INTRO

A gaming-obsessed recluse, mooching off his parents and on the verge of getting kicked out of the house?

No, this was the night a stock market prodigy was born!

A single phone call from his guild master changed everything.

"Don't you dare quit the game! Starting tomorrow, you're working at my firm. You'll be on salary, free to slack off, and it won't interfere with your gaming time!"

What the—?! His guild leader was actually a financial titan?

The elite investors at the private equity firm scoffed. "A clueless rookie who doesn't even know how to read a candlestick chart? Let's see how long it takes for him to quit in disgrace!"

But then—

"A worthless penny stock? Watch me go all in."

What followed was ten straight days of a parabolic rally.

The entire trading floor was left in stunned silence.

"Holy—?! This guy's a newbie? He's a freaking market whisperer!"

From scorn and contempt to groveling at his feet, the elites clung to his leg as if it were their lifeline.

From 'Dieselgate' to exploding smartphones, every corporate scandal became his personal feast to harvest the world's wealth.

And when Wall Street bared its fangs, plotting to crush domestic companies, he raised the banner and rallied the nation's capital to his cause!

Channeling his most familiar in-game strategy, he issued the command, "Bros, on me—let's go raid Wall Street's home server!"

That day, Wall Street lost its mind. The global markets screamed in turmoil, and the chairman of the NASDAQ was begging for a truce by morning.

Facing the press, Elon Shaw only shrugged.

"Market whisperer? Hardly. I just opened 999 loot boxes and maxed out my luck stat, that's all..."

Chapter 1

"What the hell... who slipped this piece of trash in here?"

Kade Mercer, manager of the HR department, pinched a resume between two fingers as though it were contaminated.

His temper was on the verge of exploding.

Outside the window stretched the steel jungle of Brecken City's financial district—skyscrapers clustered together, radiating the raw arrogance of money and power.

Inside, the gilded letters of Axom Capital gleamed on the wall, silently proclaiming the prestige of this top-tier private equity firm.

With assets under management in the hundreds of billions and a dominant position in the industry, this was the sacred hall every graduate from elite universities dreamed of entering.

Here, credentials were currency, and the sharpest financial minds clawed tooth and nail for a single foothold.

Yet in Kade's hand lay this resume—

Name: Elon Shaw

Age: 25

Education: Brecken Industrial University, Brecken City

Major: Business Administration

Certificates: None

Work Experience: None

Kade almost suspected the printer had jammed and someone had mistakenly dropped a test page onto his desk.

No CFA, no CPA, no FRM—none of the golden tickets every finance professional lived and died by.

No internships. No work experience. Nothing but a blank slate.

To be honest, in Axom's history, he had never once seen such a pitiful resume land on his desk.

He considered feeding it straight into the shredder.

Even then, Kade felt it would be an insult to that expensive imported machine.

And yet, today, here it was—lying brazenly on his desk.

"Mr. Mercer," his secretary's voice trembled with caution, "this resume came directly from the chairman's office."

"What?"

Kade shot to his feet, disbelief etched across his face.

The chairman? The very man who had built Axom Capital from obscurity to industry dominance?

The man renowned for his ruthless vision, his meritocracy, and his open contempt for nepotism?

Kade remembered vividly: just last year, a decorated company veteran had tried to place his nephew, freshly returned from overseas, into a key department.

The chairman had crushed the proposal in front of the entire executive board, humiliating the old guard so badly that no one dared test that red line again.

And now—the chairman himself had sent over a resume this... unremarkable?

This wasn't a hint. It wasn't even a suggestion. It was an order.

Could it be... a relative?

The surname didn't match.

But who could say for sure?

"Did he say which department to assign him to?"

"No, nothing. Just sent the resume down."

"Heh..." Kade let out a bitter laugh.

No instructions—that was the hardest instruction of all.

It meant HR had to handle it, make it look natural, and avoid causing offense.

But where to place such a mediocre "connection"?

Put him in a core department, and the place would erupt.

Shove him in a peripheral corner, and it might look like they were slighting the chairman's protégé.

After half a minute of silence, thoughts twisting through his head like tangled wires, Kade finally decided.

"Put him on Desk One. Start him as a junior trader."

The secretary hesitated. "Sir, the team on that desk... they won't be happy."

"Let them complain!" Kade snapped, waving his hand dismissively. "This is someone personally 'recommended' by the chairman. If anyone has a problem, they can take it up with me!"

Yes, Trading was a core department—but an assistant? That was glorified grunt work.

Clicking through simulation trades, fetching coffee, printing documents, running errands...

In other words, a harmless bystander.

This way, the chairman's face was saved, and the so-called protégé wouldn't have the chance to cause any real damage.

Perfect.

Kade sighed inwardly.

A company as vast as Axom was bound to attract its share of parasites and hangers-on.

Human favors and hidden deals... they were impossible to escape.

He glanced back down at the resume, eyes lingering on that name—Elon Shaw.

What kind of earth-shaking background did this young man carry?

What could possibly compel the chairman to bend his own iron rule?

That name was like a pebble tossed into Axom's deceptively calm but treacherous depths, sending quiet ripples outward.

And at the very heart of those ripples—the young man called Elon, who, just hours earlier, was still in some forgotten corner of the city, caught in the middle of a storm powerful enough to overturn his life.

...

Bang!

The door slammed open with a dull echo.

Elon jolted violently, spinning away from his computer screen.

In the dim room, the monitor's pale glow cast his face in sharp relief—ashen, startled, guilty.

"Mom... Dad? When did you get back?"

"What, you've been gaming so hard you didn't even notice us walking in?"

His mother's voice was sharp, frayed with exhaustion, carrying anger suppressed for far too long.

Behind her, his father loomed in silence, a volcano on the verge of eruption, his glare sharp enough to cut.

"Your father and I work ourselves half to death outside, just to earn a living! And you? You sit at home every day, glued to your games!"

"Look at George's boy next door. Same age as you. He just got promoted last month, already planning to buy a house and get married!"

"And your sister! She's three years younger than you, but she's got a stable job and actually has a plan for her life."

"And you? Do you plan to waste away like this for the rest of your life?"

Their long-suppressed resentment burst loose like a broken dam, crashing over Elon with the force of a flood.

Every word was a spike, driven straight into his chest.

He knew they were right. Every accusation hit home. He had no defense—only silence.

He had once been a young graduate, a fresh-faced dreamer with ambition in his heart.

But after endless rejections, jobless months stretching into years, his resolve had withered.

He had retreated—into games, into the shelter of a virtual world.

Leeching off his parents, numbing himself, running away.

"Elon..." Suddenly, his mother's voice softened. "I wish you could play happily for the rest of your life. But reality won't allow it. Your father and I... we'll grow old one day. What will you do then? You need to think about your future..."

"I know." Elon lowered his head. His voice was rough, almost broken.

"This is the last time!" his father thundered, each word like a hammer strike. "We'll give you one last chance. This time, you must show us something real. Show us change. Don't disappoint us again!"

The door slammed shut, leaving behind a suffocating silence.

Elon sat frozen in his chair.

On the game screen before him, a newly looted weapon gleamed with legendary brilliance.

A prize worth celebrating—yet at this moment, it looked like the cruelest joke.

"Heh..." A dry, bitter laugh escaped his throat, his chest tightening with unease.

Just moments ago, he had been laughing and bragging with his guildmates in voice chat.

[No way! Elon just pulled a god-tier legendary!]

[Elon! What kind of luck is that?! The absolute RNG King!]

[This dude's account is blessed. The chosen one, I swear.]

...

The guild channel buzzed with cheers, banter, and reverent shouts.

Elon basked in it, proud and exhilarated, relishing the attention, the worship, the title they gave him—the RNG King.

All of it stemmed from a strange gift he had recently discovered. A mysterious intuition.

It had started about a month ago.

During the most random, luck-driven moments in the game—drawing cards, opening loot boxes—he had begun to sense something.

For the briefest instant, a fleeting timing, impossible to describe.

Sometimes it felt like a faint electric current sparking at his fingertips, rushing up to his head in a dizzying jolt.

If he clicked the mouse in that exact instant—miracles happened.

Like just now. That legendary weapon flashing across his screen?

That was the result of seizing that elusive feeling and clicking without hesitation.

This inexplicable "RNG King's Luck" was his last shred of pride, his only comfort against the emptiness of real life.

But under the crushing weight of his parents' disappointment, even this fragile pride felt pitifully small.

He exhaled a long sigh.

It couldn't go on like this.

He opened the guild chat box.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard for a long moment before finally typing a single line:

[Hey guys, I'm sorry... but I think I have to quit.]

The channel erupted.

[What? Elon, you're quitting? Why all of a sudden?]

[Who pissed you off? Tell us! We'll beat the crap out of him!]

[Don't go, man! We're a bunch of old dudes here. If you leave, the guild will be a retirement home!]

Reading the flood of messages, Elon felt a pang of warmth, mixed with a bitter ache.

He explained his family situation briefly.

The chat fell silent for a few seconds.

[I see...]

[Sigh... we get it. Your parents aren't wrong. Time to find a proper job.]

[What a shame, though! Without your luck, who's gonna pull gear for us?]

Amid the sighs and consolations, a private chat window suddenly popped up.

It was the guild master.

[Elon.]

[Guild Master? What's up?]

[Hold off on quitting for now. If I remember right, you graduated from Brecken Industrial University? Business Administration major?]

[Yeah, that's right. Why?]

[How's your math? Did you take accounting?]

[Decent. Learned a bit.]

[Good. Send me your resume.]

[Huh? My resume? What do you need that for?]

[Forget wasting time on random jobs. Come work at my company. That way, you don't have to quit the game. Hell, if you leave, our guild really will turn into an old folks' club.]

Elon froze.

The guild master? The guy who cracked jokes in chat, who treated everyone like family, who always insisted on picking up the tab at meetups?

The one who drove a different flashy car every week?

Elon had always pictured his guild master as just another aimless heir to a fortune, whiling his days away in-game.

But he had an actual company? And he was offering him a job?

This was... surreal.

[Guild Master, you're not joking, right?]

[Do I look like I'm joking? I know what kind of person you are. Reliable, loyal, sharp. You've carried plenty of guild nonsense on your shoulders for me. Think of this as me returning the favor. Send your resume to this email. I'll have HR arrange everything.]

Elon's eyes stung with sudden heat.

They had only met through a game. Yet the guild master was willing to go this far?

Still... doubt gnawed at him.

What if the company was shady? A shell operation?

