting interested in where forty billion dollars comes from in a single week? There is nothing I can do. The power I have here is a candle compared to the sun of the Capital."
Ethan stared at the old man, the weight of the "Zillion" title suddenly feeling like a mountain on his chest. He had the money to buy the world, but he realized now he didn't yet have the power to hide from it.
"Who else knows?" Ethan asked, his voice a low, dangerous rasp.
"Only those I allow," Thorne Sr. replied. "But Ethan, listen to me. Money is a tool, but mystery is a weapon. You have too much of the former and not enough of the latter. You need to build a fortress that isn't made of stone. You need a narrative that makes people afraid to even ask who you are."
Ethan's mind drifted to the System Points. He needed that 1,000 SP for the next tier. He needed more than just a Peak Body; he needed a Peak Empire. He looked at Thorne Sr., realizing that this meeting wasn't just a courtesy—it was a warning.
He was a titan in the making, but he was standing in an open field, and the vultures were already circling.
"I understand," Ethan said, his voice regaining its steel. "I need to become more than a spender. I need to become an enigma."
Thorne Sr. nodded, reaching into a desk drawer. "Exactly. And that brings us to why I actually asked you here." I actually have two presents for you.
He placed a small, tarnished silver card on the obsidian-inlay desk. It looked centuries old, etched with symbols that made Ethan's Pseudo-Body Refining hum with a strange, resonant frequency.