Slept With An "Ex-convict Nobody" - A Hidden Trillionaire!

“He’s leaving today...”

The whispers slithered through the air like venomous snakes. They danced around steel bars and echoed off concrete walls, seeping into the ears of every soul trapped inside Fort-tight Maximum Prison—the very belly of the devil himself.

The news was more than gossip. It was war.

Twelve men stood in a straight line, like soldiers without a nation, each of them armed with makeshift weapons—a jagged pipe, a rusted blade, a thick chain wrapped tightly around knuckles swollen from bloodshed. Their eyes burned with desperation, pride, and foolish ambition.

“He leaves today,” the tallest one growled, “and when he does, we will be remembered as the last men to challenge the Almighty Master Ethan Northstrum.”

A wild murmur ran through the watching crowd. They were insane.

Because just a few yards away, Ethan was sitting cross-legged at his usual corner—an isolated slab of concrete under the shadow of a crumbling wall. His eyes were closed, body still as stone, breathing shallow like a monk in transcendence.

The wind fluttered his simple grey prison shirt, revealing nothing of the monster beneath. To the eye, he was just a slim, lanky 27-year-old with the soft, harmless features of a suburban librarian. A face that whispered innocence and a frame that suggested weakness.

But only fools looked with their eyes in Fort-tight.

The twelve came at once, weapons raised high. 

The leader, a scar-faced brute with a crowbar, sneered. “Northstrum,” he growled, “heard you’re leaving today. We’re the last to challenge the Almighty Master. Beating you will make us legends.”

Gasps.

Shouts.

Cheers.

The crowd surged forward, banging on the steel fences that separated them from the unfolding spectacle. They had gathered to witness what they thought would be the final rebellion. A shot at glory.

The courtyard stirred—prisoners creeping from cells, guards peering from towers, their whispers a low buzz. “Fools,” one muttered. “They’re dead,” another hissed. 

It lasted less than a minute.

Ethan’s eyes remained shut, his face serene, as if the men were flies circling a statue. 

The brute lunged, crowbar swinging. In a blur, Ethan moved—fluid, precise, a shadow dancing through frost. 

His hand snapped out, twisting the brute’s wrist; the crowbar clattered, followed by a scream as bones cracked. 

The others charged, a chaotic swarm, but Ethan was a storm. 

A kick shattered a knee, a palm crushed a jaw, a sidestep sent a chain-wielder sprawling. 

In forty-seven seconds, all twelve lay sprawled, clutching broken limbs, their wails piercing the air.

Ethan exhaled. Calm. Silent. Deadly.

Then he sat back down, resumed his meditative posture, and closed his eyes again.

But their cries—God, the cries—wouldn’t stop.

He opened one eye, sharp and cold, and uttered one word:

“Silence.”

And like the entire world was muted, they obeyed.

Twelve men, in unbearable pain, biting down on their tongues to keep from crying out loud.

That’s the kind of power Ethan Northstrum commanded.

And then he came—the man no one would believe could ever bow.

Romelu Castello.

Once the king of global mafia circles. A man who had controlled continents from the shadows. A name that had presidents waking in cold sweats. For decades, the most wanted man in the world. And once upon a time, the undisputed king of Fort-tight.

Until Ethan arrived.

Before Ethan, he’d ruled Fort-tight, the warden his puppet, prisoners his pawns. 

Now, he shuffled forward, a contraband phone trembling in his hands, his once-commanding frame hunched like a child caught stealing. 

The phone was forbidden—Fort-tight, the world’s harshest prison, housed terrorists, mass murderers, mafia lords, the worst of the worst. Perched on a no-man’s-land peak, its icy isolation made escape a fantasy. 

Yet here was Romelu, risking death to deliver a call.

Now, Romelu stood trembling, the phone in his hand, his 62-year-old knees knocking together like spoons in a drawer.

He did not speak.

He dared not.

The phone rang again.

Romelu’s hands shook violently. His lips quivered. He wanted to vanish, disappear, die even—anything but what he was about to do.

The phone rang a third time.

Ethan’s eyes opened.

Sharp.

Blazing.

Romelu collapsed to his knees, bowing until his forehead kissed the concrete. “Forgive me, Master Ethan,” he begged, tears sliding down the old man’s cheeks. “It’s urgent…”

Without a word, Ethan rose and plucked the phone from Romelu’s hand.

The onlookers held their breath.

No one looked at him.

No one moved.

He walked away slowly, lifting the phone to his ear.

“Speak.”

A familiar voice answered. Calm. Powerful. Fragile.

“Master Ethan,” said the President of the Republic, “I offer my congratulations. The world welcomes you back.”

Ethan didn’t reply immediately.

He looked out at the mountain peaks beyond the barbed wire. The fortress of stone and snow where he had reigned supreme for five long years. Where he had turned beasts into followers. Tyrants into servants. Where even the devil himself would hesitate to walk.

Within a year of his sentence, the world’s elite—presidents, tycoons, warlords—knelt to him from afar, begging him to leave. He’d refused, serving his sentence to the day, a choice that baffled them. 

“I told you,” Ethan said quietly, “I would serve every second of my sentence.”