No!

He shook his head fiercely, banishing the thought.

Was this really the time to be picky? A job was a job.

Company size, salary—none of it mattered.

What mattered was having an answer for his parents.

"At least... I can finally tell them something," he muttered.

He glanced at the email address the guild master had given him.

His fingers trembled as he copied it into a search engine.

The results popped up in an instant.

[Axom Capital]

[Top-tier domestic private equity fund]

[Assets under management exceeding 100 billion]

Elon's pupils contracted. His mind went blank, as though lightning had struck him on the spot.

His mouth opened soundlessly before two words escaped, raw with shock, disbelief, and absurdity:

"...Holy... shit?"

Chapter 2

"Damn... this is really it?"

Elon tilted his head back, staring up at the towering skyscraper gleaming gold against the morning sky, and gulped.

Axom Capital.

One of the country's top private equity firms.

For an ordinary graduate from a second-tier university—an unemployed youth who couldn't even land a job—this place was practically a temple gilded with diamonds.

Normally, even glancing at it too long would feel like overstepping.

And yet, here he was, about to walk inside as an employee.

"I haven't even told Mom and Dad..." He still felt like he was dreaming.

How could someone like him deserve a place in such a legendary company?

What if he turned out to be useless, just a burden, and got tossed out in a matter of days?

The thought gnawed at him.

When leaving the house, he hadn't dared to tell his parents the truth.

He'd only muttered something vague about going to an "interview," then bolted before they could ask more.

"Ugh, this suit... feels too tight."

During his years freeloading at home, he had at least quit late-night snacks to avoid his mother's death glares and endless nagging, so his body hadn't ballooned completely out of shape.

But judging by how this suit pinched at his shoulders, he really needed to start hitting the gym.

Just a subway ride and a short climb up a few stairs had left him embarrassingly winded.

Still... was it really normal to start work this early?

[Report before 7 a.m. sharp.]

When he'd first read that line in the onboarding message, he'd thought it was a mistake.

To make sure he wasn't late, he'd dragged himself out of bed before dawn and stumbled into the first subway of the day, still half-asleep.

Looking at the empty carriage, he'd muttered to himself, "Am I the only idiot showing up this early? What if the building's not even open yet?"

But the moment he reached the financial district, the sight floored him.

'Good lord!'

The entire street was packed shoulder to shoulder with men and women in sharp suits, a flood of professionals moving in unison like a dark tide.

'Seriously? Finance is this cutthroat?'

Then again, it did make sense.

A private equity firm starting at seven wasn't unreasonable.

After all, the stock market opened at nine-thirty.

If you wanted to be fully prepared, you had to start early—painfully early.

These people weren't just working with money. They were masters of time itself.

Just then, his phone buzzed.

The caller ID lit up: Guild Master.

"Guild master... no, wait—Chairman?"

A laugh came from the other end. "Hah, no need to change how you call me. Between us, just stick with 'bro.' So? You at the office yet?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm downstairs now. But... bro, I don't know a thing! What if I just drag everyone down?"

"Relax. I checked for you. You'll be a junior trader—basically errands, grunt work, maybe a bit of slacking. You'll be fine. Oh, and just make sure you carve out some time to get your Series 7 license."

"Thanks, bro. I'll work hard."

"And one more thing. If anyone asks how you got in, keep your mouth shut. Just say you don't know. Especially about the game. Not a word, got it? Alright, I'm hanging up. See you online tonight, same time for the raid. Don't be late."

"Got it, bro! I won't forget!"

The line went dead. Elon stood there dazed, as though caught in a dream.

The same man he'd been raiding dungeons and cracking jokes with in-game was actually a financial tycoon in real life?

And just because they played together, he'd parachuted Elon into the company?

The plot twist was more absurd than a K-drama. Who on earth would believe it?

…

Inside the manager's office of Trading Desk One, Brock Magnus studied the newcomer that the HR manager had personally escorted in.

The HR manager's eyebrows were twitching with unspoken hints.

Elon Shaw.

A "new hire."

Brock had been deep in analysis, parsing freshly released overseas macro data and the resulting shifts in global markets, fine-tuning his strategy for the opening bell.

The last thing he needed was a disruption.

And yet, here one was—standing in his office, shattering his concentration and pulling him away from the razor-sharp focus he needed to maintain.

The irritation prickled like an itch under his skin.

"Have you ever worked in finance—or any industry, really?"

"Uh... no. This is my first job."

"Any simulated trading experience? Investment of any kind?"

"N-no... but I'll work hard to learn!"

In his mind, Brock cursed so loudly it could've shaken the walls.

'Good god. A total novice. A blank slate. A complete greenhorn from head to toe.'

They hadn't just parachuted someone in—this was the ultimate rookie, the kind that needed hand-holding for everything.

But as his initial anger cooled, Brock realized the move from HR wasn't entirely without logic.

Yes, trading was a brutal, high-stakes pressure cooker—but that was only true for the seasoned pros who battled the markets directly, with their performance metrics looming over every decision.

Junior traders, however, were insulated from that pressure.

They weren't trusted with real capital or live orders.

Their duties were pure grunt work: fetching coffee, organizing files, running spreadsheets.

On a good day, they might be allowed to dabble in simulated trades while shadowing a senior employee.

They were kept far from the actual nerve center.

In other words, this position was the perfect camouflage—a meaningless pit stop for someone meant to "gain experience" before being elevated straight into management.

A classic corporate fast-track for the well-connected.

Which meant Elon was destined to breeze through and move on.

With that thought, Brock's irritation eased.

If Elon were only a passerby, then he'd treat him like one.

"Charlotte," Brock called.

"Yes, Sir?" A crisp, capable voice answered as a young woman stepped in.

"This is Elon Shaw, our new junior trader starting today. Charlotte, you'll be in charge of showing him the ropes."

"Understood, Sir." She nodded.

...

For Charlotte Larson, training newcomers was nothing new.

Over the years, Desk One had become a revolving door.

Countless bright-eyed rookies arrived, bursting with ambition and dreams of conquering the market.

Most didn't last three months. They fled, shell-shocked and swearing never to return.

It wasn't their fault. The demands of this desk were beyond what any ordinary person could endure.

Take the schedule. Every new junior was required to be at their terminal by 7:00 a.m. at the latest.

Their morning was a gauntlet: preparing the pre-market briefing, configuring the conference room, and conquering a mountain of administrative drudgery.

Running themselves ragged was the baseline expectation.

And the workload only exploded from there.

As they grew more familiar with the rhythms of the desk, the demands became more intense.

The market shifted by the second.

Senior traders made decisions at lightning speed, and at any moment, they might bark out requests for obscure data sets, complex charts, or immediate analysis.

Juniors had to function like battlefield couriers—delivering exactly what was needed, with precision and speed.

A single delay or misstep would earn them a verbal lashing on the spot.

And for good reason. This was a financial war zone where trillions flowed every day.

Here, speed meant money. Efficiency meant survival.

Even if someone managed to endure the brutal initiation and secure a permanent role, harsher performance evaluations awaited.

Every month was a trial by fire.

Fail to turn a profit, fall short of your targets—and you were out, no matter who you were.

Without iron willpower, no one lasted long.

"First lesson for a newcomer—learn how to make coffee," Charlotte said matter-of-factly. "Everyone here runs on caffeine. You have to prepare it before every morning meeting. Oh, and Mr. Magnus—he's a fitness nut. Doesn't drink coffee. You can skip his."

As she spoke, she worked the coffee machine with practiced ease.

"Got it, Charlotte!"

Elon bobbed his head like a pecking chick, dutifully pulling out a small notebook and jotting down every word.

The earnestness gave Charlotte a decent first impression.

"Besides coffee, you'll also be handling all kinds of paperwork. You won't be directly involved in analysis or decision-making at the start, but don't underestimate it. It's a golden opportunity to learn. Read every research report carefully. If something confuses you, ask."

"Yes! Understood!"

His crisp response and positive attitude made her even more satisfied.

As she went on, rattling off a list of dos and don'ts, a sudden thought struck her.

She glanced at him curiously.

"By the way, Elon, which university did you graduate from?"

"Uh... university?"

"Of course. You seem so capable—you must've come from a top school, right? Maybe even the Ivy League? Who knows… you might even be my junior."

"I... graduated from Brecken Industrial University."

"Brecken Industrial…University?"

Her smile froze.

If she remembered correctly, that was a lower-ranked, fairly ordinary second-tier university.

And someone from that kind of background... had landed a spot at Axom Capital?

One of the top private equity firms in the country?

Impossible. Unless...

"Ahaha, never mind that. Let's not get into it now. The morning meeting's about to start. Come on, let's head to the conference room."

"O-okay!"

...

"...This NFP print smashed expectations, and with that hot CPI reading adding fuel to the fire, we're in for a spike in volatility..."

"On the equity side, our core mid-to-long term thematic plays are still AI and automation. Short-term, keep a close eye on earnings season. And last week's darling—the gold miners—gave us a nice pop, but the sector is deep in overbought territory now. We're due for a pullback. Look to structure short exposure through equity swaps or OTC puts. Also, monitor the arbitrage spread between COMEX and London spot gold..."

"Copy that."

Elon listened, completely lost, his expression blank.

What the hell? Every word was English, but strung together, it might as well have been alien code.

He couldn't make sense of any of it.

Still, he forced himself to look composed, nodding seriously while secretly jotting down every unfamiliar technical term at lightning speed.

He planned to ask Charlotte about them afterward.

At the head of the table, Brock sat upright, listening as his traders took turns reporting the latest market updates and data analyses.

With calm precision, he issued a steady stream of trading instructions, laying out the day's overall strategy.

Watching this, Elon suddenly felt a bizarre sense of déjà vu.

This was just like a raid in an online game—right before storming a massive dungeon, the raid leader would brief the team, assign roles, and distribute tactics.

That thought jolted him awake.

What had been incomprehensible jargon a moment ago suddenly seemed thrilling. His blood quickened.

"Alright! That's our morning strategy. Everyone to your stations—prepare for battle!"

Brock's final words rang out with sharp authority, bringing the information-packed meeting to a close.

Chairs scraped back as everyone rose and streamed out, heading to their desks at speed.

"But honestly, Elon," Charlotte said with a warm smile, "for your very first day, you did quite well. So, see you tomorrow."

"Ah, thank you, Charlotte! Yes, see you tomorrow!"

He stood there, dazed, watching her silhouette fade into the distance.

To be honest, today's intensity had far exceeded his expectations.

Yet thinking about it, it was only natural.

This was, after all, one of the most prestigious private funds in the country—the place countless finance prodigies fought tooth and nail to enter.

Complaining after just a single day would be disgraceful.

And then there were his parents—still working tirelessly, just to support the son who had once lived off them without a care.

Compared to their hardships, sitting in an air-conditioned office hardly counted as suffering at all.

Besides, with Charlotte guiding him, this was already a better start than he could have hoped for.

What right did he have to complain?

No… he had to keep going. Work harder.

He glanced at the time.

"Crap, it's dungeon time! The guild master and the others are still waiting for me in-game!"

Elon immediately quickened his pace, almost breaking into a run as he dashed toward the subway station.

...

At six or seven in the morning, the city had yet to fully awaken.

Office workers dragged themselves from their beds, yawning and sighing as they braced for another grueling commute.

This was the rhythm of modern corporate life—fast, relentless, unforgiving.

But among the masses, there existed a peculiar breed.

Not only did they show no complaint, they arrived at the office with a devotion bordering on the sacred.

They were traders.

For this group, the weekend stock market closure was agony.

Restless and irritable, their fingers twitched involuntarily as if suffering withdrawal symptoms.

The gnawing impatience in their hearts was no different from that of gamblers desperate for the roulette wheel to spin.

Of course, not every trader fit this mold.

But in Brock's career, more than half the traders he had known carried this unmistakable trait—an addiction to dopamine itself.

Today, as always, Brock was the first to arrive at the office.

He meticulously and methodically pored over the deluge of reports and documents stacked high before him, scanning for events on the far side of the globe that might ripple across the markets.

As he sifted through the data, he took a measured sip of his morning drink: protein powder mixed with water.

Coffee? That was for mortals.

"Good morning, Mr. Magnus." One after another, his team members filed in, punctual as clockwork, slotting neatly into place like gears in a well-oiled machine.

"Be ready. Morning meeting in fifteen."

"Yes, sir!"

The briefing was brisk—reviewing yesterday's trades, analyzing current conditions, and fine-tuning strategies with the freshest intel.

Once Brock had finished issuing instructions, he returned to his desk, framed by a wall of multi-screen monitors.

One minute to market open.

Despite his years of experience, this moment always sent a sharp tension through his chest—an edge of nerves sharpened by a rush of exhilaration.

His fingertips tingled with the irrepressible urge to strike the keys.

The battle was about to begin.

The opening bell rang, shattering the stagnant air.

Brock's fingers flew across the keyboard, darting between mouse and screen in a blur, his gaze leaping across the shifting tide of numbers.

His brain burned like an overclocked processor, calculating, adjusting, anticipating.

When the market bent to his predictions, a fierce wave of dopamine surged through him—raw, euphoric triumph.

Within hours, he could experience a thousand deaths and rebirths—soaring to heaven one moment, plunging into hell the next, only to claw his way back again.

In that whirlwind of extremes, time dissolved.

Before he knew it, the hours had vanished.

The closing bell sounded.

"Ah..." Every day at this moment, Brock felt the same hollow ache, as if the carnival lights of an amusement park had gone dark, leaving only silence and emptiness.

"Mr. Magnus, today's report and data are ready. Sending them over now."

The voice of a subordinate dragged him back. There was no time for sentimentality.

Today's battle was done. Tomorrow's awaited.

The review must begin; new ammunition must be prepared.

"Alright. Anything unusual?"

"A few stocks showed abnormal surges today. I've compiled the details in a file for you."

"Alright."

He opened the file and began scanning the market anomaly report, eyes skimming the list of sudden risers and unexpected plunges.

Each ticker told a story—winners and losers etched in red and green, a comedy and tragedy of capital intertwined.

Then—

"...Hm?"

One name snagged his attention like a pop-up window.

It looked familiar. Strangely familiar.

"Wait… this is..." A wild thought flashed through his mind.

He hurriedly pulled up yesterday's records from the newcomer's simulation account.

The numbers confirmed it. A cold knot of disbelief tightened in his chest.

[ZRN // Position: 100% // P&L: +5%]

ZRN had been halted all morning on news, only to reopen in the afternoon and instantly rocket to limit-up.

"Heh." A short, sharp, incredulous laugh escaped Brock's lips.

The reason surfaced quickly enough.

Gemrock Group had announced a strategic acquisition of a 20% stake in ZRN.

As a titan in the gold sector, Gemrock's move ignited frenzied speculation about massive asset injections and industry consolidation.

In Brock's professional view, the stock was now a sealed rocket.

There would be no boarding for latecomers.

It would be a cascade of consecutive limit-up days, straight into the stratosphere.

And the one holding a full-position ticket was the rookie.

Sure, it was fake money. It was only a simulation.

The missed real profit was a sting, but it was overshadowed by a deeper, more unsettling question now circling like a vulture in his mind, 'How the hell did he know?'

He replayed yesterday's morning meeting.

The team had dissected the U.S. nonfarm payrolls, the hot CPI print, a strengthening dollar—the entire narrative had pointed to continued technical pressure on gold.

Every single trader, himself included, had consensus: gold equities were dead money for the session.

The market's open had confirmed it.

Yet somehow, that rookie had fished a single diamond out of a sewer, buying ZRN in full at its lowest point.

But Charlotte said it was a misclick.

The more Brock thought about it, the less sense it made.

Under such a bearish backdrop, from thousands of stocks, the newcomer had somehow pinpointed this one toxic, limit-down penny stock out of thousands and bought it in full size?

That was no accident.

It was a calculated move. A disguise. An outright provocation.

A ludicrous, terrifying thought erupted in his mind, 'The kid is connected. He has a source!'

Maybe the junior trader title was a cover.

Maybe he had deliberately chosen a stock everyone would scorn and then bought it in the most audacious way possible—full size, limit-down—just to broadcast his silent contempt for their entire operation.

Brock sucked in a sharp breath. Chapter 4

"Ugh!"

It felt as if an invisible force had struck him hard.

Elon jolted violently, eyes snapping open.

"Wha... what time is it?"

His mind was still foggy as he fumbled for his phone, nearly dropping it before lighting up the screen.

"Urghhh..." A strangled groan escaped him, laced with endless frustration.

There were still ten whole minutes before his alarm.

Ten minutes!

He could've—should've—stolen ten more minutes of precious sleep.

The feeling was achingly familiar, dragging him back to those suffocating schooling exam years when every stolen minute of rest felt like ambrosia.

'Sleep a little longer? Just ten minutes?'

The temptation surfaced, only to be crushed mercilessly.

"Yeah, right. Like I'd wake up after that."

He gave a bitter smile. He knew himself too well.

If he closed his eyes now, there was no chance he'd hear the alarm ten minutes later.

He'd be out cold until noon, and by then, forget work—he'd probably struggle to even remember his own name.

"Urghhh..."

It felt like waging a brutal war against the mattress itself.

Teeth clenched, muscles straining, Elon finally forced himself upright, every bone aching with exhaustion.

"Damn... shouldn't have gamed so late last night..."

He thought of the guild veterans—middle-aged men, coming home after long workdays yet still finding the strength to log in for a dungeon raid.

That kind of determination... it truly demanded respect.

"Crap! I'm gonna be late!"

The moment he had zoned out, another ten minutes had slipped away unnoticed.

His heart lurched. No time to waste. He shot up and dashed into the bathroom.

No time for a morning routine. There was only one solution.

He twisted the shower knob. A torrent of ice-cold tap water crashed over his head.

The shock stabbed straight into his bones, snapping him half-awake in an instant.

With his left hand, he grabbed the shampoo, slapped it onto his hair, rubbed twice, rinsed once—done.

Fast. Efficient. Effective.

He shook his dripping hair, droplets flying everywhere, carrying with them the faint fragrance of shampoo.

God, he missed the old days...

Back when he was still leeching off his parents, this hour of the morning would've found him in the thick of some game raid—fighting, shouting, alive with adrenaline.

Afterwards, he'd collapse into bed, weary but satisfied, and sleep straight through until the sun and moon traded places.

Those carefree days were gone. Forever.

He threw on his clothes at record speed and stepped out of the bathroom toward the living room.

And froze.

At the dining table sat his parents, wide awake when they should've been asleep.

Both of them sat upright. Both staring at him.

His stomach dropped. Had the noise woken them?

"You're up early," he said with a forced laugh, though his voice wavered.

"Elon. Sit down," his father said, calm but commanding—his tone leaving no room for refusal.

"What's wrong?"

"You've been sneaking out before dawn every day," his mother said, eyes narrowing with both worry and suspicion. "Where exactly are you going? You claim it's interviews… but at this hour?"

The moment he'd been dreading had arrived.

Elon drew in a deep breath, as though steeling himself for a decision he could no longer postpone.

"Well... actually, I found a job."

"What?" His mother's voice shot up in pitch. "I thought you said you were interviewing!"

"I was. But now... I'm heading to work."

For the past three days, he'd been working at Axom Capital.

The first two days, nerves had consumed him—he hadn't dared tell his parents, unsure if this job would vanish as suddenly as it had appeared.

But today, he could finally say it out loud.

Because—

He reached into his pocket, pulled something out, and set it on the table with a crisp thud.

"What? Axom Capital?"

His father's voice broke in shock as he lurched to his feet.

"Wait… did you just say 'THE' Axom Capital?" His mother leaned closer to the table, eyes wide with disbelief.

Their gazes locked on the employee badge and business card Elon had placed down, as if trying to bore holes through them.

"This... this is real?"

His father picked up the card, fingers trembling with excitement as he traced the gold-embossed letters.

"Good heavens! It is Axom's badge and card... How on earth...?"

Disbelief was etched all over his mother's face.

Her eyes darted between the badge and her son, struggling to reconcile the two.

Then, almost abruptly, she seized his hand with such force that it made him wince.

Her fingers were cool and trembling against his skin.

"Elon, tell me the truth. Did we pressure you too much? Is this just a fake card you made to fool us? I know what Axom Capital is! A top-tier firm like that… you could never get in!"

Her voice quavered with both panic and certainty, as if she had already decided he was spinning an impossible lie.

Tsk.

Elon clicked his tongue.

That... was hard to argue with.

In the past, Axom Capital had been so far beyond his reach it may as well have been the moon.

Their threshold was sky-high, an unattainable dream.

But he wasn't lying.

He was working there now—though the way it had happened was far too strange to explain in a single breath.

"It's complicated," he said at last. "But I really do work there. And I need to leave now. The market opens at nine-thirty, and I've got a lot to prepare before then."