“Yes, sir,” the President stuttered. “But now, we await your return. The country… no, the world needs you.”

Ethan’s boots crunched through snow as he crossed the compound, prisoners bowing like reeds in a storm. 

Whispers trailed him—“Devil in disguise,” one hissed. “Greek god, not human,” another muttered. 

His slim build, shy demeanor, and delicate features—seemingly too weak to crush a fly—had fooled them once. 

Now, they saw the truth: a predator cloaked in a leaf’s frailty. He ignored them, his focus on the call, his steps deliberate toward the warden’s podium.

Ethan ended the call without a goodbye.

He turned back to the compound.

And ordered the guards.

“Assemble everyone.”

Like an army summoned by a god, the entire prison population gathered within minutes. Over three thousand inmates. The worst of the worst. Murders. Crime lords. Traffickers. Mercenaries.

And yet, they stood like schoolchildren—silent, orderly, heads bowed.

Ethan walked toward the podium.

The prison warden stood at attention. So did Romelu and his lieutenants. The guards didn’t even pretend to be in control anymore. They knew who the true warden was.

“Announce me,” Ethan said simply.

The warden’s voice cracked on the microphone.

“Ladies and gentlemen of Fort-tight… I present to you… The Almighty Master Ethan Northstrum!”

“AMEN!” they all shouted in unison. The acronym of his name and title. 

Then they bowed.

Ninety degrees.

The wind stilled.

The mountain seemed to lean in and listen.

“I am leaving today,” Ethan began, his voice calm, yet every syllable cut through flesh like a dagger. “But make no mistake—I am watching you. Always.”

There was a pause.

Whispers of joy and fear crossed faces like shadows.

Murmurs rippled—stubborn inmates grinning at his departure, others paling at his reach. 

A bold voice muttered, “Devil won’t let us breathe,” and Romelu’s glare snapped toward it, his growl a warning. “Interrupt the Master again, and you’re done.” 

Silence clamped down, not from Romelu’s threat but Ethan’s shadow.

“But I leave you in the hands of discipline,” Ethan continued, eyeing each of them. “If even one of you dares to disrespect the order I have established here…”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

He didn’t have to.

Romelu stepped forward. “Whoever disrupts the peace shall meet a fate worse than death. We swear it.”

Ethan nodded. “Good.”

The warden stepped forward, his hands clasped. 

“Master Ethan, thank you—for keeping this place in order. Don’t abandon me to these… animals.” His voice quaked, eyes pleading. 

He turned to the warden. “They will behave.”

The warden’s face beamed with gratitude. “Yes, Master. Thank you for your mercy all these years.”

Ethan walked away. The crowd parted like the Red Sea.

Outside, twelve black warship helicopters stood in formation—powerful, ominous, symbols of absolute state authority. The Four Gods of War stepped down—generals of supreme combat skill and mystical strength, handpicked by the President himself.

They all bowed.

“Welcome, Almighty Master Ethan Northstrum,” they chorused.

He walked past them as though they didn’t exist.

And when the choppers took off, another twelve rose from the mountains and joined them in formation. Twenty-four war helicopters, flying in honor of one man.

Not even the President moved like this. 

Ethan settled into the lead chopper, the mountain shrinking below, his thoughts turning inward. 

Prison had been a cage he’d mastered, but his mission loomed—an ancient family relic, stolen, sold at an elite auction. 

He’d tried to reclaim it, only to be betrayed, arrested, locked away. In Fort-tight, he’d learned its new owner, and now, free, he’d hunt it down. 

The relic wasn’t just heritage—his destiny was woven into its core. He craved an ordinary life, but this mission came first.

---

They landed at the Royal Military Airfield in Primus City, the most powerful metropolitan capital in the nation.

The reception awaiting Ethan?

Unreal.

The President.

The Prime Minister.

The Chief Justice.

The Minister of Finance.

The Defense Minister.

The nation’s wealthiest mogul.

The foremost scientist.

Ten of the most powerful men in the country stood like schoolboys awaiting inspection.

Each bowed deeply.

“Welcome home,” the President said softly.

Ethan raised a brow. “I don’t need noise. No cameras. No parades.”

They nodded frantically.

The President smiled nervously. “Yes, sir. But… the nation deserves to know—”

“No.”

Just one word. And they all shut up.

The Finance Minister stepped forward. “This card…” He handed over a sleek, shimmering black titanium card. “It draws directly from the national reserve. Unlimited.”

The Defense Minister bowed. “This device will summon every branch of the armed forces to your location.”

The billionaire mogul stepped forward next. “My $33 trillion empire is yours. I name you heir. My family owes you its survival.”

One by one, they presented him gifts—treasures, tokens, legacies. Each more absurdly powerful than the last.

Ethan received them with the grace of a silent god. He didn’t thank them. They didn’t expect him to. To serve him was thanks enough.

But in his heart, he didn’t care for power, or fame, or worship.

All he cared about...

...was a stolen artifact.

An ancient belonging.

A family heirloom, taken from him in betrayal. An item not just of history, but of destiny. One that bound his fate.

And now…

He was going to retrieve it.

One way or another.