He was only a junior trader, after all.

Running errands, handling odds and ends—that was the job.

His duty was to make sure the senior traders had everything they needed to rake in profits for the day.

Which meant he absolutely could not be late.

"Elon, just tell me honestly..." His mother still refused to let it go.

"Honey, don't you know your own son?" His father finally spoke, setting down the card. He studied Elon with complicated eyes.

"Sure, his grades were lousy. He's lazy, spends all his time gaming... He's had a mountain of flaws since he was a kid. But lying? Especially about something this big? That's one thing he's never done."

"Dad, are you praising me or tearing me down?" Elon muttered with a crooked grin. But warmth bloomed in his chest.

"So, son," his father pressed, "this is real, isn't it?"

"Yes." Elon nodded firmly, his gaze unwavering.

"Good. Then I believe you."

His father picked the card back up, holding it as though it were a rare treasure.

His fingers traced every printed word.

"If you got in, it means you've got ability. They saw something in you."

A proud smile spread across his father's face—genuine, radiant, a smile Elon hadn't seen in years.

"I knew it. My son could do it! Hahaha!"

"Thanks, Dad. I'll get going now."

"Hurry then!" His father waved him on. "Being late on the job isn't an option!"

Elon scrambled to gather his things and bolted for the door.

Just as he pulled it open, his mother rushed after him, thrusting a sandwich and an apple into his hands.

"Eat these on the way. Don't go hungry."

The familiar taste of home clung to the bundle, laced with his mother's warmth.

It had been so long since he felt it.

"And another thing… Your suit. You can't wear the same one every day. This weekend, I'll take you to buy a few more."

Before he could respond, she wrapped him in a tight embrace, her arms trembling with affection.

That hug, too, had been absent for far too long.

It carried her faint fragrance, and with it, the grounding weight of something called home.

His father came over as well, smiling broadly.

Clumsy though it was, he pulled Elon into a rough hug, patting his back twice with heavy hands.

"Do your best, son! And if it ever gets too much, just tell us. Don't force yourself, understand?"

"...Yeah." Elon's nose prickled.

So this... this was what being acknowledged felt like.

Something stirred gently in his chest, swelling warmly, sweeping away the last chill of morning.

"Ah, I'm really running late now! I'm off!"

"Go! I'll make your favorites. Call when you finish work!"

"Got it!"

With a cheerful reply, Elon dashed out the door.

And today, his steps felt lighter than ever.

...

The moment Elon stepped into the trading floor, Charlotte's teasing voice cut across the room.

"Right on the dot, huh? One more minute and you'd be late."

"Whew... just made it." Elon exhaled, wiping the sweat from his forehead. "Sorry, Charlotte. I should've gotten here earlier."

She let out a quick laugh and waved him off. "Don't worry. With me covering for you, even if you're late, I'll make sure you get through it."

A crisp morning began, as always, with tackling the mountain of reports piled on their desks.

"Yesterday was brutal, wasn't it?" Charlotte said while sorting through files with practiced ease.

"Tell me about it." Elon shuddered at the memory. "I thought my first day was hectic enough, but yesterday? That was on another level."

"Special circumstances," Charlotte explained. "The market swung unusually hard. Nothing you'll see every day. Don't worry."

As she spoke, she glanced at the newcomer beside her.

It was only his third day.

Yet she had to admit—this one was different.

Most rookies needed at least a month of hand-holding before they could make sense of anything, let alone move without tripping over themselves.

But Elon...

He was quick.

Sharp.

Yes, that was it—sharp.

It was as if he instinctively knew where to be and what to do at the right time.

Thanks to him, the morning prep had gone unusually smooth.

So smooth, in fact, that she actually had the rare luxury of sipping a steaming cup of coffee by the window, stealing a quiet moment to enjoy the city skyline.

That was a luxury unheard of on a normal trading day.

"Oh, right," Charlotte suddenly remembered. "Yesterday was so crazy, I completely forgot to check the simulation account. Did you look at it?"

"No," Elon admitted. "I was too busy running around with you all day."

Files, coffee, printouts, snacks—yesterday he'd been everywhere, pushing a cart stuffed to the brim, darting between trading teams like a human pinball.

He had assumed a junior trader only needed to stay within their assigned group. Reality proved otherwise.

When the market went wild and hands were short, rookies like him had to jump in wherever needed.

Yesterday had been chaos. He practically became the department's delivery boy.

His legs had been threatening to give out from the constant running.

"I was just thinking," Charlotte said, lifting her cup for another sip, "instead of letting that simulated position keep bleeding, we should've closed it early. Once the correction ends, we'd have more ammo to jump back in."

"Really?"

"Mm. I'll guide you through it. Let's see if we can claw back the losses. Now, what did we buy last time? Right—ZRN. Let's check yesterday's closing price..."

It felt good, this rare calm—coffee warming her hands, the hum of the office in the background.

A fleeting moment of peace.

She tapped the mouse, opening the stock's chart.

And then—

"Pfft—!"

A mouthful of coffee exploded out of her, arcing through the air in a dramatic spray.

Elon, sitting across from her, jerked back in alarm, narrowly avoiding the unexpected crossfire.

He scrambled for tissues and shoved them toward her.

"Charlotte, are you okay?"

"E-Elon... look! Look at this!"

Charlotte ignored the coffee dripping from her chin.

She pointed at the monitor with a trembling hand, her eyes wide with disbelief.

On the screen, glaring in a triumphant, bold green—

[ZRN: LIMIT UP // +5.00%]

The very stock he had bought at its absolute low.

The one he'd gone all-in on, when every other gold share was cratering and the entire sector was a sea of red.

Chapter 5

Charlotte noticed a peculiar shift in Elon's expression as he stared at the screen.

It wasn't quite surprise. His pupils flickered as if some hidden understanding had passed through them.

Nor did it look like complete confidence—there was a trace of something unexpected there, as though even he hadn't anticipated this outcome.

"Uh... yeah, I just saw it too. Strange... how did it rise like that?"

His tone carried an odd stiffness, a forced casualness that only made it sound more unnatural.

Almost as if he were trying to conceal something.

Was she imagining it?

Questions swirled in Charlotte's mind.

Out of all the gold stocks, how did he manage to pick this one?

The coincidence was almost too... precise.

Like reaching into the dark and grasping, against all odds, the one star still burning bright.

She couldn't help asking, "You really didn't know?"

"Hm?"

"Be honest." Charlotte leaned closer, lowering her voice. "Did you already know this stock was going to rise today?"

"No, how could I know?" Elon's gaze wavered. He denied it at once, but his eyes betrayed him, darting away as if they had something to hide.

Charlotte steadied herself, realizing how absurd her suspicion sounded.

The entire market had agreed: gold's earlier surge had gone too far.

With U.S. gold futures seeing massive long liquidations, even the most seasoned traders were convinced gold stocks were due for a heavy correction.

How could a newcomer—someone barely three days in, who couldn't even fully read a candlestick chart—possibly know something the veterans didn't?

No, it had to be just luck. Incredible, ridiculous, one-in-a-million luck.

Just then—

"Elon."

The deep, commanding voice cut through the office. It was Brock.

"Y-yes, Sir?" Elon straightened at once.

Brock's sharp gaze swept across Elon, Charlotte, and the coffee-stained desk.

His face revealed nothing, but he tilted his chin slightly. "Come with me. I need a word in private."

"Yes, sir!"

Elon quickly fell in step, trailing the manager's broad, imposing figure into the office.

Watching his somewhat slender back disappear beyond the doorway, Charlotte quietly dabbed at the spilled coffee on the files, unease prickling at her chest.

'He's not getting scolded, is he? He did fine yesterday...'

Then another thought struck her.

'Wait. Did Mr. Magnus... see the simulation account too?'

...

As Elon followed Brock into his private office, he was still feeling a little dazed.

When he had bought that stock, he'd watched the price lock at the daily limit-down, and he had thought his strange "RNG ability" had completely failed him.

The disappointment had left him discouraged.

Then, yesterday, he had been so swamped—spinning like a top from one task to another—that he hadn't even had time to check whether the stock lived or died.

Now… it hadn't just risen.

It had exploded. Limit-up.

"Elon," Brock said as he settled into the chair opposite him.

He clasped his hands on the desk, the sleeves of his shirt stretched tight over bulging biceps that looked ready to burst through the fabric. "You've been here three days now. How are you finding it? Getting used to things?"

"Ah, yes, sir. Everyone's been very kind, and I'm still learning to adapt to the work."

"Good. Originally, I wanted to let you take it slow, not push too much onto your plate right away. But as you saw yesterday, with the market that volatile, the whole department was in chaos. I had no choice."

"It's fine, really!" Elon rushed to assure him. "Whatever task you give me, I'll learn and do my best."

Brock fell silent, his sharp eyes scanning him up and down for several seconds.

The scrutiny made Elon's skin crawl.

At last, Brock spoke, "In this trading department, for now, only I know the truth."

Elon blinked. "What truth?"

"That you were placed here by direct order of the Chairman."

"Ah..." Elon instantly understood.

So, the manager had known all along he was a "special placement."

"Of course, something like this won't stay hidden for long. In a few days, once word gets out, the whole department will know."

Brock lifted a large shaker cup emblazoned with a gym logo, twisted off the lid, and took a swig.

A thick, murky liquid gave off a sickly sweet scent.

Elon remembered Charlotte gossiping about it—it was the manager's daily protein shake.

No wonder Brock was built like that...

"Normally, I don't care about other people's private business," Brock went on. "But given the situation, I have to ask: are you related to the Chairman?"

"No." Elon shook his head firmly.

"No?" Brock's brows twitched ever so slightly.

"Then why would the Chairman personally vouch for you—someone with no experience, no resume—and push you straight into our department? You should know yourself. Under normal circumstances, there's no way you'd have gotten into Axom Capital."

The words were brutally blunt, leaving no room for denial.

"Um..."

In his mind, Elon heard the Chairman's repeated warning. "No matter what, you must never tell anyone in the company that we met through an online game. Absolutely not."

And now he understood why.

If people learned that the Chairman of Axom Capital had shoved into the core trading team some kid he'd met in a game—someone with zero background or qualifications…

The whole company would explode. The entire financial circle would laugh itself sick.

Drawing a steadying breath, Elon lifted his head and met Brock's gaze.

He forced his tone to sound sincere and resolute.

"Sorry, sir. I can't tell you."

"Alright." Brock studied him with a deep, unreadable look. He didn't seem surprised, only more intrigued. "Since you can't say, I won't press further."

Then his tone shifted. "But there's something else. That penny stock you bought in your simulated trades—what's the story there?"

So that was it!

Elon's heart lurched. Of course, the manager had called him in because of that!

He braced himself, falling back on the same flimsy excuse he'd given Charlotte. "That was... just luck. A complete coincidence."

"Luck? Elon, do you know what our daily return target is for live capital? It's 0.1% to 1%. On a volatile day, a top performer might risk a play to make 3%, maybe 5%. But that risk is calculated and hedged. Our entire strategy is built on consistency, not lottery tickets. The quickest way to blow up your book—and your career—is to chase unsustainable returns."

Charlotte had mentioned something similar: the team's monthly goal was around 3% to 10%—already among the best in the industry.

"But you," Brock continued, "hit a month's target in a single day. On a toxic, rule-breaking penny stock. And based on the news, that rocket isn't landing tomorrow. It's going to keep climbing."

His gaze burned into Elon.

"Let's be honest. That kind of precision isn't something you get from standard analysis. So, I'll ask you plainly: do you have a source? Access to information the rest of the market doesn't? Or are you expecting me to believe it was just... luck?"

Elon fell silent again. He couldn't answer.

The truth was, he knew nothing.

Fundamentals, news flow, technicals—it was all a foreign language.

Every morning meeting was a torrent of jargon and market slang where he couldn't even follow the punctuation.

He'd been cramming from the Series 7 prep book every free second, but after three days, he was still a toddler stumbling through a pack of wolves.

What could he possibly say? Actually, sir, I have a game-like RNG ability that highlights lucky breaks?

That wouldn't just be career suicide; it would be grounds for being locked in a psych ward.

"Hmm... so this is something you can't talk about either, is it?" Brock nodded knowingly, as if he had expected nothing else.

"Uh..." Elon hesitated.

"Forget it. I won't ask again." Brock waved a hand, his tone that of a seasoned veteran. "In this brutal market, everyone has their own hidden edge. Only a fool would flaunt it. In our line of work, performance is everything. Real skill should stay under wraps. Especially for a trader."

He even chuckled self-deprecatingly. "I was too nosy this time. My mistake. Sorry."

"No, no, sir. You're too kind!"

"Alright. Get back to your desk. Look, once word gets out that you're a 'nepo hire,' people are going to view you with skepticism. There will be whispers. Ignore it. It doesn't matter. In this place, the only thing that matters is your P&L. If you prove yourself with consistent results and relentless effort, the perception will change on its own."

"Yes, sir. I'll work hard!"

"Good. And send Charlotte in on your way out."

"Sure thing."

He hadn't been scolded once—Brock had even encouraged him at the end—yet when Elon stepped out of the office, his heart still thudded wildly, sweat dampening his back.

There was something about the manager's presence, not deliberate, but commanding, a force that inspired both respect and pressure.

Maybe it was the sheer power in those near-exploding muscles.

But what if...

As he walked back to his desk, the thought crept into his mind.

What if this ability could really be used?

This secret—unknown to anyone else—this strange gift that belonged only to him.

Maybe yesterday really had been pure dumb luck, one chance in a hundred million. But what if it wasn't?

What if this game-born power worked in the real, cold, merciless world?

After all, the so-called stock market was built on data, analysis, and models—but in the end, wasn't it also riddled with randomness, sudden shocks, and the mess of human emotion?

In a sense, wasn't it just a bigger, more complex, higher-stakes version of a guessing game?

Even if someone mastered every indicator and dissected every dataset, one black swan event—or a wave of irrational frenzy—could render all predictions worthless.

And in the end, who could guarantee certainty?

'I hope... today is a little quieter,' Elon thought, settling into his seat.

That way, he could test it properly.

This strange game-born "ability"… was it just an illusion, or something real enough to change his fate?

...

'As expected... the kid is hiding something.'

Seated in his wide leather chair, Brock tapped the polished mahogany desk with absent fingers, each dull thud echoing through the office as his thoughts drifted elsewhere.

Elon had been a puzzle from the start.

As far as Brock knew, the young man was supposed to be a "connection hire." But that didn't fit.

Axom Capital's founder and chairman, Winford Lockhart, was notorious for one thing: ruthless meritocracy.

Winford had built his empire from scratch, transforming an obscure boutique private equity firm into an industry leader within a few short years—not by luck, but by sharp instinct.

His greatest weapon wasn't capital or strategy, but his uncanny eye for talent.

He unearthed hidden prodigies, armed them with resources, and gave them room to shine, letting them create staggering value for the firm.

And yet—why would someone like that, a man who despised nepotism in all its forms, suddenly make an exception?

Why would he personally push a resume-thin, utterly inexperienced newcomer straight into the core trading team he valued most?

At first, Brock had felt disillusioned, almost betrayed.

Could it be that even the chairman he admired had stooped to playing favorites?

But now, he knew that wasn't the case at all.

These two weren't even related. Not in the slightest.

And when pressed for the reason behind his extraordinary placement, Elon had hidden behind a vague "I can't say."

Interesting.

This kid wasn't just secretive—he had guts. He guarded that secret like a lockbox.

More than that, Brock replayed their earlier exchange in his mind.

The words might have sounded casual, but beneath them was a razor's edge.

And from the flicker in Elon's eyes, the momentary shift in his tone, Brock was almost certain—

He knew. Elon absolutely knew ZRN was going to soar.

The boy's denial had been smooth, his expression well-controlled. But not enough.

Brock had spent years wading through the treacherous waters of high finance—he knew how to read micro-expressions, the fleeting betrayals of a mask.

Which meant yesterday's simulated trade might not have been blind luck.

Elon had gone all-in on a single penny stock at a time when everyone else had turned bearish.

That wasn't recklessness—it was madness laced with conviction.

A decision like that demanded more than courage.

It required the kind of contrarian insight that bordered on the supernatural.

When the entire market braced for gold stocks to tumble, this rookie had sliced through the fog and seized the one shining outlier.

That kind of clarity was terrifying.

A sharp gleam lit Brock's eyes.

"Mr. Magnus, you were looking for me?" Charlotte's voice came from the doorway, breaking his reverie.

"Oh, Charlotte." Brock looked up. "Are the documents for this morning's meeting ready?"

"Yes, everything's prepared."

"Good." He tapped the desk once, as though sealing a decision. "Here's what we'll do. Notify our department and the other relevant ones. Today, neither you nor Elon need to run errands. Stay at your desks."

"Eh? ...Got it. Yes, sir." She blinked at the order, then quickly nodded.

"You've both been too busy to practice simulations lately, haven't you? Let him focus on that today. Guide him as needed."

Though puzzled, Charlotte accepted without hesitation.

As for Brock, he still didn't understand why the chairman had forced this Elon into his team.

Perhaps it was part of some higher-level strategy, a move hidden in the shadows.

But one thing was certain—Elon had something.

Whether it was a secret channel of privileged information, a freakish instinct sharpened to a blade's edge, or simply a daredevil addicted to dopamine and risk, hiding his recklessness behind a veneer of calm—it didn't matter.

From today on, Brock would watch closely. Test, observe, dissect.

Eventually, the truth would surface.

Of course, there remained one final possibility.

Maybe the kid really had just stumbled into a once-in-a-lifetime stroke of luck, like a blind cat pouncing on a dying rat.

But then, as the markets loved to humbly remind everyone, there was an old adage:

"Three parts hard work, seven parts destiny."

And those rare, chosen few blessed with heaven-defying luck?

They didn't just play the game.

They rewrote the rules.

Chapter 6

Elon awkwardly stretched his stiff limbs.

His sudden movements drew a curious glance from Charlotte beside him.

"What are you doing, Elon?"

"Ah, Charlotte, nothing… just loosening up a bit."

For the past two days, as soon as the market opened, juniors like them had been forced to push those squeaky metal carts, darting back and forth through trading departments like frantic minnows, delivering orders and documents.

"You're the one who told me, Charlotte. In the stock market, everything changes in an instant, and the two things that matter most are—one, mentality! Stay steady as a mountain! And two, speed! Strike like lightning!"

Mentality? That was the kind of thing the balding veterans of the trading floor worried about.

As a newcomer who'd barely been here a few days, his only value lay in how fast he could run on two legs—fast enough to leave sparks in his wake.

After yesterday's nonstop sprinting, his calves still throbbed with a dull, heavy ache, as if they'd been poured full of lead.

The raw exhaustion had given him a sobering realization: this body of his—soft and neglected from years without exercise—desperately needed training.

But when was he supposed to find the time?

Work out after hours?

Sure, plenty of office workers had made post-work gym check-ins a trend these days...

But back when he was a gaming addict, his days and nights were flipped upside down.

He practically lived in front of a screen.

Regular exercise had never even crossed his mind.

Now, with his body already weakened by years of digital indulgence, how could he possibly muster the stamina to hit the gym after work?

Impossible.

As Elon brooded over this, Charlotte suddenly leaned closer, her voice lowered but tinged with cheer.

"Elon, good news. Today... looks like we won't be fighting with that cursed cart."

"Huh?" He blinked at her, bewildered.

They were the lowest-ranked rookies on the team. If they didn't push the carts, who would?

"Mr. Magnus," she explained. "He's already made arrangements with the other teams. So today, it's the rookies from another group who'll be running errands for us."

That sudden?

Why not yesterday? He'd nearly run his legs off!

Not that he could ever voice such complaints aloud.

Still, it felt unusual. Why would Brock make this change so abruptly?

Could it have something to do with the fact that the chairman had personally ordered his hire?

"So, today our assignment…" Charlotte's tone carried a faint excitement that was hard to miss, "—is to spend the entire day running simulated trades until market close. Mr. Magnus just gave the order. I'm guessing it's because of that penny stock you bought. He wants to give you a shot."

"Oh..." Elon nodded slowly. So that was it.

"Thanks to you, I get to ride the wave too. Appreciate it, Elon."

"Don't say that, Charlotte. That was pure dumb luck."

"Really?" She tilted her head and winked playfully. "Hmm... maybe. I suppose it's your secret weapon. And it'd be rude of me to pry, right?"

Secret weapon?

Elon could only laugh bitterly inside. What secret weapon?

He'd only just learned the difference between the red and green candles on a chart yesterday.

"So you're saying... today, all we need to do is simulated trading?"

An unfamiliar thrill stirred in his chest.

It felt like this might be the perfect chance to test that mysterious ability of his.

"The morning meeting is about to start," Charlotte reminded him, glancing at her watch. "Listen closely. In a trading department like ours, the single most important thing before the open is identifying the main flow."

"The main flow?"

"Right. The movers, the theme plays, the focus stocks—they rarely move alone. They surge in waves, clustered around a specific sector or narrative. That cluster of momentum is what we call the 'main flow.'"

It sounded exactly like a game to him.

In multiplayer games, the most powerful strategies of the current patch were called the "meta."

The stock market was no different.

The sectors with the most momentum and narrative power—the ones capable of dominating the tape—were the main flow.

And that was where every trader on the desk aimed their focus.

"The morning meeting is all about figuring out who will emerge as the leader and which sectors will rise with them. Our department prides itself on being the most sensitive to these shifts."

Technically, it was the rookies' job to print and bind the meeting reports.

But in reality, all the content came from the research department.

Those analysts—elite graduates from prestigious universities—scoured domestic and global markets, dissected data, and predicted how each development might impact stocks.

What they produced, after layers of filtering, was a polished report of distilled insights.

The rookies merely printed, bound, and distributed it before meetings.

"To be honest, Charlotte," Elon said with a wry smile, "those reports look like gibberish to me."

Global macroeconomics, industry dynamics, fundamental analyses, market sentiment...

How could anyone possibly compress the chaotic, living world into these cold, rigid numbers and flickering charts?

It was an incomprehensible language. He couldn't make heads or tails of it.

"Haha, don't look so overwhelmed." She laughed, giving his arm a light, reassuring tap. "You sat through all those lectures in school, right? And crammed for your licensing exams until your eyes bled? You're supposed to be sick of this by now."

"..." Elon kept silent.

What could he possibly say? That his degree was in something entirely unrelated?

That he hadn't even taken the Series 7 yet?

"Oh, look at the time. They're about to start. Let's go in."

"Alright."

'The main flow... find the flow...'

He followed Charlotte into the buzzing conference room, the phrase echoing in his mind like a mantra.

His only job was to listen.

Because for the first time, he was about to hear the real thing—the live, real-time calls from analysts and senior traders on the day's flow.

Judgments forged from top-tier research and market data that outsiders couldn't access at any price.

The conference room buzzed with voices, the air thick with an invisible pressure.

"Everyone's read the reports, yes?" Brock's sharp gaze swept across the room, his voice firm and commanding. "The market's current focus is on the new energy breakdown. Systemic risk across the entire supply chain is expanding. I want thoughts."

And just like that, Elon was lost. His head spun.

"After several recent EV fire incidents, global automakers are reexamining safety standards... Also, the price of nickel, a key battery material, has plunged 45% from six months ago, raising risks of inventory losses," a senior trader began.

"Don't forget overcapacity," someone else added. "Global power battery production this year is projected at 3000 GWh, far exceeding demand. This imbalance could push the industry into an 'oversupply cycle,' triggering price wars."

"But long-term, new energy vehicles are still bullish, right? Most countries plan to ban new fuel-powered cars after 2035," another voice argued.

Elon stayed silent, eyes racing over the report, ears straining to catch every keyword.

"Plans like that are written in pencil, not ink. For short-term traders like us, distant promises mean nothing," Brock cut in coldly. "Who knows if those pledges will flip overnight? That uncertainty alone is risk."

In Desk One, they lived and died by the short term.

Long-term visions were worthless mirages.

Retail investors were no different.

"For the new energy chain, we'll start the morning with short-selling," Brock declared. "But risk control is paramount. Hedge with ETFs heavily weighted in battery stocks."

"Understood. And leverage?"

"No higher than 1.5x net exposure. Keep it conservative. We short the morning session. If the market digests the news and finds a bid, we look for long scalps in the afternoon. Entry and exit points are your own responsibility!"

His tone hardened, cutting through the room. "But do not get greedy. I know last month's P&L was light. I know everyone is hungry. That is exactly when you lose discipline and blow up. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, sir!"

As the meeting adjourned, the team surged out of the room like soldiers rushing to battle.

Brock's orders had been clear and precise—yet to Elon, they might as well have been a foreign language.

Not a single word had sunk in.

...

Charlotte drew in a deep breath, feeling the faint tremor at her fingertips.

This feeling—it had been a long time.

'I can't afford to slip up...' she thought.

Brock had been clear: this simulation trade was a test.

If she failed, she would be stuck for who knew how long, reduced once again to being nothing more than a glorified errand girl.

Serving coffee. Delivering files. Running around like a handmaid on the trading floor.

'No. Not this time. I can do this!'

Clenching her fists tightly, she rallied her courage.

This was the chance she had been dreaming of—the one she had prepared for, day after day, in quiet determination.

All that remained was for the opening bell to ring. Then... she would fight with everything she had.

But her eyes wavered, sliding toward the glass partition next to her.

'What about Elon...? Will he be alright?'

She rose slightly on tiptoe, sneaking a glance.

While she busied herself compiling research reports, reviewing notes from the morning meeting, and fine-tuning her strategy for new energy stocks, Elon just sat there, unmoving, like a frozen statue, staring blankly at his monitor.

Not a flicker of intent in his eyes, not a single motion betraying purpose.

He looked for all the world like a rookie, completely overwhelmed, utterly clueless about where to begin.

So it had been just dumb luck last time with that penny stock after all.

'Fine. Once I'm less swamped, I'll head over and help him out.'

After all, she had promised to look out for this newcomer.

The trading floor's atmosphere stretched taut in the final minutes before the market opened.

It felt as though the air itself had congealed.

Only the faint sound of restrained breathing, the occasional clack of keys, and the subtle drag of a mouse broke the silence.

Everyone resembled sprinters crouched on the starting line, muscles tight, nerves coiled, every sense locked on the split second when the starting gun would fire.

Then it came—

The bell.

The market was open.

In that instant, every trader's eyes sharpened to blades, bodies tense as they lunged toward their screens, ready to strike at their targets.

But not Elon.

He did nothing.

Not out of composure. Not because he was cleverly "waiting for the right moment."

He truly... had no idea what to do.

'Where the hell am I supposed to start?'

If this were a game loot box, he could stare it down until that elusive "feeling" arrived, then click.

If it were gambling for rare gear, or looting corpses, the same principle applied.

But stocks? Stocks were different.

Too many factors. Too many variables. Too much uncertainty.

'If I buy this stock now, will it rise immediately? Tomorrow? Who can say?'

In games, you opened a chest, gambled on gear, and the outcome revealed itself instantly—win or lose, feedback was immediate.

Not so with stocks.

'What if I buy one today, only for it to sit still until a year from now?'

And with the market flooded with countless options, he didn't even know where to look first.

How could he possibly wait for that elusive "feeling" to descend?

It was like searching for a single, specific grain of sand on an endless shore.

"Calm down. Calm down."

Whenever his thoughts tangled into a hopeless mess, Elon always told himself this.

Granted, he had only ever used this trick while gaming... but either way, now was not the time to panic.

He had to steady himself. One step at a time.

"They said in the meeting just now... today's main flow is the new energy sector, right?"

He decided to start there.

At the very least, he had to look like he was making an effort—something the manager could see.

Taking a deep breath, Elon forced composure onto his face and pulled up the report from the research department.

"Mm..."

He stared at the words and charts on the screen.

It didn't feel like reading English at all. It felt like staring at alien script.

The report came with a long list of stocks tied to the day's main flow.

Just as Brock had predicted, almost every single name on that list was glowing red—sliding downward.

"I think the manager said... short in the morning, long in the afternoon? Hedge the risks?"

Short positions, long positions. How exactly was he supposed to do any of that?

How did one even manage risk?

If he'd known it would come to this, he should've shadowed Charlotte more closely—asked her about actual operations, built up some real experience.

"But... since they're all dropping, then obviously I can't buy them now, right?"

There were plenty of new energy–related stocks.

Yet looking across the list, it was just an endless sea of red.

One glance was enough to make his chest tighten, as if buying any of them meant instant ruin.

With that thought, Elon moved to close the list.

The ocean of suffocating red numbers only unsettled him further.

But then—

A faint prickling sensation—sharp yet strangely familiar—shot through his fingertip.

Like a whisper of electricity, it raced across his skin, flooding his entire body in a single instant.

That feeling... he knew it.

'It's happening...'

Elon froze, halting the motion of his hand, then maximized the very window he had been about to shut.

Holding his breath, he scanned the list again. Slowly. Carefully.

Until, in the middle of all that hopeless red sea, his cursor came to rest on one unremarkable name.

GreenOracle.

A company specializing in recycling new energy batteries.

His throat bobbed as he gulped.

That strange, overwhelming sensation—like a tidal wave of raw instinct—was surging from his fingertip, his palm, his arm.

It felt so vivid. So intense. His body trembled under the sheer force of it.

Yes. This was it. He could never mistake it.

It was the exact same feeling he'd had in games, every single time he cracked open a loot box and pulled out a legendary drop.

But... this stock...

Elon's gaze locked onto the brutal downward curve of its chart.

The corner of his eye twitched uncontrollably.

This wasn't just dropping—it was collapsing, practically nosediving straight into a limit-down.

And hadn't the meeting just declared the battery sector high-risk?

The strategy was to short, not buy.

At least in the short term, there was zero chance of recovery.

And yet...

That raw, thunderous instinct was screaming at him, 'This is it. No mistake. Choose this one. Buy it.'

'Yeah! What the hell am I scared of?' The thought sliced through his hesitation like lightning. 'Besides... this is just a simulated account, isn't it?"

Relief flooded him.

'Screw it. Just this once!'

Once more, he'd believe in that damned, yet terrifyingly real... instinct.

Click.

The crisp sound of the mouse echoed in his quiet corner.

And in that endless sea of red, Elon no longer hesitated.

His right index finger pressed down, hard, slamming onto the button that said BUY.

Chapter 7

Brock was never much of a gamer.

Not because he disliked gaming, but simply because it never stirred any real interest in him.

What charm did those bizarre, dazzling virtual worlds hold that could keep people so enthralled—losing sleep, losing themselves, until time slipped by unnoticed like water through their fingers?

He couldn't fathom it, nor did he care to.

To him, it was like staring at an impenetrable fog, knowing something lay beyond but never feeling compelled to step inside.

And yet, ever since he set foot on the silent battlefield of the stock market, he had begun, strangely enough, to understand the mindset of those gamers.

Because when the opening bell rang each morning, his soul was just as firmly shackled to the rising and falling lines, drawn into the abyss of numbers and candlesticks, unable to break free until the market finally closed.

Today was no different.

In the blink of an eye, another day of slaughter was over.

"Phew—"

Brock exhaled, the breath thick with the smoke of the trading floor, and glanced toward the corner of his screen to confirm the day's results.

+1%.

One percent.

At first glance, it looked insignificant.

But in their world, where survival meant licking blood from the edge of a knife, that one percent was no small gain.

Especially in today's brutal market.

"Mr. Magnus, you handled it really well today. Rock solid, beautifully done," one of his younger subordinates said, relief thick in his tone, like a man who had just crawled out of a wreck.

"What about the others?" Brock kept his eyes on the screen.

"Don't even ask... It's a bloodbath. Not just our team—word is the others took heavy losses too, the market cut them to pieces."

Lately, the market had been like a deranged monkey, leaping up and crashing down, tossing traders around until their nerves were frayed to shreds.

That was the nature of stocks.

Even the brightest minds armed with the most sophisticated models and the most exhaustive data couldn't hope to predict its next move with certainty.

Because the market was nothing less than a mirror of human nature's rawest impulses—greed and fear laid bare, collective irrationality dressed as a carnival.

Against that, logic and data were often fragile, crushed in an instant.

"At this rate, no team is going to hit its monthly target," Brock muttered, rubbing at the dull ache in his temples.

"True, but..." the subordinate tried to salvage a little hope. "There's still about a week left. Maybe… maybe we can make one last push at the end?"

Every trading team carried monthly performance targets, usually between five and ten percent, depending on conditions.

Outsiders often assumed that short-term specialists like Brock's team were gunning for outrageous numbers—fifty percent, even a hundred.

They thought these traders were bloodthirsty gamblers, dancing on the market's razor's edge to chase the fattest profits.

The truth was the exact opposite.

At its core, the trading floor believed in two words: safety first.

Survival trumped everything.

Any form of reckless speculation was strictly forbidden.

Leverage limits were set in stone, and a rigorous risk-control system governed every move.

Because of that ingrained caution, ending a day with a 0.1% gain—or even less—was perfectly ordinary.

"As long as we don't lose—or lose less than the rest—that's victory."

It was the iron law of the trading floor, carved into their very bones.

"Enough. Do your best, that's all we can do." Brock rapped the desk lightly, cutting through the heavy mood. "Go grab a coffee, clear your head. Five minutes—meeting room. We'll review today's trades."

"Yes, sir."

Brock himself felt parched, so he turned toward the break area, intending to pour a glass of water and let his restless thoughts settle.

He was filling his cup when a shadow slipped up behind him, silent as a ghost.

"Well, well, Brock, not bad today," came a voice, oozing mockery with just the right touch of sourness. "Your formation looks a little too... deliberate, doesn't it?"

Brock didn't even need to turn around.

The tone alone told him who it was—Lawrence Harrington, manager of Desk Two, hired the same year as him.

His brows knit instantly. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Don't play dumb." Lawrence darted a furtive glance around, making sure no one was paying attention before leaning closer, lowering his voice as though the walls themselves had ears.

"Pretending not to understand, huh? My rookies spent the whole day running themselves ragged thanks to you. The market's punishing enough as it is, and they were scrambling all over, covering for that pampered 'nepo hire' in your team."

Ah. So that was it.

Brock understood immediately.

"That bigshot chairman's darling! I hear you gave him the cushiest day imaginable. Sat there without lifting a finger, didn't he? Ha! Never thought I'd see the day—the famously straight-laced Brock Magnus, suddenly learning the fine art of survival, bowing and scraping early to pave the road for tomorrow."

"You're overthinking it," Brock said flatly, his voice giving away nothing.

"I get it, I get it!" Lawrence smirked, wearing the smug look of a man who thought he'd pierced the truth. "He's the chairman's golden boy, and they dumped him right in your lap. Who wouldn't tread carefully? Now's the time to suck up to him, isn't it? Otherwise, when he climbs the ladder and ends up above our heads, it'll be too late."

The words were unpleasant, but they weren't entirely without truth.

Elon's connection to the chairman was like an invisible thorn in everyone's heart.

Even if one tried to ignore it, there was always a constant reminder to tread lightly, to restrain oneself.

Lawrence noticed Brock's silence and mistook it for guilt.

Emboldened, he leaned in, prying with a sly grin.

"So, have you talke d with the little prince yet? What exactly is the chairman's relationship with him? They've got to be connected somehow—family ties, maybe? Otherwise, how would he be getting this kind of treatment?"

Brock recalled that Elon himself had insisted he had nothing at all to do with the chairman.

The thought flickered through his mind and was gone.

"I wouldn't know," he said.

"Tch." Lawrence curled his lip in open disbelief. "Come on, Brock, don't hog all the good stuff for yourself. That's not very friendly of you."

"What nonsense are you spouting?" Brock finally snapped, irritation seeping into his voice. "He's just a kid, clearly here for nothing more than a bit of polish. How long do you think he'll stay in our tiny pond?"

"Well..." Lawrence rubbed his chin, eyes gleaming with calculation. "You're not wrong. But even if he's just gilding himself, shouldn't I still go make his acquaintance? Make a little connection before he leaves? After all, you're working so 'hard' already. If I don't show at least a little courtesy, won't that make me look bad?"

Brock couldn't be bothered to argue.

He shook his head, lifted the glass of water he'd just filled, and strode out of the break room, leaving Lawrence alone to scheme.

The truth was, Elon's easy treatment had nothing to do with currying favor, much less choosing sides.

It was a test.

Brock wanted to see whether this mysterious "connected" newcomer had any real skill—or if he was nothing but dead weight propped up by pedigree.

Back at his desk, Brock's fingers tapped the keyboard, pulling up Elon's simulated trading records for the day.

His eyes locked onto the portfolio summary, and his pupils sharpened to a point.

"GreenOracle?"

The company specialized in mineral development and the recycling of new-energy batteries.

In the current macro environment—hell, for weeks now—the stock had been a toxic wreck.

Its volatility was savage, the liquidity non-existent.

It was the kind of name even the most reckless traders on the desk knew to avoid.

And yet, this rookie had gone full port into it. Again.

"All in... again?"

The glaring "POSITION: 100%" stared back from the screen, making the vein at Brock's temple pulse

Was the kid trying to send him a message?

Using this suicidal, all-in bet as a silent, defiant protest against the entire evaluation process?

Or was Elon simply a clueless fool, lazy and thoughtless, defaulting to an all-or-nothing gamble, leaving his fate entirely to luck?

"Forget it. What the hell was I expecting, anyway?"

A wave of helplessness rose in Brock's chest.

With a wry, bitter smile, he shook his head and closed the window.

He had entertained a fleeting hope—that perhaps this newcomer wasn't useless, that maybe he possessed some hidden spark of talent.

After all, the chairman had personally vouched for him.

But now? The truth was plain: this was just another ordinary, incompetent hanger-on, here purely through connections.

He didn't even grasp the most fundamental principle of risk diversification.

Too lazy to think, too careless to plan—he'd dumped all the eggs into a basket that was already tilting over.

Just looking at such a half-hearted and sloppy move made Brock's chest tighten with suppressed anger.

But the flare of irritation lasted only a moment before he forced it down.

"Why the hell should I get worked up over someone like this? Is it worth it?"

He gave a short, self-mocking laugh and shook his head again.

The kid was here to gild himself, nothing more.

He wouldn't last long before using his connections to climb elsewhere.

There was no need to curry favor—but even less reason to make an enemy of someone with a murky background over such trivial matters.

Not worth it.

Best to ignore him.

...

For Elon, today was perhaps the most awkward and dullest day since he'd joined the company.

From the moment he stepped into that office, heavy with tension and the scent of money, until the final bell at dusk, he sat rooted to his chair like a wooden post.

Aside from a brief trip to the restroom, he barely moved an inch.

Especially after he gave in to that overwhelming instinct—an almost electric jolt that coursed through his body, making even his fingertips tingle—and pressed the buy button on a stock called "GreenOracle."

In that instant, his meager virtual funds were completely drained.

All of it. Gone. He had gone all in—again—on a single stock.

After that reckless move, there was nothing else for him to do.

He sat staring blankly at the screen, feeling completely out of step with the tense, frenzied energy around him.

"Elon, how did you do today?" Charlotte's cheerful voice floated over from beside him.

"Uh, just... so-so," Elon mumbled, embarrassed to admit he'd gone all in again.

"Oh? Let me take a look?"

"Um... maybe not. It's a little—"

But Charlotte's sharp eyes had already caught the position data in the corner of his screen.

That glaring "GreenOracle // 100%" froze her on the spot.

Her eyes widened, as if she couldn't believe what she was seeing.

"Wha—!! Elon!!" Her voice shot up an octave, loud enough to draw stares from nearby desks. "What on earth did you do?!"

"Doesn't look... great, huh?" Elon gave a sheepish laugh, scratching the back of his head.

"'Doesn't look great'?! That's an understatement! Did you just ignore everything I told you before? The most basic rule of investing—the rule—is to spread your risk! Diversify, diversify, diversify! Important things need to be said three times!"

Hands on her hips, she puffed herself up like an indignant little pufferfish.

"Last time, you went all in and claimed it was a slip of the hand, which was barely forgivable. But this time? You've done it again?! And not just on any stock… You went all in on GreenOracle? My goodness! Tell me, why would you even buy this one? Don't tell me... was this another 'accident'?"

Elon had no response.

He kept up that polite but awkward smile, scratching his head even harder in an attempt to ease the heavy air.

What could he say? That he'd bought it based on some strange, inexplicable "intuition"?

Who would believe that?

He quickly forced the subject elsewhere. "So... what about you, Charlotte? How did you do today?"

As expected, the moment the topic turned to her own results, Charlotte's attention shifted.

Her pout vanished, her back straightened, and she planted her hands proudly on her waist.

Chin tilted up, she looked every bit the smug victor, her expression practically begging to be praised.

"Hehe! With me in the game, of course success comes easy. Let me tell you, my final profit today reached... 2%! A full 2%! In this terrible market, who else in our entire division could walk away with a stable 2% profit? I'd say... no one but me!"

As she spoke, her face glowed with triumph.

Yet instead of being grating, her pride carried a certain endearing charm.

"Wow! Amazing! That's incredible!" Elon gave her an exaggerated thumbs-up, both hands raised, his tone over-the-top in admiration. "Charlotte, you're definitely passing the evaluation this time!"

"Ahahaha... Oh wait, no, this isn't the time for that!"

She quickly reined herself in, forcing her smile away, and put on a stern face again, glaring at him.

"Elon, listen carefully! Next time, you absolutely cannot dump all your money into one stock like this! Do you hear me? You need to diversify. Even if the market is bad, you should never take on such reckless risk! Got it?"

"Yes, Charlotte! Got it! I'll never make the same mistake again!" Elon nodded fervently, sincerity written all over his face.

The two of them were still chattering away and laughing when a cold, stern voice cut through the air like a bucket of icy water.

"Charlotte, Elon! You two seem awfully free. Still have time to sit here joking around?"

The speaker was a senior trader passing by their desks—if Elon remembered correctly, his name was... Zane Frost?

Elon recalled his face: always stiff, always severe. Definitely not someone easy to deal with.

"Ah, s-sorry!" Charlotte startled and apologized at once. Elon also dropped his smile in a hurry.

"Go prepare the meeting materials. Now." Zane snorted coldly, tossing the words over his shoulder before walking off without a backward glance.

"Right away..."

In his few days here, Elon had already picked up on one unspoken rule: the mood in the office was directly proportional to the state of the stock market.

When the market was good, everyone wore smiles.

When it was bad, they looked like they'd swallowed gunpowder, snapping at whoever crossed their path.

"Don't take it personally, Elon," Charlotte whispered when she saw him freeze for a moment. "The market dropped hard today. I heard Zane lost big. That's why he's in a foul mood. Honestly, I'd be surprised if anyone on the desk finished green today. When everyone's losing money, the whole floor gets sour."

Maybe so, Elon thought, but what kind of logic was that?

Losing money didn't give you the right to dump your anger and resentment on innocent bystanders.

Then again, he sighed inwardly—wasn't this just how the adult world worked?

This so-called "workplace," with all its absurd rules and injustices, you simply had to swallow.

"But compared to other teams, ours isn't so bad," Charlotte added quickly, as if worried he'd be scared off. "You haven't seen the others. Those are real pressure cookers. I've got a few friends who joined at the same time as me—they just couldn't take it. The stress, the constant scheming... in the end, they all quit."

"Really?" Elon blinked, surprised.

He had always assumed their team was the most suffocating place in the company, with the stern, imposing Brock at the helm.

But now it turned out... Desk One was the gentlest team?

Chapter 8

At Desk One's routine meeting, Brock stood at the front, his expression cold and unreadable as he summarized the day's battle and laid out tomorrow's strategy.

"Although today's overall market performance was poor and our team also recorded losses, our risk control measures were relatively effective compared to other teams. What we lost today, we'll find a way to recover tomorrow. Aside from standard operations, there's nothing else that requires special attention, correct?"

A trader responded at once, "Yes, sir. The broader market trended downward today. We mostly followed the contingency plan and executed some hedging in key sectors to manage our exposure. No other unusual activity."

"Yeah, it looks like this downtrend may continue for some time. Stay alert over the next few days and keep risk control strict."

"Yes, sir."

"You've all worked hard. Today... let's call it early."

The words struck like a blessing.

'Leave early? Seriously?' Cheers erupted in silent hearts.

Elon's spirits soared. He could finally rush home and run that dungeon raid!

The guild master had even texted earlier, reminding him not to be late tonight.

…

There was a saying: Many of the world's most significant events often take place while you're fast asleep.

And the reason was simple: the earth is round.

While you snore away in the Western Hemisphere, the Eastern Hemisphere may be witnessing an upheaval of historic proportions.

By the time you rub your sleepy eyes the next morning and glance at your phone, you discover that on the far side of the planet—in a time zone utterly different from yours—the winds of change have already begun to reshape the global order.

This time was no exception.

…

The next morning, before dawn, the trading floor was ablaze with light.

Traders, who had abandoned sleep the moment rumors spread, rushed into the office.

Now they crowded together, faces drawn tight with tension.

Some were sweating at the brow.

The entire space bristled with a restless, volatile energy, like a hornet's nest that had just been kicked.

"Mr. Magnus! Mr. Magnus! Have you seen the news?!"

A young trader practically slammed Brock's office door open, his face a mixture of shock and disbelief.

"I've seen it." Brock's voice was steady—unnervingly steady.

No one noticed the fist clenched on his knee, the whitened knuckles betraying the force with which he gripped.

"Those Flyndonesian bureaucrats… have they lost their minds? Making a move this massive without a single warning, without even a whisper of wind beforehand? Just a sudden strike out of nowhere?! What the hell are they trying to pull?!"

Another trader couldn't restrain himself and started swearing in outrage, his voice thick with fury and disbelief.

Yes. Just hours earlier, while most of Xandenia's population slept soundly, a thunderclap of news had exploded across the globe—one that sent shockwaves through entire industries.

No, thunderclap didn't even begin to cover it.

For the financial markets—and especially for frontline traders like them—it was nothing less than an earthquake.

A sudden, violent quake, magnitude eight or higher.

[Breaking overnight announcement from the Flyndonesian government: Effective immediately, the country will cut its nickel ore supply by 30% and formally implement export control measures.]

Flyndonesia was the world's largest nickel producer!

Its role in the global nickel market was nothing short of pivotal.

But in recent months, due to a combination of global economic pressures, nickel had slipped into a temporary oversupply.

International prices had tumbled, and Flyndonesia, inevitably, had been dragged down as well.

The market had long anticipated that the Flyndonesian government might roll out some "symbolic" measures—perhaps a minor production cut or a few public statements to calm investors.

But no one expected this.

They weren't playing by the rules at all.

They didn't move for so long, and then, when they finally did, they flipped the entire table.

"If it had just been a five percent cut, fine—that would've been understandable, within reason. But this? This is insane! A straight thirty percent slash?! Do they have any idea what kind of shockwaves this will unleash on the market?!"

"Exactly!" another trader snapped, his voice sharp with frustration. "They could've at least dropped some hints, given the market a little time to react! Instead, they played dead all this while, acting like nothing was coming, only to launch a sneak attack out of nowhere? What the hell is this supposed to be?!"

A thirty percent reduction from the world's largest nickel supplier.

That number wasn't just a shock.

It was a deep-water bomb dropped into a placid lake—one that would send violent, possibly even earth-shaking ripples through the global nickel supply chain, and by extension, the broader energy and materials industries.

And it revealed something else, too.

The Flyndonesian government had clearly run out of patience with the "rotten state" of the nickel market.

They weren't tinkering at the margins anymore.

They had chosen the most extreme, most aggressive way possible to turn the tide.

The consequences were immediate.

A massive supply gap would open in global nickel.

And industries heavily dependent on the metal—especially the battered, long-dismissed battery sector that had been drowning in pessimism just yesterday—might suddenly find themselves reborn under the pressure of this supply shock.

"But not every battery company is going to soar because of this," Brock's calm voice cut through the heated clamor.

"The logic is simple: companies without sufficient nickel reserves, with no stockpiled raw materials, will be crushed by skyrocketing costs. They'll be ruthlessly eliminated from the market, with nowhere to cry. On the other hand..."

His eyes swept over the anxious faces before him. "...those who planned ahead, or even those who stumbled into fortune with warehouses full of 'excess' nickel ore—overnight, they'll transform from pariahs into prized assets. The market will beat a path to their door, and they'll make a killing."

Yet the true, fatal danger filling the trading floor wasn't simply a question of who profits and who loses.

The real problem was this—

A huge number of trading teams, perhaps even the majority, had bet heavily that battery-related stocks would keep sliding under bearish pressure.

To chase profit, they had already piled into massive short positions—yesterday, and even earlier.

That—that was why this normally composed, elite team of traders now looked so shaken, so frantic, so utterly rattled.

If, when the market opened, battery stocks really did pivot and rocket upward on this news, then those sitting on mountains of shorts... their losses would avalanche, compounding at geometric speed.

It would be catastrophic. Enough to wipe traders out of the game entirely.

"Has Research put together a list of companies holding nickel reserves?" Brock's voice cut in again. This was information they needed immediately.

"N-not yet, sir," one of the traders stammered. "Research only just got the news too. They're scrambling, trying to pull data together as fast as they can. But... but I did hear a rumor. Word is, here in our country, among battery-related companies, there's only one with significant nickel reserves."

Only one?

The moment that phrase—only one—hit Brock's ears, it was like a lightning bolt cleaving through the fog of his mind.

A name he had scoffed at just yesterday, dismissed as irrelevant, now branded itself onto his consciousness like a searing-hot iron.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Can't wait to know what's next? Tap to continue!

The story unfolds with you as the main character — play now!

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

The printer spat out the resume like it was diseased.

Kade Mercer, Axom Capital's HR manager, held it between two fingers, staring at the name: Elon Shaw.

Brecken Industrial University. No certifications. No experience. Nothing.

Outside, Brecken City's financial district glittered—steel towers stabbing the sky, monuments to cold precision and ruthless meritocracy.

Inside, the gilded letters of Axom Capital mocked every rule Kade lived by.

This resume shouldn't exist.

Then his secretary whispered: "It came from the chairman's office."

Kade froze.

The chairman—legendary for crushing nepotism—had sent this?

He assigned Elon to Trading Desk One. Junior trader. Grunt work. Harmless.

Meanwhile, in a dim apartment, Elon jolted awake as his parents stormed in.

"We're done supporting you!" His mother's voice cracked. "Find a job or get out!"

On his screen, a legendary loot drop flashed—cheers erupted in guild chat.

"RNG King strikes again!"

He typed: [Guys… I'm quitting.]

A private message popped up.

[Elon.]

[Don't. Come work at my company. You won't have to quit the game.]

Elon blinked. His guild master? The guy who drove Lamborghinis to meetups?

He searched the email.

Axom Capital. $100B+ AUM. Top-tier PE firm.

His breath caught.

"...Holy shit."

Now, standing before the towering skyscraper, suit too tight, heart pounding, Elon stared up at the building that would either make him—or destroy him.

Inside, Brock Magnus reviewed yesterday's trades.

Then he saw it.

[ZRN // Position: 100% // P&L: +5%]

A penny stock. Limit-down yesterday. Now limit-up.

And the buyer?

The nepo hire.

Brock's blood ran cold.

"How the hell did he know?"

Elon stepped onto the trading floor. Charlotte smiled. "Right on time."

But Brock's eyes locked onto him across the room.

A silent question hung in the air—

Was it luck?

Or something far more dangerous?